Frost was the danger. Yet Harriet liked frost. She used to look out of her bedroom window and see the furrowed ground sparkling white. What she loved most of all was the intricate frosty webs on hedges and privets all along the walk to school. That was then. That was before. That was the life she thought would never end.

When she was with her dad, she loved to pick up a stick, pretend it was a walking stick and she was going to walk a very long way, somewhere beyond the horizon.

She led Sergeant Dog to the end of the garden. Soft fruit bushes were cut back. One was a strawberry plant. Destructive little creatures sat on its leaves. There would be no strawberries if aphids had their way. You could get rid of them with soapy water, but she had none. Leaning down, she picked up a little fly and squashed it between finger and thumb.

When she dropped his lead, Sergeant Dog sloped away through the hedge, following a scent.

She wondered what people did round here for enjoyment, and where was the nearest picture house.

She picked up a stick, a perfect walking stick. Someone had cleared old branches. A bonfire had been started but was only half burned. She poked it with the stick. Sergeant Dog came to look. He took a good sniff.

He then turned his attention to the scarecrow. He began to whine. He stood on his hind legs and put his paws on the scarecrow’s shoulder.

Harriet pulled at his collar. “You’ll get us in trouble, Sergeant.”

Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mrs. Sugden knew that she looked respectable. That was what counted among working people. She wore a serge coat, a felt hat and brown gloves. It would help that she clearly had nothing to sell.

Four doors up Silver Street, a woman had just brought out a pail of slops and thrown it onto the compost heap. Mrs. Sugden called to her before she went back in and closed the door. “Excuse me!”

The woman held the pail like a shield against evil, and waited.

“Hello, I’m Mrs. Sugden, brought by the estate agent to look at yonder shop. He’s left me a wee while to get the feel of the place. There’s no better way of learning than to ask someone nearby.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry to ask this and no ill reflection on you and your neighbours, but is this a place where ruffians are likely to murder a body for a shilling?”

“It is not, by no means. This is a respectable place. We pay our way and look out for each other. Our men are in the pit. When they come up they’ve a mind to look to their pigeons and the garden and have a drink.”

“So there’d be no violence from this direction?”