At first the boy was reluctant to leave the armchair, but eventually Vicky was able to coax him out of it. Even so, he did not want to leave Amos, who finally had to accompany the two women to the scullery. The boy held onto his hand tightly, looking frightened again.

      Vanessa Barnes was standing at the big deal table in the kitchen, cutting up meat and vegetables which she kept putting in the bubbling pot of beef soup on the stove. The boy’s nose visibly twitched as they passed by the large black iron oven that also warmed the room. His steps faltered, as if he wanted to stop and eat. The adults noticed this and glances were exchanged but nothing was said. Once they reached the scullery door, Amos got down on his haunches and said to the boy, ‘Now listen to me, laddie, I shall be right here in the kitchen with the lady who is making the soup. I won’t go away. I’ll wait for you, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

      The boy looked up at Amos, and nodded. ‘Awright,’ he muttered, and allowed himself to be led into the scullery by Vicky.

      This was quite a large room, and was used for washing clothes, for the ironing, and for baths for the abused or destitute women taking refuge at Haddon House. It had a stone floor and one window; there were tall cupboards ranged around the room for linen and supplies, and in one corner a large set-pot where the washing was done. The fire underneath the set-pot was always burning in the grate; tonight it crackled and spurted, and as usual kept the room warm as well as the water heated.

      Fenella glanced across at the set-pot and said, ‘I know that Vanessa filled it up with water earlier, so there will be plenty for his bath.’

      Vicky nodded and went to the end wall where a small zinc bathtub hung on a metal hook on the wall. ‘I think this is the best size to use, don’t you?’

      ‘I do. I’ll get soap and some disinfectant, Vicky. His hair especially will need a lot of attention—for the usual problem.’

      Within a few minutes the two women were taking jugsful of hot water from the set-pot and filling the bathtub on the floor in the middle of the room. ‘Come along,’ Vicky said to the boy. ‘You have to have a bath now.’

      The boy remained standing near the door, a fierce look on his face.

      She went on, with a warm smile, ‘We must wash all the dirt away.’ She smiled again and beckoned to the child.

      He remained stock still, clutching his cloth bag next to his little body. He was totally mute.

      Finally, Vicky said to Fenella, ‘I’d better start undressing him.’ Walking over to the boy, she knelt down in front of him. ‘We’re not going to hurt you, child,’ she reassured him in a gentle voice. ‘We only wish to make you clean.’

      Once again he seemed mesmerized by her, stared into her eyes, and taking advantage of his momentary distraction she whipped the big flat cap off his head before he had a chance to stop her or fight her.

      The boy gasped, and so did Vicky and Fenella.

      Masses of red curls were tied up in bunches all over his head.

      The child began to tremble and hugged the bag tighter. Tears came, slid down the dirt-covered cheeks, making little channels.

      Vicky and Fenella exchanged glances, and Vicky asked quietly, ‘Are you a little girl?’

      At first the child did not answer and then after a long moment there was a nod. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible.

      The two women were stunned momentarily, and Fenella came over and knelt down next to Vicky. ‘Do you have a name, little girl?’ she asked, observing her acutely.

      The girl shook her head.

      ‘Will you help us? Will you let us undress you so we can wash your beautiful auburn hair, and also bathe you? We want to make you clean and pretty.’

      The child nodded, put the cloth bag on the floor and stood on one end of it with both feet. Then she began to untie the filthy muffler around her neck. Vicky helped her to take off the torn jacket, the grubby shirt underneath, and, finally, the old boots were removed. The trousers came off next, but with some difficulty since one foot had to remain on the bag at all times.

      Once the little girl was stripped naked, Vicky led her over to the tin bath in the middle of the floor.

      Fenella said to her softly, not wanting to frighten the girl, ‘I’m afraid I will have to take that bag from you, but only whilst you are having your bath. Otherwise it will get wet.’

      The child shook her head frantically, clung to the bag.

      Pointing to the large hook where the bath had been hanging, Fenella said, ‘I shall put it over there on that hook, where you can see it. And you can have it back when you’ve been washed.’

      ‘Naw!’ the girl cried. ‘It’s me fings.’

      She was looking at Fenella, and once again Vicky acted swiftly. She snatched the bag away from the girl in one deft movement. The child instantly cried out.

      Vicky placated her, ‘Don’t cry. I’m not taking your things.’

      She hurried across the floor and put the bag on the hook. ‘There! You can see it all the time. Now, get into the bath, please.’

      Vicky’s sudden rather firm and commanding voice seemed to have the desired effect. The little girl stepped into the bath and sat down with a splash. Vicky rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, leaned over the girl and began to untie the bits of dirty string. Within minutes, a cascade of auburn hair hung around the girl’s face.

      Taking a face cloth, Vicky dipped it in the water and began to wash the girl’s face, removing the dirt. Then she tackled her body, asking the girl to stand up in the tub to ease the process. She did so, and Vicky washed her thoroughly. As she did this she noticed a few old bruises on the girl’s body, but they might easily have been caused by sleeping rough in the streets. They did not look serious. The child was thin, but not emaciated, and much smaller