Briony had always had a bit more going for her than the other girls. She was quick-witted and quick-tempered and always seemed to be a bit ahead of her years, even as a tiny child. He could understand to an extent the need in her to better her way of life. Could sympathise with her absolute single-mindedness in wanting to come to this house.

Molly had never had a lot of time for Briony, except as a helper with Rosalee. Only Briony could get her to go to bed, and stop the crying fits which at one time had been frequent. Molly was all for Eileen and Kerry - Kerry being her golden child, her gifted girl, her reason for wanting the house in Oxlow Lane. Kerry must have a good home to grow up in, never mind the rest of them. Bernadette was the odd one out of the five girls. Quiet, placid, but with a devil of a temper when roused, Bernie always looked as if she was sickening for something. As if she was just a guest who would soon leave the household. His own mother had said that the child would not make old bones, and even though she was not actually ill, there was an apathy about her that frightened Paddy at times.

He put his hands in his pockets and stared down at his old boots. This was taking the devil of a long time and he was parched. His throat was on fire with the want of a whisky. A few whiskies would be better.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and Briony rushed down to him, her face flushed and rosy.

‘Oh, Dad, I’m to have Eileen’s room! She’s nearly packed. Mr Dumas said she can keep all the clothes and things, wasn’t that nice of him?’

Paddy licked his lips. ‘Aye, very kind. Tell our Eileen to hurry up, I haven’t got all night.’

The morning-room door opened and Henry Dumas walked out to Paddy and gave him three pounds.

‘Eileen shouldn’t be long. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting?’

Paddy brightened. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

Dumas noted the civility in his voice and smiled to himself.

For the first time, Paddy went into the morning room, and was impressed way beyond his imagining. There was a good fire in the polished grate. The walls were papered in a dark blue flock, and tall green plants grew upright in painted bowls. A leather chesterfield and two winged armchairs gleamed in the firelight, and small tables held all sorts of knick-knacks and frippery, the like of which Paddy had never seen before. On the floor was a Belgian carpet that even in his hob-nailed boots felt like grass beneath his feet. He sat on the edge of one of the chairs and took the glass of whisky offered him.