‘What kind of house do you live in?’ Esther asked him. ‘I can’t imagine what its like to live in a big city.’

She felt the laughter rumble in his chest. ‘It’s in a little side street; what they call a terraced house. You know, all the houses in one long row, like the four cottages where the Harrises live, but a whole street of houses on either side. Three small bedrooms upstairs and two rooms down with a back scullery and a privy across the yard.’

‘No garden?’

‘No. No grass, no trees, no flowers. Just the back yard where my mother pegs out the washing and brings it in all covered with smuts from the works’ chimneys.’

‘Do you live with your parents?’

‘Yes – and my sister, Peggy.’

‘What does ya dad do?’

‘He’s a schoolmaster. He teaches at a boys’ school in the city. And my mother’s a dressmaker. The front parlour in our house is always littered with paper patterns and pins.’ But he was smiling fondly as he said it. It sounded to Esther a genteel sort of occupation for a woman. She imagined Jonathan’s mother would be a real lady with soft, smooth hands spending her days sewing fine garments. Not like Esther – out in all weathers with red and roughened hands.

It was obvious to Esther that Jonathan came from a warm and loving family and she felt envious. How she would love to belong to such a family – to Jonathan’s family. She was eager to hear all about them. ‘You said you have a sister. Tell me about her. How old is she?’

His eyes clouded as he murmured, ‘Almost twenty. Poor Peggy.’

Esther checked the question that sprang to her lips. Why ‘poor Peggy’?

‘She’s going through an awful time,’ Jonathan told her. ‘She was engaged to a young chap who worked with me. We were friends – that’s how Peggy met him. We volunteered together.’ He was silent, remembering. Memories in which Esther had no part. ‘He – he was killed only a month after we went out there. Poor Peggy,’ he murmured again. ‘She used to be so jolly, always laughing and teasing. Now she’s thin and so unhappy.’ He stroked Esther’s face with the tips of his fingers. ‘I wish you and she could meet. You’d be so good for her. You’re so strong . . .’

Esther kissed his cheek gently in a gesture of comfort. ‘I would love to meet her, too. And your mother and father – they sound wonderful.’

Jonathan drew her into his arms and as she leant her head against his shoulder, he stroked her hair, pulling out the pins and combs so that it tumbled down her back. Then he buried his face in the rich tresses. ‘You’ve such beautiful hair . . .’

Somewhere there was suddenly a loud banging and a shout, ‘Missus, missus!,