‘And what about his mother?’

Matron shrugged. ‘Either she doesn’t know he’s here or she doesn’t care. I wouldn’t mind betting it’s the latter. I suppose I shall have to send someone round there to inform her just how poorly the little chap is.’

‘I could call in and tell her on my way home, if you like,’ Holly volunteered.

Matron gave her an approving smile. ‘That would be a great help, if you wouldn’t mind. Do tell her that because of his condition she may visit whenever she wishes. I don’t like to be too strict about visiting times for the relatives of the patients who are very poorly and he might perk up a little if he sees his mother.’

Holly nodded and as she walked away the matron thought what an asset Holly was proving to be already.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

As Holly entered the courtyard where Robbie lived later that evening on her way home, she tried to hold her breath. The smell was appalling. At one end was a pigsty where a fat pig snuffled in the dirt. Throughout the year he was fed food scraps by the four families that inhabited the cottages, two on either side of a narrow cobbled yard, and come Christmas he would wind up on their plates as their Christmas dinner. Next to him was the ash toilet shared by all four cottages and badly in need of emptying if the stench was anything to go by. Holly marched up to number three and tapped at the door tentatively. From inside she could hear the sound of laughter so she knew someone was in. After a moment she knocked again, louder this time, and a voice shouted, ‘Who is it? I’m busy so if it ain’t important bugger off!’

‘It is important, Mrs Smith!’ Holly shouted back, suddenly angry. ‘It’s about your son, Robbie.’

She heard a scuffle on the other side of the door then it slowly swung open revealing a woman dressed in nothing more than a thin robe. Her hair was greasy and hung limply on her shoulders and her pock marked face was heavily made-up.

‘So what’s the little bleeder bin up to now?’ she said gruffly. ‘If he’s bin caught stealin’ by the coppers again I’ll break his scrawny little neck. All he’s gorra do is keep out o’ the way for God’s sake!’ Then seeing Holly’s uniform she stopped ranting and stared.

‘He isn’t in trouble with the police, Mrs Smith,’ Holly informed her, trying hard to keep the disgust she felt for the woman from showing on her face. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s in hospital and very poorly indeed. He has acute bronchitis and the doctor is concerned about him.’ The smell of cheap perfume, stale sweat and whisky radiating off the woman was almost worse than the smell from the privy and the pigsty but Holly managed to meet her gaze steadily.

‘Oh …’ The woman scratched her head. ‘Well, at least he’s in the right place, ain’t he? What do yer want me to do?’