“Old Josiah, he’s fallen in the snow,” said James, who was six.

They had finished the soup, and Mrs Torvald was putting meat and tatties on the soup-stained plates (to save washing-up).

“Who?” said James’ father, John Torvald, the village joiner. “Somebody’s fallen in the snow?”

James said, “I don’t want beef and tatties. I want an orange” … In a higher voice he said, “Josiah fell in the snow.”

“Josiah of Sheepfold?” asked his mother. “Josiah Smith?”

Grandma stirred the peats in the stove. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Not one bit. It’s a wonder he hasn’t fallen down dead long ago. An old man like him, going to the pub three or four times a week! He spends all his pension money on drink.”

Mrs Torvald, James’ mother, paused, the sauce bottle in her hand.

“How do you know Josiah fell in the snow?” she said.

James’ three brothers and two sisters looked at him, curiously and coldly.

“An orange!” cried James. “I want an orange!”

“Josiah’s gone to the dogs since poor Bella died in the spring,” said Grandma. “Just a cup of tea for me and a biscuit.”