Over the next little while Rose let her fellow passenger natter on, finding she only had to say the occasional word or two. It was twelve miles by train to Gateshead, but they stopped at various little stations on the way – East Boldon, Brockley Whins, Pelaw, Felling – before arriving at Gateshead East station. This was situated a short distance south-east of the High Level Bridge and had been reconstructed sixteen years earlier when two generously proportioned side platforms and a substantial building containing all the station facilities had replaced the previous inadequate premises.

Betsy awoke as the train chugged into the station in billows of smoke but settled quite happily in her home-made carrier with a hard crust of bread to chew on. Rose felt very small and very insignificant as she left the train holding the bags; everyone else seemed to know exactly where they were going and were in a hurry to get there. She emerged from the station into Wellington Street and stood looking about her for a few moments. It was already gone noon and would be dark by four o’clock and she had to find somewhere for them to stay before then.

She noticed a few horse-drawn cabs waiting a short distance away and as she watched, one of the passengers from the train climbed into one and the horse trotted off. It dawned on her that cab drivers would know the town better than anyone. She walked across to the remaining cabs and as she did so a middle-aged driver took his pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘Where to, lass?’

She swallowed nervously. ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I just wondered if you knew of somewhere I could rent a room for a short while? Not – not a hotel or anywhere expensive.’

The man had a rough, weather-beaten face and he stared at her for a moment. ‘Just you and the bairn, is it?’

She nodded. There had been something in his voice that made her say, her tone defensive now, ‘My husband was killed in an accident at the shipyard he worked in recently.’ She knew what he was thinking – a woman on her own with a baby? Likely she was an unmarried mother who was no better than she should be.

‘Oh aye? Which shipyard was that then?’

‘Bartram’s in Sunderland. He had a fall the week before Christmas.’ It was unfortunate she couldn’t repeat the story she’d told the woman on the train about staying with relatives to deter just this sort of speculation, she thought, her face flushing. People always assumed the worst.