In Harrowby, the domestic machinery of working-class mutual aid was running with quiet, unheralded smooth speed. At eight in the evening, Jo Saye was standing in her kitchen, labeling three plastic containers of beef stew and boiled potatoes for her neighbor Martin.
‘Elsie has her reading book in her satchel,’ Jo explained, wiping the counter. ‘Her gym kit is washed and dried by the radiator. If I’m delayed past sunset tomorrow, she stays at your house, Martin. No questions, no fuss.’
‘She’s family, Jo,’ Martin said, taking the stew containers. ‘She can play cards with the boys and do her sums at the kitchen table. Don’t you worry about home. Just watch your footing on those slippery medieval narrow high walkways. A broken leg doesn’t care whether you’re in Yorkshire or fairyland.’
Jo smiled, strapping her leather tool belt around her hips and testing the weight of her ratchet hoist. ‘It isn’t fairyland, Martin. It’s just an old mill town with terrible plumbing and councilmen who think they know more than the mechanics. I’ve worked on enough council estates in Leeds to recognize that kind of rot.’
She picked up her rubber flashlight, checked the fresh bitter-salt batteries, and clicked the switch. The white beam cut across the kitchen, brilliant, reliable, and solid. ‘We’re going to fix their pipes, Martin. And then I’m coming home to help Elsie with her fractions.’
