He resumed dragging him along the pavement until they came to the house they both lived in. In the dark stormy light it looked sinister. The brickwork was stained black and the front door, even with its polished brass knocker, looked dingy. Joseph pulled his brother up the garden path and banged the knocker hard. The door was opened almost immediately by a mousy-haired girl of fifteen. She looked at her youngest brother with tenderness.

‘She’s a bit quieter now, George. Hurry up out of your wet things.’

They walked into the hallway and he pulled off his wet coat slowly. His heart was hammering in his chest. The house always seemed to smell of cabbage; the odour hung on the air, making him feel sick. It mingled with the smell of beeswax polish, and the heaviness of it burned his quivering nose.

‘Is he gone?’ Joseph’s voice was a whisper.

The girl shook her head.

‘You go on upstairs, I’ll take Georgie in.’ The brother and sister looked into each other’s eyes. Joseph turned away, unable to face his sister any longer. He forced himself to smile at the little boy beside him.

‘I’ll wait upstairs for you. Micky Finnigan gave me some comics yesterday. You can read them after me if you like.’

Georgie nodded and swallowed deeply. His grey eyes seemed to have taken possession of his whole face.

‘Pull your socks up, Georgie.’ He did as he was told. Clumsily he dragged the thick woollen garments up his shins. The three stood stock still as they heard a movement from the front room. Then Joseph ran lightly up the stairs as if the devil was after him. George felt his hands begin to tremble as the front-room door opened and a harsh light fell across him.

‘So you’re back home, are you?’ His mother’s voice was hard and low. She held the door open for him and at a little push from his sister he walked through. His mother’s fist hit him in the back of his head and sent him careering into the room.

‘Mum . . . Mum! Don’t hit him, Mum!’

Nancy Markham turned to her daughter. ‘Get upstairs now, before I give you more of the same.’

George lay on the cold lino, terrified. He watched as his mother knelt beside him and pushed her face close to his.

‘Run away from your mummy, would you, Georgie boy?’ She entwined her fingers in his hair and pulled his head towards her.

‘Where was you running off to this time?’

The child’s trembling communicated itself to her. She brought her red-stained lips back over her teeth and then, closing her eyes, began to lay into him. His skinny little body was unable to cushion the ferocious punching and he lay with his hands covering his head.