‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ said Paddy. ‘I can’t go down those steps today with my back like this. It’s killing me.’

‘You might end up dead if you don’t, for sure,’ she said, ‘and don’t think I’m joking. As God is my judge, you will either walk down those steps to the pen, or if I have to, I’ll bleedin’ kick you down and you’ll be rollin’ down them and turning up for work on your fecking fat arse. How do you think I’m going to put food on the table? How am I going to pay Eric? How do I pay the rent and the coalman? We’re weeks behind. Get out of that flamin’ bed!’

Peggy slipped a foot into one of her frayed tartan slippers, which smelt almost as ripe as Paddy. The slippers, still damp from the night before, were the closest thing she owned to a pair of shoes, having pawned the ones Maura gave her before she left for Ireland. Picking up the remaining slipper, she bent over the bed and began to slap big Paddy on any part of his white, flabby flesh she could reach.

‘You flamin’ madwoman!’ he shouted as, quicker than Peggy ever could be, he slipped his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed his trousers from the bedpost. ‘You’re a feckin’ mad witch, you are!’

‘I might be mad and I may even be a witch, but I’d rather be both of those than a selfish, lazy fecking bastard who doesn’t give a damn if his kids starve, because that’s what you are, a fat, lazy, useless bastard!’

Her eyes were blazing and there was something in them Paddy didn’t like the look of. He had seen it often of late. A fire, a thought, a fleeting glimpse of hatred, a hidden meaning that perturbed him. There had already been a murder on the four streets. The scandalous, shocking murder of a priest – and right at this moment his wife appeared more than capable of doubling that murder count. It crossed his mind, was it Peggy? But no, Peggy never lost her temper, that prerogative was his, often after a skinful he could ill afford down at the Anchor. He could never remember the night before; it was only the bruises on Peggy or the children which bore witness to his attacks or the upturned chamber pot, the broken chair in the kitchen. And his lapses had become more frequent since the Dohertys had left.

‘All right, you crazy feckin’ cow, keep your knickers on. I’m getting dressed, aren’t I, eh?’ He held up his trousers to her and, wincing, placed his other hand in the small of his back. ‘Honest to God, queen, it’s killing me.’