She went to the little girls, and Ivy, who was obviously recovering, sat up and was the first to sip some of the water. She was a sweet, tousle-headed little thing. Ada needed help to sit up and she flopped back like a rag doll.

‘Here you are, Den,’ Margaret said, taking the other cup of water from Annie. ‘You must try and drink some of this.’

It was the first time Annie had seen Den as a child instead of a hard, sad little man. He sat up, reaching out. Margaret put an arm round his back and helped him drink.

‘It’ll stop soon, dear,’ she said in her gentle voice. ‘And then you’ll feel better. There’s nothing worse than being sick, is there?’

Den slowly took some water before lying back again. Margaret laid her hand on his forehead and stroked his hair back from his face.

‘There,’ she murmured. ‘A night’s sleep and I’m sure you’ll feel better.’

Den gazed solemnly up at her. Annie could see something in his eyes, something intense, hungry.

‘Will we feel better?’ Ivy asked.

‘Yes,’ Annie said. ‘I think you’re on the mend, aren’t you, dear? We just need Ada to get better now. We’ll come and see you again. This is my big sister, Margaret,’ she told the twins. But Ada’s eyes had already closed.

‘Margwit,’ Ivy said.

‘We need to go now, but we’ll see you soon,’ Annie said. As she came round the end of the bed, she saw Den’s stick-thin wrist outside the covers and his hand covered by Margaret’s. Slowly, his eyes closed.

‘You will try and make sure Ada drinks some water, won’t you?’ Annie reminded Mary Poole.

She nodded, wide-eyed. ‘I did try, only I’m that busy . . .’ She looked round helplessly. ‘They’re getting better though, ain’t they?’

‘Ivy is,’ Annie said. ‘She might be able to get up soon.’

They drank tea with Mary and Lizzie, before Lizzie led them through the streets towards home.

‘Just take us to the end of Tenby Street,’ Annie said. ‘We’ll be all right from there.’

Once Lizzie Poole, clutching her shawl about her shoulders, had disappeared into the murk, the two of them linked arms to make their way along the uneven pavements to Chain Street.

‘That poor little boy is missing his father, isn’t he?’ Margaret said.

‘They all are,’ Annie replied. ‘It’s a terrible thing, what happened to him, and then just going off. I wonder if they’ll ever see him again. And she’s so . . . I don’t know. She means well, but . . .’

‘She’s a bit like Meg Parsons,’ Margaret said. ‘Only more so.’ They laughed. Meg Parsons was a young woman in the village who seemed to be forever in a pickle of one sort or another. Their father had done a lot of head-shaking over Meg Parsons.