‘Oh, that’s what I want, right enough,’ Mick was hasty to reply. ‘It’s what Molly would want too. Her husband and young ’uns all under the same roof, and him set up with a steady job.’ He was lying. It wasn’t what he wanted at all! If he had his way, Molly and the bairns would be under his own roof, and it would be him looking after them, not that vagabond Jack-the-Lad. Still and all, it was Jack who was Molly’s choice and not himself. He had lost her. Her undeserving husband had won her back. For Molly’s sake, he must accept that and be glad for her. But it was a hard thing. A painful thing that beat him down inside.

All this time, Mick had hoped that Molly was missing him, and that she would come to realize how much better a man he was than the useless article she had married. He had deliberately stayed away, giving her time and distance, so she might be watching when he returned. Instead of which, he had come back to find her gone from these parts ‘never again’ to return, if this young man’s account was anything to go by. Well, he’d left Molly with a question to consider. She had given her answer, and it was clear enough to him. She kept no place in her life for Mick Darcy. He was not one to force himself on a woman. Molly had shown him the door, and he would stay out, even though his heart was broken.

But before he took his leave of this well-informed young man, there was one thing that needed to be said. In a firm and condemning voice, Mick told Tilly Watson’s son, ‘By the way, fella-me-lad, you’d do well to remember that the “cripple” you mentioned has a name… just as you have! His name is Tom. Don’t forget that in future, will you… “matey”?’

‘O’ course not… the name escaped me fer the minute, that’s all.’ The young man had detected the warning in Mick’s voice. It was a warning he would heed, for who in his right mind would want to get on the wrong side of a bloke who was built like this one? Not him, and that were a fact. ‘Tom, y’say? Nice, cheery little fella too.’

With a nod and a nervous smile, the young man quickly shut the door, leaving Mick Darcy to gaze longingly at the sorry little house nearby, with its partly boarded-up window and peeling paintwork, and the smudged white-stoned step where Molly had spent many an hour bent to her knees. In his mind’s eye he could see her there, scraping away with the whitestone and carefully marking the edges. She didn’t have much, he thought, but she had worked hard to maintain at least a degree of dignity. Stubborn, independent and proud, she was a woman of rare breed. To his mind, the lovely Molly had only one fault: she loved the wrong man. Still and all, he reminded himself now, Jack was her husband, and the father of her children; while he was an intruder. Oh, yes, he thought the world of her and would lay down his life for her if she wanted him to. But she didn’t. Nor did she love him.