Sundays were always a delight. But not today. Today was a nightmare, with no escape.

She went to fetch her tea and then stood by the door for what seemed an age, gazing at the scene before her. The back door opened into a long, meandering alley, open to the elements at both ends; if she looked to the left, she could see the canal wall, with the main body of the canal and a stretch of wasteland beyond. If she looked to the right, her gaze fell on the bridge and the canal as it turned away and out of town.

This was the view she favoured, her heart delighting in the scene. In this area of King Street, where houses lined the street and rows of chimneys pumped dark, foul smoke into the air, there was little room for beauty. But the bridge was surprisingly pretty, gently curving over the canal, with fluted bricks and narrow pavements. Grime from the mill chimneys had darkened the stone, but it didn’t matter. The bridge stood proud, and nothing, not smoke, or the ravages of time, or even the drunks who occasionally emptied the contents of their stomachs over it, could destroy its appeal for Bridget.

Presently, when a cloud covered the sun, making her shiver, she closed the door and went back into the kitchen. Placing her empty cup on the pot sink, she went softly to the foot of the stairway and listened. ‘Slumber of the innocent,’ she murmured. ‘Sleep as long as you like, Tom. I haven’t the heart to wake you.’

She noticed that Tom hadn’t touched the cheese sandwich she had left for him. She threw it into the midden. She washed the plate and her cup, and then took up all the rugs and hung them outside on the wash line. Leaving them to blow and dance in the breeze, she swept and polished the downstairs like a thing possessed; it sped away the hours and helped take her mind off things.

As a rule, Bridget never did her laundering on Sundays. Today was different. Searching for every soiled article and even some that didn’t really need washing, she swept them up and threw them in the dolly tub. Taking up the three-legged stick that Tom had made for her, she plunged it into the water again and again, twisting and turning as if her life depended on it.

When the dirt was thrashed out of the clothes, when they were rinsed umpteen times and wrung between her strong fingers, Bridget ran them through the mangle. When every drop of water was squashed out of them, she left them folded in the bucket and turned her hand to other things.

In the parlour, she blackleaded the fireplace and swept the floor. She scooped the dirt into a sheet of newspaper, which she then set in the hearth to make a paper flower. Finally she dusted every inch of the furniture, inside and out.

She did the same in the sitting room, and when that was done she lit a fire in the range, boiled the kettle on the gas ring, filled the bucket with hot water and got down on her knees to scrub the floor. She punished herself, scrubbing every inch of the flagstones until the sweat ran down her face and back; scrubbing and scraping over and over again as though purging the sin from her soul.