Mist lies thick over the Mersey and, beyond the crowded buildings, the first faint lightening of the sky shows the dawn to be near. It is very cold. The streets are empty, save for one heavily cloaked figure, who walks with an uneven stride to the doors of the great building that squats menacingly at the top of Brownlow Hill. He carries in his arms a shawl-wrapped bundle, holding it close to his chest within the folds of his cloak. The doors of the workhouse are closed and no light burns in the window of the porter’s lodge. The man hesitates, looking down at the burden he carries and then back over his shoulder towards the river. From out of the mist a ship’s whistle sounds a warning.

‘It will be light soon. Then someone is bound to open the gates. You won’t be left alone long.’

His voice is choked with tears. He stoops and lays the bundle tenderly on the flagstones in front of the gate.

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to do. I have to go. You will be cared for – and I shall come back to find you when I can.’

He kisses the small face, looks up for a moment at the grim outline of the building, then turns and hobbles away as fast as he can towards the river.

It is cold and she is hungry. She begins to cry. For a long time nobody comes. She wants her mother, wants to be picked up and held and comforted. She cries louder. There is movement and light falls on her; then unfamiliar hands pick her up. She is carried, passed into other hands; strange faces peer down at her.

‘Left outside like a parcel. Might have been there all night for all I know! Who could do such a thing?’

‘Plenty have done worse. Let’s have a look at her.’

She is unwrapped by brisk, ungentle hands.

‘Well, it’s a girl. Pretty little thing. How old would you say?’

‘Not a newborn, that’s for sure. A year, maybe a bit more.’

‘Anything left with her, to show who left her here? No note or anything?’

‘Nothing at all, except this rag doll.’

Raggy! She reaches out, feeing for the familiar shape. It is not there. She begins to cry again.

‘Oh, shut your noise! I can’t be doing with it.’ The voice, like the hands, is harsh.

‘Here, give her this. Maybe that will quiet her.’

The rag doll is thrust into her grasp. She holds it tight. It smells of home, and Mother.

Time passes. She is dumped in a chair and a spoon is pushed into her mouth. The food tastes strange and she spits it out. The spoon is pushed in again, more forcefully. She screams in anger and distress.

‘Do without then, see if I care!’