The accident could have happened to anyone but it was much more likely to befall Reginald Hibbert. He had, after all, a tradition to maintain. Hibbert was not so much clumsy as unlucky. Whenever there was an opportunity to stub his toe, or tear his clothing on a protruding nail or bruise himself by walking into an unexpected obstruction, he would somehow always manage to take it. His devoted wife, Molly, had lost count of the number of times he had returned from work with a black eye, a decided limp or a jacket unwittingly ripped open. Life with Reginald Hibbert meant that there was a constant demand on her sympathy.

'Be careful, Reg!' she cried.

But her warning came too late. He had already tripped over the step by the back door and pitched helplessly forward onto the hard stone floor of the scullery. The tin bath he had been carrying hit the slab with a loud clang then bounced out of his grasp. Hibbert landed heavily on his left hand before rolling over. His wife bent over him.

'Are you hurt?' she asked solicitously.

'No, no,' he replied bravely. 'I'm fine, Molly.'

'You always forget that step.'

'I just didn't see it with the bath in my hands.'

'You should have let me bring it in.'

'It's my job now,' he said seriously. 'A woman in your condition must be spared any lifting. You must learn to take it easy.'

'How can I take it easy on washing day?' she said, clicking her tongue. 'Besides, the baby is not due for months and months. Now, come on – get up off that floor.'

When she grabbed his left hand to pull him up, he let out a yelp of pain and snatched it swiftly away. Rubbing his wrist gingerly, he got to his feet and almost fell over the tin bath. His wife quickly retrieved it and put it on the table. She studied him with a love that was tempered by mild irritation.