‘Go on, wench,’ Uncle Eb said. ‘There’s plenty of spud to go with it.’

‘Potatoes, Eb,’ Aunt Hatt ticked him off. She continued dishing out. ‘How’re they getting on with the German order?’ she asked.

‘Nearly done,’ Uncle Eb said, reaching for the dish of cabbage. ‘Beautiful job they’ve all done an’ all.’

‘I’m sure the German gentleman will be pleased,’ Margaret said carefully. ‘They’re lovely – the pictures he’s done, I mean.’

‘Lovely – they’re a flaming masterpiece!’ Uncle Eb chuckled, sitting back. His fleshy face and the upturned ends of his moustache made him look very jolly. ‘Did you see the pictures he sent of those wenches? All I can say is, if it’s a case of life imitating art, life’s got a fair way to go!’

‘Oh, Eb,’ Aunt Hatt said. But she sat down in front of her own plate of faggots, smiling mischievously. ‘But old Sam Lieberman’s done a flattering job, I’ll say that!’

Annie had her head down, eating urgently. No one got much sense out of her until she had had her tea.

‘You had that lad around today, Margaret?’ Uncle Eb said. He took a reluctant interest in Den Poole.

‘Yes – for a bit,’ Margaret said.

‘’E any good?’

‘I don’t really know. You’d have to ask Daisy,’ she said, guiltily aware that she had spent the whole of teatime immersed in Philip Tallis, not watching how Daisy’s lessons to Den were progressing. She had yet to broach the fact with Annie and the rest of them that she had promised to go out with the Tallises again on Sunday morning.

Eb and Hatt had started talking about other business matters and Margaret found her mind inevitably wandering to next door. They all lived so close together – only separated from the Tallises by a couple of walls. Walls which she knew, if she so chose, could become her own home. Home, in this place of what their father would call ‘heathens’, with no religion. A place of commerce and far from all she had known . . . As she relived the feeling of Philip Tallis’s arms around her, his lips on hers, she was not aware of the blush that was rising in her cheeks. She was rapt, caught up in her fancy, so that she jumped when Annie sat up straight and said, ‘What was that?’

‘There’s someone at the door.’ Aunt Hatt pushed her chair back, frowning. ‘I’ll go.’

‘Good God – what now?’ Uncle Eb exclaimed with a groan.

Silence fell in the room except for Eb’s fork against his plate, the hiss of the coals. They heard Aunt Hatt’s footsteps, the door, muffled voices, more footsteps.

‘Annie –’ Aunt Hatt’s head appeared. Her face was troubled. ‘You’d best come. It’s that young wench – the daughter. She won’t come in.’