‘Then ’e comes in, an’ chucks ’is ’at down on a chair, an’ tries to stan’ ’is stick up in a corner where it won’t stan’ up, an’ then ’e ’as got to pick it up again, an’ ’e starts blastin’ an’ buggerin’ an’ all, an’ she says nowt. She goes on wi’ ’er darnin’, an’ on’y cocks an eye at ’im over ’er specs, an’ ’e goes out into the scullery an’ washes ’isself, an’ then, when ’e’s sat down at the table, she gets up an’ puts the plate in front of ’im, an’ says nowt, but just sits down an’ goes on darnin’; an’ you ’ear ’im cuttin’ up the meat, an’ then suddenly ’e chucks ’is knife an’ fork on the table an’ says: “This meat’s neither ’ot nor cold.” An’ then she gets up, an’ goes roun’ to ’im wi’ ’er ’ands on ’er ’ips. “If you ’ad come in sooner,” she says, “it would ’a’ bin ’ot; an’ if you’d stayed out later, it would ’a’ bin cold; an’ such as it is, you can take it or leave it. I don’t care if it’s your last.” So ’e gets up then, ’e a’n’t got no more to say; an’ she goes back to ’er darnin’; and ’e goes outside to look at the new moon, from the corner o’ the ’ouse, and see if it were goin’ to be a wet month or a dry. ’e were wunnerful good really at foretellin’ weather. Some folk ’ave a gif that way.’

Bourne was rolling his puttees on by this time.

‘I should say, Martlow, that your father had been crossed in love,’ he said gently.

‘Well, me mother were,’ said Martlow, grinning. ‘They get on well enough together, because they’re accustomed to each other’s ways. Me mother always says you’ve got to be patient wi’ folk, an’ folk ain’t got no patience now. If any o’ us said anything about me father she’d gi’e us a clout on the side o’ the ’ead, quick too. But she ’ad to be father an’ mother, both, to us. Keeperin’s a funny sort o’ game; but my dad’s a good ol’ sport. ’e’d give you anything ’e’d got. An’ ’e’s a lot better nor ’e were. That’s because she wouldn’t give in to ’im. “Charlie,” she’d say to me, “you do what’s right, an’ don’t let no man get master on you.” That’s my motter in life, an’ another is if you’ve got a fat ’ead you’ve earned it. That’s what I say.’

‘Quite a cheerful philosophy,’ said Bourne, who had a great admiration for the impartial candour with which Martlow looked back on family life. Probably he took after his mother; in any case he would seem to have been nurtured in a stern school.

‘Some o’ these buggers what come out ’ere now,’ observed Martlow, ‘’ave never done anythin’ they didn’t want to do in their lives before, and now they’re up against somethin’ real nasty, they don’t ’arf make a song about it. They think they’re fuckin’ ’eroes just because they’re ’ere.’