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up. ‘I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs … er … your daughter passed away a short time ago.’
    Bertha glared at him. ‘Passed away?’ Then she snapped harshly, ‘Don’t be stupid. She was as right as rain when I left here an hour ago after helping her with the dinner pots. She was going to do a bit of ironing before she settled down with her knitting. She’s in the middle of a new school pullover for George that she’s desperate to get finished as his other one ain’t fit for the rag bag. I can’t finish it off as me stiff knuckles won’t let me, and Aidy can turn her hand to lots of things but knitting in’t one of her talents. So Jessie is the only one that can finish George’s jumper.’ She gave a disdainful click of her tongue. ‘Some doctor you are who doesn’t know a live woman from a dead one.’ She then looked over at the body on the floor and demanded, ‘Come on, Jessie, get up, lovey. I don’t know what yer playing at but it ain’t funny.’
    Aidy’s grip on her arm tightened. ‘Mam’s not playing a joke on us, Gran.’
    Bertha stared at her granddaughter for several long moments before she whispered, ‘She’s not?’
    ‘Doc said her heart just stopped.’
    Bertha stared back at her, desperate to find any sign that this was all a bad joke. When she couldn’t, she seemed visibly to shrink inside her clothes. With pleading eyes, she uttered, ‘My Jessie really gone?’
    A lone tear escaped from the flood that was building behind Aidy’s eyes. She swiped it away and nodded.
    Bertha’s aged face sagged with grief. Shrugging her arm free from her granddaughter’s hold, she shuffled over to her daughter’s body and slumped down beside it, tenderly lifting Jessie’s head on to her lap and cradling it. The tears came then. As she rocked backwards and forwards, she softly moaned, ‘Oh, Jessie love, Jessie love. How could you do this to us?’
    Aidy’s tears started in earnest then and both women were too consumed by their grief to notice Ty take his leave.

A look of annoyance filled Archibald Nelson’s face at the sight that met him when he walked into the kitchen of the Greenwood household two hours later. Hungry and work-weary, he was too preoccupied with his own worries to notice the atmosphere of sadness permeating the house.
    In the hard times of 1930, when any job, no matter how menial, was hard fought or even murdered for, Arch was extremely fortunate to be permanently employed at a local factory that had been in business since the middle of the last century, producing working boots and shoes, albeit his wage only just paid for basics. To earn it he worked a gruelling ten-hour shift, six days a week, operating antiquated machinery in conditions hardly improved since Victorian times. The fact that his wife Aidy worked too, however, meant the Nelsons had a marginally better standard of living than many of their kind. They were dressed a little smarter, in good-quality,second-hand clothes, and could afford a cheap cut of meat three times a week; they could also fund a night out at the pictures once a week, or cheap seats in a variety theatre, or a few drinks in the pub.
    Twenty-five-year-old Arch was a good-looking man, topping six feet tall and broad shouldered, his dark brown hair neatly cut into a short back and sides and groomed into place with hair cream. During work he looked as shabby as his fellows, but outside he tried to dress as sprucely as funds would allow. The same went for his wife. Many hopes had been shattered, both male and female, the day Aidy and Arch had said their vows.
    For the majority of the time their relationship was harmonious, with just the occasional spat even happily married couples have, but one subject did cause friction between them which occasionally flared into a full-scale row. After five years of marriage Aidy was more than ready to start a family whereas Arch was adamant they should wait until he’d been given his promised promotion to foreman,