Molly derived great comfort from the knowledge that, though one man had shamefully deserted her, there was another who had offered her everything he owned. Did she love Mick Darcy? Molly dared not dwell too deeply on it. She could not deny that his memory was precious to her, nor could she deny those long, lonely nights when she imagined how wonderful it would be to feel his strong arms secure about her. Occasionally, she would recall their last meeting, when he had kissed her. The thought of his lips against hers brought a warm glow to her, and made her pleasantly embarrassed at the very real memory of it all. So real in fact did it seem in that moment when she gazed lovingly at her slumbering brood that Molly instinctively put the tips of her fingers to the outline of her lips. Mick’s kiss had been so gentle, yet angry and possessive at the same time. Suddenly she was swamped with a terrible sensation of loneliness and regret until, impatient with herself, she turned about, going on tiptoe across the room. She was on the point of opening the door to leave when a small tired voice whispered into the darkness, ‘Will you be long, Mammy?’

Checking the persistent feeling of guilt that pulled her down, Molly came back to where little Sal was raised up in the bed, leaning on one skinny elbow and peering at Molly through sleepy eyes. ‘Ssh… go back to sleep, sweetheart,’ Molly said in a whisper, bending forwards to kiss the child and tuck her back beneath the blankets. ‘I’ll be back in no time… no time at all,’ she promised.

Molly’s promise was enough. In a moment, Sal was snuggled up once more, and contentedly drifting off to her slumbers.

At the door, Molly whispered, ‘Goodnight, God bless,’ and was surprised to hear Sal reply dreamily, ‘Night, Mammy… don’t be long.’

For the remainder of the long, demanding evening, Molly was rushed off her feet. Saturday night was always a busy time, but for some reason, on this particular Saturday the café was bursting at the seams, with loud groups of men who found Bill Craig’s establishment a good stopping-off place before congregating at the public house. Here they could fill their bellies with food at a reasonable price, whilst exchanging snippets of gossip, and generally putting right the world at large. The more they swilled down the food with the cheap booze illegally supplied by the ever-enterprising Bill Craig, the noisier became their discussions, and the sooner they developed into aggressive arguments.

All manner of subjects were put forward, to be shaken, bandied about, denied or confirmed, but never resolved in any way whatsoever. Molly had witnessed them all – how industry was suffering a terrible depression and ‘times can only get worse’. There were those who firmly supported Sir Randolph Churchill’s claims that the iron industry was ‘dead as mutton’; the silk industry had been ‘assassinated’ by foreigners; the cotton industry was ‘sick’; the shipbuilding had ‘come to a standstill’ and that in every branch of British industry there could be found ‘signs of mortal disease’.