Fanny burst out laughing. ‘Oh, he knows that all right,’ she giggled. ‘I’ve had the randy devil upstairs in bed for the past hour, and I can tell yer from experience, Bill Norman may not know much, but he knows when he’s getting his oats.’

Bridget smiled. ‘I didn’t mean that, you devil.’

Rising from her chair, Fanny made her way into the kitchen, from where she continued the conversation. ‘I had to throw him out, he left me no choice. I’ll be old and grey afore he plucks up the courage to tell that old boot where to go. She robs him blind to line her own pocket and he daren’t refuse her anything. Honest, gal, I’ll bet she’s got more money tucked away than I’ll ever have in the whole of me miserable bloody life. And what does he do? I’ll tell yer!’

Returning with two mugs of hot tea laced with a drop of brandy, she handed one to Bridget and the other she balanced precariously on the edge of the fender. ‘I’ll tell yer what he does, he works day and night on that farm of his. He digs the ground, plants the vegetables, coaxes ’em to grow and then digs ’em up when they’re fat and ripe for market. Then he stands behind that blessed stall all day every day, six and sometimes seven days a week, come rain or shine. Then he carries the takings home for the walrus to grab and never sees it again. I ask yer! What kind of goings on is that for a grown man?’

‘Poor Bill.’

‘Poor Bill nothing!’ Fanny scoffed. ‘He deserves everything he gets.’ She chuckled wickedly. ‘Well, maybe not everything, but if I didn’t let him have his oats now and then, I’d have to go without an’ all, and what have I done to deserve that, eh? Besides, it helps to keep him dangling. A carrot for a donkey, if yer know what I mean.’

Her own troubles pushed to the back of her mind, Bridget took a gulp of the tea and was pleasantly surprised at the warm flush that spread through her. ‘Would you really want to be a farmer’s wife though her?’ she asked, absent-mindedly cradling the cup in her hands. ‘Think about it, Fanny. Outside in all weathers, mud and rain; plucking chickens for market.’

Fanny smiled knowingly. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘We’d not be wed two weeks afore that place was on the market. I intend to be a lady, not a bleedin’ skivvy. What’s money for if it’s not to be spent?’

Content in each other’s company, they sat quietly, sipping their drinks, Fanny reflecting on life and Bridget wondering if it might be kinder not to trouble Fanny with her own problem, yet desperate to confide in her.

In the event, it was Fanny who broached the subject.

‘I’m sorry, Bridget, luv,’ she said. ‘There’s me going on about that fat old bugger and there’s you come all this way to talk about, well, whatever it is that’s worrying yer. So, come on. Out with it.’ Feeling pink all over, Bridget took another sip of her tea, then carefully placed the cup far enough away from her so that she would not be tempted to drink too much of it and lose her wits. Never one to mince words, she came straight out with it. ‘I’m carrying,’ she said. ‘And it’s not Tom’s.’