‘You’re having very difficult times, I hear, Mrs Poole,’ Aunt Hatt said. She seemed more relaxed, having a child to hold, and there was a warmth to her voice.

‘It does for my back, doing this,’ Mary Poole said plaintively, bending this way and that in her chair. ‘It’s all this sitting.’

Margaret was too caught up in talking to Ivy to hear more of their conversation, but a moment later the door opened and Den came in. He stopped, startled, and Margaret thought how wild he looked, how old, for a boy of nine. He was carrying a few remaining bits of wet firewood.

‘D’yer sell any?’ Lizzie quizzed him.

‘Yeah. I got thruppence. And I got this an’ all.’ Digging into his trouser pockets, he brought out some nubs of coal.

‘You been down the wharf, Denny – in this?’ Lizzie asked, with a nod towards the dark, soaking night outside.

‘Nah – these bits fell off of the cart.’

Lizzie took the meagre supply of wood and coal off him, her slim frame bending over the range, working to garner some heat. Den came and hovered near Margaret and Ivy. Margaret wanted to draw the little boy into her arms, but she knew he would fight her off if she tried.

‘I’m starving,’ he said, sniffing the air like a dog.

‘I know – and Miss Annie, Miss Margaret and Mrs Watts’ve brought us some stew – but it’ll do you more good hot,’ Lizzie said. Margaret saw her glance at her mother and Aunt Hatt, and she seemed reassured, seeing the two of them talking.

The room gradually filled with the mouth-watering smell of the stew, heavily padded with potatoes.

‘Can’t we eat it now?’ Den said fervently, moving from one foot to the other.

Aunt Hatt looked round, still holding Nellie. ‘We’ll leave you to eat in peace,’ she said.

‘It’s good of yer to’ve come, Mrs Watts,’ Mary Poole said. Though deferential, she did not seem overawed by Aunt Hatt, not any more at least. While it must have seemed grand to her, having the wife of successful businessman Ebenezer Watts walking into her house all of a sudden, Margaret felt great affection for her aunt’s warm manner, which could put anyone at ease.

Aunt Hatt had put Nellie down and they were gathering themselves to leave, when they heard the rain-muffled sound of boots moving closer across the yard, followed by a sharp rap on the door. Within a second, Den vanished. Margaret had never seen anyone move so fast, like a shadow, sliding away somewhere so that he was invisible.

‘Open up – it’s the police!’ a man’s voice boomed from outside.

‘Oh!’ Mary Poole cried, aghast. ‘What do they want? Denny . . . What’ve you . . . ?’