Hastily, Cyril sat up, aware that his heart was thumping, and sweat was breaking out both on his low brow and on the palms of his ham-like hands. The memories were clearer now; he remembered jerking awake on this very bed, minutes ago – or was it hours? – fully clothed and booted, as though he had simply come upstairs for a rest, and feeling for the necklace he was sure he had been holding when he lay down. He had not found it. Panicking, he had stumbled from the room, roaring for his mother, and that was when those scum had tripped him and pushed him down the stairs. What a fool he had been! Of course no one could have taken the necklace. It must be here somewhere. He threw off the blankets and began to root around in the rumpled bedding, but when no jewellery met his frantic fingers he gave a bellow of rage which brought his mother stomping heavily up the stairs.

‘Wharron earth’s wrong, Cyril me lad?’ she asked crossly. ‘I were dozin’ in front of the fire, wonderin’ when you’d wake, when you shruck out.’ She gave a rather unpleasant grin. ‘You sounded like a bleedin’ bull a-bawlin’. Lost a quid and found a penny?’

‘When you hears what I’ve got to say you won’t be laughin’,’ Cyril said grimly. ‘Someone’s been in here and taken a grand gold necklace all set about with sparkly stones, what I found lyin’ on a street corner on the Scottie Road.’

His mother snorted. ‘Oh aye? Expect me to believe that?’ she asked derisively. ‘You’ve lost it, that’s what. If you strip the bed it’ll probably be amongst the covers, see if I ain’t right.’

Cyril gave a howl of rage. ‘I done all that, you stupid old biddy. I were goin’ to sell it to a feller I know what would have paid good money. Well, you were the only other person in the house when it disappeared; what do you say to that, eh?’

Mrs Huxtable’s thin mouth set in a hard line. ‘As if I’d steal from me own flesh and blood,’ she said bitterly. ‘Besides, I weren’t the only person in the house. The Trewin brat were here, cleanin’ the veggies so’s we could sell ’em for Christmas dinners, so don’t you go blamin’ your poor old ma for what that devil’s daughter’s done. Who do you think tipped you downstairs? Would I do a thing like that?’

Cyril was so distraught that he nearly answered ‘yes’, but just in time he remembered two things. The first was his mother’s strong right hand and ebony cane, and the second was that the teddy and the harmonica which had been on the foot of his bed were there no longer. He leapt to his feet. ‘Sorry, Ma. You’re in the right of it, as always. I shouldn’t ha’ said what I did. O’ course that bloody kid were here – I remember now. It’ll be her what took my property, and I mean to get it back right fast, before she’s had a chance to show her pals, or the scuffers for that matter. Wait till I get my hands on her – she’ll be sorry she were ever born.’