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not at all a quiet street. Indeed, it was not really a street. It was paved in giant blocks of sandstone, unusual for a lane, but otherwise it had no pretensions to being a proper street. Mr Dobson, taking the census, hated lanes like this. They made his work difficult. Invariably the inhabitants of lanes like this were not at all clear as to how many people lived with them. They were vague or confused, or both, and yet his question was so simple: on the night of 8 April, how many people resided in this house? The householders were meant to have filled in the appropriate form, delivered by his own good self (therefore let there not be any question of a form not having been received), but in these lanes the job had rarely been done. Often, the form had been lost; another had to be produced and then the effort of memory would be mighty, though fewer than twenty-four hours had gone by.
    Mr Dobson was patient and understanding, or so he judged himself. He had at least enough imagination to be aware that to many householders he was also alarming. Nobody was ever cheeky; impertinence to an officer of the Crown carried too great a risk. They were on the whole respectful but resentful and he had to cope with this. He was particularly kind to women, especially to the elderly widows who lived in this lane. He wanted the census form filled in correctly: that was of prime importance. When an old woman opened the door of No. 10, Mr Dobson immediately doffed his hat, smiled and identified himself at once, producing his badge of accreditation. The woman, a Miss Mary Messenger, looked feeble.
     
    She was also, he quickly realised, more than slightly deaf. Instead of bawling at her, Mr Dobson flourished a census form, pointed to the date and then to what was required by law and hoped Miss Messenger was not also short-sighted. She stood so long staring at the form that Mr Dobson began to wonder if she were illiterate, not uncommon with these elderly women. Fortunately she was not. After her long perusal, Miss Messenger shuffled off down the passageway and re-emerged clutching the original form delivered days before.
    She put it into his hand without a word. Mr Dobson looked at it. To his surprise, it was filled in. The only occupant of No. 10 on the night of 8 April had been Miss Messenger herself. Mr Dobson thanked her and backed away as she shut the door. But he saw, just before it closed, the face of a small girl appear round the corner of the door at the far end of the passage. Only the briefest and most indistinct of glimpses but indisputably real, the face of a young girl, a small white blob of a face framed by a good deal of untidy dark hair. He stood for a moment, thinking. Had the old woman concealed the fact that a child lived with her? But why would she do that? Mr Dobson walked slowly down the lane reflecting that whether there was a child residing at No. 10 or not was of no great importance. She might be only a visitor, a relative there for the day. There was no reason to conclude that she lived there. Residents in lanes like this were forever hiding things from landlords, terrified that rents would be raised if it were discovered they harboured paying lodgers. One little girl living with an elderly woman was neither here nor there. He was not a landlord, thank heaven, nor a policeman. It was not his duty to pry, only to collect. The census form had been collected and that was that, but he went on his way faintly worried.
    Mary Messenger, aged eighty (as stated on the census form), was still standing behind her front door, listening. She had her good ear pressed to the wide crack in the door, only recently emptied of the rags which had filled it all winter. She heard the census man’s footsteps go off down the lane and was satisfied. But when she turned and saw Evie standing there, she shouted at her. ‘Didn’t I tell you, eh, didn’t I say stay in the kitchen, eh, what you playing at, you want taken away to the poorhouse,