The kitchen was warm, cosy and quiet. Blackie sat back in Mrs O’Malley’s chair, relaxed, even a little sleepy, as he gazed into the roaring fire.

The flames flaring and rising up the chimney were vividly pink, gold and deep red. And in them he saw his dreams reflected: this trip to Queenstown, the sea crossing to Liverpool, and the long journey on the train to Leeds.

That city flickered within the flames, many images. A great metropolis it was, his Uncle Pat had explained that in his last letter. He had told him the streets were paved with gold, there were jobs aplenty, and work for everyone who wanted to make money. The right place for him.

Money. That word loomed large in his mind. Money made you safe, less vulnerable to the grasping world surrounding you, especially if you were a young boy like he was. No, he now thought, I’m not a young boy. I am thirteen, and thanks to my height and strong build, I look much older – sixteen or so at least.

This happened to be the truth. Unlike his brother, William, and sister, Bronagh, he was a grand specimen of a young man and extremely good-looking. His siblings had been so much slighter and shorter in height. They had teased him, called him the giant, and just laughed.

The luck of the draw, he thought, sure and it is. Blackie was well aware he could win in a brawl. He’d knock a man out with one punch. He’d tackle a small group if they came after him intent on trouble. Once his Uncle Pat had come to visit from England, and had said he ought to step into the ring and become a boxer, and that he’d become a champion.

No, not for him. He could not abide violence of any kind and avoided confrontations like the plague. His ambitions were to work hard with his uncle and to learn to be a builder. He didn’t just want to repair houses. He wanted to construct houses, even design them. He had the talent. He knew that.

He smiled inwardly and saw the house of his dreams hidden in the bright red flames. It was large and square, with three floors. When he built it one day, it would have tall windows, high ceilings and a fireplace in every room, even in the bedrooms. His feet were always cold and so he loved fires.

He glanced down at them now, encased in a pair of Dennis O’Malley’s socks. They were warm wool socks which Mrs O’Malley had given to him earlier. She was so good to him, faith and she was, a loving woman.

She dropped a spoon and bent to pick it up, turning to look at him as she did. A smile slid onto her face.

‘Thanks for letting me stay here after dinner,’ Blackie said.