She’d seen his shoes first. Bill’s shoes were on the ground, highly polished, as he liked them. They lay as if dropped from a height. Next to them were his socks, strewn as if he’d just discarded them. And then she saw his bare feet dangling.

Drawing in a deep, painful gasp, she reached up. She wanted to take his weight, but she couldn’t reach him. Horror entered her as she looked into Bill’s bloated face and his bulging, unseeing eyes. Quiet sobs took her now. ‘Oh, Bill, me beloved Bill. What have I done? What have I done?’

A scream from Rosie got her turning. Roford had hold of the pushchair and was pulling it backwards. He was taking her child, but it didn’t register. Betsy’s mind wouldn’t – couldn’t – deal with anything other than the loss of her Bill. ‘He – he’s dead. Me lovely Bill’s dead. Help me. Help me . . . Please.’ Saying the words drained Betsy and she sank to her knees.

‘What? What are you talking about?’

Roford was by her side now. When he looked up, he turned away quickly and vomited. When he was back in control he turned to her. ‘Get up – we have to fetch help. God, why has he done this? Why? Look, come on, Betsy.’ This last he said in a softer tone. ‘I – I saw you come in here. I’ve got my car outside the gate. Come on. I – I came to talk to you. Look, I’m sorry about what I said. I was angry and worried about Mags. I wouldn’t harm your children, you know that.’ His hands were shaking as he helped her up.

Rosie screamed even louder as he neared the pushchair. Making an extreme effort, Betsy pulled herself together. She wiped her face with her hanky and tried to smile. ‘There, there, me little darling, there’s nowt to be scared of. No one’s going to hurt you.’

The words felt as if they were being said by someone else, as she couldn’t register that she was talking, or make any sense of what she said. Her mind was filled with Bill’s face – the ugliness of it, when her Bill was so handsome. His stare haunted her. Oh, Bill, naw, naw.

Three days later, shivering with shock and grief, Betsy watched Bill’s coffin being lowered into a pauper’s grave in unconsecrated ground. No vicar was attending, as Bill was classed as having committed the ultimate, unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Church.

Betsy had wanted him buried with his ma, but the vicar wouldn’t even consider it. Even so, there was no shortage of mourners – Bill was well loved. All the folk from the village were there, as were a few of his old workmates, and the colliery brass band. Now that his coffin rested on the bottom of the grave, they began to play. Their music soared into the air, and Betsy thought of her Bill soaring with it. He loved the brass band. He’d be tapping his feet . . . A picture of his bare feet swinging back and forth came to her and she cried out against it. Ciss squeezed her hand on one side, and an arm came round her from the other side. She looked up into the face of Mags.