Tilly Watson was shocked. In her time she had cheated, lied and stolen in order to keep a roof above their heads. But Molly! Molly had done murder! No wonder she had to keep on the move. No wonder there were times when she seemed afraid of her own shadow. She glanced at Molly’s dark untidy head bent into the long, slender fingers; she saw how distressed and desperate the unfortunate creature was, and to her mind there was only one solution.

Getting to her feet, she put her two arms around Molly’s trembling shoulders, saying stoutly, ‘They’ll not harm you while you’re in Tilly Watson’s house, I can tell you that! From what I can see, my girl, you’ve already decided right… get to the big city and make a new life… change your name. Do what you have to do. But like I said before, Molly… the young ’uns will be best off left with me until you’ve got work and found a place to stay.’ She sensed that Molly was about to resist that particular idea and was quick to intervene. ‘All right, I’ll tell you what. Let’s call it a day and get a good night’s sleep on it, eh? Tomorrow, you can tell me what you want to do.’

‘You’re a good woman,’ Molly said now, gently kissing Tilly on the cheek and smiling when it blushed fiercely. ‘Like you say… I’ll sleep on it.’ She turned away. ‘Good night. God bless. We’ll talk in the morning.’ Going to one of the brass candleholders on the sideboard, she took up a match from the tray close by, struck it alight on the rough-edged side, and put the flame to the candle-wick.

With Tilly Watson only a few steps behind, carrying the oil-lamp, Molly went up the stairs to where the children were soundly sleeping, calling back softly when Tilly bade her, ‘If yer gonna be a while afore you come to bed… mind you creep softly in beside me. I don’t want you waking me up once I’ve gone off!’

After a while the house was quiet, the deep silence perforated only by the soft, distant snoring coming from Tilly Watson’s room.

As a rule, Molly would sit a while with the children before tiptoeing out of the room and down the stairs to the back steps, where she would enjoy the cool solitude of the evening, indulging in thoughts of the past and all that might have been. It was at times like these when she sorely missed the eccentric old woman who had raised her from a babe-in-arms.

Old Sal had been Molly’s heroine, her mammy and her world. Yet for all that, she had never given Molly the one thing she had always longed for – the truth of her origins. Who was she? To whom did she belong? How many times had she asked those questions? Old Sal had not been able to tell Molly the truth – simply because she herself never knew, always believing that the girl-child she found in the gutter had been left by the little people. ‘Now I’ll never know,’ sighed Molly, gazing fondly at her own three babies. ‘But, if I don’t belong to anybody else, I belong to you,’ she told them. The tears sprang to her eyes as she leaned forward to kiss each tiny face in turn: little Sal, her first-born, named after the old dear whom Molly had adored, little Sal, with her vivid blue eyes and bold, forthright manner. Then came Peggy: sturdy, stocky little thing, blessed with thick, rich hair the colour of midnight and dark eyes so like her mammy’s. And young Tom, possessed of a happy mischievous nature, lovable and infuriating all at the same time, yet cursed with a pitiful deformity that must hamper him for all his life.