In the Kershaw household on the council estate all was not well. Fred, the local coalman and the Ragley Rovers centre forward, had injured his left knee in the recent game against Thirkby United.

‘Ah can’t stand up, Mam!’ he cried out as he limped into the front room and lay down on the sofa.

‘Shurrup, y’big soft jessie,’ yelled his father from the kitchen.

Alfie Kershaw, the Ragley coal merchant, was not a man blessed with compassion. For Alfie there was little to choose between empathy and apathy. However, as neither word was within his limited vocabulary, he was happy uttering short sentences with clear meanings.

‘Ah won’t be able t’be in t’panto,’ groaned Fred.

‘Jus’ as well, y’big nancy,’ shouted Alfie, who disapproved of his son’s theatrical tendencies.

His mother, Edie, pulled up one leg of his trousers. ‘Bloomin’ ’eck, Fred,’ she said with feeling, ‘it’s swelled up like a football!’

‘An’ it’s ’urtin’ like summat else, Mam.’

‘Don’t worry, luv, it can’t be ’elped. Ah’ll rub on some goose grease an’ then ah’ll go round to Doris an’ tell ’er they’ll ’ave t’get someone else t’play Buttons.’

‘Bloody Buttons,’ mumbled Alfie.

‘Shut y’cake’ole y’useless lump,’ yelled Edie.

Alfie knew when to keep quiet. He weighed sixteen stones and was built like a Russian weightlifter, but in the Kershaw household Edie ruled the roost.

The afternoon was bright, clear and cold as Lily caught the bus into Ragley village. She had volunteered to assist Vera with the preparations for the pantomime. As the bus trundled along, she stared out at the frozen fields streaked with the grey shadows of the bare trees. The hedgerows were rimed with frost and sparkled with a diamond light as the low shafts of sunlight lit up the land.

As Lily stepped on to the frosty pavement outside the General Stores she saw the coal merchant, Alfie Kershaw, delivering to Prudence Golightly. Alfie had bright eyes shining from a face blackened with coal dust and gave a wide, white-toothed smile. He heaved a hundredweight bag of coal on to his shoulders and, with a bent back, staggered round to the coal shed at the rear of the shop.

Miss Golightly came out to pay him and placed a mug of strong sugary tea on the trestle table in front of the shop window. It was a regular arrangement that worked like clockwork and Alfie was always grateful for the kindness of the diminutive shopkeeper, especially as now his son was incapacitated and all today’s deliveries had landed, literally, on his broad shoulders.

Neither Prudence nor Lily heard him mumble, ‘Bloody Buttons!’