Studdy was a red-haired man of fifty-three. He was tall and heavy, and he wore, winter and summer alike, a thick, black, double-breasted overcoat with a large grip on its belt. Stuck into the left lapel was a small religious badge, the emblem of the Sacred Heart.

He walked slowly away from the public house. His big hands were deep in his pockets because he possessed no gloves. He was thinking about this now, his lack of gloves and the shame it induced, even in August; he was considering how he might, without effort come by a pair. He mounted the stairs to Mrs Maylam’s two-roomed flat, turning the problem over in his mind.

‘Chilblains,’ said Studdy to Mrs Maylam. ‘In the winter of forty-six I was lucky to keep the right hand.’

‘Green ointment for chilblains. I had a son had chilblains.’

‘I’ve tried everything, Mrs Maylam. There isn’t a cure known to modern science that hasn’t been practised out on Mr Studdy’s hands. Come February and I can do nothing with them. Isn’t that the queer tale for a working man? Long splits from finger-tip to wrist. I swear to God, it would turn your stomach.’

‘I never knew that,’ said Mrs Maylam, who had not heard him correctly. ‘I thought you only had chilblains on feet and hands.’

‘By dad, sir, they’re everywhere. Could you loan me forty bob for a good pair of gloves?’