Large chocolate-brown eyes set in a heart-shaped face stared seriously at Rose. Adelaide Blackett had the greengrocer’s stall next to theirs and adored Betsy, but at seventy-plus it was common knowledge she was becoming increasingly forgetful. Her two sons had been trying for some time to make her give up the stall but since she had been widowed at forty it had become more than just her livelihood. The companionship and camaraderie among the stallholders was strong and for that reason everyone had rallied round to support the old lady, helping her with setting up in the mornings, packing stuff away at the end of the day and making sure no one diddled her out of any money. Every Saturday Betsy spent most of her time with Adelaide, helping her weigh out her goods, taking the money and putting it in the cash box, or just talking to the old lady. Betsy didn’t seem to mind the number of times the old lady repeated herself or got things mixed up, but then the same innate kindness and gentleness that had been characteristics of Davey were in his daughter, Rose thought fondly. There wasn’t a nasty bone in Betsy’s body.

‘I don’t know if she’ll remember or not, hinny, but if she hasn’t brought them don’t say anything, will you. It might upset her if she thinks she’s disappointed you.’

Betsy nodded solemnly. Even when Mrs Blackett called her by the name of one of her grandchildren and asked how her brothers and sisters were, or said she hadn’t seen her for a long, long while and asked what she’d been doing, she didn’t correct her. Her mam had told her Mrs Blackett’s brain was tired. Not in the same way as Matthew’s, but it still meant she didn’t think like other folk sometimes.

Mopping up the last of the fat from the bacon with a slice of home-made crusty bread, Betsy finished her breakfast. Before she got down, she said, ‘Thank you for my breakfast. Please may I leave the table?’

Rose smiled and nodded. She wanted Betsy to grow up with good manners – it was one of the few things she was strict about – but the child never complained and rarely forgot what was required of her.

Once upstairs, Betsy dressed quickly, taking off her nightdress and pulling on her vest and flannelette knickers, her lace-trimmed petticoat, her warm red woollen dress with the embroidered flowers round the neck and her white-frilled pinafore. It was too cold to dawdle, and once her socks and boots were on she scampered down to the snug warmth of the kitchen, humming one of the songs she had learned at school as she went.