In the small hours she banked up the stove and made a bowl of comforting porridge to soothe the gnawing pangs in her churning stomach. Fear made her write down every penny she would need to survive for three months ahead. Her savings would have to last. Perhaps Father would chip in too. She would have to have extra help with basic work. Perhaps Vida Bloom might help and introduce her family in the wholesale trade. Now was the time to ask if Polly would like to be her apprentice. So much to think about…

She dozed and woke suddenly with a poster before her eyes: LET NETTA NICHOL DESIGN FOR YOU. Why not use her real name? It was sharp and neat. Jeanette Hunter was only the pin-picker at Dorelle’s. Netta Nichol was her own boss. A new name for afresh start.

Follow what you love and it will lead you where you need to go… who was it had said that? Out of the window she saw the turquoise dawn rising from the east, streaked with pink and orange. It would set the shepherd tapping his barometer but after such a dark night it was just the sign Netta needed. Today was her new beginning.

Christmas 1948

‘Not another present for wee Gus! Netta, you spoil that child! I ken they Pelham Puppets is all the rage in the toy shop windows but are you sure that’s what he wants? Surely those farm animals are more up his street?’ said Dixie, grabbing her friend’s arm away from the tempting display.

‘Oh, but puppets are more fun. He can make his own theatre and plays. I can’t decide between the Wizard, the Cowboy or the Soldier.’

‘Come on, hen, I’m starving. You can come back later. This wind is going right through me,’ moaned Dixie, wrapping her fur coat round her chest. It was a chill north-easterly blowing down on to Briggate in Leeds and the first flakes of snow landed on her sleeve. Dixie was appearing here in the pantomime Aladdin as the top speciality act. This outing was a chance to hand over her party dress and for Netta to find presents for Brigg Farm. Gus was not going to get another stuffed toy this year whatever the cost.

They found seats in a smoky café off the Headrow and collapsed with all their shopping bags to sink their teeth into toasted teacakes dripping with margarine which tasted like farm oil.

‘Hand it over then, how much do I owe you?’ Dixie peeped in the box. ‘Arnie didn’t see it, did he?’