‘Now let me get this right, lass. You say you want to take on old Cunningham’s bakery shop, is that right? Just you. On your own?’

‘Yes, that’s right, Mr Preston. I’ve been told you own the premises along with the gentlemen’s outfitters next door.’

‘Aye, I do. I do sure enough but . . .’

Rose waited a moment and then said, ‘But?’

‘A bakery, lass, is hard work, and Cunningham only just managed to keep his head above water afore he up and died. The rent isn’t cheap, I’m warning you now, not with it being in Middle Street which is a prime location if I do say so myself, and of course there’s the living accommodation above.’

‘I know, that’s why I want it.’

Albert Preston stared at the young woman on his doorstep. It was five o’clock on New Year’s Eve and inside the house his wife and daughters were getting ready for the neighbours coming round later. He’d shut up the gents’ outfitters early and had been home just a few minutes. ‘How did you hear about the shop being available? Cunningham only died two days ago.’

‘Wilbur Croft told his daughter, who told me. I understand Mr Cunningham was drinking there on Tuesday night when he had his heart attack. It was a terrible shock for everyone.’

‘Aye, I dare say.’ Privately Albert thought that if Stan Cunningham had spent less time at the inn and more at his bakery his business would have benefited, but it didn’t do to speak ill of the dead. Stan had been different when his wife and two sons were alive, but when the cholera took them umpteen years ago he’d changed.

‘I wanted to come and see you before anyone else approached you about the premises, Mr Preston. I’ve had a stall on the market for the last few years but I know the time is right for me to go to the next stage.’ He was still looking at her doubtfully and now Rose said, ‘I can pay the rent in advance, however many weeks you require.’

Albert shook his head uncertainly. ‘Look, come in a minute, you can’t stand there getting snowed on, and we’ll discuss it, all right?’

‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ As Rose stepped into the hall of the large terraced house, a woman came bustling out of the kitchen at the far end bringing with her the smell of baking. On catching sight of Rose, she said, ‘Why, it’s Mrs O’Leary from the market. I’m right, aren’t I, lass? What on earth are you doing here on New Year’s Eve?’