Jack’s rugged, handsome face broke into a self-satisfied smile and suddenly all trace of self-recrimination was swamped by the good feeling that washed through him. It were no use fighting it. A Jack-the-Lad was what he was born to be, and a Jack-the-Lad was what he’d be till his dying day. He straightened up, spat into the palm of his hand and smoothed it over his unruly fair hair. Then, with a merry tune on his lips and a bright twinkle in his warm brown eyes, he went jauntily into the house.

Inside the bedroom, the scene that greeted Jack was a grim and serious one. Even before his shocked eyes had taken in what lay before him, he was made fearful by the atmosphere in the room. Slowly and silently he came forward, the merry tune stilled on his lips and a look of puzzled astonishment in his brown eyes.

The room, like the rest of the house, was sparsely furnished. There was a big old dresser and a broad, sturdy brown wardrobe; over by the window stood a marble wash-stand containing a bowl, a matching jug, and other bric-à-brac. At the far end of the room was a huge, high bed with four iron posts topped by spherical shiny brass knobs. Over the bed was a small, dark crucifix that Molly had found on the tip and which she would not let him throw away, and placed next to the bedhead was a little wooden cupboard with an unlit candle on top.

Jack’s eyes were drawn first to Molly, who lay so still in the bed it frightened him, and whose dark, tousled head was turned sideways from him. At the foot of the bed lay a tiny bundle, tightly wrapped from head to toe, and horribly still also. Seated on the bed, her head bent to her hands and emitting a soft, crying sound was the woman he knew as Tilly Watson. It was she who looked up and saw him first. ‘You!’ The word was a mere whisper, but it might have been a shouted accusation for the awful guilt it wrought in him. ‘You’re too late,’ she said, ‘always too late!’ When she got to her feet and looked deep into his shocked eyes, it was with unconcealed malice. Without speaking another word, she collected the small, still bundle from the bed and, coming to where he had stopped in horror, she gently placed it into his arms. ‘This is your son,’ she told him in hostile voice, ‘cursed he is… and barely breathing. The poor little soul nearly took his mam with him and all.’ The next words were spat out in disgust. ‘She needed you… called out time and time again. I told her… you ain’t worth the ground you walk on.’

When the door banged shut behind the furious woman, Jack made no move. In his arms he could feel the feather-light weight of the child and a faint warmth exuding through the shawl. Afraid and hesitant, he lowered his gaze to the tiny being now writhing in his arms. Instinctively, he drew back the shawl to reveal its tiny limbs. What he saw there shocked him to the core. The nausea had started like a clenched fist in the pit of his stomach. Now it spiralled up through him, touching every part of his being. The infant’s legs were grotesquely odd, one shorter than the other, with a twisted foot, the sight of which was deeply repugnant to the man’s senses.