When Bobby woke at six o’clock the next morning it took him a few seconds to realise where he was. It felt alien to be in a bed that felt huge compared to the narrow bunk beds he’d slept in for years, just as it was to wake up alone, with no other bodies within arm’s reach tossing and turning and snoring or shouting out in their sleep. Sardines in a can – or rather, in a ship. His sleep that night after returning to number 34 Tatham Street had been fitful, which was hardly surprising. Never in a million years would he have guessed he’d come back home to find that his mam was divorced from his dad and shacked up with another bloke – and that she’d had another child. He and Gordon had a little sister.
And then there was Dorothy – that crimson dress, those curves, those dark eyes like daggers and those full lips. She reminded him of a beautiful thoroughbred filly, trotting back and forth, tossing its mane and looking down its long, regal nose.
After making his bed, Bobby made his way down to the kitchen, where he left what he reckoned would be enough cash to cover a week’s board and lodging. He didn’t want anyone to think he expected any kind of preferential treatment simply because he was Gloria’s son. He’d said as much to Agnes last night after he’d returned from walking Dorothy back to the flat and had found a sandwich and a cup of tea waiting for him on the kitchen table. Agnes had told him in her soft Irish accent that she had no intention of treating him any differently to any other lodger she might have. And, she’d added, when he’d nodded at the much appreciated supper, she would have provided sustenance to anyone who had turned up on her doorstep after a long journey. ‘Especially one of our brave boys who’s been risking life ’n limb for his country ’n has, thankfully, made it back home alive.’ The sadness that came into her voice had reminded Bobby that his new landlady had lost a son in this war and a husband in the one before.
Quietly unbolting the front door and carefully shutting it behind him, Bobby stood for a moment looking at this part of the east end, which was to be his new home. As he walked down Tatham Street, seeing it for the first time in the early-morning light, he looked at the parallel rows of three-storey terraced houses. Smoke had started to billow out of a few of the chimneys. He caught a glimpse of an old woman in a floral nightgown pulling back a heavy blackout curtain, before his attention was diverted to a large grey cat running across the tram tracks and darting down one of the side streets. He pulled up the collar on his navy coat; it might be the start of spring, but there was still a bitter nip in the air.
Reaching the Borough Road, he looked left to his mam’s flat. He still couldn’t quite believe she’d not only booted their father out – finally – after all these years, but that she’d also divorced him. Why, he couldn’t help thinking, hadn’t she done that years ago?
Crossing the road and turning left down Norfolk Street, he thought about the man who had replaced his father. He hoped his mam hadn’t jumped from the frying pan into the fire with this Jack Crawford. The name rang a bell, but then again Crawford was a common name in these parts. He’d been so distracted by Dorothy, he hadn’t paid him much heed, but lying awake in bed and replaying his homecoming in his head, he’d thought more about his mam’s new fella. The way he’d stood with his hands on her shoulders – was he simply being protective? Or controlling? Had his mam exchanged one nasty bastard for another? And if she had, what about Hope? Was she having to endure the same hell that he and Gordon had?
Reaching the top of Norfolk Street, he turned right down High Street East, joining a growing stream of flat-capped workers heading to the docks. The smell was strong. The salt in the air was pungent. He would guess the tide was high. Walking along Low Street and seeing the old steamer at the ferry landing, he jogged to catch it before it left. Paying Stan, the old ferryman, he walked to the side railings and looked out towards the mouth of the Wear. It was good to feel the undulating wash of the river under his feet; the slight rocking of the deck made him feel at home. His reasons for joining up might not have been driven by a deep yearning for a sailor’s life, but he had grown to love it all the same, and now, as he looked out to the North Sea, he knew he was going to miss it.
Bobby knocked on the yard manager’s office door. If his mam hadn’t already told him and his brother in her letters about a woman called Helen Crawford, he would have presumed this was the secretary come in early to catch up on some work for her boss.
‘Sorry to bother you, Miss Crawford,’ Bobby said, trying not to startle her. She looked engrossed in a large draftsman’s drawing that was spread across the width of her desk. There was a huge ginger cat curled up in a basket on the floor next to her chair.
‘Gosh!’ Helen looked up, surprised at seeing a sailor in the doorway of her office. ‘You gave me quite a shock there.’ She glanced up at the clock. It had just gone seven. ‘No one’s usually about at this time. In the yard, yes, but not here in admin.’ She scrutinised the handsome seaman standing in the doorway. He looked harmless.
Bobby looked at his mam’s friend and thought she had done a good job of describing her. Very beautiful, with that subtle air that seemed inherent in those who were brought up with an education and no worries about money. He’d thought it strange his mam was chummy with a woman from the moneyed middle class, but it seemed they had become quite close over the years.
‘Please, come in.’ Helen waved him in.
Bobby walked into the small room and stopped in his tracks as the marmalade-coloured tomcat suddenly came padding over towards him and rubbed up against his leg.
‘How can I help you?’ Helen was curious. Every minute of every working day at the yard might be spent building ships, but it was actually quite a rarity to see those who sailed in them in the yard.
‘I’m after a job,’ Bobby said, purposefully neglecting to tell her that his mother was one of her employees and a friend to boot. He wanted to get this job off his own back.
‘You’re no longer with the navy, I take it?’ Helen asked. She noticed that every time she spoke, the sailor turned his head ever so slightly to the left.
‘Medically discharged,’ Bobby said, pulling out his papers from his inside pocket. ‘Not that I agreed with the decision.’
‘Really? And why were you medically discharged?’ She didn’t want to take on someone who might end up being a liability. She looked down at the creased form he had just thrust into her hand.
‘Loss of hearing in my left ear,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ Helen said. That explained the head tilting.
‘I can rivet,’ Bobby said. ‘I did most of my apprenticeship at Bartram’s before I went to sea. I’m sure they’ve still got records …’
‘That must have been a good few years ago,’ Helen said, guessing the strapping young man standing in front of her must be in his mid-twenties.
‘It’s like riding a bike,’ Bobby said, quick as a flash. ‘You never forget.’
Helen pulled out a packet of Pall Malls and lit one.
‘And you don’t think your loss of hearing will cause any problems?’ Helen asked.
Bobby barked with laughter. ‘I reckon most of the men who work here are stone deaf. I spent two years in a shipyard – if I’d stayed another two, I’d guess my hearing would be worse than it is now.’
Helen smiled. There was truth in what he said. And she’d be happy to play down his compromised hearing. She didn’t give a jot if the seaman standing in front of her was as deaf as a doornail, the yard was desperate for riveters – and judging by the pull of his uniform around his chest and upper arms, she was sure he would be more than capable of keeping up with the physical demands of the job.
‘All right,’ she said, blowing out a stream of smoke and tapping her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Let’s see how you get on over the next week and we’ll go from there.’ She handed him back his discharge papers.
‘That’s all I ask for,’ Bobby said. ‘A chance.’
‘Right,’ said Helen, fishing out a contract of employment from one of her drawers. ‘Fill out this form and then I’ll tell you where you can get yourself kitted out with a pair of overalls – you’ll want to keep that uniform pristine.’ Helen would have liked to add, For all the girls. She was under no illusion as to why he had worn it this morning. Still, who was she to judge; you had to use what you had in this life to get what you wanted.
Bobby quickly filled out the form and handed it back to Helen, who gave him directions to the supply shed.
‘Then you can get your clocking-on board from the timekeeper and head over to the quayside by the first dry basin. There’s a riveters’ squad there – ask for Jimmy, he’ll see you all right.’
As Helen watched the former able seaman leave her office, she wished she’d asked him why he’d chosen Thompson’s out of all the yards – especially as he’d started his apprenticeship at Bartram’s. Looking down at the form he’d filled in, she read his name: Robert Armstrong.
That name rang a bell.
It was only when Bobby was halfway through the morning shift that it suddenly occurred to him who Helen Crawford was related to. Of course – he should have realised it straight away. The dark, almost jet-black hair and striking good looks should have told him, if not the surname. It explained why Helen and his mam were so close. Why she had mentioned Helen so much in her letters. He had thought it a little odd that his mam, who was poor and working-class, would be so chummy with a rich, middle-class woman who was young enough to be her daughter.
Helen was Jack Crawford’s daughter. And Hope was her little sister too – well, half-sister, which made them all family in a strange sort of way.
He shook his head as another penny dropped. His mam had mentioned that Helen was the granddaughter of Mr Charles Havelock, which would mean that Jack was married to Mr Havelock’s daughter, Miriam, who was also well known, mainly due to her birthright and getting her picture in the local rag on a regular basis.
As he saw the glowing red nub of another rivet appear through the hole in the metal plate on the hull, his rivet gun got to work, battering it with a fast succession of blows, squeezing it flat, making it a seamless part of the ship’s metal skin. And as his arms and body shuddered in time with the pneumatic hammering, he thought his return home seemed to be getting more bizarre by the minute.
As the women welders headed over to the canteen, they passed Jimmy and his squad sitting by the side of the dry basin where one of the landing craft being produced by the yard was being built. They all waved over.
As they continued across the yard, Dorothy suddenly clutched Angie’s arm.
‘Oh. My. God!’ she gasped.
‘Ow, Dor, gerroff, that hurts.’ Angie pulled her best mate’s talon-like hand off her arm, which was already sore from a morning of vertical welds.
‘It’s him!’ Dorothy declared, standing rooted to the spot.
Angie looked at the tall, well-built worker who was striding across the yard, biting into a sandwich.
‘Who’s him when he’s at home?’ she asked, looking at the bloke with cropped hair and a dirty face that only seemed to accentuate his chiselled looks.
‘Bobby!’ Dorothy said in astonishment. ‘Gloria’s Bobby.’
‘Blimey, Dor, yer missed out the bit about him being totally gorge.’ Angie had been subjected to every cough and spit of Bobby’s return from the moment she’d opened her eyes that morning.
Sensing someone was looking at him, Bobby turned his head to see Dorothy and Angie stood stapled to the spot, gawping.
‘Dorothy!’ he called across, a wide smile on his face, his eyes dancing with delight at seeing the woman he had spent a good part of last night thinking about. He touched the top of his head in a salute.
Dorothy turned away, avoiding his gaze. Last night, after walking her home, Bobby had refused to go back and see Gloria, refused outright, said a courteous goodnight and that it had been a pleasure to make her company. A pleasure to make her company – what era was he living in? Back in the days of Queen Victoria? She’d said exactly that to him, which had only made him hoot with laughter as he’d turned to make his way back to the Elliots’.
As Dorothy and Angie hurried into the canteen, they both apologised for jumping the queue in their eagerness to get to Gloria.
‘Did you see him?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Who?’ Gloria asked.
‘Bobby!’ Dorothy hissed into her ear.
Gloria’s head jolted. ‘Blimey, Dor, that went right through me.’
‘Bobby’s here!’ Dorothy said in disbelief. ‘He’s working in the yard.’
Gloria looked at Dorothy – surprise on her face, but not shock.
‘Well, that’s Bobby for yer,’ she said. ‘Not one to rest on his laurels.’
The queue shuffled along.
‘But to get a job here. At Thompson’s?’ Dorothy continued to whisper into Gloria’s ear.
‘Dor, you can speak properly,’ Gloria said. ‘It’s no secret he’s my son. Or that he’s working in the yard.’ What she was a little perplexed about, though, was that Bobby had opted to work at Thompson’s. She’d have thought his first port of call would have been Bartram’s. Not only had he worked there as a youngster, but it was just a few minutes’ walk from Tatham Street – and, moreover, it would mean he didn’t have to rub shoulders with his mam every day, something she felt he’d prefer not to have to do.
‘All right, Glor!’ Muriel’s foghorn of a voice sounded out across the head of a young girl dishing out food. ‘Good to see one of yer lads back safe and sound, eh?’
Gloria smiled. ‘It is, Muriel, it is.’
‘How did yer knar it was him?’ Angie perked up. She had been listening intently to Dor’s hissing and whispering and Gloria’s nonchalant responses – and now here was Muriel putting her oar in. Bobby’s turning up really had thrown the cat amongst the pigeons. And as for Dor, well she had a bee in her bonnet that looked set to stay a while yet.
Muriel let out a loud burst of laughter. ‘The haircut gave it away, Ange. Then the name.’ She looked at Gloria. ‘Good lad yer’ve got there.’
Dorothy let out a disbelieving gasp, which Gloria chose to ignore and Muriel didn’t hear.
‘Your lads all right?’ Gloria asked.
Muriel put up both hands, fingers crossed on each, by way of reply. A shout from the kitchens saw her turn and disappear from view.
‘Dor,’ Gloria said as she grabbed some sandwiches and moved along the queue to the tea urn, ‘I wanted to thank you for last night. Getting Bobby lodgings with Agnes.’
Dorothy’s attention was on the young girl who was serving out the steak and vegetable stew. She was smiling at her, hoping to get more if she was nice. She was starving.
‘You don’t have to thank me,’ Dorothy said. ‘I just wish I’d been able to make him see sense. Honestly,’ she dropped her voice, ‘he should be clicking his heels you’re with Jack and not Vinnie.’
By the time they’d all sat down at their table at the far side of the canteen, word had got round about Bobby working with Jimmy’s squad.
‘You all right, Glor?’ Rosie asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Honestly?’
Gloria nodded.
‘Didn’t you know he was starting at the yard?’ asked Martha.
‘No, she didn’t, Martha.’ Dorothy poured out a cup of tea and gave it to Gloria. ‘Bobby’s not the most loquacious of sons.’
Angie pulled a puzzled face.
‘Loquacious,’ Hannah explained, ‘comes from the Latin loqui, meaning “to speak”.’
‘Dorothy was saying she doesn’t think Gloria’s son is much of a talker,’ Olly added.
‘Ah,’ said Angie, taking a bite of her sandwich and making a mental note to ask Quentin if he too knew Latin.
‘He doesn’t waste any time, does he,’ Polly said. ‘He must have left the house at the crack of dawn.’
‘You didn’t see him when you got up?’ Dorothy asked.
Polly shook her head. ‘We didn’t even know we had a new lodger until Ma told us this morning.’
‘Bobby’s a grafter, that’s for sure. Even when he was a boy,’ said Gloria. It was clear to them all that she was incredibly proud of her son.
‘Well, I know one person who’s going to be cock-a-hoop about all of this,’ said Rosie, taking a bite of her sandwich.
‘Who?’ Angie asked.
‘Helen!’ Martha guessed, tucking into her packed lunch.
‘Why’s Helen going to be cock-a-hoop about Bobby being back?’ asked Angie, looking perplexed. She was still half asleep after staying up late with Quentin, kissing and cuddling and chatting on the sofa in his flat downstairs; it had been so late that even Dorothy had been fast asleep when she’d tiptoed in.
‘Because Helen’s in desperate need of more riveters,’ Martha explained.
‘Which means that I’m equally cock-a-hoop,’ Rosie added, ‘because Helen might just stop pilfering Martha from me and I can have a full squad full-time.’
‘Talk of the devil.’ Dorothy nodded over to the entrance of the canteen. Everyone looked round to see Helen making her way towards them. There was a slight dimming of voices as workers became aware of her presence. It wasn’t often management mingled with the hoi polloi.
‘Hi.’ Helen cast a look around the table at the women. She might now be accepted by them all, but she still felt nervous when she interacted with them as a group. She pulled out a spare chair and sat down.
‘I’ve only just got to know about Bobby,’ she said, scrutinising Gloria’s face. She had no idea how she must be feeling.
‘But you took him on?’ Dorothy questioned.
‘I did,’ said Helen, shaking her head when Hannah pointed at the teapot. ‘But I didn’t realise he was Gloria’s son.’
‘He didn’t tell yer?’ Angie asked.
‘No,’ Helen said, looking back at Gloria. ‘He just turned up, said he’d been medically discharged, that he had experience riveting and could he have a job. I kept thinking the name rang a bell. But I’m so used to you using your maiden name – ’ she threw Gloria an apologetic look ‘ – I didn’t think. It was only just now, when Marie-Anne came to see me and said it was nice of me to give your son a job, that I realised.’
‘Typical Marie-Anne. Never misses a trick,’ Dorothy muttered. Marie-Anne always got to know everything there was to know about a new worker – especially unmarried men in their twenties.
‘Don’t worry,’ Gloria reassured. ‘Bobby wouldn’t have wanted to put you on the spot. Make you feel like yer had to give him a job.’
‘Tight-lipped more like,’ Dorothy sniped.
‘I can’t stay,’ Helen said, looking at Gloria, ‘but I just wanted you to know I didn’t realise it was Bobby – and to check you’re all right. I’m guessing it was probably a bit of a shock – and probably more than a little awkward – him turning up out of the blue?’
‘Just a little!’ Dorothy spluttered.
Helen looked at Dorothy and thought she seemed ready to pop.
‘Dor was there last night,’ Gloria explained.
Helen nodded, knowing that Dorothy usually went round to see Hope on a Friday evening.
‘I’ll come round after work for a cuppa and a catch-up, if that’s all right?’ Helen knew Bobby’s arrival must have been a shock to her father as well.
‘Course it is. We’ll see yer later,’ Gloria said, forcing a smile.
As the women started to chatter amongst themselves, Gloria could feel the guilt, which had lain dormant for a long time, start to bubble back up to the surface. Now that Bobby was back, she knew that there would be no pushing it down again.
At the end of the shift, the klaxon sounded out and the entire workforce downed tools. As it was a Saturday, no one wanted to waste any time getting home – or to the pub.
‘Yer must have seen quite a bit of action?’ Jimmy asked Bobby as they made their way across the yard to the timekeeper’s cabin.
‘A fair bit,’ Bobby said. ‘More so after being stationed on Opportune.’
‘Ah, one of Thornycroft’s,’ said Jimmy. Thornycroft was a well-known shipyard in Southampton. ‘HMS Opportune – an O-class destroyer ordered back in September 1939 for the First Emergency Flotilla. Commissioned in August 1942.’
Bobby smiled. His new boss, he was fast learning, had a near-on encyclopaedic knowledge of just about everything and anything to do with the maritime industry – from naval vessels to merchant shipping, going back to the days of wood and sail. It was impressive.
‘Yer mam told me you were mainly in the North Atlantic,’ Jimmy said.
Bobby had also learnt today that Jimmy got on well with Rosie’s squad of welders and had even helped his mam move from their old house on the Ford estate to the flat on Borough Road. It seemed as though everyone, bar him and Gordon, knew his mam had left his dad.
‘That’s right. North Africa, the Arctic, the Atlantic,’ Bobby said. ‘Mainly escorting convoys.’
‘And Glor said yer were in the Battle of the North Cape?’ Jimmy asked, looking at Bobby. He’d been a little wary of the lad to start with – knowing who his dad was – but from what he’d picked up working alongside him today, you’d never have guessed the two were in any way related.
‘I was,’ Bobby said.
‘What a way to bow out,’ Jimmy said, ‘sinking the Scharnhorst. The papers here were full of it.’
Bobby would have given anything not to have had to ‘bow out’, but didn’t say so. He didn’t want Jimmy, or any of the others in his squad, to feel like he didn’t want to be there. It was just that he’d have preferred to be with Gordon on Opportune, especially as he’d heard before leaving that they were being deployed to combat German torpedo boats in preparation for the invasion of France.
‘Felix oportunitate pugnae,’ Jimmy said as they both handed in their white boards to Davey.
‘“Happy at the chance of a fight”,’ Bobby translated with a smile. It was Opportune’s motto. If only he could have had the chance of one last fight. Still, he had to console himself with the thought that he was still a part of that fight. He mightn’t be with Gordon when Opportune joined the air and sea attacks on northern France, but the landing craft he would be working on over the next few months would be. It was of some consolation.
‘Bobby!’
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder.
Bobby hadn’t heard anything, but looked at what had caught his boss’s attention.
‘Mad as a hatter, that one,’ Jimmy warned, nodding back at Dorothy, who was hurrying towards them. Angie was trailing behind her.
‘I’ll leave yer to it.’ He gave Bobby a pat on the back. ‘Good luck.’
Bobby smiled as he stopped to wait for the pair. He’d take whatever luck was sent his way, but not for the reasons Jimmy had meant.
‘The perfect end to the day,’ Bobby said as Dorothy caught him up.
Dorothy ignored him, continuing instead to walk down to the ferry landing. The initial crush of workers had either headed up to their homes on the north side of the river, or caught the earlier ferry over to the south side.
‘I wanted to have a word with you,’ she said.
‘As I did with you,’ Bobby countered. They had now come to a halt on the ferry landing. Bobby looked down at Dorothy, who seemed shorter than last night, which, he realised, was because she was now wearing flat leather hobnailed boots.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ Dorothy snapped.
‘For helping me get sorted with somewhere to stay. For getting me board and lodging with Mrs Elliot,’ Bobby said.
‘Everyone calls her Agnes,’ Dorothy said. ‘Like I said last night, we’re not still living in the Dark Ages.’
Bobby barked with laughter.
‘Some might beg to differ,’ he said.
His comment stumped Dorothy for a moment.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend,’ he said, ‘or is that also now not the way things are done?’
Dorothy rolled her eyes up to a clear afternoon sky, marred only by the shimmering grey of the barrage balloons.
‘This is Angie,’ she said simply.
Bobby wiped his dirty hand on his denim overalls and reached out to shake Angie’s hand. She chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it being dirty.’ She held up both hers, which were covered in grime, before taking his hand and shaking it.
‘Nice to meet yer, Bobby,’ she said, staring up at him and feeling a little disloyal to Quentin for sensing herself blush. It was hard, though. Gloria’s son was very dishy.
‘All aboard!’ the ferryman shouted out as W.F. Vint butted the quayside.
‘So, when’re you going to go and see your mam?’ Dorothy asked as they piled onto the ferry.
Bobby looked out to the river but didn’t reply.
Realising he genuinely hadn’t heard, Dorothy moved around so that she was on his right.
‘So, when’re you going to see your mam?’ she repeated.
Bobby looked down at her, his eyes twinkling, before turning his attention to Angie. ‘Is your friend always this bossy?’
Angie nodded and widened her eyes. ‘Always.’ She caught Dorothy glaring at her. ‘Yer wanna live with her,’ she mumbled under her breath.
‘Well, Ange, if he does “wanna live with” me,’ Dorothy quipped, ‘he’ll have to marry me first, as Bobby here is not one for living in sin.’
Her comments were followed by laughter from Bobby.
As Bobby headed off to the café Angie had recommended on High Street East, which she’d told him was run by two women called Vera and Rina, he thought about Dorothy’s jibes and accusations that he had ‘the mindset of an old man’. He would have liked to tell her that wasn’t the case – that he was actually quite a liberal and didn’t think marriage was sacrosanct; nor that a couple should stay together ‘till death do us part’ if they were unhappy, particularly if the wife was being battered on a regular basis. But while he certainly didn’t care if a woman had a child out of wedlock, he did care about the repercussions a mother’s unmarried status might have on the child. Surely his mam must realise that Hope would be branded a bastard and taunted because of it when she was older. For that reason alone, Jack should have got divorced and married his mam; for their daughter’s sake, if nothing else. Which begged the question, why hadn’t he? He’d certainly had long enough.
As Bobby pushed open the door to the cafeteria, he was hit by the smell of freshly baked bread, mixed with frying bacon. Angie had told him not to mind the small, round, grumpy owner – she was brusque with everyone, even those she liked. She said it was worth enduring for her famous butties and had started to say something about the cakes there, but hadn’t got to finish her sentence as Dorothy had elbowed her and dragged her off home.
‘What can I do yer for?’ Vera asked, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘Bacon butty, please,’ Bobby said, thinking Angie’s description of the proprietor of the café was spot on. Looking through into the kitchen, he saw a taller, regal-looking woman who he guessed was Rina.
‘Sit yerself down ’n I’ll bring it over,’ the old woman ordered, her attention and scowl moving to the next person in the queue.
Sitting down at a table in a corner of the café, Bobby poured himself a glass of water while he waited. His arms felt tired. He’d forgotten how intense riveting could be. He’d lost some of his fitness while he’d recovered from his head injury; it wouldn’t take long to get it back, though.
Perhaps, he wondered, it was not such a bad thing that his mam and Jack weren’t married. If he turned out to be another Vinnie it would make it easier, wouldn’t it? Or not? He wasn’t sure. Had his mam stayed with their dad because they were bound by their marital vows? He’d never been able to understand why she hadn’t left him. Nor did he think he ever would.
He smiled politely as Vera plonked his plate and cup of tea in front of him. At least, he thought as he took a bite of his bacon sarnie, he would get to know more now he was working at Thompson’s; it might be the second-biggest shipyard in the town, but everyone still knew each other’s business, whether they wanted to or not.
Taking a big slug of perfectly brewed tea, Bobby’s mind went to Hope. He was also going to make sure his little sister was safe. He’d pop in to see her every week. It was the least he could do. He would do whatever it took to save another child from going through what he and Gordon had been forced to endure. If his mam was being used as another man’s punchbag, well, then, that was her prerogative – she was a grown woman and could make her own choices – but he wasn’t going to let Hope suffer. No way.