s Yoshie opened the door, she detected the faint smell of urine mixed with disinfectant. No matter how often she aired the house, no matter how hard she scrubbed the floor, she could never get rid of this odour. She rubbed her fingers over her eyes to stop the twitching, the result of too little sleep. Her precious few hours of rest were still hours away.

Behind the narrow, dirt-floored entrance was a three-mat tatami room crowded with an old low table, a chest of drawers, the TV, and other furnishings. It was in this small room that Yoshie and her daughter, Miki, ate their meals and watched TV. Since the room opened right on to the entrance, they were immediately exposed to any visitor who came to the door, and in the winter the room was so cold and drafty it was almost unbearable. Miki said the place was a disgrace, but in such a small house there was little Yoshie could do.

Yoshie had brought home her factory uniform to wash. As she put the laundry bag in the corner, she glanced into the six-mat tatami room through the open sliding doors. The curtains were drawn so the room was dim, but she sensed a slight movement on the futon that lay on the floor. Her mother-in-law, who had been bedridden for more than six years, must be awake; but Yoshie said nothing, standing stock-still in the middle of the room. She worked as hard as anyone at the factory, and when she came home, she felt like a worn-out rag. What she wouldn't give to lie down and sleep, even for just an hour. Massaging her own stiff, fleshy shoulders, she looked around at the dark, shabby house.

The sliding doors to the small room on her right were shut tight, as if to exclude everyone and everything. This was Miki's room. Until she was in middle school, Miki had slept with her grandmother in the six-mat room, but as she got older, it became impossible to force the girl to accept this arrangement. After that, Yoshie herself had moved in with the old woman, but she found she couldn't sleep well next to her and lately the whole situation was becoming unbearable. Perhaps she, too, was getting old. Only a small area of bare tatami was exposed in the crowded front room, but she sat down there now.

She lifted the top off the teapot on the low table and found that the tea leaves from the pot she'd drunk before setting out for work were still there. She considered how much work it would be to throw them out and wash the pot, and decided it wasn't worth the effort. She was willing to put herself out for others, but when it was just for her, it hardly mattered. She filled the pot with lukewarm water from the kettle, and then sat for a while sipping the tasteless tea and staring off into space. She had something on her mind, something bigger than the usual problems.

The landlord had told her that he wanted to tear down their old wooden house and build a nice apartment building that would be more comfortable to live in; but Yoshie was worried that it was just a pretext to force them out. If that happened, they had nowhere else to go. And even if they could come back to the new building, the rent was bound to be higher. If they had to go elsewhere, it would take an enormous sum to get them into another apartment, but they were barely getting by as it was, with nothing left over for this kind of emergency.

'I need money.' The thought had become something of an obsession. She had used up the modest insurance settlement from her husband's death taking care of her mother-in-law, and now their savings were all but gone, too. She had only graduated from middle school herself and was determined to send Miki at least to a junior college, but she couldn't see how she'd manage. Saving for retirement - that was completely out of the question. Though the night shift at the factory was hard, quitting was never an option. In fact, she had just about decided to look for a second job during the day, but that left the problem of finding someone to take care of the old woman. She was usually good at coming up with a solution, but the more she thought about it the more stymied she became.

All this made her let out an audible sigh, which drew a quick response from the sickroom.

'Yoshie, is that you?' came a faint voice.

'Yes, I'm back.'

'My diaper's wet,' said the voice. There was a polite hesitation in the tone, but it was still clearly an order.

'All right,' said Yoshie. After a final sip of the weak, tepid tea, she hoisted herself to her feet. She had long since forgotten how mean her mother-in-law had been to her in the first years of her marriage. She was just a pitiful old woman now, who couldn't get along without her.

None of them could get along without her - when you thought about it, that was her reason for living. It was that way too at the factory. They called her Skipper, and she did, in fact, run the line. The role kept her going, helped her survive the dreary work; it was her one source of pride. But the painful truth was that there was no one to help her. Instead, all she had was her pride, goading her to keep working no matter how hard it was. Yoshie had wrapped up everything personal that mattered in a tight package and stored it away somewhere far out of sight, and in its place she had developed a single obsession: diligence. This was her trick for getting by.

Without a word she went into the six-mat room, only to be confronted by a strong faecal smell. Overcoming her revulsion, she went quietly to slide back the curtains and open the window, allowing the stench to escape. Outside, less than a metre away, was the kitchen window of an identical ageing wooden cottage. As if she knew what was coming, the housewife in the kitchen instantly slammed the window with an irritated gesture. Yoshie was furious, but at the same time she could sympathise with the woman, who must have been able to smell the invalid's excrement since dawn.

'Hurry up, dear,' the old woman murmured as she shifted uneasily on the futon, apparently unaware of her situation.

'Hold still,' said Yoshie. 'You'll make a mess.'

'But it's uncomfortable.'

'I'm sure it is.' As she pulled back the light summer blanket and started to untie her mother-in-law's nightgown, she thought how much better it would be if she were changing a baby's diaper. She could remember getting her hands dirty while changing a baby or having the diaper leak on her clothes, but it had never bothered her. So why should this seem so filthy?

Suddenly, Yayoi Yamamoto came to mind. She still had small children; and hadn't she just been celebrating the fact that the younger one was finally out of diapers? Yoshie could remember what a happy moment that had been. Nevertheless, Yayoi had seemed strange of late. Her husband had thumped her in the stomach, but Yoshie could imagine that Yayoi had somehow got on his nerves. She knew from experience that while it was convenient for a man to have a hardworking wife, a lazy one could also find it a nuisance. Her own husband had been like that. She thought about the man who had died of cirrhosis five years earlier. No matter how much she'd slaved for her mother-in-law or taken odd jobs to supplement the household budget, her husband had just grown more depressed.

Yayoi's husband was probably sick of her exactly because she tried so hard. The odds were he was a selfish slob, just like her own husband had been. That was just how it worked out: the laziest men always seemed to end up with the most energetic women. Still, there was nothing to do but keep your head down and put up with it. She decided that Yayoi and she had this much in common.

She changed the diaper with a practised hand. After rinsing it out in the toilet, she would pop it in the washing machine in the bathroom. She knew she could be using disposable diapers, but they seemed far too expensive.

'I'm all sweaty,' the old woman said as Yoshie was leaving the room. It was her way of asking Yoshie to change her nightgown, but that would have to wait.

'I know,' she said.

'But it's uncomfortable,' the woman moaned. 'I'll catch a cold.'

'I'll do it when I finish with this.'

'I think you make me wait on purpose.'

'You know I don't.' Her answer was civil enough, but for a brief moment she felt an urge to strangle the old bitch. I wish you would catch a cold, she thought, I wish you'd catch pneumonia and die. What a relief it would be. But she quickly suppressed the idea. What was she thinking? How could she wish away somebody who needed her? That was inviting disaster.

The alarm clock in the next room went off. Almost seven already; time for Miki to get up and on the move. She went to a nearby city high school.

'Miki. Wake up,' she called, opening the sliding doors. The girl, in a T-shirt and shorts, looked up sullenly, then turned away in disgust.

'I hear you,' she muttered. 'But don't open the door with that in your hands.'

Yoshie apologised, before heading for the small bathroom which was next to the kitchen, but Miki's lack of understanding had upset her. She used to be such a nice girl and had even helped with her grandmother's care. Yoshie knew, however, that as she grew older Miki was naturally comparing her situation with that of her friends, and she must feel embarrassed. She also knew that she could never bring herself to scold her daughter for feeling this way; in truth, she herself was ashamed of the way they lived.

Still, what could she do? Who was going to save them from all this? They had to go on living. And even if she felt like a slave, even if it seemed as though she would always be doing the dirty work, who else was there? She had to keep trying. If she didn't, it would be all over. She needed to think of a plan, a way out... but before she did, she had to get back to work.

Miki had come into the bathroom and was washing with a new brand of cleansing foam: Yoshie could tell at once from the fragrance. She had bought it, along with her contacts and her hair mousse, with the money from her part-time job. In the morning light, the girl's hair had a dyed-brown sheen.

When she'd finished washing the diaper and disinfecting her hands, she looked up at Miki, who was brushing her hair and studying herself intently in the mirror.

'Did you dye your hair?' she asked.

'A little,' the girl answered, continuing to brush.

'It makes you look like a juvenile delinquent.'

'No one says "juvenile delinquent" any more,' said Miki, doubling up with laughter. 'No one's said that in years except you. And besides, everybody's doing their hair.'

'I suppose so,' her mother murmured. Miki had become loud and her taste had turned garish recently, and it was worrying. 'What are you going to do about a summer job?' she asked, to change the subject.

'I've found something,' said Miki as she sprayed something on her long hair.

'Where?'

'A fast-food place across from the station.'

'How much do they pay?'

'High-school students get ¥800 an hour.' Her mother was silent for a moment, absorbing the shock: that was ¥70 more per hour than they made on the day shift at the factory. Was it just being young that made them worth so much? 'Something wrong?' Miki asked, studying her mother's face.

'No, nothing. Did everything go okay with Grandma last night?' she went on, to change the subject again.

'She had nightmares. Calling out Grandpa's name and making lots of noise.' Yoshie remembered that the old woman had seemed particularly fretful before she'd left for work, whining like a baby and refusing to let her go. She'd complained about being left in the house, about being so helpless. Ever since a stroke had paralysed her right side, she'd been much meeker and quieter, but just recently the selfish, infantile tendency in her had come to the fore again.

'That's strange,' said Yoshie. 'You don't suppose she's getting senile?'

'Ugh. I hope not. I really don't want to have to look after her.'

'Don't say that. I need you to take care of her and make sure she's comfortable.'

'No way,' Miki barked. 'I get too tired.' Pulling a drink carton from the refrigerator, she plunged a straw into it and began sucking. It took Yoshie a moment to recognise it as a breakfast substitute she'd bought at the convenience store, one all her friends seemed to be drinking. She could have had a perfectly good breakfast with the rice and miso soup I went to the trouble of making the night before, thought Yoshie. Her heart sank at the thought of the needless extravagance. And Miki seemed to be repeating the sin at lunch. She used to eat the lunch Yoshie put together from whatever she had in the house, but now she was going to fast-food restaurants with her friends. Where was she getting the money? Unconsciously, she'd begun to stare at her daughter inquisitively.

'What are you looking at?' Miki asked, turning her head and scowling.

'Nothing,' said Yoshie.

'Did you remember the money for the school trip I told you is due tomorrow?' Miki said. Yoshie, who had completely forgotten about the trip, looked taken aback.

'How much was it?' she asked.

'Eighty-three thousand.'

Yoshie gulped. 'Was it that much?'

'I told you!' Miki shouted, suddenly furious. Yoshie fell silent, wondering where she would come up with that kind of money, while Miki quickly got dressed and left for school. No doubt about it, she thought, feeling all the more depressed, I need more money.

'Yoshie,' her mother-in-law called, sounding impatient. Yoshie gathered up the diaper she'd just washed and went into the back room. After struggling to take off her soiled nightgown and put on a clean one, she fed her breakfast and changed her diaper again. It was nearly 9.00 a.m. by the time she'd finished the mountain of laundry and finally crawled into the futon stretched out next to her mother-in-law's. They could both sleep until around noon, but then the old woman would wake up and make a fuss until Yoshie fixed her lunch.

Yoshie slept only a few hours each day. In the afternoon, she was barely able to doze between nursing chores, and then in the evening she would sleep a bit more before leaving for the factory. At best, she managed only about six fragmented hours of sleep, barely enough to get by on. This was her daily routine, but she worried that she would soon reach the breaking point.

***

Though payday wasn't until the end of the month, she decided to call the payroll office at the factory to see if she could borrow against her wages.

'Sorry, we don't make exceptions.' The accounting manager's tone was frosty.

'I know,' said Yoshie, 'but I've been here quite a while.'

'Yes, but rules are rules,' he said, turning her down cold. 'And by the way, Mrs Azuma, you've got to start taking at least one day off a week or we'll have trouble with the labour bureau.'

'I understand,' said Yoshie. She'd recently been working seven days a week for the overtime pay.

'You get welfare payments, don't you? If you go over the allowable income, they'll cut you off.' Unexpectedly, Yoshie found herself apologising and bowing as she hung up. Now she had only her last resort: Masako. How many times had she already asked her for help in an emergency?

'Hello,' her husky voice said. It sounded as though she'd just woken up.

'It's me,' said Yoshie. 'Did I wake you?'

'Ah, the Skipper. No, I was just getting up,' said Masako.

'I've got a favour to ask, but you've got to tell me if you can't manage it.'

'I'll tell you,' said Masako. 'What is it?' Yoshie hesitated, wondering whether her friend would really be frank with her. But this was Masako. More than once at the factory she'd been amazed at her openness, her lack of pretence.

'I'm wondering if you could lend me some money,' she said at last.

'How much?'

'Eighty-three thousand. It's for Miki's class trip, and I'm completely strapped.'

'No problem,' said Masako. Though she was sure that Masako herself couldn't easily spare the money, she was delighted that she'd agreed so easily.

'Thanks,' she said. 'You don't know how much I appreciate this.'

'I'll stop at the bank and bring it this evening,' said Masako. Yoshie went limp with relief. It was humiliating to have to borrow money, but she was glad to know she had a friend like her.

***

She had just dozed off with her head resting on the low table when the doorbell rang. Masako stood in the entrance, her face dark against the sunset.

'Hi,' Masako said. 'I got to thinking about it and realised that you wouldn't want to leave the cash sitting around the factory, so I brought it over.' She handed her the bank envelope. No doubt the thought had occurred to her as she was making the withdrawal and she'd come all this way to deliver the money. It was so like Masako, so sensible. But beyond that, Yoshie realised, it was also quite kind, for she had understood that Yoshie wouldn't want to be seen borrowing money at the factory.

'Thank you. I'll pay you back at the end of the month.'

'Take your time.'

'No, I know you've got loans yourself.'

'Don't worry about it,' Masako said, smiling slightly. Yoshie stared at her in something approaching wonder, having so rarely seen her smile at work.

'But... ' she stammered.

'Don't worry about it, Skipper,' Masako repeated, closing the subject. Her expression suddenly turned serious, and a small vertical line, a scar perhaps, appeared next to her right eyebrow. Yoshie knew that the mark was a sign that Masako, too, had worries, but the thought made her uncomfortable. She had no idea what might be on her friend's mind, and she feared that even if she did find out, it might be something an ordinary woman like her would have trouble understanding.

'Why does someone like you work at a place like that?' she asked suddenly.

'Don't be silly,' Masako said. 'So, I'll see you later,' she added. Giving a quick wave, she turned and headed back toward the red Corolla she'd left parked on the main street.

Almost before she was out of sight, Miki appeared, coming home from school. Yoshie handed her the envelope as she walked in the door.

'Here's the money,' she said.

'How much?' Miki asked, taking it as if she'd been expecting nothing less and peering quickly inside.

'Eighty-three thousand.'

'Thanks.' Miki carelessly tucked the envelope into a pocket in her black backpack. Catching a glimpse of the satisfied look on her daughter's face, Yoshie suddenly had the feeling that she'd been taken for a ride, that the real price of the trip was somewhat less than the sum in the envelope. But as always, her instinct was to avoid facing facts. Miki had no reason to lie to her, not when she knew how hard up she was. How could she?