Growing anxious, she scoured up and down for a sight of that familiar figure; she even walked to the top of Penny Street and back again. There was no sign of her. ‘If she’s not here in ten minutes,’ she decided, ‘I’ll make my way up to Montague Street.’ It was a fair way but she had time enough, she thought.

The minutes came and went, and as the church clock chimed the half hour, Bridget turned towards William Henry Street. ‘It’s not like her to be late,’ she murmured. ‘I hope there’s no trouble.’ She was thinking of Bill Norman and that wife of his.

She had got as far as the top of the canal walk when she heard the faint clip-clop of hooves behind her. At first she took no notice; the canal walk was a short cut to the market and, like the bargees, many a farmer ran his goods along this way.

When the sound got closer, she thought she had better step aside. At that point Ruth started crying. Pressing the pram close beneath the trees, Bridget bent to calm her. ‘It’s only the farmer,’ she cooed. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. He won’t run us over.’

‘That’s the first time I’ve been called a bleedin’ farmer!’ came a familiar voice. ‘And yer right, gal, I ain’t gonna run yer over. I’ve handled horses afore.’

‘Fanny!’ Bridget couldn’t believe her eyes. Fanny was perched on the scruffiest Gypsy wagon Bridget had ever seen, driving an old piebald horse complete with feathers round its fetlocks and a hay bag tied beneath its chin. Fanny jumped down from the seat, her face split by a grin and on her head a bright, spotted Gypsy scarf. ‘What in God’s name are you up to?’ Bridget demanded, the smile on her face as wide as Fanny’s.

Fanny hugged her fiercely and said how well she looked. Then she turned to the wagon. ‘What d’yer think, gal?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Is it pretty or what?’

Momentarily lost for words, Bridget could only stare at it; the horse looked as if it was on its last legs, and the wagon the same. No doubt in its day this colourful ensemble cut a dash along the highways and byways, but now, with the swirls of colour faded on the side of the caravan and the wheel rims worn away, it was a sad sight. The door was sagging, and the scalloped skirting had come away in places. ‘Is it safe?’ Bridget wanted to know.

‘Course it’s bloody safe!’ Fanny was indignant. ‘Yer don’t think I’d have bought it if it weren’t safe.’ She went to the front of the wagon and lifted Billy from his cradle.

‘Are you telling me you spent good money on this… this…’ Bridget thought it better to say no more.

‘Yer don’t think much to it, d’yer, gal?’ Fanny’s disappointment was evident.

‘I don’t understand. Is it really yours?’

‘Lock, stock and barrel, gal. Come inside and I’ll tell yer all about it.’