‘Come on, little Margaret,’ her father had said, squeezing her hand. ‘We’d best get home now the rain’s coming on. Let’s get back in the warm.’ So sweet, such a memory of trust and innocence, that again she was almost floored.

But I’m not going to think about any of it, she decided today. She looked about her. A cart drawn up near an entry loaded with blocks of salt, a rook fluttering from a rooftop and the vivid jewellers’ gas flames glowing behind the lower windows, all filled her with a sense of contentment. She started to hum to herself and two passing women stared at her. One said to the other, ‘Well, someone’s happy.’

But I am happy today, Margaret thought, blushing as she hurried onward – because she had caught the habit of hurrying and these streets were now so familiar that she hardly had to think to find her way back to Chain Street. And I’m not going to worry about any of the horrible things today.

When she was approaching number twenty-six, she saw a small figure sitting on the front step of number twenty-four, next door. The girl’s dress was covered by a white pinafore, she wore a straw hat with the brim tilted back from her face, and her hay-coloured hair hung thick over her shoulders.

Since they had been staying with the Watts family, Margaret had seen the girl a few times going in and out to school and had smiled at her. She felt a swell of pleasure. Margaret liked children, felt a great sympathy towards them. Annie liked the young too – especially being in command of them. Annie had been keen to teach in the Sunday and other schools when she was hardly big enough to see over the table. But though Margaret taught as well, she preferred being in the company of one or two children and enjoying their playful imaginations.

As Margaret approached, the girl looked up. She was a self-possessed-looking child with a long, pale face and blue-grey eyes.

‘Hello,’ Margaret said. ‘Do you live here? I’ve seen you before, I think.’

The girl nodded, drawing her knees in closer to her. A stout pair of brown boots was visible at the blue gingham hem of her dress.

‘My name’s Margaret Hanson. What’s your name?’

‘Daisy Tallis,’ the girl said. There was a disconcerting directness to her gaze. Margaret had been taught to lower her eyes when addressing someone senior to her, but Daisy seemed to have had no such instruction.

‘And how old are you, Daisy?’

‘Nine – but I’m nearly ten,’ she said. ‘I live with my father. My mother passed away and I have no brothers or sisters. We have Mrs Flett who helps us, though,’ she added, as if it was important that Margaret should know this. ‘She does our cooking and things like that.’