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everyone spruced up and wearing their Sunday best. Funerals usually took place on Sundays, as the mines were closed and no one lost a shift.
    Mary Evelyne Jones and her son were buried where they could always see the mountain.
    Evelyne had been a calming influence throughout. A rock, as they all said, astounding for one so young. There was quite simply no one else to run the house. No time even to grieve, and she wept into her pillow at night, quietly so as not to wake anyone. Evelyne would never forget her father’s face as he watched the cornflower-strewn coffin lowered into the ground. He had been so silent, so isolated that no one dared interrupt his solitude. But there at the graveside he had roared out his grief, like a wild animal. The cry echoed round the mountain and chilled those standing at the graveside. Evelyne had held on to his hand, held it so tightly her nails cut into his palm.
    That night his sons had taken him down to the pub and they had all got so drunk that Evelyne had to put each one to bed. Her father’s head lolled, his eyes unfocused, as she helped him to undress. Sadly, the drunkenness persisted. Mike and Will would come straight home as usual from the mines, but Hugh would remain in the pub until closing time. Dicken waited to help him home, help put him to bed. No one tried to stop him: it was as if they knew he was trying to ease the pain, the agonizing pain of life without his darling Mary.

Chapter 3
    SIX MONTHS passed and Evelyne did not return to school. There was always so much to do at home. Little Davey was dependent on Evelyne and the menfolk had to be cooked, washed and cared for. Lizzie-Ann had married Will and moved in until they could afford a place of their own. Evelyne put away her school books; her Christina Rossetti days were over.
    Doris Evans had never been one to poke her nose in to anyone’s business. She had once, she’d gone to see Mrs Reece Mogg, wanting their youngest son to stay on at school. She’d been shown the door so fast, so the story
    went, she’d left her brown lace-up shoes behind. However, she had thought about it for a good few weeks, she had decided she would try one more time, this
    time with Evelyne Jones.
    Doris dressed very carefully, in her brown hat, her brown skirt, and matching coat, set off by a nice cream blouse. She also put on her coral crepe blouse, but felt the cream more suitable.
    Doris stood on the Jones’ front door step, thought it looked quite clean considering. She lifted the brass knocker, thinking it could do with a good polish, and tapped lightly, then rapped louder. She could feel inquisitive eyes boring into her back, net curtains flicked aside across the street. Her mouth went dry, her carefully rehearsed speech of introduction slipped away from her. She was about to leave when the front door was inched open.
    ‘Evelyne, is that you? It’s Mrs Evans, from the school.’
    Evelyne had little Davey balanced on her hip, a duster in one hand, and her face was streaked with dust. Doris flushed a bright pink.
    ‘Do you think I could step inside for a minute? If it’s not convenient I can come back.’
    The door edged open wider, and Evelyne coughed as she swallowed backwards. Her eyes watered, and Doris had to pat her on the back.
    ‘Would you mind coming into the kitchen, Mrs Evans, only I was just feeding little Davey?’
    Doris followed her along the corridor. The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and cabbage made her nose wrinkle with distaste. Davey gurgled and threw a soggy, nasty-looking crust of bread at Doris’ head. A lot had changed since Mary’s death, and gossip about the Jones family was rife. Mike, the youngest boy, had run off to join the army, and Will, so rumour had it, had got Lizzie-Ann in the family way so they’d had to marry. The house was bursting at the seams.
    ‘Er, well, Evelyne, you certainly seem to have your hands full. Should I come back another day?’
    With her free hand, Evelyne lifted the