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hair was tied back in two neat plaits that swished across her back as she moved. She grinned at her mother and grandmother as they entered the room. Ellen frowned. Josie, like the young Ellen, was maturing early. Thankfully, the shapeless dress she wore disguised her burgeoning figure.
    ‘Morning to you, Gran,’ she said, giving Bridget a noisy kiss. The older woman’s stern expression melted as she gazed on the leggy thirteen-year-old bouncing around the room.
    Maybe we will have enough to go to America in three months, Ellen thought. If I did a Thursday night at the Town of Ramsgate and Mammy took a couple more bundles of washing we could be on a ship by October.
    Bridget started coughing again and Ellen’s brows drew together.
    ‘Have a bowl of porridge, Mammy, before you and Josie set out,’ Ellen said, leading her mother to the chair and table by the window.
    ‘’Tis Josephine who is your child, Ellen Marie, not me,’ she said sharply. But she flopped into the chair and made no complaint when Josie placed a bowl of steaming porridge and a mug of tea before her.
    Ellen gathered up her coat and slipped on her day shoes. ‘You stay here and watch the copper, Mammy, I’ll go and fetch the linen.’
    ‘I’m not ready for to be left by the fire while others work,’ her mother said. She leant back in the chair and hugged the mug of hot tea to her. ‘I’ll catch you up presently.’

    Robert wiped the blood from his hands and arms, then headed for the sluice room to clean up properly. It had been a difficult operation.
    The locals had brought Bobby Reilly in straight from the docks, his crushed arm hanging in ribbons from his shoulder. After he had been lashed down on the operating table, Robert, as the physician on duty and William, his surgical counterpart, had been summoned.
    Although Reilly had been made near insensible by the drink poured down his throat, he still had some fight left in him. It took the strength of four orderlies to hold him down while William, assisted by Robert, amputated his arm with a hacksaw.
    Robert went into the tiled area with its deep sinks. He grabbed the coal-tar soap and scrubbed at the blood on his arm before it dried. William followed him in.
    ‘Bad business, a young man in his prime losing an arm like that,’ William said, taking the soap from Robert.
    ‘Bad business for his family,’ Robert snapped. ‘He has four young children and a sickly wife. They’ll be lucky if they avoid the workhouse.’
    He threw down the towel, ran his fingers sharply through his hair and frowned at the dirty water in the porcelain bowl.
    ‘You seem less than yourself today, Munroe,’ William remarked dropping the towel in the washing basket.
    Robert scowled out of the window. ‘I didn’t sleep very well. Too much noise.’
    That was a barefaced lie. He hadn’t slept very well because his mind was full of that sharp-tongued Ellen O’Casey. He had spent a futile hour staring at the ceiling and thinking of her rude response to his compliment. Then another hour remonstrating with himself for being such a fool as to care.
    ‘Are you coming to the mess for a coffee, Rob?’ William asked. It was their habit after an operation.
    He shook his head. ‘I thought I might take a stroll along to Backchurch Lane while I have a free moment.’
    ‘Going to see your lady love then, are you?’ Chafford asked, glancing to the foot-long, brown package that had delivered to the theatre while they operated.
    Robert grinned.
    ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ he said, rebuttoning his cuffs and slipping on his jacket.
    Stepping out of the hospital, Robert stood under the classical portico for a moment and surveyed the scene. He tucked the package under his arm drew a deep breath, and made his way down the white stone steps to the market. The noon stagecoach to Colchester passed just as he reached the bottom, its driver whipping the horses into a steady trot towards the open expanse of Bow Common and the Old