Then she softly cried. For all the loved ones here, and all those now gone.

At ten minutes past midnight, Frank came home and found her curled up in the chair. ‘You needn’t have waited up,’ he told her and, to Molly’s surprise, for once he didn’t seem drunk.

‘Happy Christmas, Dad,’ she said.

‘Aye, lass.’ He seemed oddly embarrassed. ‘You, too.’

When, a short time later, she went to bed, he sat on the sofa, his head bent into his hands. ‘Goodnight, God bless,’ she murmured. When he seemed not to have heard her, she went on up the stairs.

It occurred to Molly how lonely her father must be.

Moreover, Frank Tattersall had some thinking to do. And not before time either.

Chapter Sixteen

New York was a mad, exciting place.

Since coming here, Alfie had worked harder than he had ever worked in his life. He was up with the birds and on his feet from dawn to dusk. He put his every ounce of energy into his work, and heeded the trainer’s every word. The days sped by; he trained, he fought, he earned a formidable reputation. But still his heart wasn’t in it.

Now, just two days from the biggest fight of his career, he tried hard to push Molly from his mind. ‘Keep sharp!’ his trainer Gus Baines warned. ‘You ain’t going up against small fry this time, Alfie boy! This one’s a real killer. An’ he ain’t looking to lose – you can be sure of that.’

Taking a swig of water, Alfie got ready for his run.

A few minutes later, with Gus Baines cycling alongside, he ran several miles around Central Park, met at every turn by fanatics who knew that, on 2 January, in two days’ time, this young Englishman would be up against one of the all-American best. ‘He’ll make mincemeat of you,’ they taunted. ‘After one round, you’ll wish you’d never been born!’

There were others, more encouraging, but Alfie turned a deaf ear to all. One thing he had learned: it was fatal to leave yourself open to doubt before a fight, big or otherwise.

When the run was over, they headed back to the gym. Here, Alfie showered and changed.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he told Gus, and before the trainer could say it, Alfie said it for him, in his best New York accent. ‘“No boozing, broads or partying. I want you here, four o’clock sharp… looking like you mean it.”’

Gus grinned. ‘You got it in one,’ he said, wagging a finger at him. ‘But look, I got something to ask you.’

‘Oh?’ He hoped Gus wouldn’t keep him too long. He had a letter to write.

Gus beckoned him closer. ‘I think you should tell me what’s on your mind, son.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t gimme that shit!’ Gus had a reputation for being a bastard when needs must. ‘Something’s got you by the balls, and I want to know what it is. There’s a lotta money at stake here, Alfie.’