Roz approached the family who were waiting in the office. The grandmother – at least Roz assumed it was the grandmother – had hair as white as cotton, and her features were those of a woman who had led a hard life. Roz cast an eye over the woman’s attire and tried not to grimace; the woman’s clothes were too large for her and well worn. The man next to her, who Roz assumed was her son, wore a tight-fitting shirt, the top two buttons of which were missing, and his waistcoat didn’t match his trousers, both of which were equally snug. Roz’s father had always said you could judge a man by his shoes. She glanced down and wasn’t surprised to see that the man’s shoes were unpolished and that the laces looked as though they had broken a few times since they were only using half the eyes. As her gaze met his, he looked away swiftly. She knew she shouldn’t judge him by his appearance, but it was hard not to when his hair was so thick with Brylcreem it was positively shining, and his face was disfigured with acne scars.

Realising she was staring, she turned her attention to the girl who sat beside him. Roz guessed her to be a similar age to Roz herself, but that was where their similarity ended. Roz was always impeccably turned out, and she had rosy cheeks, wavy, dark hair neatly pinned up, and smiling brown eyes, whilst the girl who sat opposite her had the sort of pallor which could be mistaken for unwashed skin, and her mousy hair was lank and dull. As for her clothing, Roz assumed they must be hand-me-downs from her mother, as the skirt waist was rucked up from being turned over so many times to prevent the hem from dragging along the ground, giving her a thick middle. The shawl that was draped around her shoulders was as dirty as her shoes, which, like her father’s, were short on laces, and the bottom of one of the soles hung limply.

Once again, Roz became aware that she was staring, so she lowered her gaze rather than offend her new family, because even though they were obviously rough around the edges, they were offering Roz a home, and for that she should be grateful. She looked at Mr Jones, wondering how he thought they could possibly be described as ‘good news’. She could see however that he was just as doubtful as she, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and if Roz turned this family away, she might not get another opportunity, especially one that hailed from Liverpool. She shrugged inwardly. Perhaps all people from Liverpool looked like this, and just because they looked rough around the edges didn’t mean that they were bad people. If anything, it might mean that they were hard-working and honest … Her mother had always taught her not to judge others, but Roz couldn’t help it when it came to the man. There was something decidedly shifty about his manner, as though he couldn’t wait to get out of there.