As soon as they got back, Lizzie caved in and sat limply on a chair, her head resting on the table. Mrs Poole barely had the strength to thank them for going out to buy the food. She lay limply on the floor with Nellie, the baby, beside her, who for the moment seemed to have slipped into sleep. The room smelt a little less rank than before though there was still a sourness to it.

The boy, Den, stood watchful and sullen and the two little girls were back on the step again, eerily like two peas in a pod, saying nothing.

So Annie took charge.

She would have liked to do something for the baby – change her into something dry at least – but there seemed no point in disturbing her for the moment nor was there much hope of anything to change her into anyway.

Annie took off her hat and coat and found a hook on the back of the door. Going to the range, which was still warm, she saw the embers of a fire. At least we can boil some water, she thought, although it’s going to take an age. She went into the scullery adjacent to the downstairs room, but though there was a stone sink, she saw that the waste ran out into a pail below and there was no pump for any water.

‘Where do we get water from?’ she asked Den.

With the air of an old man who has lived much, Den picked up the bucket and disappeared outside, staggering back in with it almost full. Annie looked dubiously into the pail, wondering why three members of the family were sick and not the others. We must boil it somehow, she thought. She had read about Miss Nightingale’s work in Crimea and how to nurse people in the healthiest manner, keeping germs at bay and having plenty of fresh air. She eyed the one cracked window with a sense of despair. These houses each backed on to another, similarly cramped, in the street, so there was no back door. And she could hardly suggest keeping the only door open when it was so cold.

‘Is there anything else for the fire?’ she asked Den. He was staring at her and she thought she had never seen a child with such a hard gaze. His fierce eyes looked out from under an overgrown fringe of brown hair. There was something almost frightening about him. He shook his head.

‘Nobbut that chair.’

Backless and dried out, it was pushed half under the table.

‘It does look rickety,’ she agreed.

As if to demonstrate, Den picked it up and one leg and the supporting bar under the seat fell off.

‘Put it on the fire,’ Annie ordered. ‘We’ll get another chair from somewhere if necessary. But we must get this water boiled. Can we break up the rest of it?’