It could have been a model of a Victorian parlour. A round rosewood table stood in the centre, bearing a group of wax fruit under a glass dome. There were four rosewood chairs with seats of horsehair, and a sofa to match stood under the window. On the sofa lay Ethel, with a patchwork cushion behind her shoulders and a rug of knitted wool squares covering her legs. Her left arm was supported by a sling made of one of those vividly patterned red-and-yellow handkerchiefs which were once the working neckwear of the countryman. Her face was a trifle paler than usual, but her expression was cheerful and composed, and she smiled as she said:

‘Good afternoon, Miss.’

Miss Mayfield said, ‘Hullo, Ethel. Audrey said you had a cold, so I came to see how you were and bring you something that I hope will tempt your appetite.’

Mrs Rigby, closing the door, said:

‘I told you, my girl! I said it wouldn’t work.’

Ethel gave a shamefaced grin.

‘I asked Gran to say I had a cold. They’re always on at me about being so cack-handed.’

‘Clumsy, she means, Miss.’

‘Clumsy, then. They’re always on at me for being clumsy, and if they knew I’d gone and got my fingers in the mangle, they’d never let me hear the last of it.’

‘Please sit down, Miss.’ The old woman turned to Ethel and said, ‘This time it wasn’t your fault for once. I take all the blame.’ She looked at Miss Mayfield and went on. ‘Mangling’s the one job about the house I really hate, so I go at it savage-like. And there, before you could say knife, Ethel’s poor fingers were in. But no bones broke. Sydney Baines was here and he fetched his mother and she came and said no bones broke and did Ethel up as nice as could be. And I made her a herb brew and she had a good night, didn’t you, dearie?’

‘Slept straight through,’ Ethel said. She looked at Miss Mayfield and smiled. ‘Gran’s a wonderful one with herbs – better than doctor’s stuff, she says.’