That day, it was her turn to work in the nursery, where the babies of some of the women were cared for, along with the foundlings who were left outside the workhouse door. She made her way along the narrow lane between the tall buildings, the brick walls rising on either side to shut out all but a small strip of sky. In the yard a few women still recovering from childbirth were sitting in a corner where the autumn sun still penetrated, and May walked by them to the door of the nursery. Patty was waiting for her.

‘Where have you been? We’re late.’

‘I had to talk to Gus. He’s been fighting again.’

‘Oh, that brother of yours! Come on.’

They opened the door to be greeted by the sound of furious wails and the harassed voice of one of the workhouse women who had been given the job of caring for the infants. There were half a dozen of them, all inmates of the workhouse, and May had got to know them by now. Some had small children themselves and were, to some degree at least, patient with the little ones in their charge; but there were two who seemed to resent the job and who tried to impose order by fear. They were overseen by a paid matron, but she was too overloaded with work to supervise them effectively.

The noise was coming from an infant May had not seen before, a little girl with a mass of golden curls, her face red with the effort of screaming. One of the women, a hard-faced character who never used her first name and was always called Smithy, was holding the child up and shaking her, shouting at her to shut up. Instinctively May hurried across to her.

‘Shall I take her, Smithy? I know you’ve got a lot of work to get on with.’

‘Take her and welcome! I’ve had enough of the little devil.’

She thrust the child into May’s arms and went to deal with another wailing infant. May cuddled the little mite close and rocked her, singing softly. It was a song she remembered her mother singing as she nursed Gus.

‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green. When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen …’

Since her name was May Lavender she had always believed that the song was specially written for her. She still cherished a few memories from those long ago days, when she still had a family, when ‘home’ meant love and security, not brick walls and regimented discipline.

Smithy returned. ‘You seem to have a knack with her. You’d better look after her from now on.’

May looked down at the child in her arms. She had stopped screaming and was quiet except for occasional hiccupping sobs. Her hot little head was resting on May’s shoulder and she was sucking her thumb.