‘You were making tea,’ she says, caught between desire and fear. ‘And I should find some clothes. I’ll catch my death.’

The hairs on her forearms prickle when he unfolds them, silently. He lifts her wrists above her head in one hand and tugs the edge of the towel so that it slides from her chest to the ground.

He raises her wrists higher for a few seconds, so that she is forced to stand on tiptoe, her breathing ragged, before leading her to the bedroom without a word.

30

30

Saturday, late morning

Harriet presses the neat stack of envelopes into her handbag. There are five in total, and each one contains a letter to Robert Pickford. He has handed them to her because, although each one begins ‘Dear Sir’ or ‘Dear Editor’, they are commenting on her Forty Thieves piece. She had been surprised, at first, when he dropped them on her desk. He has not shown her any great regard until this moment – quite the opposite, indeed. She knew what they were, of course. Jimmy Cartwright has many such envelopes on his desk. He takes it for granted that he will receive them. Members of the public always write to the editor to praise or critique an article or report, and Pickford hands them to his reporters. They learn very quickly, Jimmy has told her, that real people read their words. He has also told her not to pay too much heed to such letters. He assumes she has received them already.

‘Read them, enjoy the praise where you find it, and try not to argue with the negative remarks,’ he said. ‘Learn from them. People like what they like. Oh, and some people are mad.’

Some people, if these letters are any indication, are, indeed, mad – or at least hold odd opinions. Mostly, they are diatribes against shoplifters and thieves, but there are a few words of praise for her writing scattered here and there.

These are the first such letters she has received, and they feed a growing hunger within her. She is worth more than the women’s pages – she always knew it – and, in a matter of days, five people have written to the editor, confirming her ability. She clings to the positive words, reciting them in her head. She will read them over again later, perhaps.

She stares at her typewriter, wondering what excitement she might give her readers today. Now that she knows she has readers beyond Mrs MacKenzie and, occasionally, her mother. Mr Pickford has made it clear yet again that she is to confine her energies to the women’s section and to what he terms ‘feminine interests’, despite the evident enthusiasm for her piece about Ruby Mills.

It is Ruby’s story, though, that was the inspiration. And Ruby herself.

Harriet touches the knot of hair at the back of her neck. She has twisted it into the same style today as she has every day since leaving school.