Joseph glanced around the cramped room. The furniture was sparse and the pantry door was open. It had a stone shelf opening to the outside and protected by a wire grille, and it necessitated regular shopping for perishables.

He held up the bag. ‘There are some boots in here for Rosie. They’re her size, and there’s a pair of sandals as well.’

Mary rubbed the flour from her hands on her pinny and folded her arms in a determined fashion. ‘Ah don’t want no charity, Mr Evans, but ah thank you kindly.’

Joseph recalled his sister’s advice and chose his words carefully. ‘I’m not offering charity, Mary,’ said Joseph firmly. ‘I want you to pay for them. In fact, I insist.’

Mary smiled. ‘You’ve come to t’wrong ’ouse, Vicar. There’s no spare money.’

‘I don’t want money. I want your labour. An hour on Sunday morning working with the Holy Dusters. The team needs a reliable woman like you.’

Mary drew herself to her full height and stepped forward. ‘So long as it’s not charity.’

Joseph put the bag of footwear on the table and turned to go.

‘Eight o’clock, Sunday, Mary – and bring Rosie. She can help my sister make some sandwiches. The ladies always have some tea and sandwiches and cake afterwards. Nothing special – just a little ritual.’

He didn’t look back as he strode out.

Mary watched him attach his cycle clips and ride off on his ancient bicycle.

Before she left school Vera called into the kitchen where Irene Gubbins the cook was tackling the pots and pans she had used for today’s school dinner of boiled beef, carrots, cabbage and potatoes.

‘It’s a struggle is this, Miss Evans,’ she said, her face flushed with effort.

Vera watched Irene as she sighed and crouched down to clean the kitchen cooker. It was another problem in Vera’s busy day, but she had an idea.

At the school gate she met Mrs Riley, mother of eight-year-old Gordon. Her son was a free spirit, reciting his twelve times table in a sing-song voice and ending with a smile that would have melted the heart of the meanest Scrooge.

‘Hello, Mrs Riley,’ said Vera. ‘How are you today?’

‘Bit flustered, to be ’onest, Miss Evans. It were a difficult night with our Gordon’s breathin’ an’ ah thought ah’d jus’ call in t’see ’ow ’e’s gettin’ on.’

‘It’s almost certainly asthma,’ said Vera, clearly concerned. ‘You need to take him to see Doctor Davenport.’

‘Ah’m not comfortable wi’ doctors,’ said Mrs Riley with a frown. ‘Ah’ve ’ad some bad experiences.’

‘The school nurse will be here next week and she will help, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you, Miss Evans, ah know y’mean well an’ ah want my Gordon to ’ave a better chance than ah ’ad … but life’s a bit difficult sometimes.’