At five minutes before midnight, they brought Jack home and, with Tilly Watson’s reluctant help, made him comfortable on the parlour couch. Soon after, Tilly returned to her own brood, who were temporarily subdued by the arrival of Peggy and little Sal.

In the dark early hours, Molly attended to her son. Then, carrying the lit candle, she went carefully down the stairs to the parlour. For a long, unhappy moment she stayed by the door, gazing down at the unconscious, spreadeagled form of her wretched husband. As she continued to gaze on his handsome face, he moaned and wrapped his arm over his shoulders like a child might do. A well of love bubbled up in Molly’s tired heart. ‘Oh, Jack!… Jack!’ she chided softly. Molly suspected his pain was every bit as great as hers. But not his loneliness, she thought with a stab of bitterness, never his loneliness.

After a while, she turned away, her sorry heart that much heavier. There were so many things she had wanted to talk over with him. So much that was still unsaid. Dear God, didn’t Jack know how much she needed him? Or that they could have helped each other so very much?

Lying in the dark, desperately tired yet too disturbed to sleep, Molly thought long on her son. She thought on the heartfelt words that Jack had spoken to her earlier. She recalled all manner of things from that fateful day, and, remembering with a small shock that it was Christmas, she cried for little Sal who would not have her tree after all.

Molly had known a good teacher in old Sal. ‘Never let the buggers get yer down, Molly, gal’, was her favourite instruction. ‘Don’t shed tears fer them as ain’t worth it!’ Molly smiled at the memory of that eccentric and cantankerous old darling. Her smile became a chuckle, but it wasn’t long before the sound of Molly’s soft laughter melted into sobs. Life was a trial. Her young bones ached like they were ninety years old and her heart felt like a lead weight inside her.

Suddenly, Molly had the strongest yearning to hold her newborn close to her heart. When he was tucked up in the bed beside her, she told him, ‘Don’t you worry, little fella… there’s nothing for you to worry about. Not while you’ve got your mammy who loves you.’ For the first time in as long as she could remember, Molly cried herself to sleep. Strangely for the first time also, she shed heartfelt tears for the parents she had never known.

It was Christmas. After a long, unsettled night of discomfort, Molly woke to a strange silence in the house. For a moment she was confused, but then she remembered that the girls were next door with Tilly Watson. One glance at the infant assured her that he was contentedly sleeping.

‘Mammy… Mammy!’ The sound of little Sal’s voice gladdened Molly’s heart. Suddenly the girls burst into the room and were running towards her; little Sal quickly hurling herself on to the bed, and Peggy, struggling to clamber up, only to have her chubby legs left dangling in mid-air as she clung tenaciously to the eiderdown, before slithering to the floorboards again. She was a sturdy child, more solid than little Sal, and having a bold, round face with large oval eyes, the same mud-brown colour as her thick, straight hair. She squealed with delight when Molly grabbed her two stocky arms and hoisted her on to the bed.