The coach had stopped outside a butcher’s where a small boy, woefully underdressed for the weather, was crouched under the shop window next to the thrown-back grille of the coal hole, clutching a sack. Lumps of coal were being flung out by his accomplice who had worked his body into the delivery chute so that only the legs and the dirty soles of his bare feet were visible. The boy on the pavement stopped in the act of stuffing pieces of coal into a sack to stare up at the omnibus. There was a shout from across the street, and seconds later, the butcher tore out of the shop. Harriet put her hand to her mouth as the boy with the sack dropped it and leapt to his feet – which were as unshod as his companion’s – and ran off up the street. She was fleetingly grateful the butcher was not carrying a meat cleaver before he grabbed the leg of the boy in the chute and yanked him out. The little fellow hung onto the lip of the coal hole then, screaming, was dragged along the pavement. The sound of jeers rang in Harriet’s ears as the coach pulled away.

The woman beside her was cackling. ‘Cheeky little buggers,’ she said. ‘The birch will warm their backsides.’

‘They were little children,’ said Harriet, shocked.

The woman shrugged.

‘Right enough,’ said the man on Harriet’s other side. ‘These kids today have no respect. Little children? Little thieves, the lot of them. It’s fiendishly cold, isn’t it?’ His leg was pressed against her skirts, and he dipped his head towards her, encouraging her to engage with him as if he mistook her for a streetwalker. Harriet nodded curtly and turned away from him.

The coach was approaching the junction where she would disembark. Tatters of grey smoke from the chimneys of a terrace of houses rose to mingle with darker columns from the tall factory stacks behind. Beyond the immediate horizon was a blur of whiteness, as if the wider world had been rubbed out. Harriet’s breath caught in her throat as the enormity of the choice she had made finally hit her like an ice-cold wave. It was not too late to change her mind.

‘That were a sharp exit,’ said Louisa.

Silas shrugged. ‘He’s got a lot on his mind. Anyhow, I’d best not keep them waitin’ in this mucky weather.’

He gathered both women in his arms. ‘I’ll miss thee.’

Louisa was laughing and crying at the same time. ‘I’ll miss thee dog more. Go on, then. Out tha goes. Bye bye, Shandy.’

‘You look after yourself, love,’ said Millicent.

He took a last glance back at the two of them, nodded once and quickly opened and closed the door behind him to preserve the heat inside. Gunson straightened up when Silas appeared, still holding the half-eaten breadcake in his gloved hand. His nose was red with cold, and he sniffed mightily then cautiously offered the bread to Shandy. She gulped it down.