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in five minutes from the foul smoke belching from the numerous chimneys near by. The women would chat together as they went to collect water from the tap in the street; ‘having a natter’ or ‘doing a bit of camping’ as they called it, over the problems of the day.
    Every now and then they’d walk in pairs down to the University Settlement buildings where they’d bathe their children, five or six at a time, then climb in themselves for a quick once over. The rest of the time they had to make do with a sponge-down from a wash basin, or a painstakingly filled zinc bath by the fire. Was it any wonder it was hard keeping the bugs at bay with no running water in the house except what ran down the walls?
    Polly had once asked Big Flo if she’d ever thought of leaving. ‘Nay,’ the old woman had said. ‘I’d be lost if I left Ancoats.’ Manchester, even Ancoats, wasn’t too bad a place to live in, Polly supposed. Her loyalty to her own home country had faded somewhat in recent years, and she was happy enough here with Matthew, though truth to tell she wouldn’t be against something a bit better for her children. Wasn’t that always the way of it? But if Dove Street was poor in material possessions, it was rich in friendships. As Big Flo was fond of saying, ‘Break your ankle and the whole street limps.’

    Within days of poor Mrs Murphy’s funeral, new people moved in next door, a family with four girls this time who might at least make less noise than the Murphy lads, now probably much subdued in a children’s home, bless them.
    The mother introduced herself as Eileen Grimshaw. She seemed too young at twenty-two to have had so many children, though she looked older. But Polly liked her. She was small with a mane of red-orange hair and a cheerful grin, despite seeming worn out half the time, and even thinner than Polly herself.
    ‘They eat like hawks and me like a sparrow,’ she said on that first day when Polly, seeing she was worn out by the move, asked her in for a cup of tea and offered her a bit of sad cake. ‘Are you sure you can spare it?’ Eileen was gazing longingly at the pale crust of pastry.
    ‘It’s not got any currants in it, nor have I any butter to put on it either, but it’s fresh baked. Go on, get it down you.’ The crumbling pastry, still warm from the oven, was gone in seconds and Polly wished she had more to offer, the girl looked so frail. But she’d saved the rest, one piece for each of her family for supper. Even so, the girl was starving, it was plain as the nose on your face. Polly gave Eileen her own slice. ‘Go on, I had a piece earlier,’ she lied. That vanished too, as quickly as the first.
    ‘By heck, I wish I could bake like that! My mam allus said I were useless. Terence tells me so all the time.’
    Polly smiled. ‘Is Terence your husband?’
    ‘Says he is, so I reckon he must be. They’re his childer anyroad. Mostly,’ she finished with a grin.
    Polly decided not to follow up that enigmatic ‘mostly’. Eileen was not like the other women in the street. She refused to wear a shawl or cover her head in any way when she went out. Nor did she wear the usual drab-coloured dresses or skirts the other young women wore beneath their apron. Her dress was bright green and very short. She claimed to have been given it by a woman she’d once worked for. The hem was loose and since she wore it every day, it wasn’t overly clean.
    Eileen continued, ‘Terence likes me to look smart. Not like these old besoms round here. Miserable old sods! And at least they’ll see me coming, eh?’ And she cackled with laughter, bright blue eyes flashing.
    Nor did she wear clogs. ‘Nasty, noisy things’ she called them.
    ‘They’re good for your feet,’ Polly pointed out, giggling. Eileen Grimshaw was going to bring some light and laughter into her life, she could sense it. ‘Keep them dry, with plenty of room to wriggle your toes.’
    Eileen’s feet, Polly was to discover in the