Afterwards, she took the beater to the rugs and thrashed them until they hung subdued on the line. Then she took them back inside and laid them on the floor in their usual places. Hands on hips, she inspected her work. She felt no satisfaction or sense of achievement, only an awful emptiness inside.

Exhausted and grubby, she went to the sideboard and took out a clean skirt and blouse. In the kitchen she washed herself at the pot sink, brushed her hair, and put on her clean clothes. ‘All right, Tom,’ she whispered, ‘I’m ready for you now.’ She looked at the clock. It was nearly midday.

Quietly, she prepared the Sunday meal – skin the chicken and put it in the oven, peel the potatoes and quarter the cabbage; make the pastry for the apple pie, and get the sauce ready. All done. Now to put out the tablecloth and lay the table.

She was engrossed in checking the simmering vegetables when Tom crept up to her and grabbed her round the waist. She almost died with shock. ‘Tom! I didn’t hear you come down.’ Laughing, he swung her round, shivering with delight when her hair brushed his face. ‘You’re so lovely.’ With her brown eyes and small, round face, she was like a frightened child. In fact he thought he had never seen her look so young and innocent. But then, he had never really taken the time to look at her as a man should look at a woman. He had wanted a wife to keep house for him and to produce a child. Now, with a new life planned, he felt good, almost as though he was being given a second chance.

Gripping her shoulders hard, he grew serious. ‘Bridget, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he said. ‘But first, I must eat.’ His features softened. ‘I’m starving, brought from my bed by the smell of food.’ He glanced hungrily at the range top where the pan lids were rising with the steam. ‘Besides, what I have to say will sit better on a full stomach.’

The first thing that came to Bridget’s mind was that maybe he had heard something about her and Harry. But no. How could he? If not, what then? She had to know. ‘You’d better tell me now, Tom,’ she urged. ‘It sounds serious.’

‘It is serious,’ he confirmed, ‘but wonderful in a way.’

‘Tom! Please, I want to know.’ She thought it ironic that they were both harbouring secrets.

‘It’s just that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and, as it concerns you, it’s only right that I should tell you what I’ve decided. And I will, when I’ve eaten,’ he said firmly. His face broke into a smile. ‘I hope you’ve baked an apple pie.’ In the whole of Lancashire, there was no one who could bake an apple pie like his Bridget, he thought proudly.

The meal was a nightmare for Bridget. She picked at her food, but Tom thoroughly enjoyed it. He ate half a chicken, a mound of fluffy potatoes, and a heap of cabbage. When she served up a generous portion of apple pie, he swallowed it down and asked for another. ‘You spoil me,’ he grinned, and poured himself a glass of cider.