As usual, the Saturday market was busy.

All morning, the customers kept coming, and both Bridget and Joe were run off their feet. Only when it got towards late afternoon and the twilight began to creep in did they get a chance to breathe.

‘How are the notices coming along, sweetheart?’

Ruthie had not raised her head all day. Tucked at the back of the stall, she had been busy cutting out the sheets for the notices. ‘All finished, Mam.’

‘You’ve done well, sweetheart,’ Bridget told her. ‘Now then, what shall we say?’

‘That we want anyone to tell us if they know where Fanny and Billy are.’

Bridget began to write in big bold letters:

IF ENYONE KNOWS THE WUREABOUTS OF FANNY HIGGINS AND HER SON, BILLY, TRAVLLIN BY ORSE AND CART, PLEESE SEE BRIDGET MULLIGAN OF 24, KING STREET, BLACKBURN. TO SHILIN REWORD IF FOUND.

‘You’ve spelled that word wrong,’ Joe said, when she showed him the notice.

‘Which word?’

‘That one.’ He pointed at the ‘To’.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Spelling wasn’t Bridget’s strong point, but she thought it looked right, and said so.

‘It wants another “o” at the end of it.’

Feeling foolish, and believing Joe to be a better scholar than she was, she corrected it. ‘There you are, “Too shilin”.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Joe.

‘Oh, Mam, somebody will find them, won’t they?’ said Ruthie.

‘I should hope so, after all the trouble we’ve gone to.’

Aggie appeared to ask Bridget’s advice on a new dress she was thinking of buying. ‘I’ve got it for an hour, then, if it don’t suit I have to take it back.’

‘Go behind the curtain and try it on,’ Bridget suggested. ‘It’s the right colour anyway – red puts the roses in your cheeks.’ Aggie was past her prime but she had a certain jaded vivaciousness that told Bridget she must have been a beauty in her time.

Ruthie was chatting to Joe. ‘Joe, do you like Bob Morris?’

‘He’s all right, I suppose. Why?’

‘Just wondered.’

‘Well, he must be all right, lass, ’cause yer mam wouldn’t be about to wed him if he weren’t.’

‘Who’s that other man?’

‘What other man?’

‘The one who came to see you the other day.’

He patted her head. ‘Eh, lass, there’s many a feller comes to see old Joe. What does he look like, this man?’

‘He’s bigger than you, and he’s got real nice brown eyes. I think he’s a bit shy.’

‘Bigger than me, eh? Brown eyes… Oh, you must mean Harry. Harry Little, lives on Ainsworth Street. He’s a tailor and, yes, you’re right, he does seem shy at times.’ Chuckling to himself, he added, ‘But not when it comes to business. Oh no. Our Harry’s sharp as a tack when it comes to business.’

‘I like him.’

‘Aye, lass, an’ so do I. Come to think of it, there ain’t many folk who don’t like him. He’s a good sort, is Harry.’