Ron tripped over his coat, which sent him staggering into the road before he regained the pavement and weaved back and forth as he tried to look up and keep his balance at the same time. ‘Rosie, my love. Oh, my sweet Rosie, let me come in so I can kiss you.’

‘I might have known it was you,’ Rosie snapped. ‘Go home, Ron, and sober up.’

‘Ach, Rosie, me darlin’, slurred Ron, swaying alarmingly, his cap clasped to his heart. ‘’Tis beautiful you are in the moonlight. Let me come and kiss the very air from you.’

Rosie disappeared from the window, returning almost immediately with what Brendon instantly recognised as a swill bucket. He hurriedly stepped back into the road as, with deliberate aim, Rosie emptied the contents over Ron’s head before slamming the window shut and drawing the curtains.

Ron stared down in confusion as the sludge of vegetable peelings and rotting leftovers slowly dripped from his head, down his face and clothes. ‘What did she do that for?’ he gasped in bewilderment.

‘She obviously didn’t appreciate your singing, Da,’ said Frank, still helpless with laughter as he sat on the pavement and hugged the lamp post. ‘You want to be grateful it was only her swill bucket and not her chamber pot.’

Ron eyed them both aghast. ‘But she loves me,’ he hiccupped.

‘I don’t think she does right this minute,’ said Brendon, firmly taking his arm and dragging him away before reaching down to pick up the discarded coat and haul his father to his feet. ‘Come on, Da, you can’t stay there all night.’

Brendon was now almost sober, thankful that Rosie’s bucket of pig-swill hadn’t splashed his uniform, and the police hadn’t been called. He had a bit of a job keeping the other two on their feet, but they finally reached the alleyway and headed for the back gate.

‘Whew,’ breathed Brandon. ‘You stink, Grandad,’ he said, eyeing the mess still clinging to him. ‘I’d better try and clean you up before Aunt Peg sees you.’

‘Ach, she’ll not be minding,’ said Ron, once again struggling from Brendon’s grip, grabbing his coat and weaving his way to the back door.

Brendon let him go to his doom, but while his attention had been on Ron, his father had wandered off, crashed into the side of the Anderson shelter and toppled like a felled oak, head first into the compost heap.

‘Bloody hell,’ Brendon sighed. ‘That’s all I need.’

Frank was a big man – tall, wide and a dead weight. Brendon struggled to get him out of the mound of rotting vegetation, but it was hopeless. He’d have to get a wheelbarrow.

‘What on earth is going on out there?’ asked Peggy from the kitchen window.