I can just imagine the scene:
Late at night, every night, by the light of a sole, flickering candle, Rob Scratchitt sits hunched over his work, endlessly, endlessly repeating the same few movements, over and over again...
In the quietness of the night, above the scrape, scrape, scrape of the solitary needle, can be heard the faint sobbing of his daughter, having lost the only toy she ever had, a small, wooden rolling pin.
Mrs Scratchitt lies in bed, awake, unable to sleep, every scratch feeling like it's inside her skull, like some demented chinese water torture. The slow, black, crow black waters of the Taff are looking more and more inviting - but how to get the the shelf there ?