The end of shift whistle shrieked as he secured the last rivet in place. He stripped off his gauntlets and ignoring the ache in his muscles made his way from the ship’s vast belly. His hobnail boots echoed off the wooden gangplank as he passed through the forest of slender boles scaffolding the ship’s growing hull onto the yard below.

He paid no attention to the crane booms swinging above him, or to the men traversing elevated girders like tightrope walkers working without a net. He merely joined the army of shipbuilders in their uniform of rolled sleeves, waistcoats and flat caps as they flooded out through the yard’s yawning gates to the screams of circling gulls, all eager to escape the taint of diesel and smoke and the sour miasma that characterised the dockside.

He was invited to the pub on the corner for a swift half, but he was in a strange mood and had no desire for company or drink. His hunger was starting to gnaw and he wanted to get back, so he made his excuses. Tipping his cap in farewell, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and set out across the cobbles for home.

His street was quiet when he finally turned into it. Mrs Higgins from number thirty-three was on her knees in her housecoat scrubbing her front doorstep, the bristles of her brush rasping against the stone. She looked up to him in greeting, her expression devoid of any warmth, but Jack knew that was just her way and took no offence; he merely nodded and offered her a curt ‘Evening’ back.

Further on, a group of boys were kicking a ball across the street, their boots thudding against the stitched leather. A miss kick sent it skittering Jack’s way and on another occasion he would have knocked it back, but today – though they waited expectantly, bracing themselves for its return – he just glowered and stepped past it. Their mocking taunts rang in his ears as the smallest lad trotted forward to retrieve it.

He glanced back at them as he mounted the step to his front door, but they had lost all interest in him and had returned to passing the ball with whooping jests and jeers. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He knew at once something was wrong. When he had left for work before seven, Jenny had been preparing the washing, while their mother sat at the table, smoking her first fag of the day. And yet, as he walked through the front room, there was no sweet smell of soap suds freshening the air and no damp clothes drying on wooden airers before the fire. He set down his knapsack. The house was quiet. The wall clock ticked through the silence, but beneath its soothing rhythm was a peculiar frisson. He became aware of his own breathing. He stood, listening, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

‘Jenny?’