‘Sal?… That your kid, is it?’ The woman was past her prime, thickening in figure and brassy in countenance. She snuggled into his embrace.

‘That’s right, darling,’ he confirmed, with an intimate chuckle. ‘Sal’s the eldest, then there’s Peggy. Sodding gals! Still… there’s another on the way, so happen that one’ll be a lad, eh?’ He nuzzled her ear, and began pushing himself against her in a gently suggestive, rhythmic movement. ‘Don’t care much for gals,’ he murmured. ‘Well… not until they start bursting out in all the right places,’ he laughed. ‘Naw! Kids is a bloody nuisance… too much like responsibility, I say.’ There he chuckled again and his voice fell to a sensuous whisper. ‘I don’t care much for ’em once the little buggers is here, but I can’t deny I enjoy making ’em.’

‘You randy bugger, Jack!’ laughed the woman, playfully shaking him off. ‘But I’m not complaining.’

‘I should think not, sweetheart. Not after I’ve shown you a good time, eh?’ He dug his hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a silver coin which he gave into her out-stretched hand. ‘Get off down the boozer, gal,’ he told her, gesturing towards the end of the street. ‘Turn left at the bottom of Dock Street and you’ll see the boozer on the corner… you can’t miss it. Wait there till I fetch yer. Think on – you stay there till I fetch yer. Have yer got that?’

She nodded, but asked, ‘How long d’you think you’ll be?’

‘No longer than necessary. It’s Christmas, ain’t it? I have to show me face… leave her a few bob… let the poor sod know I ain’t dead or nothing.’ He kissed her hard before thrusting her from him. ‘Don’t you fret, darling. I’ll be down the boozer to fetch yer afore yer can say Jack Robinson. Then we’ll find us a quiet dark place where we can have a bit o’ rough and tumble, eh?’

Feigning embarrassment, she thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Go on with you, Jack Tatt,’ she said, ‘no wonder they call you Jack-the-Lad!’ She pushed the silver coin into her purse, then, without a backward glance, she bounced away to waddle at a furious pace down Dock Street, leaving her charming but devious colleague to saunter across the cobbles towards the house. Inside, in her terrible labour, Molly had cried out his name several times, only to be told by Tilly Watson, ‘He ain’t coming to help you, my gal. The likes of that one don’t even deserve thinking about!’ Being a practical woman who could never understand what Molly saw in that useless man of hers, Tilly was loath to admit that, on this particular occasion, the good Molly might benefit from the sight of Jack’s no-good face. Because on this particular occasion Molly needed her mind taken off the awful pain she was suffering and the unnaturally long time it was taking for the young ’un to show its face. She’d birthed many a newborn in her day, had Tilly Watson, and she had come across all kinds of complications. But none like this. There was something badly wrong here. Badly wrong, and very frightening. If the bairn didn’t soon make an appearance, she might have to leave Molly and get help, but the thought of leaving Molly for even a moment was very frightening, because those few precious moments could mean the difference between life and death. For Molly, or the child. Or both.