‘Come and help me first,’ Molly said. The child followed her into the scullery, where Molly got ready the bucket and cloth for the windows, and the hard stone for the front step. Taking one of Frank’s billycans from the cupboard she half-filled it with warm water and gave it to Bertha to carry. ‘Steady now,’ she warned. ‘We don’t want it all over the floor.’

Before going out, Molly rummaged about in the wash-tub and found a bolster case. Taking a baggy old jumper from the pile of dirty washing, and a smaller one for Bertha from the cupboard, she pulled the big one over her own head and carried the other to where she found Bertha poking a finger into the bucket. ‘Hey! Hands off,’ she laughed. ‘That’s my bucket.’ It took only a minute to slip the woolly on to Bertha, roll up the sleeves, and they were all ready.

‘Right. Let’s go.’ Taking Bertha in one hand and the bucket in the other, she made her way outside.

‘Eddie’s gone to sleep,’ Bertha observed, and Molly was glad of it. ‘Don’t you go to sleep on me, will you,’ she teased. ‘At least not until you’ve white-stoned the front step.’

Tying the bolster-case round Bertha’s waist, she set her to work. ‘I’ll draw the lines down either side,’ she explained, ‘then you dip the stone in the water and rub it over the step until it comes up white. And don’t dip too far into the water or you’ll get your arms all wet. Then you’ll be cold and I’ll have to take you back inside.’

Molly was up the ladder, washing the windows, when Sandra rocked the ladder from below. ‘I can see right up your drawers,’ she laughed crudely. ‘Shame on yer, Moll Tattersall!’

Concentrating on her work, Molly was taken by surprise. Clinging on for all she was worth, she yelled back, ‘Give over, you daft devil! You’ll have me off!’

‘You’d best come down then, hadn’t yer?’

When Molly was safely on the ground, Sandra teased her mercilessly. ‘You’ve a good pair o’ legs on you, gal,’ she chuckled. ‘If the old knocker-upper had seen your bare arse wiggling about up there, he’d have had nightmares for weeks.’

Molly burst out laughing. ‘You’re daft as a brush, Sandra,’ she said. ‘Anyway, my posterior certainly was not bare.’

Sandra made a face. Mocking Molly, she teased, ‘Posterior, eh? Does that mean the same as arse? Anyway, you’re wearing them French knickers off the market, aren’t you? They don’t leave much to the imagination, I can tell yer that!’

Ignoring her, Molly asked, ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I’ve got a right bad cough.’ And to prove it she began coughing and spluttering like a good ’un. ‘Ready for the knackers-yard I am,’ she said pitifully.

‘Liar!’ Molly knew her only too well. ‘You’ve no more got a cough than I have.’

‘Hey! Don’t tell our mam that. It took me ages to convince her I were at death’s door.’