When Napoleon’s soldiers retreated in chaos from the burnt-out ruins of Moscow in the winter of 1812, and tried to beg their way back to France, some stragglers wandered southwards through the frozen marshes of Pripyat to turn up, mad with hunger and cold, with cracked lips and frostbitten feet, in the snowbound villages of Ukraine. They would knock on the doors, and plead: “For the love of God, give me refuge, mon ami.”

The villagers called them “monamishchiki”. Some took pity and brought them in, sat them by the fire, and fed them beetroot soup. But it was no good. Once the gangrene had set into their frost-black toes, it was followed soon by a killer fever. Of some 500,000 who had set off to conquer Russia, barely 10,000 made it back to France.

And it was all because of unsuitable footwear, my great-great-great-grandmother told my great-grandmother, who told my mother, who told me.

And snuggled up in front of the coal fire in our two-up, two-down terrace in Bradford, listening to the wind and sleet hammering on the door, my heart went out to those poor frozen-footed refugees.

My mother dressed me up warmly for school. I wore a grey woollen coat buttoned up to the chin, with mittens threaded through the sleeves on a long piece of elastic, and a striped knitted scarf, and sensible lace-up shoes and grey woollen socks that came up to my knees. For, said Mother, we have a saying in Ukraine: “Keep your head cool, your belly hungry, and your feet warm, and you will live a hundred years on God’s Earth.”

“The main thing is the feet — keep your feet warm,” said Mother, and gave me a big hug and a little shove to propel me through the gates of St Christopher’s Primary School into the mass of kids milling in the playground. “And work hard, and always listen to the teachers.”

The other kids laughed at my sensible shoes and woollen socks. They sniggered at my long plaits, and my funny name, and my brand-new school satchel. I burnt with secret shame, but I pretended not to notice. I wanted more than anything to fit in — no, to blend in, to be invisible.

My chief tormentors were two lads called Roger Biggins and Colin Crouchley. I feared them. They would creep up behind me and pull my hair or run off with my satchel. Roger Biggins was scrawny and mean, with a permanently runny nose. Colin Crouchley had a high, whinnying laugh that got all the other kids laughing too.

“Take no notice,” Mother said. “Work hard, and listen to the teachers. Once you have a good education and a good job, you will be the one to laugh at them.”

The form teacher, Mrs Turlow, was a stout, bossy woman with a loud voice, a large bosom and dyed golden hair. There was no messing about in her class. She played the piano at assembly, sitting upright on the narrow stool, her feet working up and down on the pedals, her muscular wrists poised dramatically above the keys for a moment before crashing down — plonk plonkety plonk — “Sing up, F3! I can’t hear you!”

Obediently, I sang up: “Jesus bids us shine with a pure clear light.” Roger Biggins smirked and winked at Colin Crouchley, who leant forward and tugged my plait.

“Like a little candle, burning in the night,”

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