Annie gently touched Nellie’s forehead. The child seemed lifeless and for a terrible moment her heart picked up speed, thinking that she had faded away. Then she heard the little body let out a breath. Sleep was probably the best thing for her, she decided. She glanced up and saw Lizzie watching, a stricken look on her face.

‘Is there any heat in the fire?’ Annie asked. ‘To make tea – and water for the baby?’ Some of the little ration of tea she had bought yesterday must be left, she reasoned.

‘Denny’ll be back soon,’ Mrs Poole said. ‘’E’s taken the girls with him to . . .’ She cut herself off abruptly, as if aware of saying something she shouldn’t, and kept her head bent over the scattered items of outwork.

More horrified realization came to Annie. Those three little children were out on the streets, and doing what? Begging for food or fuel? She held on tight to her temper at the sight of this household where some feckless, selfish man had left them in this dire poverty . . .

‘Look,’ Annie said, ‘let me sit with you for a bit and help.’

The work Mrs Poole was doing seemed such a desperate attempt – unskilled and fiddly, taking ages in a way that provoked Annie’s impatient temperament. And she guessed it would be very poorly paid. But she could stay at least until the baby woke and see how she was faring after a drink of water. She knew from experience that small infants could go up or downhill very fast. If Nellie was seriously ailing she would flaming well pay for a doctor herself.

‘There’s no point me sitting here and watching you work, is there? Every little helps. And Lizzie, it’s getting dark – how about putting one of those mantles in so it’s not such a strain on the eyes?’

Mrs Poole looked back at her wonderingly, seeming not to have the strength to protest at them using gas she had no money to pay for. Annie quietly slipped Lizzie a couple of pennies for the gas meter and put some water on to boil. They sat round the table, Mrs Poole and Annie carding the buttons and Lizzie glueing boxes. She seemed to fare better at it than her mother. When Annie introduced herself properly, Mrs Poole told her that her name was Mary. Annie wondered whether Mary Poole was always so limp and hopeless looking. Her eyes were like two pools of resigned sorrow.

‘I’m sorry to hear from Lizzie that you are in such difficulties,’ Annie said. ‘And I’ll help you as I can.’

Mary Poole stopped her sewing for a moment and peered at her in the gloom. She looked as if she had a list of questions on her mind to ask, all competing. But in the end she said suspiciously, ‘You ain’t from the parish, are yer?’