Ronnie walked into the front room, flicked cigarette ash on to the brown linoleum and tripped over the brush and shovel next to the hearth. ‘Bloody tip in ’ere,’ he grumbled and sat down on the single armchair.

A few minutes later Ruby put Ronnie’s meal on the table. Ronnie had lit up another cigarette and had begun to doze in the chair. Ruby began to get frustrated. ‘C’mon Ronnie, y’slow-coach,’ she shouted, ‘y’tea’s ready. Buck up an’ show willin’.’

‘Allus naggin’,’ muttered Ronnie. He staggered into the kitchen, took a final drag of his cigarette and sat down heavily. As he began to eat the chips with his fingers Ruby returned with Andy in her arms and sat down opposite.

‘Ah’ve got some news, Ronnie,’ she said quietly.

Ronnie didn’t look up.

‘Ah’m expectin’ again.’

‘Y’what?’

‘Another baby, Ronnie. Doctor Davenport said so.’

Ronnie pushed away his plate. ‘We can’t ’ave no more babies. Y’don’t earn enough as it is.’

‘If you get a job things’ll be better.’

‘Y’daft ha’porth – jobs are ’ard t’come by.’

‘Well, there it is, ah’m havin’ another an’ there’s nowt we can do about it.’

Ronnie took out another cigarette and rummaged in his pocket for his box of matches. ‘Mebbe there’s another way, luv.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Y’could get shut of it.’

That night Ruby wept silent tears as a cold wind swept away the rags of clouds to reveal a gibbous moon.

Chapter Four

Little Malcolm’s Butterfly

The church clock up the Morton road was ringing out. It was 8.00 a.m. and, impervious to the cold weather, the two Robinson cousins, Big Dave and Little Malcolm, had left home early to climb trees in the private wood at the back of Mrs Uppington’s cottage. It was a forgotten backwater of the village and their secret playground. In the hedgerow the red hips of dog roses were providing much-needed food for hungry voles, while the morning dew, like untouched diamonds, sparkled in the early-morning sunlight. The earth was cooling and the nights were beginning to draw in, but it mattered little to these intrepid sons of Yorkshire. Making a hole in the hedge had been difficult, but the tough Robinson boys were not easily daunted by prickly hawthorn.

With scratched knees they emerged on to the cinder track next to a row of old dilapidated thatched cottages that led to Chauntsinger Lane and the blacksmith’s forge. A washing line hung across the track between the cottages and they ducked under the flapping sheets.