‘It’s all right, Joe.’ Never a day passed when Bridget didn’t think the same. In spite of all the problems she and Tom had had, she missed him sorely.

Pouring the broth into a large enamel cup, she handed it to Joe. ‘Drink it slowly. There are some fair-sized pieces of meat and turnip in there, and it wouldn’t do for you to choke on them, would it?’ She grinned. ‘I’d be short of my wages then, wouldn’t I?’

‘Heartless hussy,’ Joe chuckled. ‘But you’d find other work, I’ve no doubt. Hard-grafting lasses like you are few and far between.’ He slurped at the broth. ‘By! This is good. Warm too.’

‘Tom always said that billycan kept his tea warm.’

‘Ah! So this ’ere was the one Tom used, eh?’ Holding it out in front of him, Joe took a look at it. ‘It’s just an ordinary billycan, lass,’ he remarked quietly. ‘Sometimes it’s best to put such things away, especially if they remind you of things you’d rather forget.’

‘I don’t need a billycan to remind me of Tom,’ she answered. ‘I only have to look at Ruth, and Tom is in my mind.’ For all the wrong reasons, she thought.

‘You’re right, lass, and I should mind my own business.’

Bridget watched the old man, hands round the cup, smacking his lips. His name was a giggle, because in truth Joe Tidy was anything but tidy. Short and sturdy, with vivid blue eyes, a drooping moustache, and a halo of silver hair round a bald pate, he dressed like a tramp, and until Bridget had had a word with him he smelled like a dog in a ditch. His stall was a nightmare. Rolls of unkempt cloth competed with piles of offcuts and overflowing boxes of buttons and ribbon and tape. At least that was how it had been before Bridget came to work for him – four times a week, travelling about: Mondays it was Accrington; Tuesdays, Bolton; Wednesdays, Darwen; and Saturdays her home town of Blackburn. Now, everything on the stall could be seen at a glance. Large rolls were set out to the sides of the stall; finer material was hung by hooks from the framework and attractively draped over the canvas. Everything else was in its proper place, and customers would comment on how much better it was when you could see what you wanted.

Joe came to rely more and more on Bridget, and she on him. He was her only source of income, the means by which she could pay the rent and feed herself and Ruth. The work gave her pride and independence. It had helped her to cope with what had happened to Tom, and she met all kinds of new and interesting folk. All in all, she had come to enjoy the travelling and the work. Joe was a dear old man, and Bridget treated him with the regard and respect he deserved.

But Joe was no angel. He could be a bugger when the mood took him. And it took him now. ‘Well I never!’ Pointing to a woman who was eyeing him curiously, he whispered, ‘Cor, take a gander at that one, eh? By! If I were a year or two younger, I’d lead her a merry dance an’ no mistake.’