A Most Determined Woman

by Emma Blair

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

For Sarah Hawke, daughter of an impoverished miner, life offered little beyond the grime of Glasgow in the 1890s and the eternal drudgery of back-breaking work. Until a mysterious stranger entered her life. A stranger who turned out to be her real father - and the owner of a vast and prosperous shipping empire.

Catapulted into a world of luxury, of servants and stately homes, Sarah begins a new and glittering life. As sole heiress to a fortune, she has much to gain - and everything to lose. For she takes over the business, and with it the risks and rivalry, deceit and intrigue - and the prospect of undying love . . .

From Scotland to Paris, from Jamaica to South Africa, Sarah charms - and fights - her way to success against all odds. For she is dealing in a man's world, where the only way to succeed is to be a most determined woman.

Praise for Emma Blair:

'An engaging novel and the characters are endearing - a good holiday read' Historical Novels Review

'All the tragedy and passion you could hope for . . . Brilliant' The Bookseller

'Romantic fiction pure and simple and the best sort - direct, warm and hugely readable. Women's fiction at an excellent level' Publishing News

'Emma Blair explores the complex and difficult nature of human emotions in this passionately written novel' Edinburgh Evening News

'Entertaining romantic fiction' Historical Novels Review

'[Emma Blair] is well worth recommending' The Bookseller

Release date: October 20, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 512

Sample

A lark sang high in the heavens above, a right bonny sound that caused Sarah to pause in her white claying of the front step to listen in appreciation. It was a June day, the year 1890, with a boiling sun belting down out of a cornflower-blue sky. Sarah closed her eyes, sighing with pleasure as the heat and sun beat against her face.

She gave a little smile when the lark sang again. They were joyous uplifting moments – those last few moments before her life would change forever.

Opening her eyes again, she blinked several times to readjust them to the strong light, and saw the flat cart appear round the corner, simultaneously being pushed and pulled by a handful of colliers from the pit. On top of the cart was a man lying stretched out.

It was too far for her to make out who the prostrate figure was, but somehow, instinctively, she knew it was Bob, her step-da. She continued kneeling there, quite motionless, as the cart trundled towards her, along the unpaved street with the open drain that ran down its middle, as open drains did in all the streets of Netherton.

Her mind was numb, frozen with shock. Vaguely she could hear her ma moving about inside the house. Oh Ma! she thought. Oh Ma! The nightmare all miners’ women dread had come true for them – the cart was coming to their house.

She could see now there were five colliers pushing and pulling the cart, Jack Bonner, wee Mo Ford, Davey Hardy, Davey’s brother Mal, and Tom Crayk. All of them Bob’s close pals.

Somehow she rose to her feet, the white claying forgotten, the step only half done. ‘Ma, you’d better come away out!’ a voice called. A voice she suddenly realised was her own.

‘What is it?’ Myrtle shouted back.

‘Come away out, Ma.’

There was something in Sarah’s tone that made Myrtle frown. Something that told her this was no ordinary request, that this was different.

Myrtle appeared in the doorway, wiping wet hands on her pinny. ‘Aye lass?’

‘It’s Bob, Ma.’

Myrtle’s gaze flicked up the street to fasten on to the cart moving in their direction. Uttering a strangled cry, her hand flew to her mouth, for the cart was now so close there could be no mistaking who it was bearing.

Neighbours had appeared at their windows and doors, each of them secretly relieved – though hiding it well – that it was Bob Sunter being carted and not their own husband or son.

Myrtle joined Sarah outside, her hand still at her mouth. She was gnawing it, without realising she was doing so.

The cart halted beside Myrtle and Sarah. ‘He’s not dead,’ Jack Bonner said quickly, doffing his cap. The other four did likewise.

Instantly Myrtle was by Bob’s side. His eyes were shut, his breathing extremely shallow.

‘There was no accident, no fall of stone or anything like that. He was chaffing to wee Mo here when he just fell over. We think it must have been a heart attack,’ Jack Bonner explained.

Myrtle could see that underneath the coal-dust covering his face, Bob was white as milk. ‘The doctor, we must get the doctor,’ she said.

There wasn’t a doctor at the pit where all the men of Netherton grafted, or even in Netherton itself. The nearest, Doctor Elson, was nearly a mile away on the Bearsden Road.

‘I’ll go,’ offered Mal Hardy.

‘The manager said we should bring him home first. He said that was the right thing to do,’ Tom Crayk said.

Aye, Sarah thought cynically. The pit manager would say that. He would be saving the pit the five-shillings fee that the doctor charged. ‘No, I’ll go,’ she told Mal Hardy, knowing she’d be far faster.

‘Hurry, then,’ Myrtle pleaded, anguish and despair contorting her features.

Sarah kicked off the clogs she was wearing, and took to her heels. As she flew down the street, her long auburny hair streamed out behind her.

‘We’ll get him inside and on to his bed,’ Jack Bonner said to Myrtle, and gave a nod to the others who replaced their caps and organised themselves to lift the stricken Bob.

As Bob was carried up over the step that Sarah had been white claying he gave a terrible groan which caused Myrtle to burst into tears when she heard it.

*

Sarah and Myrtle sat in the darkened house – they’d closed the curtains back and front, watching while Doctor Elson examined Bob. Jack Bonner and the others had left on Elson’s arrival, returning ‘down by’ – as the pit was often called – to finish their shift.

‘Can you hear me, Mr Sunter?’ Elson asked in a soft yet commanding voice. When he got no reply, even though Bob’s eyes were open and staring, he tried again. ‘Can you hear me, man?’ Again he received no reply.

Myrtle was holding a large linen hanky. She was continually wrapping it round her left hand, then unwrapping it again. Every ten seconds or so she took a particularly deep breath which she exhaled in a sort of gasping choke. She couldn’t believe this was happening.

Sarah was thinking of Gordy McCallum, the chap she’d been walking out with for the past year. Seventeen years old, the same age as herself, he too worked down the pit, and had done since he was twelve. What if one day he too was taken home on the cart, and it was her he was brought to? She shuddered at the thought. She was supposed to have been seeing Gordy later, but he wouldn’t be expecting her to turn up now, for he would have heard about Bob. The news would have gone round the pit – and then Netherton – like wildfire.

‘Could you give me a bit of help?’ Elson appealed, slipping Bob’s braces down. Between the three of them, they got Bob out of his working trousers – his boots had already been removed – then out of his collarless shirt. Bob’s skin gleamed palely in contrast to his clarty face and neck.

‘Is it a heart attack? Is that’s what happened, Doctor?’ Myrtle queried, the question she’d been bursting with since Elson’s arrival.

‘I’ll speak to you when I’m done,’ Elson evaded, wanting to be certain of his facts before he made his pronouncement. He glanced at Sarah. ‘I could use a cup of tea, lassie, if that’s possible.’

‘Aye, right,’ Sarah replied, and hurried over to the range – a vision of shining black, matt white, silver grey and burnished brass – where the kettle was steaming on the hob, as it nearly always was. She made a good cup of tea, thick and strong enough to stand a spoon up in, as the saying went. Bob had once confided to her, with one of those fly winks of his, that she made a better cup of tea than her ma, but not to let on mind or he’d be wearing the next potful Myrtle brewed rather than drinking it. Dear Bob, a real smasher, one of the best. He’d been like a real father to her, always treating her as if she was his own flesh and blood instead of someone he’d inherited through Myrtle.

It was a long examination, nearly an hour before Elson was completely satisfied. With a sigh he began packing away his instruments and the other bits and pieces he’d used. There was no doubt whatever in his mind about what was wrong with Bob. If only it had been a heart attack. But Bob hadn’t been that lucky.

Grim-faced, Elson went over to the sink, pumped some water into the enamel bowl, and slowly washed his hands. He was only too well aware of Myrtle and Sarah’s eyes boring into his back.

He dried his hands, then rolled down his shirtsleeves. Buttoning the cuffs, he rucked the sleeve material up round the silver armbands he wore. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Bad indeed.’

Myrtle wet her dry and bloodless lips, and waited. Sarah had gone all cold inside, cold as a burnie in winter. The same icy water might have been coursing through her veins. She’d never known herself this way before.

‘He’s had a massive stroke that’s left him paralysed down the entire right side of his body,’ Elson stated.

Myrtle jerked from head to toe like a fish that had just been gaffed. Her eyes widened while her mouth pursed into a silent o.

‘He’s also lost the power of speech,’ Elson added.

Myrtle tried to ask a question but couldn’t get the words out. ‘What does all this mean?’ Sarah asked for her.

Elson’s expression became stony. ‘It means he’ll be like he is now for the rest of his life,’ he replied.

‘He’ll never work again?’ Myrtle queried in a croaky whisper.

Elson shook his head. ‘He’ll never walk again, or talk. I can’t be specific about the extent of damage that’s been done to his brain, but it would appear to be substantial.’

‘He’ll live though!’ Myrtle burst out.

‘Oh aye.’ If you want to call it that, Elson thought to himself. ‘For no saying how long. Of course a lot of that depends on how well he’s looked after.’

‘My God!’ Myrtle whispered, her gaze returning to where Bob lay sleeping peacefully, thanks to the injection Elson had given him.

‘I eh ... I really am most dreadfully sorry,’ Elson said.

Sarah went to her ma and put her hands on Myrtle’s shoulders in a gesture of solace. ‘You’re certain, absolutely certain, that nothing can be done for him?’ she asked.

Elson shook his head. ‘I may only be a local doctor so to speak, but I have seen a fair amount of strokes in my time to know what I’m talking about. However, if you wish a specialist’s opinion, that’s up to you. It will cost you several guineas and I assure you that he’ll only tell you the same thing.’

‘Will there be any improvement?’ Sarah queried.

‘Fractionally perhaps, no more.’

Elson put on his jacket. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow if you want. My advice though is to save your money.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Is there a son at home you can fall back on now?’

‘No,’ Myrtle replied softly.

‘Does that mean the two of you are on your own then?’

‘I have a lad, but there’s nothing official between us yet,’ replied Sarah.

‘I see.’

‘We have relatives mind, though no one here in Netherton. I’m sure they’ll help,’ added Myrtle.

‘I’m sure they will.’ Elson coughed discreetly. ‘I’ll be getting on my way then.’

‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor,’ Myrtle said, rising.

Elson glanced at the mantelpiece clock, and hoped he wasn’t going to have to ask for his money. He hated doing that.

It was Sarah who twigged. ‘The doctor’s fee, Ma. Will I take it from what’s in the barrel?’

Myrtle realised she’d forgotten all about the doctor’s money, unforgivable considering how kind he’d been. ‘Aye, do that.’ The old biscuit barrel was where Bob’s wages were kept, replenished every Friday night when Bob handed over his pay packet to her. From now on there weren’t going to be any more pay packets from ‘down by’.

Sarah counted out the cash from the barrel, and handed over a halfcrown, florin and two silver thrupennies to Elson, who immediately pocketed the assorted coins. ‘So would you like me to come again tomorrow or not?’ he queried gently.

‘Yes, I would.’ Myrtle told him. ‘Even if there’s nothing you can do I would find it reassuring.’

Elson nodded, he could understand that. ‘Fine. I’ll call sometime during the morning.’

Sarah saw Elson out, shut the door behind him, and leant against it. She and her mother stared at one another, volumes passing between them in that silent stare. Then Myrtle turned and crossed to where Bob lay sleeping.

She thought of that morning when she’d seen him off, as she did every working morning, up the road to the pit. There had been the usual hug and kiss for her, before he stepped out of the door, and then he’d been away, whistling quietly to himself, to meet up with Jack Bonner and his other pals. Who would have thought then, who would have dreamt it! that before the day was out her lovely beautiful man would be reduced to what he now was.

A sob racked her, and then another bigger one. Crystal tears bubbled from her eyes to roll down her cheeks. Never walk or talk again, and awful damage done to his brain!

An animal sound escaped her lips as she sank to her knees. ‘Oh Bob, Bob, Bob,’ she whispered.

Sarah went to her mother, and dropped down beside her. The pair of them fell into one another’s embrace, clutching each other tightly like a couple of lost babes. Babes beside themselves with grief.

Sarah woke with the first blush of dawn, knowing as she did that there would be no more sleep for her that night. A terrible fear had taken hold of her, fear for Bob, fear for her ma, fear for herself. Now that Bob was unable to work, how were they going to make ends meet? And if the rent wasn’t paid, as it had to be every Saturday morning, then that would be it, they’d be out on the street, lock stock and barrel.

What were they going to do? What? The fear turned to panic, blind panic that threatened to engulf her.

Desperately she fought the panic, telling herself that Gordy was the answer. Gordy whom she loved, and who loved her. Gordy whose kisses were sweet as sugar toffee, in whose arms there had been times when she’d almost swooned with happiness.

Yes, Gordy was the answer.

When Sarah saw her ma in the morning she thought Myrtle had aged a dozen years overnight. There were black patches under her eyes, and lines deeply etched where none had been before. She looked haggard as hell.

‘It’s just beginning to actually sink in,’ were Myrtle’s opening words.

‘Did he sleep all night?’

‘Aye. That injection the doctor gave him really knocked him out. But he’s beginning to stir now.’

‘In a way it’s ...’ Sarah trailed off.

‘What?’

Sarah shook her head. She’d been going to say that in a way what had happened was actually worse than Bob being dead, but had decided her ma wouldn’t appreciate such sentiments. At least not yet. ‘I’ll rouse the fire up and put the kettle on,’ she said instead.

Myrtle pulled her dressing-gown – her ‘goonie’ as she called it – more tightly around her, then went over to the old biscuit barrel and counted what little cash was left.

‘How much?’ Sarah asked.

‘Seven and ten.’

Sarah bit her lip. After Elson had paid them a return visit that would leave them only two shillings and ten. How far could they go on that? Not very. ‘There is of course what Bob’s due for this week, three full days. The pit manager will have to give you that,’ she said.

Myrtle ran a hand through her hair. It had gone limp and straggly, and felt to her like a right bunch of rats’ tails. ‘Things aren’t quite as bad as they seem.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I have a plank. A wee something put by against a rainy day.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And if this isn’t a rainy day I don’t know what is.’

A plank, a secret hoard. It seemed quite uncharacteristic of Myrtle. Sarah was amazed. Maybe she didn’t know her ma as well as she thought. ‘How much is this plank?’ she queried.

‘Wait here.’ Myrtle left her daughter, disappearing out back to where the toilet and bins were. When she returned she was carrying a flat cocoa tin.

‘Where did you have that then?’ Sarah asked.

‘Behind a loose brick at the rear of the toilet.’ She explained further when she saw Sarah’s puzzled expression. ‘The loose brick is only half a brick, this tin fitted behind it.’

Myrtle opened the tin and emptied its contents out on to the table. It was all change with the exception of a solitary ten shilling note. Most of the change was comprised of tanners and single shillings.

‘How much is there?’ Sarah queried.

‘No idea. Haven’t counted it in goodness knows how long.’

Sarah placed the filled kettle on the hob, then joined Myrtle who was now sitting at the table totting up her plank. Sarah began helping her.

‘Eight pounds one and thrupence,’ Myrtle announced.

‘Not exactly a fortune, but an awful lot better than seven and ten.’

‘Aye,’ Myrtle agreed. ‘But what happens when this runs out?’

Sarah thought about Gordy again; the sooner she saw him the better. If he didn’t come round after tea she’d go to his house and suggest a walk and chaff in Bluebell Wood. That was their favourite place. But then again, it was the favourite place of all courting couples in Netherton.

Bob made a noise, and right away Myrtle was on her feet and hurrying to him.

She took him by the hand, and gave him a smile. ‘What is it, Bob? Do you want something?’

The eyes that looked into hers were vacuous, reminding Myrtle of that idiot boy Charlie Forbes who the children in Netherton referred to as Big Daftie, or ‘him that’s only elevenpence three farthings in the shilling’. She shuddered, unable to stop herself.

Bob opened his mouth, but only a gurgle emerged. That and the spittle which ran down the side of his chin. Using the hem of her dressing-gown, Myrtle wiped the spittle away.

‘Perhaps he’s trying to tell you he’s hungry?’ Sarah suggested.

‘Aye, that could well be it. For he won’t have had anything since yesterday’s dinnertime piece.’

‘I’ll cut the bread,’ Sarah said. Bread, butter and jam was their usual breakfast. Except in late autumn and winter when they also had porage.

‘I’ve just thought,’ Myrtle said, tears welling inside her again. ‘I’m going to have to hand-feed him from here on in. He’s incapable of doing it for himself.’

Sarah cut thick slices, the doorstops Bob had always been partial to. The jam was apple and ginger which she had made the previous year, and which they were now rapidly running out of. Apple and ginger was far and away Bob’s favourite.

‘Only tea for me, I couldn’t eat a thing,’ Myrtle said, coming over to Sarah and lifting the plate Sarah had placed Bob’s doorstops on.

Sarah saw the glint of tears in her mother’s eyes. ‘Me neither. I feel like I’ll never be hungry again,’ she replied.

Myrtle nodded. It was exactly the same with her.

Suddenly a foul stench filled the room, a smell that was unmistakeable. The two women swung their attention to Bob, the source of the stench.

She wasn’t only going to have to hand-feed him, there were other, more unpleasant duties she was going to have to cope with, Myrtle realised. She put the plate back on the table. ‘It wasn’t that he was hungry. That must have been what he was trying to tell me,’ she said. ‘I’ll clean him and the bed up and he can have his breakfast after.’

‘I’ll help,’ Sarah offered.

‘No, leave this to me.’

As her mother began attending to Bob, Sarah opened the windows to let some fresh air in.

Gordy came directly after his tea, as Sarah had hoped he would. His face was creased with concern and he’d combed his hair using water, which was something he normally only did on the sabbath when he went to the kirk.

‘Come in,’ said Sarah, ushering him into the kitchen.

His gaze flicked to Bob lying in the wall-bed, then back to Sarah. ‘I nearly came last night, but then decided you’d prefer to be left alone.’

‘Probably for the best. Ma and I were a bit emotional last night as I’m sure you can understand.’

‘Aye.’

Myrtle, who’d been out back, came into the room.

‘I’m awful sorry for what’s happened to Mr Sunter,’ Gordy said to Myrtle in a rush of words, with obvious sincerity.

‘You never know the minute till the minute after, do you?’ Myrtle replied, attempting a brave smile that came out so twisted it was more of a grimace than a smile.

‘No, I suppose you don’t.’ His eyes flicked again to where Bob lay. ‘A stroke, I heard?’

‘And a right bad one too,’ Sarah said softly.

There was a knock on the door which turned out to be another neighbour come to sympathise. Friends and neighbours had been in and out all day. ‘If you two are going out, away you go,’ Myrtle told them.

‘You’ll be all right, Ma?’

‘Aye, of course I will.’

The neighbour who’d chapped the door was Mrs Geddes, she and her hubby and three weans lived further down the street. She went into the house as Sarah and Gordy left it.

‘I thought we might go to Bluebell Wood,’ Sarah suggested.

‘That’s fine by me.’

‘We’ll get some privacy there.’

‘How are you yourself? It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘It’s being said that ...’ Gordy cleared his throat. ‘That Mr Sunter will never go “down by” again?’

‘He’ll never walk or talk again either, according to Doctor Elson. The stroke caused considerable damage to his brain.’

‘Jesus!’ Gordy swore softly, and kicked a small stone out of their path.

He took her hand and they walked in silence till they reached Bluebell Wood and the secluded spot – a little haven surrounded by bushes – where they did their courting.

Normally the first thing Gordy would have done, would have been to take Sarah into his arms and give her a long, lingering kiss. That didn’t seem appropriate on this occasion however, so he flopped to the ground and Sarah sat beside him.

‘So how are you and your ma going to manage?’ he asked.

‘That’s the question, isn’t it? I wish I knew the answer.’

He gave her a sideways glance. She was beautiful right enough, the prettiest lass in Netherton by a long chalk. Aye, and not only Netherton but as far as Temple itself. He’d counted it his lucky day when he’d got off with her.

‘Gordy?’

‘Aye?’

She slipped her feet out of her clogs and ran them up and down through the cool grass. A large butterfly flitted by, followed by another. The wood was renowned for its butterflies. ‘I do love you, you know.’

‘I know, Sarah. And I love you too. As God is my judge I do.’

She came close, and pressed herself to him, her full breasts flattening against his chest. With a sigh he laid a hand on her right thigh.

She looked down at the hand which was blue – streaked along its back with ingrained coal-dust. All the men of Netherton had similar blue streaks on the backs of their hands, along their arms, and on their bodies. Ingrained coal dust that would never come out, no matter how hard you scrubbed or how much soap you used. After a few years down the pit you were marked forever.

‘At seventeen we’re old enough to get married,’ she said.

The scent of her in his nostrils was driving him wild with desire. But then it always did. He pulled away from her, though most reluctantly. ‘I do intend to marry you some time, Sarah, but I can’t right now. It’s impossible.’

‘I know there are problems. But where there’s a will there’s a way,’ she argued.

‘Not in this instance.’ He fumbled for his makings, and proceeded to roll a cigarette with trembling hands. ‘Don’t you think I thought about this after I heard about Mr Sunter? But it’s just not on. Heaven knows I wish it could be, but it can’t.’

When he’d finished rolling his cigarette Sarah took his makings from him and proceeded to do one for herself. She tried not to let her acute disappointment show.

‘I have responsibilities, Sarah. My ma and the twins.’ He was the sole breadwinner in his house ever since his father had perished in a gas explosion ‘down by’ eighteen months previously.

He struck a match, lighting first her cigarette, then his. ‘It’ll be two years till the twins are old enough to graft. Till then I have to look after them.’ The twins were his younger brothers, now aged ten. There had been a big gap between him and them.

‘Surely we could work something out!’ she pleaded.

‘Tell me what and I’ll do it! For a start, if we got married where would we sleep? Our house is the same as yours, a bedroom and a kitchen. The twins and I are in the bedroom, Ma in the kitchen. I couldn’t ask her to share with the boys, they’re too big for that.’

‘What about our house?’

Gordy broke off a dock leaf and threw it from him. ‘That would mean me supporting two households which is quite out of the question on my wage.’

She could see now that she hadn’t thought this through at all; that she’d been grasping at straws.

‘I’m between the devil and the deep blue sea,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I can’t even get a bigger house to accommodate us all because I can’t bloody well afford that either.’

He was right, she had to acknowledge. If there was a way out of this then it didn’t involve him, or their marriage.

Gordy pulled deeply on his cigarette. ‘Everything will change once the twins start down the pit, then we will be able to afford that bigger house. But till then ...’ He broke off, and shrugged.

Tears misted Sarah’s eyes. She and Myrtle seemed to have been greeting non-stop since Bob was brought home on the flat cart. Was it really only yesterday? It felt longer, a lot longer.

Anger erupted in Gordy. ‘It’s just so unfair, so it is. For you, your ma, for Mr Sunter, and for me.’

‘Bob used to say that life was unfair. That was something you had to learn about it, and accept.’ She pictured Bob lying at home in the wall-bed. ‘That poor man. That poor poor man,’ she whispered.

‘Aye,’ Gordy agreed.

Sarah shook her head. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. What will become of us?’

‘You must have relatives, someone who’ll take you in?’

‘We have relatives all right, good folk too. But take us in? I don’t see how any of them can do that when they’re living hand to mouth just as everyone else is in Netherton.’

‘The pit owner might help?’ Gordy suggested.

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Sure, and pigs might fly.’

It was a daft proposal, Gordy told himself. Dundonald help? Sarah was right, pigs would fly first, and to the moon and back at that.

‘Will you cuddle me, Gordy? I want to be cuddled,’ Sarah pleaded in a cracked whisper. She couldn’t restrain her tears any longer; they streamed down her face.

Gordy gathered her into his arms, torn apart to see her like this. But what could he do? Nothing, his hands were tied.

Oh but it was a rotten world at times. A rotten, rotten one.

The next evening when the day shift was over and the colliers were making their weary way home there was a knock on the front door. Sarah answered the knock to find Jack Bonner and Tom Crayk standing there.

‘Can we speak to your ma, hen?’ Jack Bonner asked.

‘Of course, come away in,’ Sarah replied, beckoning them into the kitchen.

The two men looked over at the wall-bed. ‘How is he today?’ Tom Crayk inquired.

‘The same.’

‘Aye, well then,’ Tom mumbled.

‘Go on over.’

The two men glanced at one another, then hesitantly crossed to where Bob lay.

‘How are you doing, you old bugger?’ Jack Bonner said, trying to inject a cheery note into his voice.

‘The lengths some folk will go to to get to stay in their bed,’ Tom cracked.

The vacuous expression that Sarah and Myrtle were getting to know so well was turned first of all on Jack, then Tom. Bob gave no sign of recognition whatever.

‘It’s us, Jack and Tom,’ Tom said.

Bob’s mouth fell open, and spittle ran from both corners down to his chin. Jack turned away, his face contorted in anguish.

‘Your ma?’ Jack Bonner husked.

‘She’s out in the toilet, shouldn’t be a minute,’ Sarah replied.

‘Do you think ... Do you think he hears anything?’ Tom asked.

‘We don’t honestly know. But I doubt it.’

‘He was such a ... such a man,’ Jack Bonner said.

‘Aye,’ Sarah agreed. She knew exactly what Jack meant by that.

Myrtle entered the room. ‘It’s yourself, Jack, and you, Tom,’ she said, having recognised their voices before coming into the kitchen.

‘How are you bearing up, lass?’ Jack Bonner asked softly.

‘As well as can be expected, I suppose,’ Myrtle answered.

Jack glanced again at Bob. The pair of them had been pals an awful long time, they’d been in the same class at school together. It broke Jack’s heart to see Bob in his present state. Like Sarah he felt it would have been better if Bob had died rather than be reduced to what he now was, a travesty of his former self.

‘We took a collection, passed the hat round,’ Jack said to Myrtle.

‘Not one man, not one, didn’t give or wasn’t pleased to do so,’ Tom Crayk added.

‘He was well liked, you understand.’ Then realising what he’d said, Jack hastily rephrased his statement. ‘Is well liked, Myrtle.’

‘Well liked and respected,’ Tom Crayk added.

Jack Bonner delved into a jacket pocket to produce fistful after fistful of coins which he piled on to the table. The end result was a formidable mound of cash.

‘I hope that will make things easier until you can get yourselves sorted out,’ Jack said.

‘It’s a big help. Sarah and I thank you both, and all who contributed. God bless you all.’

‘It’s little enough. If only ...’ He shrugged.

‘I understand, Jack. You’ve all got wives and bairns of your own, at least most of you have, and what you bring home at the end of the week hardly stretches from one Friday to the next.’

‘We’re always there if you need us, you appreciate that, don’t you?’ Jack said in a voice that was just a fraction above a whisper, and tight with emotion.

‘I do indeed,’ Myrtle replied. Then, impulsively, she went to Jack and hugged him tight. Doing the same to Tom Crayk after that.

‘We’d best get on,’ Jack Bonner said, not trusting himself to stay any longer in case he broke down.

‘Aye,’ Tom Crayk agreed.

Myrtle saw Jack and Tom to the door and shook them by the hand. ‘I’ll drop by in a couple of nights’ time to see how you’re doing,’ Jack promised.

‘I’ll look forward to that.’

Myrtle waved the two men away, then