‘We are going on an adventure, children. We’re going to a cottage in Turton that one of my friends owns. It’s going to be lovely. Like a holiday. Then we’re going to London in a few days, when things are settled. Have you heard of our capital city?’

‘Aye, we learned about it in school, Aunty Mags. There’s palaces and a big river with a special bridge, and a clock that strikes so loud most of London can hear it, and it has a name. It’s called Big Ben.’

‘Aye, I remember the teacher telling us that, our Florrie, and she said the palace is where the King lives, and that the important house where the government makes all the laws is by the river an’ all.’

Betsy smiled, proud of the knowledge her girls had. Mags winked at her. ‘Oh, you girls know so much about it, you will have to show me and your ma around.’

The girls giggled at this, and Betsy felt her heart resting, as Patrick had bid it to. They were going to be safe. Nothing could hurt them now. Though she wondered if the pain of loss would ever go away, she knew she was ready to make a new life for herself and her young ’uns, and aye, the babby nestling in her womb, too.

London was like a hurricane, whereas Blackburn had been a mild storm. It took Betsy’s breath away and she could tell that Mags wasn’t at home, not really. She knew the way of things, but looked intimidated by the hustle and bustle.

The smell got to Betsy, who was used to the blustery northern winds, which sometimes carried the grime of industry in their wake. Here the air hung with smog, horse-dung and the fumes from hundreds of cars, coupled with the sweaty body smells of so many folk at close quarters – and it had her wanting to retch. But she couldn’t help being caught up in the excitement of the glittering shops and the street entertainers.

Daisy, Florrie and Rosie loved every minute. They clapped their hands and did little jigs as they watched the musicians and jugglers. And they were enthralled to see Buckingham Palace and all the places they had learned about at school. Betsy felt a pride in her children she’d never known before. Caught up in the daily grind of getting through each day, she’d never taken much notice of what was happening with their schooling. It had been enough to get them to school.

The time at the cottage in Turton had been a time of fun for them, but for her and Mags a time of talking. Cleansing all but the very corners of her soul, where her guilt dwelt, Betsy felt better for telling Mags of her feelings; and Mags let out more and more about how her weeks in the asylum had been and, as she’d never done before, told of her time nursing in Belgium.

Betsy couldn’t believe what Mags had been through, and the fear she must have felt when the borders closed and she and her friends were left behind, with no supplies and no help from any senior personnel. That her Mags – a sometimes strong, sometimes vulnerable woman – should have to go through all that she did and had done since, hurt Betsy to think about. None of it should have happened. Mags was born to the fine life, not to be used in the ways she had been.