‘Ah, stop, they’re well able ta look after themselves, that pair,’ Paddy said, glancing at the two girls, ‘… and signs on yarself that yar not dying neither? Big hoax, I suppose?’

He was correct.

But there was nothing behind his words now, everyone knew it, and he couldn’t seem to withstand the pain of his bruised leg, rubbing at it constantly. Margaret Rose did not shut her mouth and Margaret Rose would not stop until she had made her point clearly, and knocked the King over.

Checkmate.

‘All them times you were off getting Bernie to open her legs for ya … I stayed.’

Paddy muttered something.

‘I did my best and I’ll continue ta stay and I will do my very best by them, but ya’ll listen ta me now, don’na ya dare come in here, Paddy Sherlock, claiming all sorts about murder and yar girls, when ’tis not you that’ll pick up the pieces … and yar own morals are out of kilter.’

‘Ya finished, are ya? Morals? What are ya spouting about?’ he shouted, spitting his words slowly now; standing down was not a trait of their union, either of them. But the fight was dying.

She lay back.

‘I am. I’m well finished. Finally …’ she said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘And if ’tis shame yar afraid of, ya’ve given us plenty of it. Michaela and Niquita will marry whomever they wants. Jim’ll look after us, you won’na see us wronged, Jim?’ Margaret Rose looked at her brother.

‘No, no, I promise, no,’ Jim said, uncomfortable at being dragged back into the row.

‘Well, I knows you won’t, ya pansy,’ Paddy shouted at Jim.

‘Ya need ta watch yar mouth. Ya’ll only love wan of us, I’ve had it now,’ Margaret Rose said loudly, sitting up again, wagging the finger at him, ‘and Bernie hasn’t a penny, so g’wan off with ya, g’luck with that.’ She waved him off with her two hands like a sweeping-pan brush.

Up. Down. Dismissed. But he was a dismissed man with nowhere to go.

Not in the short term.

He softened, and began explaining that he couldn’t love just one of them, and wasn’t that why all the bother began in the first place. And if he could, then none of this would have happened.

‘Look … it’s just … Mags, ’twas my grandchild, that’s all,’ he finished, gently.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ she said on a sharp in-breath, ‘ya have others, some ya never see. Evan fell a few weeks ago, but you wouldn’t know, yar never here.’

‘Ah, fuck this. I love them children as me own. I canny be listening to this –’ he looked at Niquita, hopeful – ‘is there someone to fix my tea?’ They both shook their heads. He looked around at us all, eyeing our takeout, ‘Anyone?’

No one answered. He didn’t push it. Not today. Paddy turned awkwardly and before he left, he put out his hand to shake his wife’s, but she refused it, looked away. Paddy blessed himself and began to mumble prayers that he couldn’t finish; so, rather embarrassed, he turned and left the Ward.