‘Right away, Auntie,’ he answered, and did as she asked. As usual, he was hungry and couldn’t wait to savour the warm pork pies. They smelled delicious.

Once everything was ready, the three of them sat down.

They both thanked Eileen and she smiled at them, and said, ‘Margaret told me today she’d like me to do an extra few hours every week …’ Eileen paused, and looked at her husband. When he remained silent, she asked, ‘So, what do you think, Patrick?’

‘If you think it’s not too much for you, then it’s all right with me. But I don’t want you overdoing it, mavourneen. I would be upset if you got ill again.’

‘It’s just a few hours a week … you see my baking is doing nicely. Margaret likes to have the extra pies and tarts alongside the bread and buns. We’re selling out.’ Eileen laughed, and added, ‘And I’ll be fine, Pat, I really will. I’m feeling as fit as a fiddle these days.’

‘So try it out,’ Patrick said, and felt a small rush of pride in his wife’s success. She had started by just helping her cousin out occasionally, taking in some pies, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was the best baker there was in Upper Armley. Yet he worried about her health, didn’t want the extra work to get her down. Ever since nearly losing her just before Blackie arrived, four years earlier, he had been cautious. And there was no need for his wife to be working. He knew she did it for the love of it.

Blackie reached for the bowl of piccalilli and took a spoonful of the mustard relish with chopped vegetables in it. He liked to eat it with the pork pie, which he had never had until he came to live with his aunt and uncle. Now it was his favourite, which they had every Saturday.

For her part, Eileen was watching the two men, filled with satisfaction that they were obviously enjoying the meal. Her joy in cooking good meals sprang from the pleasure they gave to her ‘two lads’, as she called them.

Blackie sat on his bed, looking at his two new shirts. How smart they were; he couldn’t wait to put one on. Perhaps he would wear one tonight. After all, he was going to the dance hall on Branch Road. He had never worn anything that was brand new before. Well, he’d had the new pullovers Mrs O’Malley had knitted for him, but never any single thing from a shop. Over the past few years, he’d had a few more parcels from Ireland of hand-me-downs and cast-offs from the Lassiter house, through his cousin Siobhan, which had kept him going, and also a few things his aunt had adapted for him. She was a good seamstress.