One day Pip came back from the forest, declaring that the blackberries were no good to eat anymore. "And I tore my clothes on the brambles," he said ruefully. "I have to throw these out, Mrs Bennett, and I've nothing else to wear."

"What? Throw out perfectly good sturdy cloth?" said Mrs Bennett, aghast. "Why, the clothes can be mended, laddie, good as new."

Mrs Bennett showed Pip how to mend his clothing. He was such a quick learner that she went on to tell him that she could also teach him to make himself new clothes.

Pip quietly went into his mother's dressing room, and began looking for something that could be remade into clothes he could wear. Most of her dresses were too fine and delicate, but at the back of the wardrobe he found an old black velvet dress she had worn at fifteen after the death of her parents, and which soon became too short for her to wear again.

He showed it to Mrs Bennett, and together they made it into a suit for him - black velvet knickerbockers and a matching jacket with a lace collar that did up with pearl buttons. It would be warm for the autumn and winter, and respectable enough to wear when he went shopping in the village.

"I think I will always wear black clothes from now on", said Pip, as he showed Mrs Bennett the finished product. "Then I can be in mourning all the rest of my days, like in that beautiful poem I read by Mr Robert Black."

"If you wear black all the time, then you're not in mourning," said Mrs Bennett. "It's just your ordinary clothes. A year is long enough for you to wear black and mourn for your Ma, laddie. She loved to dress you in bright colours, remember?"

Mrs Bennett was still examining Pip's handiwork when a voice cut through their conversation like a knife.

"Where did you get those clothes?" Pip's father demanded.

"From the back of Mama's wardrobe," faltered Pip. "It was an old dress she never wore, and I needed warm clothes."

"The room where your mother died is sacred," said Pip's father, a cold edge to his voice. "Going through her things, ransacking her possessions, taking what doesn't belong to you! I will have it locked up, and neither of you are to go in there again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Papa," said Pip, his heart breaking, because he had often gone into his mother's room to smell her perfume on her clothes, and find comfort there.

"If you needed clothes, you should have come to me, Pip," his father said. "I will always provide for you."

"Thank you, Papa," said Pip, although he could not help a trace of irony entering his voice.

The next day, Pip found some old clothes on his bed, and guessed his father had put them there. He recognised them as belonging to the eldest son of Farmer Fairfield, a boy a year or two older than he, and somewhat taller and heavier in build also.

The clothes were too big for him, and had already seen hard wear, but Pip could see they were more practical for doing housework and running around in the forest than his velvet suit. Mrs Bennett helped him to alter the clothing so that it fit him properly, telling him that the clothes could be let out again as he grew longer and broader.

The autumn wore on, and the garden was producing less food. The trees and shrubs had finished fruiting weeks ago, their produce locked up for the winter as preserves, jellies, and jam. There was nothing else in the forest to be eaten (except for the small animals which were Mrs Bennett's guilty secret), and they still hadn't paid their bill at the farm.

"I don't know what we're going to do now," said Mrs Bennett worriedly. "We've got onions, potatoes, and carrots stored, and a few jars of vegetables, and jams, and that's about it. No meat, no eggs, and no milk or butter or cheese. We're running low on tea, and the jam has been heavy on the sugar supplies."

"I've got two copper coins," offered Pip. "A lady gave them to me in the village, saying I was a poor brave boy and no mistake. We could either have two copperworths of flour, or of rice. Would that help?"

"No, laddie. You keep your money for a harder day, as my Dadda used to say," said Mrs Bennett, her little wrinkled brown face looking even more wrinkled in its worry. "There's flour and yeast yet to make bread, and if we don't have butter, there's a bit of dripping left."

The door creaked open, and Pip's father stalked into the kitchen in his high riding boots. Although it was nearly six in the morning, Pip knew that his father had just got home after being out all night, and he had the nasty smell on him.

"You're always in the kitchen with the old woman," said Pip's father contemptuously. "When your mother was alive, you never lifted a finger to help her."

"I was only a little boy then," Pip said steadily. "I'm more responsible now, and Mrs Bennett is growing older, and needs more help."

"Never thought I'd see my son sitting in the grate like a little ash boy," sneered Pip's father. "And what is the purpose of this important ... meeting you are conducting?"

"We're drawing up the menus for the coming week, sir," said Mrs Bennett. "Only we've come to difficulties, as food is scarce this time of year, and our bill still not paid at the farm."

"Is that what you've been scheming about?" said Pip's father. "Look, I have plenty of money."

He put his hand in his coat pocket, and unsteadily threw handfuls of gold coins, which rolled all over the kitchen floor.

"Don't worry – Robin Lenoir takes care of his family like a gentleman," Pip's father said, slightly slurring his words, as he left.

"Mrs Bennett, there's more than enough money for food," said Pip excitedly. "Maybe Papa has more money than you think."

"Aye, mayhap laddie, and mayhap goats will swim underwater like fish," said Mrs Bennett drily. "Don't trust money that comes from the gaming tables. It disappears like fool's gold."

But Pip was too relieved to feel cynical about the money. He put on his black velvet suit and went straight over to the farm to pay their bill and buy more food. A now smiling Mrs Fairfield helped him fill up a basket with everything they needed, and added a tin of home made shortbread and a tin of home made toffee. She said she had three boys of her own, and knew how they loved sweets. Pip admitted he did like sweets, but didn't say he would be glad just to have a proper meal.

As he was walking home, Farmer Fairfield waved to him, and jogged over to say hello.

"Oh Pip, how good to see you out and about. We wanted to call on you, but didn't like to intrude on your grief. That was a bad business, a terrible thing to lose such a dear, sweet lady. I'm sorry if my wife was a bit cross last time. She doesn't understand that gentlemen like your papa see debt differently from us ordinary folk. I don't want you bothering your head about bills and things, see? Look, I just killed a couple of geese – would you like one for Sunday dinner? Ha ha, I bet you would! And of course we'll be giving you one for Yuletide, same as always. And I'll be killing the pigs soon, and I can send you over a big hamper of pork and bacon, and a whole side of beef too, if you'd like it."

Farmer Fairfield didn't say this all in a big lump, but interspersed with Pip saying hello, and yes it was, and thank you, and how kind, and that would be lovely, and what a nice man he was.

"Just trying to be a good neighbour," said Farmer Fairfield genially, as he added a plump goose to Pip's already heavily laden basket.

Pip gave Mrs Bennett all this welcome news as he sucked on a square of toffee, while Mrs Bennett herself was busy plucking the goose, ready to clean it so that it could be hung in the pantry until she was ready to cook it on Sunday. She had her own thoughts on the generosity of Farmer Fairfield, but kept them to herself.

That Sunday, they had roast goose stuffed with sage and onion, served with baked apple and bread sauce, roast potatoes crisp with goose fat, boiled carrots, and sprouts dug out of the cold garden. For pudding, there was bottled plum pie with cream, and there was milk for their tea, and plenty of sugar if they wanted it, for Pip had done the shopping in the village by attaching Finn to a pony cart, and telling him it was the only way they could get food supplies in for the winter.

After they had washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, Pip sat in front of the fire and read from the book of poetry by Robert Black:

Alone I stood beside the sea
That stole the girl I loved from me
Now I cry to an empty sky
For my life is only tragedy

"He must have indigestion of some sort," said Mrs Bennett wonderingly.

"No, Mrs Bennett. Mr Robert Black is the greatest poet of his generation," Pip explained.

"Well, if he'd just eaten a good goose dinner after getting up at five for a hard morning's work, he couldn't have written that," said Mrs Bennett positively. "Unless he had indigestion."