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own.’ Becky sipped the hot sweet tea and allowed Grace to tuck the blanket around her. ‘That girl of hers,’ she shook her head. ‘Be the death of Vera she will. I tell you, Miss Grace, and I wouldn’t say this to another living soul, but that Ruby do spend more time on her back than she do on her feet.’
    The flash of anger triggered another coughing spell. More sips of hot tea soothed her and Grace appeared not to notice when Becky reached for the triangle of soft bread.
    ‘You didn’t ought to be doing this,’ she repeated. But it lacked the conviction of her earlier protests.
    Opening the window Grace inhaled deeply, steeling herself to deal with the slop bucket in the corner. Judging from the smell Becky had not been able to get up the garden to the privy for several days. Grateful it had a lid she picked up the stinking pail.
    By the time Grace reached the privy her arm felt as if it was being torn from its socket and her chest hurt. Lifting the rusty-hinged wooden seat she turned her face away, almost gagging at the stench. She hoisted the pail up onto the brick edge. The muscles in her lower back strained as she tried to avoid any spills on her skirt or shoes, and tipped the contents into the cesspit.
    After shovelling ashes down the hole from a battered bucket kept in the corner she replaced the wooden seat. Outside in the sweet spring air she breathed deeply, ladled rainwater from the old butt beneath the sagging gutter, and rinsed the pail several times.
    Back in the cottage she took a bar of scented soap from her basket, washed her hands thoroughly then refilled the basin with hot water.
    An hour later bathed and wearing a clean nightgown, her hair brushed and braided, Becky was back in the rocking chair with a blanket shielding her from draughts.
    After building up the fire and making a fresh pot of tea Grace picked up the empty pitcher.
    ‘Where you going with that?’ Becky demanded.
    ‘You’ll need more water.’
    Becky’s expression was scandalised. ‘You can’t go up the pump.’
    Grace peered through the window. ‘Of course I can, and I will if I have to.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘But as Ernie is across in his garden I daresay he’ll offer, and I shall accept with gratitude.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I think he’s lonely, Becky. It’s – what – five years since his wife died? His son is married. Ernie’s all by himself with all that kindness to give and no one to give it to.’ She shook her head. ‘It seems such a waste.’
    ‘I suppose you think I should just forget what happened and be friends with him’
    ‘You always used to be friends. I remember when your Tom and his wife Molly were alive–’
    ‘Yes, well, they aren’t no more.’
    ‘I know.’ She paused before adding softly, ‘It must be hard for you seeing Betty with Will.’
    Becky’s eyes filled. ‘It isn’t that so much, though I still say it wasn’t decent how quick she took up with him. Now she’s in the family way.’ She shook her head.
    ‘Then what it is, Becky?’
    ‘Can’t you see?’ Becky’s face reflected her despair. ‘My man have gone. I only had the one boy and I’ve lost he. I won’t never have grandchildren. So what’s the point?’

Chapter Four
    As the train puffed its way slowly over the Tamar Bridge Bryce caught his brother’s eye. Richard grinned. There was no need for words. Even though it was still sixty miles to Truro they were back in Cornwall. They were home.
    Staring out of the train window at rolling hills, small fields edged with wild parsley and speedwells, pastures dotted with daisies and buttercups, grazing cattle, bluebells spilling down wooded banks and pastures bobbled with sheep, Bryce felt the weight of black misery begin to lift. I will conquer this. I will.
    Bryce hefted his bag onto the coverlet. Crossing to the window he looked over the park and wooded valley that hid the road to distant hills now hazy in the sinking sun. The river