It was nothing like the lav across the yard back home in Lincoln. There, it was a proper flush toilet with a chain to pull; here, it was a wooden bench fitted against the wall with a hole in the centre. Dangling from a hook on the wall a loop of string held squares of neatly torn newspaper. Ella wrinkled her nose at the sour smell in the gloomy, confined space, the only light coming from the draughty gaps above and below the wooden door. Perched on the seat, her feet swinging above the rough-set cobbles of the floor, Ella shuddered and was glad to jump down, yank up her knickers and push open the door. It crashed back against the brick wall.

‘What are you doing, child? Ya’ll have the door off its hinges.’

Blinking in the sudden light, Ella saw her grandmother coming across the yard from the barn. The girl breathed deeply in the fresh air. ‘It pongs in there.’

Esther sucked her tongue against her teeth in a sound of exasperation and pointed towards the back door. ‘Into the scullery with you and wash ya hands.’

Pushing up the sleeves of her jumper, Ella frowned. In the deep sink there was a white, enamel bowl and on the window-sill, a dish and soap. But where were the taps? To the side of the sink, there was a huge sort of spout and a big handle, but there were no taps.

Ella opened her mouth and shouted, ‘Mum. Mum!’

But it was her grandmother who appeared again in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Now what’s the matter?’

‘Where are the taps?’

They glared at each other once more. ‘Taps? What do ya think this is? A posh hotel? Work the pump, child.’

Ella blinked. Pump? What on earth did this old woman mean? What pump?

‘Dear, oh dear. What has your mother been doing? Dun’t you know anything?’

Impatiently, the woman pushed past Ella and grasped the big handle. She worked it up and down and water splashed from the spout into the bowl. ‘There, see how to do it?’

The girl said nothing, but plunged her hands into the bowl, only to pull them out again quickly.

‘Ugh! It’s cold.’ She twisted her head round and looked up at her grandmother resentfully.

‘Course it’s cold. None of ya namby-pamby ways here, Missy. We always wash in cold water, night and morning.’

Thinking with longing of the steaming hot water gushing from the taps at home, Ella stared up at her grandmother. ‘You don’t bath in cold water, do you?’ she asked incredulously, although she was beginning to think that anything might be possible in this place.

‘Bath night’s on a Friday night in a tin bath on the hearth in the kitchen. Every drop of hot water comes from the side boiler in the range.’