Boysie and Daniel were visiting their gran. She still lived in Oxlow Lane and they made a point of calling in often. She was alone now, Mother Jones passing away in 1950, and Abel dying of cancer in 1966. Molly was in her eighties, and though she now lived on the bottom floor of her house, finding the stairs too difficult, was still alert, still fiercely independent, and wanting to stay in her own home no matter how often Briony tried to persuade her to come and live with her.

She made the twins a large pot of tea and sat listening to their chatter. They were still her boys. Her favourites. Their reputation was now legendary in London but every time Molly looked at them she saw her gentle daughter who had died birthing them. Her eyes misted over. More and more lately she was thinking of the people who had died. Abel, Mother Jones and even Mrs Horlock. The dead seemed more real to her than the living. Except for her grandsons. They were her whole existence rolled into two large men. They had taken over many of Briony’s clubs, and had also taken over the houses. They owned everything from used car lots to large plant hire firms. They had fingers in every pie and Molly was as pleased as punch with them.

She began to doze in her chair, the fire roaring even in the late-spring sunshine.

Boysie and Danny looked at her and grinned at one another.

‘Gran ... Gran ... Before you nod off I want to tell you me news,’ Boysie said.

Molly sat upright in the chair. ‘I wasn’t asleep, you cheeky young bugger! I was thinking!’

Boysie laughed. ‘Well, think about this then. I’m getting married.’

Even Daniel laughed at the shocked look on her face.

‘What, to that Emerald bird?’

Emerald was a high-class call girl Boysie had been seeing for about a year.

He shook his head. ‘Nah! I’m marrying a girl called Suzannah Rankins. Her nan used to run the bingo down at the church. Remember her?’

He was talking loud and slow and Molly slapped his arm.

‘I ain’t in me bleeding dotage, you know. I still have all me faculties! ’Course I remember Jessie Rankins. We was good mates. She’s in a home now, poor old bitch.’

‘Well, I’m marrying her granddaughter, Jessie’s son’s girl. Remember Jessie’s son, Frankie Rankins?’

Molly looked at Danny and shook her head. ‘Will you explain to this bleeding numbskull that I can hear him all right? I ain’t at the end of the street.’

Danny laughed. ‘All right, Gran, keep your hair on.’

‘How old’s this Suzannah then?’

Boysie looked shamefaced.

‘Twenty-one, Gran.’

‘Good bit younger than you then.’ She paused. ‘Bring her around on Sunday at five-fifteen, I’ll tell you what I think then.’

‘I’ll bring him personally, Gran, all right?’