‘Lizzie could hardly manage at work today,’ Annie said when she got back. ‘She was in tears nearly all morning. She’s such a brave soul normally.’

This time it was Den who had gone missing.

It was the talk of the table in the Watts household, night after night. Margaret could see that her aunt and uncle, whose normal teatime conversation was the business, their house, or Georgie and little Jimmy’s goings-on, were being drawn in to the heartbreaking situation of the Poole family. Once again a great deal lay heavily on Lizzie’s shoulders.

‘I suppose the lad’s gone to look for ’is father,’ Uncle Eb said, sitting back after his steak-and-kidney pie and lighting up his pipe. The sweet smoke whorled about the cosy room.

‘He’s only a little nipper himself,’ Aunt Hatt said.

‘Mrs Poole thinks he’s run away to sea and she’ll never see him again,’ Annie said. Her eyes were wide with a sad tiredness that was new in her. Margaret felt concerned about her little sister, as if her heart had been scoured by the Pooles as by no one else. She knew the situation made Annie feel utterly helpless, and it was not something Annie found easy to tolerate.

Later, when they were in bed, she said, ‘You seem to have become very deeply involved with the Poole family. Is that wise, d’you think?’

Annie turned to her, and Margaret saw her sister’s eyes reflect the spots of candlelight from the chest of drawers beside her.

‘It’s not wrong to want to help others in their suffering, surely?’ But she sounded upset, rather than argumentative.

After a moment, Margaret said, ‘I keep thinking about that boy.’ She kept remembering the moment, once the funeral was over and they were walking away through the whirling copper leaves, when Den had caught hold of her hand. His thin fingers grasped hers and squeezed, tight, just for a few seconds before he let go, as if not allowing himself more comfort than that.

‘He’s grown attached to you,’ Annie said.

‘Has he? It’s hard to tell with him.’

After another silence, Annie said, ‘It’s different here. It’s what I wanted, I suppose, but it’s hard. In the village we’re “helping” always, as if we have something other people don’t. And of course we do have things that the Pooles don’t. But it feels different, working next to Lizzie every day, almost feeling every second of her worries and her grief coming to me . . .’

Annie’s voice was thick with tears. Margaret was astonished.

‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. She shifted towards her sister and took her in her arms. Annie began to cry, her forehead pressed to Margaret’s shoulder.