Christy made his way back to the shop, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold and rain, deep in thought. Perhaps his mother could make the biscuits and cakes for the shop. Perhaps he could pay her out of his wages, because until he found somewhere else to live, his living expenses were nothing. Perhaps he should simply stop giving March his wages. Perhaps they wouldn’t need as much if the children had gone to live with their grandparents. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
As the shop was closed, he made his way to the back street and through the yard. He knocked gently on the door. Moments later, Mr. Fenton came and opened it.
“I must get you a key,” he said as Christy came in, no doubt bringing the freezing cold and wet with him, but Mr. Fenton didn’t seem to bother.
“How wa
