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comforted herself with the thought that at least they were set for the next three days; she had bread, cheese, and turnips, and with the tuppence she had left she would get a pen north of pig's fat and a pen north of skimmed milk, and she'd make the latter do for a couple of days. Oh, she'd manage. And she must remember what her da was always saying, never give up hope for it was that and not an empty belly that would kill you.
    When they had found the farm laborer from Pelaw dead in the ditch outside the hamlet last year her da had said he hadn't died so much of hunger but from loss of hope; so she must go on hoping, and something would happen to change things.
    It did the following morning.
    She stood in the muddy farmyard, the glar coming over the uppers of her patched boots, and she said in a whisper laden with fear, "But where will we go?"
    Farmer Hetherington moved his heavy lower jaw from one side to the other, then pursed his lips before saying, "There's only one place and you know it. You should have let Mr. Riper arrange it tother day.
    It'll be a lesson to you if you can't get them in there after all and have to go on the fells. You're not the only family left like this, there's dozens around the countryside and it's ten times worse in the town 'cos the fever got a hold there; you should have jumped at the chance when you got it. "
    She couldn't believe that this was Farmer Hetherington talking, he had always been kindly, giving nothing for nothing, except turnips, which he had so many of the buried them, but nevertheless he had always been civilly spoken.
    An hour ago when he had sent the herdsman to tell her that they must be out the day after the morrow because another ploughman was coming into the house she had yelled at him, "He can't, he wouldn't do it to us, me da was bonded to him."
    "Aye," said the herdsman, "but he took his wage weekly, that makes all the difference, ya can't eat your bread an' have it."
    "I'll go and talk to him," she had said.
    And she had talked, she had begged, almost prayed to him. Her hands were still joined in front of her waist as if in supplication, but all to no avail. The longer he talked the harsher his voice became; finally he offered her help in the way he considered best by saying,
    "I'm going into Jarrow shortly. I'll get into touch with Mr. Riper for you if I can."
    "No!" Her voice was low, her expression bewildered, but she went on,
    "They're not going to the house. As you say, we can go on the fells as others afore us have done; but there's one thing sure, we're not goin'
    there an' be separated."
    When he just stared at her, saying no word, she stared back at him, and now with a dignity that made him grind his teeth together she said, "Me da always spoke well of you. Farmer Hetherington." And on this she turned and made her way across the dung and mud morass of the yard.
    It had rained heavily in the night and the caked ridges of the road had flattened out and the ruts and hollows were now pools. Unheeding, she made her way around them and between them, all the while crying deep within her, "Oh Da. Oh Da." She didn't think with regret of her mother; her mother had been weak and helpless and evoked her pity, but her da had evoked her admiration and love because he could always find an answer to everything that concerned them.
    She didn't know at first why she stepped off the road and climbed the bank on to the tells; it wasn't until she found herself skirting a disused quarry that she realized where she was making for, and when she reached the place she stood and gazed at it. It was a hollow within an outcrop of rock, not large enough to call a cave but deep enough to shelter eight people from the rain, and with room to spare.
    She remembered the last time they had all been here. It was Easter Sunday and her da had given them each a paste egg; he must have cooked them when they were asleep so as to give them a surprise, and he had put dandelion roots and bark into the