Excuses did present themselves to her: that she was in deep stress over her mother’s condition, and over Bill’s forthcoming operation. Oh God, Bill! Fear clutched her as she thought of Bill, who was at this moment going under the knife. Would he cope? He’d hardly spoken to her since he’d heard about the rape and had broken down, sobbing with anger. She’d wanted him to comfort her, but Bill hadn’t been able to touch her; but then didn’t men believe there was no such thing as rape? And in my case there wasn’t – oh God, relieve me of this guilt, please. Please.

The last three days Betsy had felt sick to her stomach. She’d waited and waited for Mags to contact her, but she hadn’t. Now she knew why. Me actions broke Mags. Me lovely friend Mags is broken.

Once more the heartbreak that she’d caused flooded through Betsy. Her body folded, and her tears dropped onto her skirt. Never had she felt such distress, and yet she couldn’t get help from anyone. She could never tell the truth, not even to Ciss. There was no one who wouldn’t be disgusted with her. And she couldn’t blame them. Never before had she behaved in such a manner. It had been as if that Mr Roford had some kind of hold over her. Oh, Bill, my Bill, I’ve betrayed you an’ all.

As she thought of hearing all the accusations in court, and of Bill hearing them, fear joined her despair. Would she lose him? Would she be able to keep up the lie under oath? As it dawned on her that the whole world would find out about her deceit, Betsy knew that whatever it took, she would have to stick to her story. Mags would get over it, and she’d kick the rotter out. That was the best thing she could do, because he was bad – evil. A destroyer of good people. Then, just maybe, everything could get back to how it used to be.

With the feeling settling in her that she had in some way helped Mags, Betsy dried her tears. She’d go to Cook and see if she would pass on a message to Mags. Together, she and Mags could sort all of this out.

When Cook opened the kitchen door, she opened her arms. ‘Eeh, lass, what a terrible thing to happen. Come here, come on in. Is that Rosie as you have in the pram? By, look at her, such a little dot, and yet her coming on four years old.’

Coming out of Cook’s welcome hug, Betsy manoeuvred the huge, boat-shaped wooden pram nearer to the wall for shelter. ‘Aye, she’s little, but strong as a horse, that one, though she runs out of steam and has to have her afternoon nap. I’ll leave the pram out here; she’s well wrapped up.’ Applying the brake, Betsy expressed the fear she’d felt. ‘I’m hoping as I weren’t seen, though I came in the back way.’