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vegetables, and sometimes even cooked them, though usually under her aunt’s supervision. When she earned a penny or two by running messages or chopping kindling, she was usually forced to hand over the small amount of money she had managed to acquire, whereas Beth got sixpence pocket money each week, and quite often extra pennies so that she might attend the Saturday rush at the Derby cinema, or buy herself a bag of homemade toffee from Kettle’s Emporium on the Scotland Road. With her hand on the doorknob, Miranda was about to leave the room when a feeble voice from the bed stopped her for a moment. ‘I’m thirsty,’ Beth whined. ‘I want a drink. Mam went up to the Terrace to get advice on how to look after me and Nurse said I were to have plenty of cool drinks; things like raspberry cordial, or lemonade. Get me both, then I’ll choose which to drink.’
    The words ‘Get ’em yourself’ popped into Miranda’s head and were hastily stifled; no point in giving her cousin ammunition which she might well hand on to her mother, who would see that Miranda suffered for her sharp tongue. Instead, she pretended she had not heard and went quietly out of the room, shutting the door on Beth’s peevish demand that she bring the drinks at once . . . at once, did she hear?
    When Miranda entered the kitchen she found her aunt sitting at the table with last night’s
Echo
spread out before her and a mug of tea to hand. Miranda contemplated saying nothing about raspberry cordial or lemonade – after all, her aunt had said that she herself intended to be her daughter’s principal nurse – but realised that itwould be unwise to irritate the older woman any further. Whilst Vi’s sudden protective interest in Beth lasted, which would not be for very long, Miranda guessed, she would take offence at any tiny thing, and when Aunt Vi took offence Miranda headed for the hills. She went outside and emptied her bucket down the drain, then walked down to the pump and rinsed it out before returning to the kitchen. ‘Beth wants a drink, either raspberry cordial or lemonade,’ she said briefly. ‘Did you buy ’em when you were out earlier, Aunt Vi? If so, I’ll pour some into a jug and take it upstairs . . . unless you would rather do it yourself?’
    She had not meant to sound sarcastic, but realised she had done so when her aunt’s hard red cheeks began to take on a purplish tinge. Hastily, she went into the pantry and scanned the shelves until she spotted a bottle of raspberry cordial. Pouring some into a jug, she mixed it with water and, making sure first that her aunt’s back was turned, took a cautious sip. It was delicious. The nicest thing she had tasted over the past twelve months, she told herself dreamily, heading for the stairs. Lucky, lucky Beth! When I had the measles all I got was water to drink and old copies of the
Echo
to read. Earlier she had seen a big pile of comics beside the bed –
Chicks’ Own
,
The Dandy
,
The Beano
and
The Girl’s Own Paper
– and had offered to read them to her cousin. Beth, however, clearly thought this a ruse on Miranda’s part to get at the comics and had refused loftily. ‘You can’t read pictures,’ she had said. ‘And comics is all about pictures, not words. Go off and buy yourself comics if you’re so keen on ’em, ’cos you ain’t havin’ mine.’
    Upstairs, balancing jug and glass with some difficulty,Miranda got the bedroom door open and glanced cautiously across to the bed. Beth was a pretty girl, dark-haired and dark-lashed with large toffee brown eyes and a neat little nose, but today, flopped against her pillows, she looked like nothing so much as a stranded fish. Her skin was so mottled with spots that she could have been an alien from outer space; her curly dark hair, wet with sweat, lay limply on the pillow, and when she opened her eyes to