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them high above mere labourers and were reflected in their earning power, the miners paid dearly, sacrificing their health and too often their lives in the narrow shafts deep underground.
    With an arm around heaving shoulders as fragile as a bird’s, Grace guided the sick woman to the wooden rocking chair beside the range. With the only bedroom in the cottage occupied by his parents, Jimmy, like so many others along the row, had slept on a narrow bedstead against the back wall of the kitchen. Rumpled blankets and a flattened pillow showed that Becky had been sleeping in it, perhaps for warmth, but more likely because climbing the ladder-like stairs required more strength than she possessed.
    Seizing a scrap of rag from the debris on the wooden table Grace passed it over, looking away as Becky spat into it then sank into the chair and lay back, exhausted.
    ‘What’s this here news, then?’ she muttered without opening her eyes.
    Not yet fifty, Becky Collins looked twenty years older. The bronchitis that affected many of the villagers, especially those living in this lane, exacerbated by the mild wet winter and a spring that had seen more wet days than dry.
    ‘The twins are coming home today. We had a letter this morning.’
    ‘They are?’ Interest flared briefly in the watery eyes. ‘Your ma will be glad to see them back safe.’
    Grace scanned the cluttered table. As well as a teapot with a knitted cosy, a breadboard on which lay the stale curled crust of a loaf, a jug covered with a beaded circle of cheesecloth and some knitting, the table held a large enamel basin. Bits floated, soggy and unrecognisable on grey scummy water that half covered plates, bowls and cups. In this basin, Grace knew, Becky washed her face and her dishes and prepared her vegetables. The cottage had no sink.
    A big dresser filled most of the wall inside the door. China plates stood upright at the back of the shelves. Cups hung from hooks along the front. The lower shelf was crammed with sepia toned photographs in painted wood frames. Several were of stern-faced elderly couples in stiff poses. Others showed a younger Becky with a baby; a little boy on a beach, barefoot and laughing as he held up a streamer of kelp, a youth in shirtsleeves and long trousers, and a young man with an arm over his father’s shoulders, both of them smiling.
    Though she had seen them many times Grace’s throat tightened. She turned to the range. About to reach for the blackened kettle she noticed the sodden foetid pile of rags inside the fender and swallowed hard.
    Hooking the cover off the top of the stove she poked the ash, relieved to see a few red embers. Cornish ranges could be very temperamental. A few sticks on top of the coal in the scuttle indicated Becky’s intention to rebuild the fire. But she had lacked the strength.
    Unfastening the string, Grace separated one of the newspapers from the bundle she always brought to villagers she visited. The papers were rarely read. Each page was neatly folded several times then cut or torn into squares, threaded onto a length of string and hung in the privy.
    Quickly crumpling and twisting several sheets she poked them down among the embers. Dropping the sticks in on top she replaced the cover and, crouching, rammed the long poker in between the bars to let air in as she pulled the knob to riddle ash into the box below. A tongue of flame licked around the paper. A few moments later the sticks began to crackle. Once they were well alight she hooked the cover off again and with a small black shovel dropped coal on top of the burning wood.
    ‘I think you need a nice cup of tea.’ She reached for the pitcher to fill the kettle. Both were empty. ‘Becky, when did you last have a hot drink?’
    ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. What do it matter anyhow?’
    ‘I’m just going to fetch some water. I won’t be long.’
    Becky closed her eyes trying not to cough.
    As Grace went out, the door in the adjoining yard