The old man laughed. ‘Aye, well, that’s bairns for yer. Thank God I’m past all that.’ Just then the little cast-iron pan of water began to boil and spit on the brazier coals. ‘I’m making a brew,’ he said. ‘Yer welcome to share it. I’ve an extra cup, and it’s clean, I promise yer.’

Tom played along. ‘Why not? Thanks, Jack, I dare say it’ll warm me up.’ Though the days were still warm, the early hours and late evenings had a real bite to them.

Jack rolled the sleeve of his coat over his hand and plucked the pan from the fire. ‘Two sugars or three?’ he asked, pouring the hot water over the tea leaves.

‘One sugar,’ Tom answered. ‘Plenty of milk though.’

The two of them sat by the fire, chatting. ‘So, you’ve got yerself a bairn at long last, eh?’ The old man smiled at Tom. ‘They’re no trouble when they’re small,’ he declared wisely. ‘It’s when they get old enough to answer back, that’s when you feel like wringing their bloody necks, the buggers.’ He fell into serious mood. ‘Aye. Me and the missus had six childer, and I’ll tell yer this, they’ve none of ’em ever done us any good.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Forty year come Sunday, and I love her like it were yesterday when me and ’er used to stroll in the park together. Mind you, the ol’ darlin’ ain’t as pretty as she were.’ He roared with laughter. ‘But then neither am I.’

‘Has she ever done anything that made you think you’d be better off apart?’

Jack stared at him. ‘What, you mean other men? Is that what you’re saying?’

Regretting his impulse, Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just wondered, that’s all.’

The old man was emphatic. ‘Good Lord, no. Loyal and true as the day’s long, that’s my missus. I’ve been the same, never cheated on her. And I’ve never raised me hand to her neither in all the years we’ve been together.’

Tom’s mind went back to Harry Little… and the floozy he himself had taken to Bridget’s bed. He recalled how, only a few hours ago, he had hit her, and her only weeks from coming close to losing her life. ‘Sometimes life leads us along a route we’d rather not take,’ he murmured softly.

‘What’s that you say?’ Cupping his hand to his ear, Jack strained to listen. ‘Didn’t hear what you said. That bloody factory hooter deafens me at times.’

‘Nothing.’ Tom was glad he hadn’t heard. ‘I’d better be making a start.’

Jack leaned forward. ‘There’s a drop o’ brandy tucked away under me barrel. What say we have a tickle in our tea?’

‘Go on then.’

Rising from his seat, the old man dipped into the barrel he was sitting on and pulled out a small flask. ‘This’ll take the edge off,’ he grinned, pouring a measure into each of the cups. That done, he returned the flask to its hiding place, replaced the barrel lid and sat down again. ‘Don’t let on you’ve seen it,’ he urged, ‘or the buggers will have it away when I’m not looking.’