Jenny Whitby

I were none too pleased to be running errands for the missus, I can tell you. She knows very well how busy I am. Six in the blooming morning till nine at night—later if they’ve a supper party. One day’s holiday a year apart from Christmas and Boxing Day. And she wants me to take back books and pick up fabric—things she can very well do herself. Books I’ve no time to read myself, even if I wanted to—which I don’t.

Still, it were a lovely sunny day, and I’ll admit ‘twas nice to get out, though I don’t much like that hill up to the village. We got to the cemetery and I were going to leave the girls there and nip up to the shops and back. Then I saw him, on his own, pushing a wheelbarrow across the courtyard with a little skip in his step. He looked back at me and smiled, and I thought, Hang on a tick.

So I went in with the girls and told ‘em to do what they liked for half an hour, no more. They was wanting to find a little boy they play with, and I said to be careful and not to let him get cheeky. And to keep an eye on the little girl, Ivy May. She’s of the habit of getting left behind, it seems—though I bet she likes it that way. I made ’em all hold hands. So they run off one way, and I t‘other.