As she moved away from the stalls, she heard a whimper. Swinging round, Bridget was astonished to see a girl pressed against the wall, her head bent, softly crying. Cautiously she walked towards her. She saw it was the same girl who had come to the stall earlier and rushed forward. ‘Whatever’s wrong? Are you in trouble?’ The girl was obviously in deep distress.

Recognising her, Fay flung her arms round Bridget’s neck. ‘It was Mr Noosan,’ she cried tearfully. ‘He attacked me.’ Her clothes were torn, and she kept glancing about as if afraid the offender might still be there.

‘Hold on to me,’ Bridget urged, leading her away. ‘We’re going to a friend of mine. Marge is a kindly soul who keeps herself to herself and never repeats other folk’s business.’

‘I don’t want people to see me.’

‘They won’t. We’ll go the back way.’

Bridget gently propelled Fay round the corner and along an alley behind Penny Street. Halfway down it they went through a green-painted door which led to a small, cobbled yard. Through the yard was another door which led straight into Marge’s kitchen.

Fay had never seen its like before. The room was small and warm, with a smell of lavender and herbs. From every wall hung lace of different lengths and patterns, some cream, some white, and even a spill of black. Across the ceiling was a rack, and slung over the rack were more festoons of lace. The room was a sheer delight.

Working at the table was a wizened old woman with bright, inquisitive eyes and a perfectly round bald patch on the top of her head. She looked up and smiled from ear to ear. ‘Bridget, lass! I were wondering when you’d come and see me.’ Her sharp gaze drifted to Fay. ‘I see you’ve brought a friend.’

‘She’s in need of our help, Marge.’

‘What’s happened to her?’

‘She was attacked.’

The lined features took on a look of disgust. ‘A feller, was it?’ When Bridget nodded, she sighed. ‘Poor little bugger.’

‘Sorry to burst in on you like this,’ Bridget apologised, ‘but you were the only one I could think of.’

‘Well, don’t hang about then. Get the lass sat down afore she falls down.’

Bridget led Fay to a chair. ‘Her clothes are torn too,’ she said. With a sheepish grin she added, ‘I know how good you are with a needle and thread.’

‘You’re welcome here any time you like,’ Marge told her. ‘Your friend too.’ She hobbled towards them and looked closely at Fay. ‘You’re a bit bruised and battered, lass.’ Taking the torn hemline between finger and thumb, she examined it carefully, then the undergarment. ‘Bloody men!’ she snapped. ‘They want their doings chopped off.’

Her comment brought a smile to Fay’s face.

‘That’s better, lass,’ the old one chuckled. ‘You sit there and rest while I go and put the kettle on. Me and Bridget will soon have you looking good as new.’