Margaret went in as well, shivering. It was not worth going back to bed now, she thought. She might as well dress. She thought about Philip Tallis going back into his room in number twenty-four, of Daisy fast asleep upstairs, their lives all lived so very close together. For a moment she found herself wrung with pity for Philip Tallis. He must be lonely without his wife, she thought, and having to bring up Daisy all alone.

She interrupted her own thoughts angrily. Weren’t these just the kinds of feeling she had had towards Charles Barber – a tender sorrow for his suffering? And where had that got her? A shudder passed through her at the thought of what Annie had saved her from. How could she be thinking anything soft and kind about another man – ever, after that?

Once the news spread, everyone was talking about the explosion at Saltley Gasworks. In the early hours, someone working there had lit a cigarette. The explosion smashed windows all around the surrounding area. There were deaths – a few. The figures were uncertain.

By breakfast time, Caleb Turner had come in and told Uncle Eb what he had heard.

‘How terrible,’ Annie said, eating porridge at high speed. ‘I wish we could go and help.’

‘Help?’ Aunt Hatt said irritably, as if despairing of ever understanding her energetic niece. ‘How exactly are we supposed to help?’

‘Well . . .’ Annie’s spoon paused for a second. ‘There must be people injured.’

‘But you’re not a doctor or a nurse, are you?’ Aunt Hatt sounded impatient now. She was bustling about in her apron. ‘Why do you always feel you have to get so involved in other people’s business, Annie? Everyone should look after their own, that’s my way of thinking.’

Annie stared back at their aunt as if this was a question quite foreign to her. ‘But someone has to help, don’t they?’ she said. ‘If everyone took the view that it was always up to someone else . . .’

‘Yes,’ Aunt Hatt said crisply. ‘But it doesn’t always have to be you, does it? We’ve got quite enough going on here with that German coming today.’

‘Mr Schmale?’ Margaret said, forcing down her porridge. She found it rather repulsive but did not like to say so and dutifully ate it every morning – except for Sundays when Aunt Hatt served up eggs and bread rolls. And they were all struggling with exactly how to pronounce the German gentleman’s name. Shmarler, Uncle Eb thought.

‘I won’t see him, I suppose,’ Annie said indifferently, taking her bowl to the scullery. ‘I’m going to see Mrs Poole,’ she said, emerging again. ‘I’ve realized that in general she seems not to have a clue.’

Aunt Hatt frowned at her, but said nothing, since she had already long realized there was no point.