Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Barrows rumbled along the pavements, pushed either by men who seemed impossibly old and bent or boys who appeared just as unfeasibly small, looking like tiny, barefoot men. They saw two lads who had discarded their barrows, the basket containers piled with parcels and bundles, and were setting about each other with their knuckles.

Annie, used to being a Sunday-school teacher and bosser of children, immediately went up to them.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ she said. ‘That’s no way to go on, is it? You stop that and get back to your work!’

‘Annie!’ Margaret protested, horrified – and too late. ‘You can’t just . . .’

The boys stopped for a second, bemused. The smaller of the two, perhaps nine years old, was ragged and filthy, a cap on his head at a cock-eyed angle. He moved his jaw, spat into the gutter, shot Annie a look of insolent indifference and the two of them went back to punching each other with renewed enthusiasm.

Annie was not used to people not doing as she said.

‘Come away, Annie.’ Margaret pulled her arm. ‘For goodness’ sake, you’re not in charge of them.’

Annie glanced back at their barrows. ‘I wonder what they’ve got in there.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s probably worth a king’s ransom,’ Margaret laughed. ‘No one seems to take any notice!’

For some reason she had enjoyed the boys not doing as Annie said, as if there was a devil in her that warmed to flagrant disobedience in someone else. And, to her surprise, now she had got out, it felt exhilarating walking the streets like this, discovering new things. They had lived in the small village ever since they could remember.

They seemed to be walking towards the edge of the quarter now. The buildings became shoddier. Instead of the ornate, variegated brick buildings with beautiful windows, everything felt more drab and mean and the road was quieter. ‘Camden Street’, they read, ‘Pope Street’, ‘Craig Street’.

‘I think we’re going too far,’ Margaret said. She had started to feel uneasy.

The eyes of the few people on the street who turned to look at them, strangers in the area, seemed to fix on them with hostility. A woman stood at the end of an alley, leaning against the wall, looking up and down as if waiting for someone. A very old man shuffled along in the distance and another, younger, came along the street supporting himself on a crutch. He had a peg leg and was wincing at every step. His hair was long and straggly, his face unshaven and, Margaret thought with a tense feeling of dread, he looked the worse for drink.

‘Good morning,’ she said as they passed him, bent over his rough crutch.