It was little over an hour later when the children were all herded in, moaning and pleading to stay out ‘just a bit longer’. They whined all the way up the steps in the fading daylight; they argued round the big old table when Molly and Tilly dished out the last of the bread and preserve; they cajoled and cried when their hands and faces were being washed, and en route from the parlour to their beds they blamed each other for their curtailed enjoyment. ‘It’s all your fault, Tom!’ Tilly’s eldest complained, glaring at the unconcerned and misleadingly ‘innocent’ face of Molly’s crippled lad. ‘You started all the trouble!’

‘Weren’t Tom’s fault!’ defended Peggy, furiously scratching at her arm, then beginning to bawl when she saw how red and sore it was.

‘Now see what you’ve done!’ accused little Sal, taking her small sister into her embrace, her vivid blue eyes drilling into Tilly Watson’s eldest.

‘She did it herself.’ came the retort. ‘Serves her right, an’ all.’ Suddenly it was a free-for-all, with everyone squaring up to each other and heated threats of ‘I’ll smash yer in the gob’, and ‘Oh yeah? Just try it on, matey!’ being flung about.

‘Whoa!’ Molly quickly intervened, putting herself in the midst of pushing, squirming bodies. In a surprisingly short time, she had them despatched to their respective bedrooms and peace was restored – for another day at least.

‘How much longer will we have to stay here, Mammy?’ Little Sal leaned up in bed on one elbow, a troubled look in her eyes. ‘Why can’t we find our own house, eh?’

Molly smiled and after putting her fingers to her lips, she murmured, ‘Ssh, sweetheart… don’t wake the young ’uns.’

‘But I want us to have our own house,’ Sal insisted in a harsh whisper.

‘We will,’ promised Molly.

‘When?’

Molly was always surprised by her daughter’s directness. She seemed never to be prepared for it. ‘When your father comes back,’ she told the attentive child.

‘He’s not coming back!’ In the flickering candle-light Molly saw the tears in Sal’s eyes and her heart turned over. For a long, painful moment, she searched for a suitable answer, but she could find none. Her own unhappy gaze mingled with that of the girl’s, who, throwing her small thin arms round Molly’s neck, told her gently, ‘I do love you, Mammy.’

Hardly able to talk for the painful lump that leaped into her throat, Molly held her daughter very close, very tight, gathering strength from that slim, seemingly fragile frame and knowing in her own heart that between the two of them in that precious minute, Sal was the stronger. ‘I love you, too,’ she whispered now, gently releasing the clinging child and easing her back into the bolster. ‘Go to sleep, sweetheart,’ she urged, stroking the girl’s forehead until the tired blue eyes closed and it seemed that, at long last, Sal was ready for slumber.

‘Good night, God bless, Mam,’ came the weary, unhappy little voice.