‘No, no . . .’ Philip Tallis gestured for her to put it back and bought a double helping. As they walked away with their newspaper-wrapped cones of nuts, she saw the relief in the man’s eyes.

‘He looked as if he really needed the money,’ she said, feeling the man’s desperation. ‘Here you are, Daisy.’

‘Look – we can sit down, over next to Lord Nelson!’ Daisy said.

Nelson’s statue stood grandly, the figure with the hull of a ship to his right, surrounded by railings set in a low wall. The three perched in a row, Daisy in the middle, enjoying the hot, waxy nuts.

‘He looked very poor, that man, didn’t he?’ Daisy said sadly.

Her father nodded. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. ‘Is there any news of that lad’s father – Poole, isn’t it?’

‘Wilfred Poole,’ Margaret said. ‘Well, yes – sort of. Annie said just last week that Lizzie, the sister who she works with, seemed very excited, saying that someone had seen him.’

Philip Tallis shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing, that. If only he’d just get himself home. Not that he’s much use to them when he’s there, I suppose.’

‘It’s moral support though,’ Margaret said. ‘Poor Mrs Poole – she’s so alone. There seem to be no other relatives. We talk about it all the time at home, round and round, what can be done? Even Aunt Hatt’s said she might come and visit her and see if there’s more we can do. It’s as if Mrs Poole’s a widow while her husband’s still alive – and either way, she’s no better off.’ She felt her anger rise. ‘It’s wrong that families should be put in this position. They’re barely keeping above water with Lizzie’s earnings and her mother’s bits of outwork. And . . .’ She was about to mention Den’s activities after dark, but thought she had better not. ‘What are the poor supposed to do? It seems as if the only options are either starvation or the workhouse.’

‘That lad . . .’ Philip Tallis said, shaking his head. ‘A proper urchin. He’s running wild.’

Daisy was listening intently. ‘Can’t you teach him, Pa?’

‘But how old is he? He’s not even ten, is he? The lad should be at school, not running about the streets selling firewood.’

‘He’s nearly ten, I think,’ Margaret said. She peeled another glossy brown chestnut. ‘We keep encouraging him to go. He’s got to until he’s twelve – that’s the law.’

‘Have they not been round – there are people who check up, aren’t there?’

‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said. ‘If they have his mother hasn’t said.’