She dug out Abigail, her rag doll, and Bruno, her teddy bear, from where they had worked down the bed in the night, and played a game in which she was the teacher and they were her pupils until her mother called her some time later. Climbing out of bed, her feet found her slippers and she pulled on the thick fleecy dressing gown her mam had bought her at the beginning of the winter, her old one being too small. She’d chosen this one herself and it was pink with flowers on. She knew she was lucky having a mam who bought her nice clothes; Flora and Sally had to wear their older sisters’ hand-me-downs whether they fitted or not.

Rose looked up from the range where she was stirring the porridge as Betsy danced into the room, the doll and teddy bear tucked under one arm. ‘Hello, hinny,’ she said softly, relishing the sight of her daughter as she did every morning. And then as Betsy came for a kiss, she stopped what she was doing and whisked the child up into her arms, making her squeal as she nuzzled her face into her neck. Setting her down again, she watched as Betsy washed her hands in the bowl of hot water she had ready in the scullery, and then came running into the kitchen again.

They ate their bowls of porridge side by side and then Rose got up and put some rashers of bacon and pieces of bread in the big black frying pan, adding an egg each when the bacon and fried bread were nearly ready. Betsy ate well and loved her food but Rose often wondered where she put it – her daughter was sylphlike and looked as though a breath of wind could blow her away. She had worried about it in the early days but had come to realize that although Betsy looked delicate she was actually a tough little thing on the whole.

‘Mrs Blackett said she’d bring me some storybooks her grandchildren have finished with last Saturday. Do you think she’ll remember?’