When they were preparing for bed in the attic, Margaret chose a moment when Annie had slipped into bed first, as usual, leaving her hair all over the place, while Margaret was still plaiting hers. It seemed the best time to broach the subject, when they were alone in the candlelit room. With her back to Annie, passing the brush through her thick hair, she said cautiously, ‘You don’t seem quite yourself. Is anything the matter?’

She expected Annie to snap back at her, as she would often have done in the past, that she was perfectly all right, thank you very much, and wanted to be left alone. Instead, she sighed.

‘I don’t know.’ She sounded small and deflated, not like the old, always certain Annie. Margaret turned and came to sit on the bed, still plaiting her hair.

‘It’s all got me down a bit, I suppose. I used to think there were answers – sure answers – if only you worked hard enough and had enough faith. Mary Poole doesn’t go to church but she has faith of a kind, if you talk to her about it. But in the end –’ she looked directly at Margaret, really seeking her opinion – ‘what difference would it actually make if she had the faith of ten? She’s still as poor as a church mouse, and there’s no help other than the parish – and they’re so cruel. She told me all about it – these hard faces looking down on you, making you feel as if you’re wicked because you’re poor, and not giving much help anyway.’

‘Well, you’re helping her,’ Margaret pointed out. ‘And maybe it is the faith she has that keeps her going.’ She trailed off, not certain of anything herself either. ‘Something helps her keep going, anyway.’

Annie lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘Yes, maybe it is. She loves her children – that’s what it is really . . .’ She looked up at Margaret. ‘I just thought God was there, waiting to help if we’d only ask. But . . . It’s only us that can do anything, isn’t it? God works through us – not in any other way. Because if there was a God who was not like that, who could just sort everything out and make it better, you’d have to wonder why He doesn’t do it – why would He be so cruel? There’s just something wrong that people are living like that.’

‘Yes,’ Margaret said, with a helpless feeling. She could hear that Annie was close to crying and she felt tearful herself. She wanted to offer one of the old remedies – God as the ever-listening ear; why didn’t they pray together? – but all their certainties were being prised open into doubt and she felt just as shaken herself. She got up to put her brush down and lifted the bedcovers to get in beside Annie, blowing out the candle.