The other women left her to it each lunchtime. Netta pored over her sewing machine, finishing off the tailored coat and leggings she was rushing to finish for baby’s first birthday. The shoulders were padded expertly and she was attaching a velvet collar just like the little coat she had fingered so carefully at Matthias Robinson’s store in Leeds; the coat she would have bought if only she could have afforded their prices. This replica was made from factory floor offcuts and lined with satin from the market stall. It had to be done in her own time, secretly, and parcelled off before his birthday.

She was trusting it was the right size, preferably on the big side for him to grew into. The fact that her neck ached and her back was stiff after a long shift with no break must not spoil her workmanship. Nothing was too much trouble for her son. How she wished she could be there on the day but it was too soon and she had no money to spare for fares. It was a comfort to know he wouldn’t know much about his special day either.

This temporary job at Saloman’s garment factory was nothing much to write home about. It was a glorified sweatshop making skimpy coats with thin linings like tissue paper for the cheaper end of the rag trade. She lived now in the heart of the Yorkshire textile industry with mills on every street and factories up every back alley, churning out demob suits and coats by the thousand. Somewhere in the midst of the shoddy there must be quality clothing factories but she was grateful for any job in this grim climate.

Most of the girls came to work in iron curlers and headscarves, with overalls to keep the oose of their own clothes. It got up your nose and in your hair. They kept their distance from Netta since the job had been found for her as a favour from the boss to a relative and they considered she’d stolen someone else’s job. She was an offcomer, not one of them, and therefore probably a spy. Netta kept her head down, working fast and efficiently, gave no bother or lip and was politely ignored.