Pushing aside these uncharacteristically gloomy meanderings, his thoughts turned to Angela. What a lovely woman she was, and so kind and generous. He had promised to go and see her next weekend, and he surely would. She made him feel happy, an emotion he had not been particularly familiar with so far in his life. He had felt content in the past few years, and grateful to his Uncle Pat, and he liked his life in Upper Armley, but this was something new.

His own life had been difficult in many ways, and he had taken on responsibility very young. And oh, the sorrow and the grief he had borne when his family began to die around him.

His eyes were suddenly moist, filled with tears, as he thought of his father and mother, William, his brother, and Bronagh. One after the other, they had passed away. Life had dealt them the hard blow of poverty, hunger and despair. They were taken by the rough land they lived in. Ireland, where death was all around.

Blackie pushed his face into the soft pillow, the only pillow he had ever had, and wept. He had not cried for a long time, and in a sense it was a great relief to him to shed his tears of a grief so intolerable it was almost impossible to bear.

A gentle tapping on the door awakened Blackie, who had fallen asleep. He sat up with a start, jumped off the bed and opened the door.

His aunt stood there, a gentle smile on her face. ‘Won’t you come down for tea, Blackie? Your uncle was asking where you were when he got in. And I’ve a lovely bite of tea for you both today. The pork pies you like from the bakery, and a sponge cake with cream.’

Blackie smiled at her; his aunt was so kind, and he knew it would upset her if he missed his meal. He nodded and went out onto the landing. ‘I’ll just wash me hands and come right down, sure and I will, Aunt Eileen.’

Although he expected his uncle to still be angry with him, Blackie knew he had to put up a warm front and take the flak if necessary. But Patrick greeted him in a kindly voice when he went into the parlour a few minutes later.

As usual, Patrick Kennedy was standing in front of the fire, warming his back. Even though it was summer, it had turned cool in the late afternoon, and Eileen had put a match to the fire. Blackie knew she always felt cold.

‘Mrs Wilson asked me if you had finished your plans for her conservatory when I took Moira there,’ Patrick announced. ‘I told her I thought you had – almost, anyway. So what stage are they at?’

‘They’re more or less ready. I was hoping to show them to her this week. After ye’ve given me the go-ahead, Uncle Pat.’