She takes the footpath on the main road. The dogs are trotting now. A car passes, and a delivery van from the grocer’s shop in the town. She clutches the leads.

“Don’t let one of them get run over. Alice Long would be up to ninety-nine.”

She presses, at the sharp bend, into the high white bank which touches again on the wood, while a very big lorry, carrying sacks of coal, creeps fearfully around as if bewaring of the dogs.

Bump on her shoulder, then bump on her cap come the snowballs. The boys are up there on the bank. She turns and looks quickly and sees parts of children ducking out of sight with short, laughing squeals. There are two girls with the boys; she has seen their hair. One of the girls wears the dark-blue convent cap.

“Connie, come down!”

“It isn’t Connie,” Gwen’s voice answers.

Gwen should be at the dancing class. She is learning to do the sword-dance with Mamie.

A snowball falls on the road and bursts open. There is no stone inside it. The dogs are yelping now, pelted with snowballs. They are up to ninety-nine, not used to this.

Mamie drags them round the corner and starts to run. The children scramble down after her and catch up. She recognises them all. She tries to gather up some snow, but it is impossible to make and throw a ball with the leads around her gloves.

“Where are you going with those dogs?” says a boy.

“To the shop, then up to the House.”

“They look dirty.”

Gwen says, “Do you like those dogs?”

“Not all of them together.”

“Let them run loose,” says the other girl. “It’s good for them.”

“Come on and play.”

She is scrambling up the bank, while everyone is trying to pull the dogs up by their leads or push them up by their bottoms.

“Lift them up. You’ll throttle them!”

“Let go the leads. We’ll take one each.”