‘Get out and play, the lot of you!’ Tilly yelled now, running at the heap of fighting, squirming bodies, until they began squealing in make-believe horror and emerged upright to scamper out on quick little legs. ‘Play in the yard till Joey gets home from work… then I’ll call you for your teas,’ she told them. After which, she fetched the big iron kettle from the hearth, part-filled it with water and returned it to the cheery coals, where it soon began to sing.

‘Are you sure it’s all right to leave Tom and Peggy with you?’ Molly asked. ‘You do seem to have your hands full.’

‘Of course I’m sure, dearie.’ Tilly Watson gestured for Molly to sit down at the big, square table in the centre of the room. ‘I’d soon tell you if I didn’t want the young ’uns,’ she said, ‘but, like I’ve said many a time, I might as well have thirty as three like my brood… little sods they are, every one!’ She laughed to see Molly’s two hiding behind their mammy’s skirts. Her laughter subsided at the sight of the small bundle in the curve of Molly’s arms. The boy was some eight months old, yet he was so small and thin-looking that he could have been mistaken for an infant much younger. He was a happy child though, in spite of that crippled leg. Handsome too, with the same black eyes as his mammy, and crisp dark curls that tumbled freely about his heart-shaped face. ‘By!… That child is the outright image of you, Molly… uncanny it is… the very same hair and eyes, the same jaw-line, and even a temperament to match his mammy’s!’ Tilly shook her head sadly. ‘Such a lovely, cheery little chap,’ she said quietly. But then she noticed how deeply her words were affecting Molly, and she changed tack. ‘He’s a strong child… you mark my words, Molly… he won’t be held back by no crippled leg, you’ll see!’

‘No, he won’t,’ declared Molly, turning the boy on her knee and kissing the outstretched fingers that came up playfully to touch her face, ‘because I intend to get his leg seen to, soon as ever I can!’

Tilly was in the process of pouring the boiled water on to the tea leaves in the two mugs when Molly’s statement pulled her up short. ‘Aw now, don’t go living no pipe-dreams, dearie,’ she warned in a firm, shocked voice. ‘Such things as… well, fixing the boy’s leg… it takes more money than you and me will see in a lifetime, I dare say.’ She shook her head vigorously, before marching to the window, where she stared down into the yard. Knocking hard on the window she yelled to the marauding group below, ‘Stop that screaming!… And you, Walter… leave your sister’s ears alone!’ The noise subsiding, she came back to the table and finished the task of brewing tea. When the kettle was put back in the hearth and both she and Molly were in possession of a mug of steaming liquid, she broached the delicate subject again. ‘Like I say, don’t lose yourself in impossible day-dreams, dearie… there’s nothing to be done for the boy, and it’s best that you accept it.’