Upstairs Joseph lay listening to the muffled sounds of his brother’s beating. His mother’s foul-mouthed shouting reaching a crescendo.

Nancy stood up, her breathing laboured. ‘Now you go and apologise, Georgie boy.’

The child was sobbing, every so often gulping large draughts of air into his aching lungs. His nose had a thin trickle of blood running from it. He stood up unsteadily, grabbing the table for support.

‘You heard me, boy!’ She slapped the child hard across the face. He stumbled from the front room and through the connecting door to the kitchen.

He felt his mother stand close behind him and looked into the big man’s face.

‘Don’t you worry, Bert, I’ve given him such a larruping he won’t be so quick with his tongue in the future.’

The man looked at George with tiny dark eyes. The boy could smell the rancid odour of stale sweat and swallowed down the urge to vomit. The man’s belly was quivering as he moved to make himself more comfortable in his seat. His string vest was stained with tea and food. George tried to concentrate on the man’s red-veined, bloated face.

‘He ain’t saying much, Nance. What’s the matter, you little bastard? Cat got your tongue?’

George bit on his lip for a second.

‘I’m very sorry . . . I’m sorry.’

Nancy Markham put her face so close to her son’s he could smell her breath. ‘You know what else to say, Georgie boy.’

He swallowed and took another deep breath. ‘I’m sorry . . . Dad.’ The last word was barely audible.

‘Speak up, lad.’

‘I’m . . . sorry, Dad.’

The man saw the hatred in the child’s eyes. It was unmistakable. For one second he felt frightened, then pulling himself together he grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. This little runt was no more than five stone! He screwed up his eyes and made himself look as ferocious as possible, wanting to intimidate the child.

‘You remember to call me that, boy.’ He poked his finger at George. Then he looked at Nancy and bellowed: ‘Where’s me fucking tea, woman? Get this little shit out of me sight and get yourself sorted!’

Nancy pushed George out of her way and stood in front of the man.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Bert Higgins . . .’

He pulled his enormous bulk from the chair and brought his fist back.

‘You want a right-hander, Nance, or what? You might be able to sort out little kids but don’t ever think you can order me around!’

George watched his mother’s face as she battled with herself as to whether to carry on fighting or whether to retreat. As usual her fighting temper came to the fore and George bolted from the room as her hand went to the teapot on the table and she flung it at Bert.