What was it about Rose that so tortured him? he thought bitterly. He prided himself that he knew all about women; from when he was barely out of short trousers the lassies had thrown themselves at him and he couldn’t help but have them, not when they laid it out on a plate. What man would refuse? But he had never loved any of them. In fact he hadn’t believed in the concept of love – only lust. Lust was honest and real, earthy, whereas love was some fantasy dreamed up by poets and suchlike, a silly daydream for bit lasses with their rubbishy penny periodicals. Aye, that’s what he had believed until Davey had introduced him to Rose.

He reached the end of the back lane and stepped out into the street beyond, which was deserted, although lights shone from behind curtained windows and as he passed one house there was the sound of riotous singing within. Christmas Day and here he was tramping the streets while everyone else was having a high old time, and all because of her. But it was early days. He nodded to himself. And sooner or later it was going to dawn on her that she was alone in the world with a bairn to support and no breadwinner. The memory of a dead husband wouldn’t pay the rent or keep her warm in bed at night. She needed him. A faint smile touched his lips. She hadn’t realized it yet but she needed him, and come hell or high water he was going to have her; he wouldn’t let anything or anyone stand in his way, not this time. But for now he’d go back and have a few jars before he went to bed. Since the accident he wasn’t sleeping well but some beer and a couple of whiskies would take him to a different place where that scream didn’t echo in his ears when he lay his head on the pillow.

Chapter Five

It was the first Monday in January. India was holding celebrations to mark the succession of Edward VII as Emperor but in Britain the snow and blizzards made that hot exotic country seem as though it belonged to another world. New Year’s Eve had come and gone amidst the usual Northern revelry and subsequently life had settled into its humdrum pattern for most folk. But not for Rose.