The two figures hurried down the cobbled street to the docks. Nathan, the man, surly in his stride, Henry, the boy, shivering as much from anxiety as from the chill night air.

Close by, Christ Church clock struck four, familiar, yet no longer the safe sound of yesterday.

Everything was happening so quickly. Nathan arguing with Henry's mother Elizabeth, bawling her out. Yelling he was tired of lines of washing forever cluttering the house, until suddenly he banged his fist on the kitchen table and said Henry would start work now whether she liked it or not.

"He's still only thirteen," protested Elizabeth, white faced, her hands tightly clasped. "Have sense, man, he's too young!"

"He's a mouth too many! He'll earn his keep like anyone else!" Upstairs Henry and Ruben huddled on their bed and heard everything. Nathan's anger filled the brothers with dismay, that is, their stepfather's anger. Their real father had been dead now for four years.

Elizabeth was fraught, unsure, it was all too sudden. "What can he do at his age? He's still a child!"

"He'll go with the geese," said Nathan.

"He won't! Not with the drovers!"

"He's going, I tell you! I'll kick him out if I have to!"

The row went on.

Ruben stared anxiously into the gloom. "Where's he going to send you?"

Henry shook his head. He didn't know. He dragged on a pullover.

"A long way . . . with the geese."

Ruben felt his chest constrict. Their bedroom felt unpleasant tonight and chilly. "Not forever?"

"Course not!"

Ruben bit his lip. "What will Miss Dutton say? She'll send the school inspector."

"Mum's to tell her I've run off."

"Who says?"

"He says. Now shut up."

Ruben paused uncertainly. "Can't I come too?"

"How can you? You're nobbut ten!"

Henry was shocked by the speed of it all.

Downstairs on the sideboard a family photograph was propped against a green teapot. The pot was a relic of better times and contained Elizabeth's hard-earned washing money. In the photograph Elizabeth stood with her two sons and a man, but the man was not Nathan. All four were unsmiling, holding their breath for the camera, the man whiskered and severe, Elizabeth, solemn eyed, a centre parting; both boys fair haired with intense stares, Henry, painfully thin yet somehow dependable looking, and Ruben, shoulders hunched from his weak chest.

In the scullery Elizabeth gave Henry a paper bag. It was still the middle of the night. "Don't eat it all at once." She spoke softly, dreading his departure.