‘What use has tha,’ said Jim, ‘for a dainty cup and saucer and a statue of a… wha’ is it?’

‘A cat,’ said Silas. ‘A miniature of a cat, painted purple an’ all.’

‘A purple fucken’ cat.’ Jim shook his head.

Silas spread his hands. ‘P’raps I just can’t say no to a bit of dainty porcelain.’

‘Daft fucken’ apeth.’

The truth was that he’d been touched by the red-eyed girl who had spread a woollen shawl on the mud of the riverbank to display undamaged items she’d recovered from the wreckage of the house behind her. She’d looked up when Silas approached then carried on cleaning a teapot with her skirt. Both teapot and skirt were encrusted with dirt. ‘Did tha’ live here?’ Silas had asked. She had raised her chin. ‘Me father lodged ’ere. I’ve not stole owt. These are all mine now, but I have no use for ’em.’

Silas had picked up a teacup. ‘I’ll gi’ thee a shilling for this.’

She had taken his coin and Silas stuffed the teacup into his trouser pocket. She’d held up the saucer to go with it and the small figurine of the cat to boot. ‘Have these, an’ all. Have ’em as mementoes of the calamity.’ She had begun to cry again. Silas had gently taken the saucer and the cat and given her another shilling. He could afford it.

He put another drink down in front of Jim.

‘Anyhow, tha’s the one,’ said Silas, ‘that paid to get a picture of theesen balanced on a bit o’ twig up Penistone Road.’

He grinned at the mock-affronted look on Jim’s face. Left behind when the waters receded, a two-ton log was still sitting like a prehistoric beast in the middle of the road, waiting for somebody to come and cut it up, and attracting plenty of attention in the meantime. Silas had seen an artist set up his easel the other day to paint it.

‘A twig? That’s gettin’ recorded in history, I’ll have you know. It’s a sight for sore eyes. More impressive than a fucken’ teacup.’

Silas laughed. ‘All right, all right. Drink up thee beer an’ tell me what’s next on the agenda.’

The repairs to Lady’s Bridge were finished and Silas had no wish to re-enter a forge. He had not told anyone about the recurring nightmare that had him struggling up from sleep, thinking he was awake, fighting for air, to find Fred Sharrow standing at the foot of his bed, unmoving, staring at Silas, a horrible grin burnt into his charred face.

Silas told himself hundreds of men put out of work by the flood would be flocking to the bigger manufactories and there’d be no room for him, a foreigner, but it was hard to hide from the truth. Some had predicted the flood would destroy the town, but the wheels were already back on the cart, so to speak. The town would feed the greed for steel, and grow fat itself on it, and he was glad to be here. Silas told himself that labouring on building sites was his education to the ways of the town and he would be back in a forge one day. Just not yet.