A shipyard town in Northern England in the 1930s.
Marina Kenny closed the coalhouse door, wondering how long rotting wood lasted, and slid home the rusty nail which served as a lock. It could have been mice or rats, or just age and damp weather, which had gnawed away at the bottom of the door but, whatever the cause, she felt ashamed.
It was a wonder Ma didn’t complain when she was such a fastidious woman. The kitchen mat was cleaned every day, swung against the yard wall to release clouds of dust. The range was blackened every week, the front step whitened and every window washed till the house gleamed.
That the air around was thick with soot was no obstacle to Detta Kenny; that chimneys streamed with smoke was no deterrent. It was the cleaning of those things that propped her up, when all about was falling down. And they’d been falling down since the shipyard closed.
Marina leaned against the yard wall, noticing the weeds pushing through the mortar between the bricks, the few blades of grass emerging at the join between ground and wall. That anything could grow in such places was a marvel to her. Springtime, she reckoned, had to work the hardest of all the seasons, especially here, in these riverside streets, where there wasn’t a single tree to be seen.
In the corner of the yard, under the scullery window, sat the poss tub and stick, the washboard and wringer. From next week, she and Ma would be hard at it, washing, rubbing,
