She stared at the door after he had gone. An honest face. What would he say if he knew she had ninety pounds in her bags that she had taken from a dead man? She sat down with a plump on the bed, her bruises and the pain between her legs worse suddenly. They would say she had killed him if anyone found her but she hadn’t, she hadn’t killed him, not really. It had been an accident. She had pushed him off her but he had hit his head on the fireplace himself. It wasn’t as though she had intended what had happened, although after the way he had attacked her he had no one to blame but himself. He’d been a horrible man, mean and dirty and loathsome. She began to tremble, and it was only Betsy coming to tug on her skirt and saying, ‘Mammy, dolly?’ that prevented the panic from taking hold.

She fished the rag doll she had made Betsy for her first Christmas out of one of the bags where she had tucked it for safety before leaving the mill. Betsy was inordinately attached to the doll although it was definitely the worse for wear now, and she hadn’t wanted to risk it going astray. Sitting the child on the bed with the rest of the treacle toffee and her beloved plaything, she swiftly unpacked the bags, stuffing them and the pouches on top of the wardrobe. She’d paid Arthur to get a pair of shoes for Betsy some months ago but these were now too small, and as she took them off the child’s feet the little toes were red and cramped. One of the first things to do was to buy Betsy another pair, and perhaps a dress for best; the clothes she had made for her would do for everyday wear for a few months more. She could manage herself although her boots were on the verge of developing holes in the soles; she’d see if she could get them mended over the next day or two.

Passing Betsy her other toy, a small teddy bear, she watched for a few moments as her daughter gabbled away in a language all of her own to the doll and the bear, jumping them up and down and playing a game of her own making. She was such a happy child, Rose thought with a feeling of deep thankfulness. The events of the last twenty months didn’t seem to have impinged on her zest for life at all.

A knock at the door brought her out of her reverie and she opened it to find the landlord with the jug and towel. No sooner had he departed than another knock heralded his daughter with a tray holding a small crusty loaf, pats of butter, a generous wedge of cheese and several slices of ham, with steaming coffee for her and milk for Betsy.