He said nothing but raised his eyes to Olive who had just sat down herself. It was late and Alice was in bed; he had been walking for hours, going as far as Washington knocking on doors and asking if the householder wanted any odd jobs doing, all to no avail. It was October and the strike had been going on for six months; people had given all that they had in money, food, clothing or little bits and pieces they didn’t want any more but which could be sold for a few pennies.

Olive met his gaze. She had always been thin but now she was skeletal, her skin pasty and her long, narrow face appearing almost fleshless. He knew that ever since the strike had started she had been going without so Alice could eat, the spectres of consumption or pernicious anaemia ever present. Although Alice was pale and washed-out-looking, up to now Olive had been able to prevent the ringworm and impetigo that practically all the bairns hereabouts were now suffering from, along with mouthfuls of ulcers, bleeding gums and eyes full of sties.

Her hands clasped together but her voice calm, Olive said, ‘It’s a couple of slices of the brawn my mam brought round and a few potatoes and peas.’

He noticed that the slice on her own plate was paper thin and this moderated his tone when he said, ‘And how did your mam get the shin beef and cow heel and ham bone to make the brawn? They’re slowly starving on your da’s war pension as it is.’

‘It was given them.’

‘By her.’

‘By Ruby, aye. She is their daughter, after all.’

Keeping hold of his temper with some effort, Adam said tightly, ‘And she would have meant for them to eat what she gave, not give it away, surely?’

‘She—’

‘What?’