Fanny brought the horse to a halt just a step or two from the mouth of King Street. ‘Go on, gal,’ she urged, ‘afore your old man claps eyes on us.’

She watched Bridget climb down and when she handed Ruth to her, she murmured, ‘This wagon might seem a strange thing to you, gal. But it’s a piece of my past, you see, and it gives me a deal of comfort.’ Suddenly, in that unpredictable way she had, she was smiling again. ‘Besides,’ she joked, ‘I can take off for weeks on end if I want, travel the highways and byways, and who knows,’ a strange, faraway look came into her eyes, ‘one of these fine days I might decide to go and root out the bugger who sold me. That would give him a shock, don’t yer think, eh?’ The smile erupted into laughter. ‘There’d be him with his ageing floozy, and I’d turn up with a grandson for him. By! That’d take the grin off his face, I reckon.’

Scampering from the wagon, she untied the pram from behind. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said with a kiss. Then she was up on the seat again and off down the street, the sound of the wagon wheels echoing from the cobbles.

‘You’re a mystery, Fanny Higgins,’ Bridget laughed. ‘Mad as a hatter and stubborn as a mule. But, so help me, I love you like you were my own flesh and blood.’

As Bridget put the key in her front door, Tom watched from the other end of the street. He had seen her come into King Street, and he had seen Fanny Higgins draw away in her curious contraption. ‘So, you defied me, eh?’ he muttered angrily. ‘Damn and bugger it, doesn’t what I say mean anything any more?’

In the blink of an eye, his mood changed. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? There are more serious issues at stake here. Issues that concern you and me, and the child.’ With slow, heavy steps he made his way to the house. At the door he paused, reluctant to go in. ‘I can’t face her just yet. I don’t know what to say any more.’ Covered in sweat and quarry dust, he turned away. ‘I’ll go where I feel more comfortable,’ he decided. ‘After ajar or two of good ale, I’ll feel like a man again.’

Quickly, before she might look out of the window and see him, he hurried along King Street, up to the top, and across to the Swan Inn. Here he knew he would find a friend or two to help him drown his sorrows.

He strode in and ordered a jar of best ale.

Within moments of his appearing, he was surrounded by men from the quarry, laughing and joking, warmed by the ale inside them. ‘Don’t you lot have homes to go to?’ Tom joked. And they asked him the same.

It was a merry evening, but though he drank a few more than he intended, Tom didn’t laugh along with the others, nor did he join in when they gathered round the accordion and sent out the loudest, most awful medley of songs. ‘Keep on like that,’ the landlord protested, ‘and you’ll have the sodding authorities knocking on the door!’