Washing her hands, she took the flat-iron and a block of wood from the cupboard, then returned to the parlour. Positioning the wood block on the table, she placed the iron cradle on top and took the iron to the fire, wedging it firmly between the coals. That done, she fetched the ironing basket from the stairs cupboard; the clothes were piled so high she could hardly see over the top. ‘God! It’ll take me weeks to catch up with this lot.’ Somehow the work had piled up, and yet she never seemed to stop.

Setting the basket down by the table, she turned on the wireless and sat by the fire. In between the children’s excited screams, she listened to the news. There was talk of a first military round-the-world flight, and an outline of the weather for the next few days. There was going to be a thaw: ‘Brighter, drier weather expected,’ it said, ‘but a smattering of snow for Christmas.’ Molly thought that would put a smile on the children’s faces.

Lulled by the fire and fond thoughts of Alfie, Molly soon found herself drifting off to sleep.

She woke with a jolt when Milly yelled out, ‘Got you! Now it’s my turn!’ Georgie let out a blood-curdling cry as she grabbed him.

Quickly coming to her senses, Molly checked the iron. ‘A few more minutes yet,’ she decided. ‘Best give Dad a shout.’

Switching off the wireless, she went to the bottom of the stairs and called, ‘Dad, you’d best get up. It’s gone eleven!’

Back came the shout, ‘Piss off, you! Let a man sleep, why don’t yer?’

When Molly turned round, all four children were looking up at her with scared faces. ‘He’s not coming down, is he?’ That was Bertha again, speaking for everyone.

Molly smiled. ‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ she said and, whooping and hollering, they ran off again, this time with Eddie hanging on to Milly’s hand.

Wrapping the tea towel round her fist, Molly took the iron out of the fire and spat on it; the spittle lay there, unmoving. ‘Still not ready,’ she decided, and turned her attention to the ironing basket. Taking the scorched blanket from the top, she folded it before laying it across the table, a little pile of ironing alongside.

She tried the iron again, and this time the spittle sizzled and danced. It was ready. Laying it in the cradle, she called her dad again. ‘Dad, are you getting up or what!’

‘Thought I told yer to piss off!’

So she did. ‘Stay there till Kingdom Come for all I care,’ she muttered.

She was halfway through the ironing when Rosie returned, right in the middle of a silent ‘hiding’ session. ‘Where’s all the childer?’ she asked. ‘Sure, you’ve not let the wee mites out in the cold again?’ She almost leaped out of her skin when they all jumped out on her.

‘That got you, didn’t it, Rosie?’ Georgie couldn’t stop laughing.

‘Ye little varmints, I almost had a heart attack, so I did!’