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opened to reveal a short barrel-shaped man wearing a waistcoat over a collarless shirt soft and faded from innumerable washings. A broad leather belt curved under his belly holding up shapeless trousers. Between the old flat cap that shaded his eyes and the bushy grey moustache masking his upper lip his ruddy cheeks shone. He nodded towards the pitcher in Grace’s hand.
    ‘Daft old besom. I’d have got it for her. But she wouldn’t even open the bleddy door. Here, you have mine while I go and fill that.’
    ‘It’s very good of you, Ernie.’
    ‘No such thing. ‘Tis never right her being on her own, not while she’s so bad. Where’s that sister of hers I’d like to know.’ Grace had been wondering the same thing. ‘I’ll give her the edge of my tongue next time she show her face, just see if I don’t.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Hark at me going on and you there waiting for that water.’ He turned away, emerging a few seconds later with a full pitcher. ‘Manage all right, can you?’
    ‘Yes. You’re very kind.’
    ‘You wouldn’t think so,’ he muttered gloomily. ‘Not to hear she talk. I dunno. Bleddy women. More trouble than they’re worth sometimes.’ He trudged away down the lane.
    Grace went back inside, the full pitcher heavy and awkward.
    ‘You was quick,’ Becky’s face puckered in a frown. Grace hid a sigh.
    ‘Ernie let me have his pitcher while he fills yours.’
    ‘I don’t want him doing nothing for me.’
    ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Grace replied calmly. ‘But actually he’s doing it for me. He was kind enough to offer and it would have been rude to refuse.’
    The fire was burning nicely now, filling the cheerless room with warmth. Hooking the cover off the stove again, Grace held her breath as she shovelled up the disgusting mess of rags and dropped them onto the flames. She filled the kettle and pulled it over the opening.
    Rolling up her sleeves she took an apron from the hook on the back of the door and tied it over her skirt then carried the enamel basin out into the yard. Stacking the dishes carefully on the wall she emptied the basin into the gutter. She had just rinsed and wiped it clean when Ernie returned with the water.
    Setting the pitcher down, he went into his own yard and reached for the dirty dishes on the wall. ‘Don’t you say nothing,’ he warned. ‘If she don’t know she can’t fuss. I’ll put them back here when they’re done. You’d best get on in, else she’ll be wondering what you’re at.’
    ‘Thanks, Ernie.’ Closing the door grace put the basin on the table and poured in clean water. From her basket she took a small package of tea and one of sugar, an enamel can of milk with a lid on, a jar filled with pale gold jelly and a fresh loaf. Pulling the beaded cloth from the jug she recoiled. The milk was solid.
    ‘Come on,’ she coaxed a few minutes later, holding the steaming cup until she was sure Becky could manage without help. ‘You’ll feel better for a cup of tea and a bite to eat.’
    ‘I don’t want food,’ Becky moved her head weakly. ‘Couldn’t stomach it.’
    Grace felt queasy herself. But, before she could open the window and let in some fresh air, the room had to be warm. ‘That’s a pity. I’ve brought a jar of my quince jelly for you to try. Remember you gave me the recipe after Harvest Festival last year? Just try a taste. I’m going to change your bed then I’ll help you wash.’
    ‘You can’t do that, Miss.’ Becky’s eyes widened. ‘Whatever would people say?’
    ‘Well, I wasn’t planning to shout it down the street. So who is to know?’
    ‘I aren’t saying it’s not kind of you, Miss. But ‘tis never proper for you to be doing such things. Sister will give me a hand when she come over.’
    Grace didn’t argue. She finished making the sandwich, slid it onto a clean plate and cut it into quarters. ‘Ernie was just saying he hasn’t seen Vera lately.’
    ‘Yes, well, Vera got troubles of her