All that really mattered to Molly now was how soon she could be on her way with the children, so as not to be a burden on Tilly any longer. This was her dilemma. There was no one she could turn to for help. Two things she did know though: she had to find a way of making money and she had to leave this house. And it must be soon! For Molly was indeed convinced that she and the young ’uns had out-stayed their welcome. All the same, she wished she felt a great deal stronger and able to easily shoulder the load that was about to fall on her.

On tiptoe, Molly went across the bare floorboards to the big brass bed where her three children were fast asleep. The bed was really Joe Watson’s but he had given it up to Molly’s three and was content to sleep downstairs on the couch in the front parlour. Molly thought him a fine young man. Somehow, though, she always thought of him as being much younger than herself, when in fact he was a little older. She supposed it must be because of his laughing, wayward manner, which put her in mind of young Tom.

Before leaving the room, Molly took a moment to glance round, holding the candle high, and wrapping her shawl tighter about her when the air struck damp and chilly. This house was the same as the one next door – small rooms with high ceilings and crooked floors; upstairs were three bedrooms, each with a long walk-in cupboard and tiny fire-grate. Downstairs was the front parlour, always a cold, empty space, and the back parlour with its huge, black oven range and steps leading down to the coal-hole. Following on from that was the scullery, with its stone-flagged floor, big pot-sink and outside door to steps leading into the yard below.

Molly closed the bedroom door behind her, thinking how Joe Watson’s room was nicely furnished in comparison with the same room next door; at least when she and Jack lived there with the children. All they had in that same room was a bed and a chest of drawers, while this room had a wardrobe besides, and a comfortable armchair with a square of matting covering the floorboards beside the bed. Tilly’s bedroom was the same, but with a row of nails along the picture rail on which to hang her clothes. To Molly, it was all sheer luxury, and her respect for Joe had grown when Tilly claimed, ‘My lad’s looked after us well since his father died.’ Molly thought how grand it would be if she were to have somebody to look after her in the same way. Yet she knew there was no one but herself. And wasn’t likely to be.

‘Where’ve yer been, Molly gal? I thought ye’d fallen asleep on the bed, trying to get the young ’uns off.’ Tilly Watson had been rocking herself back and forth in the wooden rocking-chair by the fire-grate. When she saw Molly coming through the door from the passage, she slowed the rocker to a halt and reached down for the pint-pot which had been standing on the fender. Holding it out to Molly, she said, ‘Make us a fresh brew, there’s a good ’un… we’ve time for a sup or two before our Joe gets back.’ Here she chuckled. ‘I expect he’s got caught up in a game o’ cards. Oh, he’s a bugger for the gambling, but he’ll never go beyond the coppers in his pocket,’ she added quickly, with a firm shake of her head. ‘Sticks well within his limits, does our Joe. Oh aye! I know that, because old Bill the knocker-up goes there reg’lar… he likes a game o’ cards too. And he has nowt but good ter say about our Joe. First and foremost, Joe looks out for his family. Then he enjoys what few coppers he has left!’ A self-satisfied smile spread over her features, as she reminded Molly, ‘It’s a pity your Jack weren’t as responsible, the bugger! He wants his arse kicking, and no mistake!’