There was a girl in laundry party, Irma Dale, who was shy and thin and looked no older than eleven, and Joyce had always tried to stop the mouthy bunch from North House giving her more aggravation than was fair. Of all the things to get in trouble over, Irma had been nicked for throwing rocks at her school’s window, which she reckoned someone else had smashed before she even got there. They’d done hobby hour together for a week or two, long enough for Joyce to see she had a way of getting details in a watercolour no one else could paint – tiny broken branches in the treetops, balls of mistletoe and drifting puffs of clouds on the horizon. But Irma had swapped into rug-making with Mrs Frost quite early on – there was some logic to it, as her father ran a carpet shop in Manchester and she was keen on being more useful to him after she got out. As far as Joyce could tell, the girl had no designs on entering the competition, anyway. It hadn’t been too difficult to start a conversation with her: ‘Oi, Irma, what d’you think’s best – Gold Flake or Player’s?’ They’d been side by side at the long basin in the scullery, soaking uniforms in soapy water.

‘Don’t mind, really. Capstans, if I had to pick.’

‘Too weak for me.’

‘I like the flavour. Why? You got some?’

‘No, but I can get them,’ she’d said, shifting closer, ‘if you want.’

Irma had chewed on her lip. ‘I gave them up for Lent.’

‘Yeah, me too. I do it every year.’ She’d smirked, dunking another uniform below the suds. ‘How many rugs have you lot made with Mrs Frost so far, then?’

‘One. A small one. And it wrecked my fingers. Wool burns something awful when you feed it through the loom.’

‘Is she all right with you?’

‘Yeah, she’s nice. We like her.’

‘Sounds like you’re not coming back to watercolours, then.’

‘Don’t have a choice. My dad says it’s a waste of time.’

‘Well, no one’s going to pay for any pictures I make, that’s for sure.’ Feeling Irma’s stance begin to soften, she’d hurried on: ‘A shame for you to give it up, though. With the eye you’ve got for it. Those sketches that you used to do – well, Mrs Graham used to sing your praises, didn’t she? You’d win that drawing competition easy.’

‘I dunno.’ Irma had looked up, her hands still plunging in the soapy water. ‘I’m not fussed about it, really. There’s a good job waiting once I’m out of here. And if I let my dad down this time, he’ll be finished with me.’

‘Do you think that you could teach me? How to draw well?’ If she’d had a mirror to reflect her own expression in that moment, she would probably have seen how much it owed to Mal – that varnish of pure innocence, that gently bended brow.

‘Suppose I could.’ Irma’s voice had been a little pained. The sting of the detergent gave their hands a sunburnt feeling after a few hours. ‘How many ciggies would I get for it?’