A Mother’s Hope

When the barman at the Grosvenor Hotel called time, Scotty had almost forgotten his throbbing head and injured pride, and was seeing life through a pleasant alcoholic haze. However, he had always known he would have to go home some time and have it out with Millie. So he got to his feet, pushed his empty glass across the bar, bade the staff and several of his cronies goodnight and headed for Bath Street, scarcely stumbling at all until he reached the foot of the stairs. Then he fell up the first three, cracking his knee painfully and catching one hand in the banister rails. Feeling almost inclined to burst into tears of self-pity – the fall had started his head throbbing again – he sat down on the fourth step to recover and to remind himself that whatever he did, it must be done quietly since most of the tenants would be home by now.

Accordingly, he sat where he was, steadying himself for the rest of the climb. He did not want to tumble down the whole flight; he might do himself a real mischief. What if he broke a leg or an arm, or even cracked his already painful head against some obstacle? He had switched on the light by the front door as he came in and reminded himself that he must turn it off when he reached the landing, otherwise old Ozzie would charge him extra, as she was always threatening. Slowly, he crawled up the stairs, switched off the light at the top, grabbed the banister rail of the flight to the attic and set off. There was a light at the head of the stairs but he did not turn it on, fearing that slight though the illumination was (was there such a thing as a ten watt bulb?) it might wake one of the babies. He crept up the second flight and stood outside his own door for five minutes, swaying from the effort of the climb but no longer feeling sick; the effect of the blow on the head was passing. By morning, he told himself, he would be fit as a fiddle. Better to steal into the room, take off his clothes and climb into bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough to sort things out with Millie.

With the utmost caution he opened the door, thankful that he had oiled the hinges so that it swung silently wide. He had expected to find the room in darkness, but instead it was full of starlight and he realised that Millie must have forgotten to draw the curtains before she got into bed. Stupid woman! How could she expect her man to sleep with the room so light? But of course it would help him to undress, which might have been difficult in the pitch dark. He went over to the window and began to unbutton his overcoat, suit jacket, shirt and trousers. He eased off his shoes as quietly as possible without undoing the laces. He left his clothes in a pile on the floor, the shoes with their knotted laces nearby. Let Millie hang everything up, iron the crumples out of his shirt, untie the laces and clean the mud off his shoes, he thought spitefully. Serve her bloody well right for hitting him.

He still could not work out what had made the worm turn, for he had frequently felt obliged to punish Millie when she did not provide his meals on time, forgot to iron his shirts, or did something else which inconvenienced and annoyed him. On those other occasions she had sometimes threatened to tell, but had never done so. What had changed? He must find out, though not right now; he was too tired. Tomorrow would be time enough.

He glanced over towards the bed and saw Millie’s humped shape facing away from him. For a moment, he felt a rush of fondness for her. She wasn’t a bad girl, not really, and in his heart of hearts he knew he had started the fight that evening. With a sudden flash of memory, he saw again his fist travelling towards her face with enough force to knock her flat on her back and cause her to drop the pan she was holding. There was blood, and when she began to cry, and to struggle to her knees, he had seen a broken piece of tooth dribbling down her chin amongst the red and for a moment he had actually been appalled by what he had done.

It must have been the broken tooth that had spurred her on to grab the saucepan. He had bent down to start picking up the potatoes the pan had contained when Millie had lurched to her feet, raised the saucepan and brought it crashing down on his head. The blow must have knocked him out, for he remembered nothing until he had opened his eyes to see one of the new rugs not an inch from his face, and heard Millie, still armed with the saucepan, telling him in a trembling voice that if he did not get out of the house that instant she would hit him again.

Now, however, he was back and longing for his bed. Millie looked so warm and comfortable curled up under the covers. He would climb in beside her, envelop her in a loving hug and tell her he forgave her for hitting him. Surely that would soften her hard heart? In the past, of course, he was the one who would have had to apologise, though always aware that it was all her fault. All she had to do was get his meals on time, wash and iron his clothing, and keep the place clean; it was little enough to ask. He never even made her hand over her wage packet. She was welcome to keep whatever she earned, and not all women could make that boast.

He was standing by the bed now, and he drew back the covers very gently and slid in beside her. He put an arm about where her waist should be and his heart gave a sickening lurch. She was all soft and squashy, not at all like the Millie he had come to know so well. Had he done more damage than he’d realised? Good God, now that he thought about it, she had not moved, even when he’d taken off his shoes, and he could hear no sound of breathing. He sat up like a jack-in-the-box, heart thundering. Then it slowed as he realised his mistake. This was not Millie! The wicked little bitch had pushed her pillow down the bed to fool him. Where could she be? But of course he knew the answer; she would have gone next door to claim a share of Rose’s bed, thinking herself safe in there.

For a moment he contemplated going to Rose’s room, full of righteous indignation, then dismissed the idea. He was dimly aware that he was still a trifle, just a trifle, the worse for wear and might be in no condition to explain to Rose – who would naturally take Millie’s side – how the fight had all been Millie’s fault. And he was not certain that any tale he told, even when sober, would be enough to explain the broken tooth . . . and he recalled a split lip, too, and an eye swollen up like a balloon.

Oh, but the bed was warm and comfortable! He had heaved the pillow out from under the sheets and put it back where it belonged, and now all he truly wanted was sleep. Sleep that knits up the what’s-it sleeve of whichever, he told himself drowsily. Sleep that would bring a solution to all his problems. Sleep which . . . what . . . why . . . He slept.

He looked at the alarm clock which stood on the little bedside table and saw that the wretched thing had actually stopped. With a grunt of annoyance he swung his feet out of bed. Usually Millie got up first, switched on the electric fire, lit the Primus stove, and had a cup of tea waiting for him by the time he was ready to move. Not today. Today she had not even bothered to wind the alarm – she must positively want him to be late! Well, if he lost his job she would be smiling on the other side of her face.

Washed and dressed once more, he returned to his own room. He was as dry as a desert and longed for a cup of tea, and even as he pulled the kettle over the Primus stove an absolutely brilliant idea occurred to him. He would take the girls tea and toast! He would apologise humbly, explaining that the ding on the head which Millie had handed out must have caused him to go a trifle mad. In other words, the blow from the saucepan had started the fight, so could Millie please forgive him for his behaviour. He would beg her to let bygones be bygones, blame the drink, say he would sign the pledge and never touch another drop if only she would forget the hurt he had inflicted the previous evening.

When the kettle boiled, he suddenly remembered the baby, but was not at all surprised when he looked into the cot to find Alex missing. She would have taken him with her, of course. He turned away from the cot and his eye was caught by a folded sheet of paper from an exercise book, sitting in the middle of their drop-leaf table and weighted down with the salt cellar. He went across and picked it up, a frown creasing his brow. This was something new! But he supposed it was merely a note telling him she had gone to Rose. He unfolded the paper, and read the message written thereon.

Scotty’s eyebrows shot up into his hair, then descended into a scowl. How dare she call him a bastard! His fingers gingerly felt the lump on his head; yes, it was still there, and still jolly painful. Yet she, who had caused the lump, actually meant to leave him. Ah, but had she already left, or was she still next door with Rose? He looked around the room properly for the first time. It was chaotic, with piles of clothing scattered about, though both Millie’s warm winter coat and Alex’s thickest jacket were missing. Now that he came to think of it, the room bore all the appearance of hurried packing, and the two holdalls which were usually stowed away under Alex’s cot were there no longer.

Abandoning all thoughts of tea and toast, he rushed out of the room, tapped on the Thompsons’ door, and barged in. One swift glance showed him that it was empty. Scotty frowned, puzzled. He acknowledged that Millie was untidy and that Rose was extremely neat, but the state in which Millie had left their room had gone far beyond mere untidiness. Carefully, Scotty looked round again, peeping under Rose’s bed as though he suspected that he might find the girls, and their sons, hiding from him there. Instead, all he saw was Martin’s camp bed. Straightening, he was about to leave the room when he saw another sheet of paper – by the look of it torn from the same exercise book and folded twice – lying in Ricky’s cot.

Scotty did not hesitate for a moment, but grabbed the note and read it with mounting anger. He felt he might explode with wrath. This was a deliberate attempt to turn his friend against him. How could Martin go on liking him once he had read this note? And who the hell was Mrs Ellis? Why should she want to take Ricky? But an idea was forming. He looked at the clock on the shelf; it would be a full hour before Martin returned, and in that hour all sorts of things could happen. Scotty glanced around the room again; saw the notebook from which the page had been torn, and the biro which had written such false and terrible words. He sat down at the table and contemplated Rose’s round, unformed hand. Then, with great care, he began to write. Five minutes later he gave a grunt of satisfaction and read over what he had written.

Dear Mart,

Millie and Scotty have had a quarrel; I think it was because she’s been flirting with a fellow at work, but anyway she has decided to go home to her parents. I said I would go with her since this very afternoon Mrs Ellis came slap bang up to me in town and said we must talk. I ran away becos I know she will want to take Ricky and make him her own little boy. Please forgive me and be very kind to Scotty. I will come back when Millie does.

With love from Rose.

Martin and Don walked briskly along Vale Road and over the bridge, turned right along Kinmel Street and then left into Bath Street. By now it was half-past eight and the household was stirring. Mrs Walshaw came out of her room with a paper carrier containing her rubbish. She beamed at Martin but refused his offer of help, saying that her trip to the dustbin was likely to be the only fresh air she would get until she walked round to see her friend Doris at teatime. Martin smiled and would have continued on his way, but Mrs Walshaw put a detaining hand on the sleeve of his duffel coat. ‘Hang on a minute, Martin. What was all that fuss last evening? People hurrying up and down the stairs, opening and closing doors, shouting? I would have gone to have a shufti – I’m ever so curious, you know – but I was in bed with a lovely hot water bottle, having decided I’d have an early night, so I stayed where I was and thought I’d find out in the morning.’

Martin chuckled. ‘I expect it was the Bristows,’ he said. ‘Ozzie has said, right from the start, that it would never surprise her if they did a moonlight. Not that I think they will, not so near the end of the month. I mean, why should they? Sally Bristow told Rose ages ago that Ozzie made them pay a month in advance, so if they did leave now it would be the old bat who owed them money and not vice versa.’

‘Oh aye, I know all about the Bristows,’ Mrs Walshaw said, nodding her head so vigorously that a lock of blonde hair fell across her face and had to be pushed behind her ear. ‘No, it wasn’t the Bristows. Whoever was doing the running about came down two flights of stairs, not one. Not that I want to alarm you, dear, because I don’t think for one moment it was your Rose.’ She lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Your good lady had sort of hinted that she believed there might be trouble between the Scotts. I pooh-poohed the idea, but last night . . . still, you’d best go up and find out for yourself.’

Martin sighed, and when Mrs Walshaw had continued on her way to the dustbins he turned to Don. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he said as they began to mount the stairs. ‘If Rose has gone out with Millie and left me porridge I’ll heat it up on the Primus with a bit of extra milk, and then I’ll have the biggest pile of toast you’ve ever seen, ’cos this weather gives a man an appetite like a hungry wolf. How about you, old feller? I bet you could murder some toast and Marmite! Well, as soon as we get in—’

By now, he and Don were standing outside their own door, but before he could finish the sentence the Scotts’ door shot open. Scotty stood there, hair on end, eyes wild. He grabbed Martin’s arm and shook it slightly. ‘Have you been in yet? Did she leave you a note, tell you where she’s gone? I would have come to meet you but I don’t know which way you come home.’ He stepped past Martin and threw open the other man’s door. ‘They’ve gone, honest to God! Millie left me a few lines scrawled on a page out of an exercise book, but she only said she was fed up with being married and having to do everything, and meant to return to her parents.’

Martin pushed past him, but a single glance round the room told him that Scotty was telling the truth. It was painfully tidy and there was a note propped up on Rose’s pillow, where he could not fail to see it. Furthermore, their bags, which usually hung on two hooks by the door, were missing. Martin’s heart began to thump unevenly. Whatever could have happened to send his Rose careering after Millie? He snatched up the note, unfolded it, read it once, then a second time.

Scotty, who had followed him into the room, made an impatient noise and held out a hand. ‘What does she say? The same as Millie, I suppose. Martin, I can’t understand it; they’ve got good jobs, nice homes – well, not nice, but they seem to like it here well enough – and husbands who care about them. I admit we had a bit of a tiff, Millie and I, and this one . . . oh, hang it, Mart, it turned rather nasty. She grabbed a saucepan and cracked me over the head with it, and I gave her a good slap and she fell over and banged her face on a chair . . .’

‘You’d better read the note,’ Martin said. He could not believe what was happening to him. Rose might not want him the way he wanted her, but he knew she needed him. He watched, uneasily, whilst Scotty read Rose’s note. He felt there was something not quite right about it, but could not put his finger on what was wrong. He realised, of course, that despite his reassurances Rose still believed that Mrs Ellis might try to take Ricky away from them, but he was positive that the woman could not legally do so. In fact, from what Rose had told him about the Ellises, he thought them too intelligent to make a move that could only end in their humiliation.

Scotty hesitated for a moment, patting his pockets and looking puzzled. ‘What the devil did I do with it? I was pretty angry, so my first reaction was to scrumple it up and shove it in one of my pockets.’ He delved deeper, then seized the linings and pulled them out to show Martin that both his trouser pockets were empty. ‘Dammit, I reckon it must have fallen out. Let’s have another look in my room.’

They went next door and began to sift through the clothing and possessions that still littered floor and furniture, but without success. Suddenly Scotty smote his forehead. ‘I know what’s happened,’ he said. ‘I went down to the corner shop to buy a pint of milk – we’d run out and I was desperate for a cuppa – and it must have dropped out there. But honest, Mart, Millie’s note said even less than Rose’s. Just that she was fed up with being expected to work and manage the house and that she was sick of quarrelling . . . something like that. Anyway, it was only a couple of lines. I suppose I could go back to the corner shop, see if they’ve found it, but you won’t be any the wiser once you’ve read it, I promise you.’

Martin shrugged. ‘Never mind. But I shall need directions on how to reach Millie’s parents’ house, since I must go after them. I expect you think Rose can cope, but you don’t know her as well as I do. She’ll stand by Millie, but she won’t expect to stay in the Sandersons’ house and I don’t suppose she’s got a lot of money on her. Oh, God, and come to think of it she didn’t even take our Post Office book because I remember seeing it lying on the dresser when you and I first went into our room. Does Millie have money on her?’

‘Oh, she’s bound to have. And if she hasn’t, her parents would give her whatever she needs,’ Scotty said blithely. ‘But you’re right, we must get after them as soon as we can. Only – only I’d rather we went together, if it’s all the same to you, Mart. Tell me, who is this Mrs Ellis, and what does she want with Ricky?’

Martin, on his way to the door, stopped with his hand actually stretched out towards it. ‘Oh, when Rose was first pregnant she offered to adopt the baby when it was born – she has no kids of her own – and she wasn’t happy when Rose said she wanted to keep it. Rose thinks she probably signed adoption papers, thinking they were applications for housing or something. That’s why we left Liverpool.’

He tried to jerk himself free from Scotty’s grip, but the other man hung on. ‘Right, I understand that part of it,’ he said, and Martin saw to his annoyance that he was grinning slightly, raising an eyebrow, as though he thought Rose – and Martin himself – were idiots. ‘But why is she still afraid? You’re a sensible chap, Mart. You must know that this Mrs Ellis has no possible claim on Ricky, not even if you and Rose had signed a dozen adoption papers.’

Back in his own room, Martin made a pile of very untidy sandwiches, put a tin of Chappie and some dog biscuits into a paper carrier, and then began to search the room. He had not said so to Scotty, but he thought it likely that his friend, having read the note Millie had left for him, would have come straight round to consult Rose. He might easily have dropped Millie’s note here, and then not liked to admit that he had been trespassing, if you could call it that.

How fortunate it is that Rose and I are both quite tidy, Martin thought, sifting through a couple of magazines and some newspapers which lay on the chest of drawers. It won’t take me anywhere near as long to search this room as it took for the two of us to hunt through Millie’s muddle. Even as he was thinking this, he glanced towards the raffia wastepaper basket that Rose had bought at a jumble sale, and his heart gave a leap. He saw a piece of lined paper, similar to the one upon which Rose had written her own note to him. As he picked it up, it occurred to him to wonder why Scotty should have thrown Millie’s note into the wastepaper basket, but then he unfolded it and smoothed the creases, and his heart sank into his boots. It was not a note, but a shopping list which he had actually watched Rose laboriously writing when he had got back from work the previous day. Sighing, he began to crumple the paper up, then changed his mind. He laid it carefully upon the Formica-topped table, smoothing it out yet again. Then he produced the note which Rose had left for him, and compared the two. After some moments of staring from one sheet to the other, he became convinced that the writing was not the same. Oh, it was very similar, but in the note Rose had left him there were perfect little circles, whereas on her shopping list, in at least one or two places, the o was carelessly made, so it looked more like an e. Furthermore, on the shopping list the s was smaller at the top and larger at the bottom, whereas in Rose’s note to him the curves were uniform.

Martin sat down at the table, rested his chin on his hands, and stared ahead of him without seeing anything. Had she, for some reason, got someone else to write the note? She might have dictated it to Millie whilst she was doing the packing . . . no, that was not right. He had often seen Millie’s writing on lists or notes, and it was very distinctive, spiky and upright; quite different from Rose’s. He knew of course that it could have nothing to do with Mrs Walshaw, nor for that matter any other member of the household. He and Rose were friendly and polite to other tenants, but apart from Mrs Walshaw they had neither received visitors in their attic room nor visited them in turn. And that leaves Scotty, Martin thought grimly. He had admitted that he and Millie had had a fight, but he had most definitely blamed it on his wife. If Rose had been right, and Scotty was responsible for Millie’s ‘accidents’, Martin realised that Scotty might have written the note himself in order to fool him into helping persuade the girls to come back.

Martin half rose from his chair, then sank back into it again. This could not be right! He knew very well that though Millie had been told about the Ellises, Rose had sworn her to secrecy, begged her not to tell even Scotty about the older woman. And Scotty had had to ask him who Mrs Ellis was and what claim she had on Ricky, after he had read Rose’s note. No, he was maligning his friend, thinking him the worst sort of cheat. There was simply no way he could have known about Mrs Ellis . . .

Martin was actually beginning to relax when a little voice inside his head spoke in his inner ear. Unless Rose did leave you a note, the little voice suggested. And Scotty read it, didn’t like what it said, and decided to substitute his own version. Of course, that must be it! He knew very well that Rose would never have left without telling him where she was going – and why on earth, now he came to think of it, should she say be very kind to Scotty? It wasn’t the sort of thing one said to a fellow; and anyway, she had told him a couple of times of late that she was uneasy in Scotty’s company, did not altogether trust him.

Martin got to his feet and went next door. Scotty was standing by the cupboard in which they kept their clothing, his hand in the pocket of his best suit, the one he saved for board meetings, interviews and other such events. He gave a gasp as Martin burst into the room, and turned away from the rack of clothing. ‘Don’t you ever knock before coming into someone else’s room?’ he enquired plaintively. ‘I was just wondering if I should wear my best suit – Millie’s parents are sticklers for convention.’

Scotty’s mouth opened and shut several times, though not a sound came out. He reminded Martin of a goldfish that had accidentally jumped out of its bowl and was lying gasping on the tabletop, but he felt no pity for the other man. ‘C’mon, Scotty, give,’ he said, then snatched the piece of paper which Scotty had been trying to conceal and read it at a glance: I’m leaving you, you bastard, going home. If you turn up there, my parents will have the police on you. Goodbye for ever, Millie.

Scotty paled. ‘Honestly, Martin, you’ve always been a good friend to me; don’t let me down now! Help me persuade the girls to come back to us. I’m sure Millie has told Rose, and Rose has told you, that Mr and Mrs Sanderson won’t let Millie into the house whilst she and I are together. That tells you what sort of people they are, to try to separate a man from his wife. But it means I dare not go there myself and ask to see Millie. I’d have to hang around outside until the girls come out. But you can walk straight up to the front door and ask to see your wife and her friend. As I said, they’re very conventional. They’ll invite you in, probably offer you a cup of tea and a bun . . . I’ll write a letter to Millie if you like, begging her to come home, and you can deliver it. Yes, that’s a grand idea, because it gives you a reason for calling.’

The train from Rhyl had arrived in Chester at twenty minutes past ten, but Millie had assured her friend that there was a small lodging house about a hundred yards from the station, which would be open until midnight. She had heard it described as cheap but cheerful, and so it appeared, for the landlady had expressed neither surprise at the lateness of the hour, nor curiosity about the fact that each girl was carrying a sleeping baby in her arms. ‘You’ll be off the train from Wales,’ she had said, ushering them into a small room dominated by a very large bed. ‘We often get folk comin’ in for a night’s bed and breakfast, when their connections mean five or six hours hangin’ about on a cold platform. I hopes as you and the kids can manage wi’ the one bed, but I’m sure you’re that tired you could probably sleep on a clothes line. I serve breakfast from seven o’clock until nine, if that suits.’

The girls had assured her that it would suit very well and had bundled the babies into the big bed before following them in their underwear, not bothering with nightgowns but simply collapsing between the clean, crisp sheets. Rose had not really expected to sleep because her mind had kept revolving around the events of the day, but in fact sleep had claimed her as soon as her head touched the pillow. And now, awakening, she was astounded to hear a clock somewhere chime seven, and reached over to shake her friend awake.

Millie sat up, and with the movement the babies, who had been sleeping between their mothers, awoke. They were flushed from their sleep, but to the girls’ relief showed no signs of starting to bewail their lot. ‘You go down and get their grub and I’ll change their nappies,’ Millie said. ‘Oh, lor’, what’ll we do with the dirty ones?’ She began to unbutton her son to reveal a very dirty nappy indeed. ‘Oh, God, the pong! Can you bring some water back when you come, Rosie? You know, I thought this journey was going to be quite simple, but babies complicate everything, don’t they?’

Because their departure had been so hurried, it had not occurred to Rose until they had left Chester and were on the train heading for Shrewsbury to ask her friend some pertinent questions. Rose had been surprised when several people had looked into their carriage and then turned away. Then she glanced across at Millie and knew why they were still alone in the compartment. Millie’s face had stiffened and the bruising had come out in rainbow hues. They had left their temporary lodgings rather hurriedly and Millie’s usually soft and shining black hair was rumpled, for she had given up the unequal task of combing out the tangles when the two of them, having enjoyed a cooked breakfast, had paid the bill and sprinted for the station, their babies gurgling in their arms.

Now, Rose leaned forward and tapped her friend’s knee. ‘Millie, I know you’ve had a horrid time and I don’t blame you at all for leaving Scotty; in fact if you ask me you should have done it weeks ago. But one thing bothers me, queen. You know too much! You knew the time of the last train from Rhyl to Chester, you knew where we could get a night’s lodging, even though we turned up so late, and you seem to have no doubt that we’ll be welcomed at Pollyanna Modes when we reach Dinas Newydd. It looks to me as though you’ve been planning this for some time.’

She watched as colour blotched her friend’s face and neck, but when Millie spoke, it was defiantly. ‘Well, naturally, I looked into things when we were offered jobs at Pollyanna. I suppose you could say that I needed an escape route. But I never thought things would get to a point when running away was the only answer. You see, Mr McDonald guessed things weren’t right a while back. I think that was why he offered us the jobs in mid-Wales, but at the time I was still hoping that Scotty would see sense, grow up a bit, stop behaving like a spoilt kid . . .’

‘I did not,’ Millie said. ‘D’you remember when I said I’d fallen downstairs and caught my foot in the banister rail? Well, I was sent to the nurse. She asked me how I got my foot so mangled, so I told her the same story I told you, but apparently Nurse sees a lot of similar injuries and she guessed that someone had deliberately stamped on my foot. Anyway, I was limping out of her office when Mr McDonald came along and asked what I’d done. Later, when I went over to the crèche in my lunch hour, he and I had a talk and I admitted that Scotty could be violent. He suggested that we see a marriage guidance counsellor, but when I mentioned it to Scotty he got so nasty that I simply grabbed the baby and rushed down to the kitchen. I stayed there until I heard him go down to the pub, then I went back to our room and got Alex ready for bed. When Scotty came back, I told him it had just been an idea and I wouldn’t mention it again. And I didn’t, because I could see that if I did so, I’d probably end up strangled.’

She gave a small, rather watery laugh and Rose was dismayed to see tears running down her friend’s face. ‘You guessed right, of course; from that moment on I began to make enquiries as to how one would get from Rhyl to Dinas Newydd. I told Mr McDonald that if things got worse, I would accept his offer of a job at Pollyanna Modes, or at least go down that way and have a look at Pollyanna Modes – see what all the fuss was about. I mean, everyone who works at Pollyanna Pyjamas has the perfection of the Dinas Newydd factory shoved down their throats. He was very kind, Rose, but the truth is I never really thought I’d make the move. I told myself that if we bought one of the new bungalows, the ones on Martin’s estate, things would improve. Then it occurred to me that if we did buy a bungalow, we wouldn’t have you next door, or the other tenants close at hand. We wouldn’t even have lovely Mrs Walshaw to babysit. That was when I found out how one got from Rhyl to Dinas Newydd.’

‘I see, more or less,’ Rose said thoughtfully. ‘So you’re telling me that Mr McDonald had nothing to do with any of this? I know I’ve teased you about him, but I was half serious, because you’ve only got to look at the feller to see he likes you. So if it was his idea that you should run away from Scotty – run to Mr McDonald, in fact – I don’t see why you can’t come straight out with it and say so.’

‘Because it wouldn’t be true,’ Millie said, but again a betraying flush darkened her face and neck. ‘He was sorry for me, but that’s all there is to it. Well, you can scarcely pretend he knows me any better than he knows his other workers. And now, dear Rose, would you kindly drop it? Remember, we’re hoping to get jobs at Pollyanna Modes, where I gather he’s a power to be reckoned with.’