The only response he got was a roar of laughter. ‘Gam, you miserable old bugger!’ yelled one. ‘If we can’t let off steam on a Friday night, what’s the world coming to, eh?’

‘Daft buggers!’ grumbled Tom, looking enviously at the men and wondering what they had to be so merry about anyway.

Choosing a quiet corner, he sat himself down and concentrated on his ale; one wasn’t enough to dull the pain inside, nor two, nor three, and pretty soon the landlord was telling him he’d had enough. ‘It’s a long walk home, Tom,’ he reminded him. ‘You don’t want to be falling down in the street.’

Tom nodded. The old feller meant well, he knew. ‘I’ll be away soon,’ he promised.

As he gazed at the familiar faces of the men, one caught his eye.

Tom cringed as he recognised Ted Louis, his old enemy, the man who had taunted him when it was thought he could never father a child. ‘And he was right,’ Tom thought bitterly, ‘though God willing he’ll never have the satisfaction of knowing it.’

When Ted continued to stare, Tom looked away, but the sound of the man’s voice carried across the room.

Silencing the others with a yell, Ted raised his jar of ale. ‘To Tom Mulligan!’ he cried. ‘A man I’ve set meself against time and again, with never a good word on his behalf. But I stand here tonight to raise my glass to him.’ Taking a step forward, he called out drunkenly, ‘Here’s to you, Tom, father of a young’un at long last, and no doubt with another one on the way before too long, eh?’ Digging a mate in the ribs, he laughed lewdly. ‘Happen now he’s got the hang of it we’ll have a dozen Mulligans before we know it. And if he gets tired from all that loving, I can always make meself available for someone as young and pretty as Bridget Mulligan.’

It was too much for Tom. He was across the room in two strides and punched Ted’s chin. The blow sent Ted to the floor, and before he could get back to his feet, Tom hit him again, and again.

‘Whoa! That’s enough, Tom. Yer don’t have to kill him, for Christ’s sake!’ said one of the men. Two more grabbed his arms and marched him across the floor and out of the building.

‘Cool off, man,’ one said. ‘You’ve had too much to drink. You know what Ted Louis is like. He didn’t mean it badly. He’s just a loud-mouth, and when he’s had a jar or two of ale down him, he doesn’t know when to shut it.’

Deep in thought and the worse for drink, Tom made his way back to King Street.

Bridget, too, had been doing some thinking. Holding the sleepy child, she talked softly, unburdening her heart. ‘I was hoping he might be home before I put you to bed,’ she murmured, ‘but he’s working late again, same as always.’