A Mother’s Hope

Ever since Martin and Scotty had returned to Bath Street, Martin had listened for sounds from the room next door, wanting to hear none, hoping to learn that Scotty had left. But so far, though a fortnight had passed, this had not happened. The two men ignored one another completely, but Martin knew that Scotty went off to work at the usual time each morning and, when work finished, went straight to one of the many pubs that could provide him with a meal as well as a drink. He did not go to the Grosvenor, presumably because they might have asked questions, but then Martin did not go there either; he could not afford such luxuries. The barman at the Grosvenor had stopped Martin in the street one day and asked him what had gone wrong. ‘I ain’t sayin’ you was particularly good customers,’ he had said with a grin, ‘but at least you was regular. We miss you, to tell you the truth. I guessed you’d lost your job ’cos I seen you going into the Labour Exchange a few days back.’

‘You’re right. There was a – an emergency, an’ me wife had to go back to her parents’. She may be gone awhile, so I took some time off an’ when I got back the boss sacked me,’ Martin had said. ‘Nice of you to enquire, and if you hear of any job comin’ up I’d be real obliged if you’d let me know.’

Unfortunately, jobs in seaside towns during the winter were few and far between, and Martin was beginning to realise that if Rose did not reappear soon he would have to sign on the dole, though he dreaded doing so; it seemed an admission of failure. He was still putting in odd hours at the funfair, but they scarcely kept him and Don in food. He knew he ought to look for cheaper lodgings, but he was still hoping to get a letter from Rose, giving him her new address.

Jimmy Carruthers hurried into the office, speaking as he entered his father’s cosy little den. ‘Morning, Pa! What a weekend, eh? I thought it would never stop raining, and it’s still coming down as though we ought to be building an ark!’ Mr Carruthers senior grunted irritably and Jimmy’s heart sank. However, it would not do to show that his father’s ill humour made him nervous, so he grinned at the older man and went back to the door, glancing upwards as he did so. ‘But it won’t last; there’s blue sky over the sea,’ he said encouragingly. ‘What d’you want me to do today, Pa?’

‘When the rain stops – if it ever does – you can get on bricklaying at the big house on Plot 5,’ Mr Carruthers growled. ‘One thing to be grateful for, we only lost a few hours on Saturday morning. But today . . . oh, well, we’ll have to wait and see. Hand me the post, would you?’

His son grabbed the pile of mail which the postman had deposited on a rickety table near the door and began to pass them to his father. Then he stopped, staring at the envelope in his hand. ‘There’s one here that isn’t for us, Pa,’ he said. ‘It’s for the feller that did night watchman for us a bit back.’

‘Can’t do that, Pa,’ Jimmy said righteously. ‘It’s illegal to destroy mail addressed to someone else . . . I’d best redirect it. Or shall I take it round to his place? Not now,’ he added hastily, seeing a scowl descend on his father’s brow, ‘this evening, after work.’

‘Please yourself,’ Mr Carruthers said, pulling the rest of the mail towards him and beginning to slit the envelopes with an ivory paper knife. He pushed a large ledger towards his son. ‘You’ll find the address in there.’

He spent the day bricklaying and left a little early, since he was to deliver the letter. He wondered how Thompson was managing, if he had a job yet, and whether he did in fact still live in Bath Street. But he posted the small brown envelope through the letter box of No. 27 and went on his way, satisfied that his errand had been discharged. You never knew – the fellow might have applied for a job and the envelope might contain details of an interview. At any rate, Jimmy’s conscience was now clear, and as he turned for home he began to whistle.

Scotty came home feeling downright cheerful for the first time since Millie had left him. He had been called into the boss’s office that morning and had gone with some trepidation, fearing a dressing down because, though he had somehow managed to do his work, he was well aware that his usual cheerful demeanour had been lacking.

But the boss had been very understanding, said he had heard that Scotty’s pretty young wife had left him . . . and had offered Scotty a six-month secondment to their Canadian works with an increase in pay, good lodgings and the use of a car. He had also hinted that if Scotty liked the work he might apply to take the job on permanently.

Scotty had pretended that he would have to think the offer over, but he knew he would accept it. It was the perfect escape from Rhyl, which had become loathsome in his eyes, and from Millie, against whom he still held an enormous grudge. But Alex . . . he missed Alex horribly and sometimes woke in the night, thinking he heard the baby crying. Then he would cry himself, saying through clenched teeth that he would make her sorry, one day, for ruining his life.

But if he made a home and a decent life for himself in Canada, who could say what might happen? He spent a pleasant ten minutes imagining that Millie would go down on her knees and beg to be taken along, and then another ten minutes plotting how he would take Alex away from her; first of course finding himself a wife who would look after the child whilst he worked.

Yes, that was the right attitude to take. If only he had managed to find out where the girls had gone it would be different. He could give Millie the lesson she richly deserved: take his son, and go off to Canada, possibly without anyone’s knowing. He could give the kid a much better life than Millie could, so the authorities would let little Alex live with his father rather than his mother. But despite his most stringent efforts to find them, Rose, Millie and the two little boys had disappeared as completely as a couple of raindrops in a puddle. So he would go to Canada and have a damned good time and worry about Millie and the boy when it became necessary to do so.

He reached 27 Bath Street and slipped inside. Because of the offer of the job in Canada his boss had let him leave early, and he was about to climb the stairs to change his work suit for something more casually comfortable when he saw a letter lying on the hall linoleum. Odd! Mrs Osborne checked the post each morning and put her tenants’ correspondence on the board, but perhaps this letter had come in the second post, or it could have been delivered by hand. Scotty turned the envelope over and his heart gave a gleeful leap. It was addressed to Martin, and he knew the writing well, for had he not studied it carefully before forging that note from Rose? He looked around him, then, still holding the letter, began to run up the stairs. It would undoubtedly contain their address, and though he did not have time to follow it up if he was to take the job in Canada, at least he would know where they could be found.

As soon as he reached his own room, Scotty shut the door and ripped open the envelope. He would destroy the letter once he had copied down the address. The girl would probably write again, but if she did not Scotty thought Martin would have been well served. He hated the other man and would positively enjoy injuring him in some way.

He wrote down the address, went to tear the letter across without reading it, then paused. A better revenge occurred to him. He would put on the envelope, in a good imitation of Martin’s writing, Not known at this address, which, hopefully, would dissuade Rose from trying to get in touch again.

There was one snag, though. He could not remember seeing an example of Martin’s hand. Then he remembered the exercise books in which, he assumed, Martin was scrawling down a kind of diary. He went next door, found one of them, copied Martin’s small, neat script, and then returned to his own room. He would go down to the pub presently and tell his new cronies all about his amazing luck over the job in Canada. Then he would drop the letter from that nasty little gingery female back in the postbox. He would enjoy that, hugging to himself the knowledge that Rose was unlikely to write again after such a snub. And just to make things perfect, he meant to leave without paying Ozzie the rent he owed. She had criticised him, demanded her money, given that peculiar liquid sniff of hers when he promised to pay her at the end of the next week . . . the next . . . the next . . .

He did as he had planned, but it was no use, and at the end of the day, tired and dispirited, he and Don returned to Bath Street with lagging steps. No one wanted staff and several times he had felt, rightly or wrongly, that it had been his appearance that had put prospective employers off. So he and Don toiled up the stairs feeling thoroughly disheartened. As soon as they reached the upper landing, however, Martin realised that something was going on. The door to Scotty’s room was open and Mrs Osborne, with a duster tied round her greying hair and a number of paper carriers spread out before her, was impatiently filling them with what looked like garments of some description. Martin walked over to her, eyebrows rising. ‘What’s up,’ Mrs Osborne? Can I take it Scotty’s moving out?’

Mrs Osborne gave a loud and juicy sniff. ‘Moving out? He’s being thrown out, and not before time,’ she announced. ‘He’s not paid me a penny of rent since his wife left him. I was sorry for the feller; he kept telling me his wife would be back soon, which weren’t true, of course. But I’ll say this for you, Mr Thompson, there’s not a penny owing so far as you’re concerned. I don’t know what he told you, but he left me a note saying his firm were sending him to Canada. He didn’t expect to be coming back, but if he did it wouldn’t be to here, and not a penny did he enclose of what he owes.’

‘He’s gone, Mr Thompson,’ she said. ‘Scarpered, cleared orf! Must have been this morning, when I’d nipped out to do me shoppin’. I’ve done everything I could. I rang his firm but they said he’d already left. The lady I spoke to told me to send in a bill and they would forward it on to him.’ She sniffed again. ‘A fat lot of good that will do! So I’m packing up everything he’s left, such as it is, and taking it to the nearly new. He’s took everything of any value. I reckon he’s sold anything he could get a few bob for and then done a moonlight. I dare say, being a feller, you didn’t notice that he was drinking heavily, which must have cost him a pretty penny.’ She shovelled the last few garments into one of the carriers, then began to brush the floor vigorously, sending clouds of dust into the air. ‘The mess and dirt is unbelievable!’ she said. ‘And I’ve got another tenant interested in these rooms, so if you’re thinking of moving on at the end of the month, just let me know.’

Martin smiled but vouchsafed no reply. He was still hoping that Rose would get in touch; he was sure that a letter or at least a card would arrive in Bath Street soon. It was this hope alone, he knew, which kept him in his present room, though now that Scotty had moved out things would be a good deal pleasanter.

‘If I mean to leave you, Mrs Osborne, I’ll give you notice in the usual way,’ Martin said, with an assumption of calm he did not feel. ‘I’m truly sorry Mr Scott has behaved so badly, but he and I are very different. What do you mean to do with Mrs Scott’s stuff, though? And little Alex’s, of course?’

‘I’m going to sell it to recoup me rent, and don’t you go saying that it ain’t honest, because I’m owed,’ the landlady said crossly. ‘My, the state of this room, though! I don’t believe Mr Scott has lifted a finger since his wife left. He told me some story about a sick mother, but I didn’t believe a word of it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘One or two of the other tenants reckon Mr Scott wasn’t above giving his wife rough treatment for no real cause. What d’you say to that, eh?’

‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Martin admitted. ‘Millie – Mrs Scott – went home to her parents because Mr Scott was violent, and Rose went with her. So don’t regret losing a lodger, because Scotty was a real bad lot. And now if you’ll excuse me, Don and I have got to get our supper ready.’

Martin went into his own room, closing the door behind him. He walked towards the food cupboard, then stopped short. He always left a small pile of shillings beside the meter, and he was sure he had done so that morning, but now not one coin remained. Perhaps he had put them on the mantelpiece, or on the table . . . he often put things down on the chest of drawers. He glanced in that direction, saw his rent book, and realised, with a stab of dismay, that the Post Office book was no longer in its accustomed place.

At first, he simply refused to believe it and hunted wildly, going through every drawer, every cupboard, every possible hiding place. Don, sensing that something was wrong, followed him round, but after a fruitless search Martin was forced to descend to the basement to ask Mrs Osborne if there had been a Post Office book in the Scotts’ room.

Mrs Osborne shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me he’s stole your savings,’ she said sadly. ‘And I used to think the pair of you was thick as thieves, if you’ll pardon the expression. If I was you, Mr Thompson, I’d go straight to the police station, though by now I reckon he’ll have withdrawn every penny and made off.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Martin said bleakly. ‘You say he cleared off first thing this morning, whilst the house was empty? So by now he’ll be long gone. I don’t suppose he’ll go back to his parents; he didn’t seem to get on with them. I’ll go to the scuffers – the police, I mean – but I expect it’s useless.’

Martin went to the police station immediately, but, though sympathetic, the desk sergeant held out little hope of his getting his money back, so Martin returned to his room, black despair in his heart. He made himself and Don a hasty meal, then climbed into bed, cuddling up to Don’s comforting warmth. Presently, to his shame, he began to cry, shaken by the situation in which he found himself, and was grateful when the big dog turned in his arms and began to lick the salt tears from his cheeks.

When her letter to Martin arrived back, with Not known at this address in Martin’s neat, well-remembered handwriting, Rose did not even show the envelope to Millie, but took it to her own room and wept bitterly. It was all her fault! She had told him many times that she never meant to marry, but that if she did it would be to someone tall, dark and handsome. They had laughed over it, she remembered miserably, but Martin must have taken it seriously, and when he had come back to Bath Street and found her missing, without so much as a proper explanation, he must have decided that they would be best apart.

But after a couple of hours of abject misery and self-blame, Rose pulled herself together. Martin was her best pal, so she would find him one of these days and tell him . . . what? She still did not fancy marriage, not to anyone; she just wanted Martin, and their comfortable relationship, back. And anyway, it wasn’t as if she was alone. She had Ricky, and she had Millie, though seeing the loving looks which Mr McDonald sent her friend when he thought no one was looking, she guessed that it would only be a matter of time before the two married . . . but by then I’ll be truly independent, she told herself. The awful ache which losing Martin had left would have gone, and she would have made a new life for herself.

A couple of weeks passed, and then Millie came across to the crèche, where Rose was still working, agog with a new idea. ‘We are a pair of idiots,’ she said, pulling Rose into the corridor where they could talk in comparative seclusion. ‘Haven’t you remembered how clever Scotty is at forgery? Given time, he could copy almost anything. My bet is that when you sent the letter to the building site Martin shoved it in his pocket and took it back to Bath Street to read in his own room. And if Scotty saw it he’d have thought that a good way to get back at you for going off with me was to take the letter and send it back here. What d’you think?’

‘I think you’re clutching at straws, because Mart would have noticed the letter had gone. But you’re right in one way: anything could have happened. The letter could have been returned by the local post office and someone with writing very like Mart’s could have redirected it,’ Rose said after a few minutes’ thought. ‘Look, I’m going to visit Rhyl again the moment I’ve saved enough for the fares. I’ll go along to Bath Street and if Mart isn’t there any longer I’ll ask Ozzie to tell me what’s been happening. I could write to her, of course, but I think a visit would be better. If Mart has moved on then I’ll go to his building site and to the funfair – someone will know something, I’m sure. Will you give an eye to Ricky while I’m gone?’

When he awoke next morning, Martin did some sums in his head and decided that not even finding cheaper lodgings would make up for the loss of both his job and their Post Office savings book. He would have to grit his teeth and sign on for the dole, and when he had done that he rather thought that his rent might be paid for him until he found himself a proper job. He would not declare the bit of work Mr Foster still gave him from time to time, because if he did so it would complicate matters, or so he understood from others searching the advertisements in the Labour Exchange.

He made himself a cup of tea and a pile of bread and margarine, then looked out of the window. It was still raining; just the sort of day when the Labour Exchange would be crammed full of wet and miserable people and jobs, needless to say, would be few. But he had made up his mind to have one more go at finding work, and if he was unsuccessful he would then sign on. He had paid Mrs Osborne up to the end of the month, that was one blessing, so he would have a roof over his head – and Don’s, of course – for a little while yet.

Martin shared his bread and margarine with Don, then put on his trusty waterproof and set off into the downpour. If only Rose would write! He simply could not understand why she had not done so. He would have worried that harm might have befallen her or Ricky if he had not known she was with Millie; Millie was both brave and resourceful, as indeed was Rose. One of them would get in touch with him soon, he was sure. He would ask Mrs Osborne to forward any post addressed to him to his new lodgings, and as soon as he knew where the girls and their sons were he would set out, walking if necessary, to join them.

At the Labour Exchange he had what he devoutly hoped might be a bit of luck. They wanted a porter at the railway station and the man behind the grille said that his previous experience of that work, though it had occurred a while ago, and had been of short duration, might give him a head start over other job seekers. Heartened by this idea, Martin set out at once. When he reached the station, however, the job had already been taken, and he was just leaving the forecourt when a voice hailed him.

Martin swung round, staring. Then a big beam spread across his face. ‘Thomas! Well I never did! What the devil are you doin’ in Rhyl on a rainy morning? Don’t say you’ve biked here wi’ a letter from the good old Cygnet. I can believe a lorra things, but that’s a bit much for anyone to swallow.’

‘Nah, course not,’ Thomas said, coming to a halt beside Martin. ‘I’ve got a couple of days off so I’ve come down to Rhyl to see me cousin what lives in Rhuddlan, an’ I was just goin’ to hop on a bus when I saw you. The Cygnet were all right, but somehow the fun went out of it when you buggered off. So after a bit I did the same: went as general dogsbody to Humphries & Renshaw, a smallish firm of printers, in case you’ve not heard of ’em.’

‘Oh,’ Martin said. ‘Thomas, it’s so good to see you! Tell me, were they very angry when I left the Cygnet the way I did? Only the truth is, we had no choice. We – we ran way from someone who – who wanted Rose to give up the baby when it were born, and we couldn’t have that.’

Thomas looked puzzled. ‘If you say so, old feller, but it didn’t go down too well wi’ the bosses; I don’t think they’d tek you on again. But if you was lookin’ for a job in the ’Pool . . .’ He paused, eyeing Martin doubtfully. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t consider applyin’ for my job? It’s nothin’ grand – deliveries, post, that kind of thing – but the money’s not bad.’

‘I’ve gorra girl what works at Lewis’s. She’s got me a job in their despatch department,’ Thomas said proudly, ‘better money and shorter hours. What do you say, old feller? Are you on?’ He grinned at his pal. ‘One of the things I remember about you is your neat, clear writing, and that’s something Mr Renshaw is keen on. Come to that, if you agree, I’ll write you a reference meself!’

‘You’re on,’ Martin said promptly. He and Thomas rushed back to Bath Street, where Martin slung his few belongings into his old canvas bag and left a note for Mr Osborne, and by evening he was back in Liverpool, having booked himself into the YMCA, smuggled Don into his dormitory and spread out the dog’s old blanket under his bed, adjuring him to silence.

Next morning, Martin washed and dressed with care and walked to the printing works. An hour later he emerged, triumphant. He had got the job! He knew the work would suit him very well and the salary was sufficient to pay for a room when something cheap came up. He wrote another hasty note to Mrs Osborne telling her he had found work and giving her the address of the YMCA. Then he settled down to learning his new job.

It had not been easy to find decent lodgings because most landlords would not even consider taking Don, but when Mr Fisher, one of the compositors at Humphries & Renshaw, had been told of the problem he had recommended his brother-in-law, who was looking for what he called a steady young chap in regular employment, who would not disturb other lodgers by playing his wireless too loud, or by holding wild parties.

So within a couple of weeks of arriving in Liverpool Martin moved into a tall, old-fashioned house on Breck Road, off Heyworth Street, to a friendly welcome from Mr and Mrs Denby. He was led up a steep flight of stairs to a pleasant room on the first floor and both Denbys made a fuss of Don, telling him what a grand fellow he was and how nice it would be to have a dog in the house once more, since their own old spaniel had died the previous year.

The rent was reasonable and included breakfast, Mrs Denby having explained that she would provide an evening meal for an extra five bob a day. ‘But of course if you’d prefer to cook for yourself, there’s a Primus in your room, or you can use the kitchen after seven thirty,’ she said. ‘Does that suit, Mr Thompson?’

Martin said it suited him very well. With the warmer weather coming, he had been dreading going back to the long stuffy dormitory, redolent of unwashed socks, unwashed men and stale food, in the lodging house down by the docks to which he had been obliged to move when the YMCA had objected to Don. He had not even had to give notice that he was quitting, since he paid each night for his accommodation, but he had told the man in charge that he had found something permanent anyway. The man was old, and as dirty and smelly as most of his customers. He had merely grunted when Martin had said he had found a room and had made a nasty remark about Don, so that Martin had been doubly glad to leave.

It did not take him long to realise that he had fallen on his feet. The other two lodgers were middle-aged men who kept themselves to themselves, and Mrs Denby was an excellent cook. Martin treated himself to two or three of her meals each week, heating up soup, baked beans or boiled eggs in his own room when he was not enjoying his landlady’s delicious fare. Weekends were different. There was a café further down the road and Martin had a midday dinner there on Saturdays. The proprietress was very attached to Don and one reason why Martin favoured her establishment was the large plate of scraps that she saved for the dog.

Now Martin lay in bed, with a shaft of sunlight playing across his face, rejoicing in the fact that it was Saturday and he did not have to go to work. He knew he was lucky both in his job and in his lodgings, but he ached for Rose and thought about her and Ricky constantly. Why had she not written? He was sure she was not dead, but could not understand her silence; they had been good friends, if nothing more, and one did not lose touch with friends.

Martin sighed and got out of bed, clicking his fingers to Don, who jumped to his feet and grinned hopefully at his master. Martin began to dress, telling himself that he and Rose would meet up again soon. He would advertise . . . go back to Rhyl . . . but today he planned to revisit old haunts. He did not mean to return to the boys’ home where he had been brought up until he was a success at something or other, but he did mean to stroll past and take a look at the place. Then he meant to visit the children’s home where Rose had lived, so that he might see if she had contacted anyone there, though it seemed unlikely.

Last, but not least, he meant to go to the tower block in Everton Brow. He thought he would try to visit the old lady on the ninth floor, because he knew that Rose had been sorry for her and had popped in from time to time with small gifts such as a sausage roll or a meat and potato pie. She had known that the old lady appreciated home cooking and had been glad to be able to give pleasure, although of course when she could she had sold her baking so that she might have a little money of her own. Martin knew that Mrs Ellis had made his pal a generous allowance, but as time passed he had grown to understand that Rose wanted to be able to give the child she was expecting garments which she herself had paid for with money earned by her own efforts, not given to her from either guilt or charity.

Immediately after breakfast, Martin and Don set off. They checked out the children’s homes – nothing seemed to have changed and Rose had not been in touch – and then made their way to the tower blocks. Martin felt a pang at the sight of them; he had been happy here, determined to do well so that one day he and Rose . . .

But she had scotched such hopes when she had told him they could be nothing but pals. Only of course hopes aren’t quite so easily put to flight; they persist, sometimes by day, sometimes by night. As well as thinking of her constantly, he had begun to dream about her; dreams in which he saved her from some danger or other – a dragon, a sea-monster, or even just plain old Mr Ellis – and was rewarded by her undying love. Daydreams were almost as good. She came into the printing works, dress torn half off her back . . . she had been involved in a traffic accident, a fight with a jealous employer . . . she was trapped in a burning building from which only he, who knew a secret entrance, could rescue her . . .

But those were daydreams and this was reality. He entered the tower block confidently, glanced at the lift, which was out of order, naturally, and began to climb the stairs. One hand lay on Don’s smooth head and in the other was a brown paper bag. It might not be Rose’s cooking, but in Martin’s opinion Sample’s was the next best thing, so he had popped in there and bought two sausage rolls, a meat and potato pie and two sugary doughnuts. The old lady on the ninth floor – Mrs Templeton – dearly loved a doughnut.

Panting slightly, Martin arrived. He cast a wistful glance up the next flight of concrete stairs which had led to the only real home he had ever known, but turned his eyes away resolutely. Rose’s flat belonged to someone else now, and anyway, his errand was here. He banged on the door and waited. He could hear a wireless playing softly and smiled to himself; Mrs Templeton had been saving up to buy a wireless set, though she had confided to Rose that her son, who helped to build ships on the Clyde in Scotland, had hinted that she might receive a set sooner than she thought.

Martin was still smiling to himself at the thought of the old lady’s pleasure when the sound of footsteps came to his ears. Mrs Templeton in her old carpet slippers had heard his knock. The door opened a slit and a beady eye was pressed to it. Martin hastily dragged the cap from his head, telling himself as he did so that she was more likely to recognise him by his white hair than anything else. ‘It’s me, Mrs Templeton; Rose’s friend.’

‘I think you met me once or twice, but it was Rose – her on the tenth floor – and old Don here that you knew best.’ He waved the paper bag. ‘I’ve brought you a little present. It’s from Rose really.’

There was a rattling as the old lady took the chain off the door and swung it wide. ‘Little present?’ she said, peering hopefully at the brown paper bag. ‘It ain’t often as I get give a present! Wharris it?’

Martin stared. Whoever this lady might be, she was not Mrs Templeton. She was small and thin, with draggly grey locks hanging half across her face and skin the colour of parchment. She was dressed in black, with a red woollen shawl about her shoulders and large carpet slippers, far too big for her, on her feet. She held out a claw-like hand towards Martin, saying as she did so: ‘I doesn’t reckernise you, but that don’t mean much. You’d best come in.’

‘If you mean the old woman what had this flat till Michaelmas, she died. I’m Mrs Halloran,’ the old woman said. ‘I telled them, when they put me into this flat, that I shouldn’t last much longer meself, climbing up an’ down them bleedin’ stairs. Still, there you are.’ Her eyes, which had flickered over Martin from top to toe, came to rest on the paper bag. ‘What’ll you do with that there present? Only I doesn’t get out to the shops much, bein’ as the lift’s always broke . . . well, thank you kindly!’

Martin thrust the bag into her hopefully extended hands. ‘You’re welcome,’ he mumbled as she opened it and exclaimed joyfully over its contents. ‘And I’m real sorry that Mrs Templeton has gone. I’ll tell Rose. But now I must . . .’

He shook his head at her half-hearted invitation to share the contents of the brown paper bag and set off down the stairs once more, feeling chastened. He had so looked forward to calling on the old lady and reminiscing about Rose. Now all he had to tell Rose when they met up again was that her old friend had died some time after their departure.

He emerged from the tower block and set off down the slope of Everton Brow. Don, the most obedient and eager of companions as a rule, kept glancing back, and two or three times Martin had to call the dog to him. He was surprised when Don suddenly gave vent to a high, excited bark, for Martin had rarely heard the dog give tongue. He glanced ahead as the animal suddenly broke into a fast lope and saw, on the opposite pavement, a young woman pushing a large, old-fashioned pram. Light dawned. This was what Don would think of as ‘Rose country’, and he must have thought the young pram-pusher was Rose herself. Martin yelled the dog’s name, shouted him to come to heel . . . but it was too late. Don had careered off the pavement and into the busy road; brakes shrieked, tyres squealed . . . and a bus came out of nowhere, or so it seemed to Martin.

One moment Don was all fast, fluid movement, the next he lay in the road whilst the bus driver tumbled out of his vehicle, exclaiming: ‘It weren’t my fault. The bloody animal just about ran under me wheels and committed suicide, so he did. It weren’t my fault, I’m tellin’ you.’

Martin had dived into the road, with no thought of apportioning blame in his mind. Don’s hurt bad, he thought. Oh, God, why didn’t I guess that he’d be lookin’ for Rose the moment we got to Everton Brow? Why didn’t I have my hand on his collar? If anyone caused the accident it were me . . . oh, God, lerr’im be all right, lerr’im not be suffering!

In a way, Martin’s prayer was answered. When he fell to his knees beside the big dog, Don’s eyes were already glazing in death and under his mouth the stream of blood was ceasing to flow as his pulse faltered and stopped. Martin pulled Don’s beloved head on to his knee, and for one moment his heartbroken gaze met Don’s and he thought he read understanding and forgiveness in those dark, liquid eyes; certainly there was love. Then recognition fled and what lay in the road was no longer his old pal but just an empty shell.

For weeks all Martin could do was reproach himself for Don’s death. He missed him more than he would have thought possible, acknowledging now how much the dog had meant to him, not just as a companion but as a constant reminder of happier days with Rose and little Ricky. He could not think of the dog without tears coming to his eyes and an ache to his heart. Don’s complete acceptance of Martin as someone fitting to receive his total trust and love, his pleasure in his master’s company, even his obedience, haunted Martin with vain regrets. He was the best, yet I took him for granted, Martin told himself miserably. And in the end, I let him down.

But it was no use repining. The big dog had gone and, to make matters worse, for days and days Martin had to field enquiries as to Don’s whereabouts and well-being. He had not realised how many people thought of himself and Don as a pair, or how popular the big dog had become, even at the printing works, where his sweetness of disposition, his obedience and his ability to blend into the background was now wistfully commented upon by many of the workers who had paid very little attention to him whilst he was alive.

Teddy, one of his fellow workers and a good friend, was once tactless enough to say that Martin’s life must be easier without the dog. Martin grunted non-committally, but was grateful when one of the older printers was more understanding. ‘When I were a kid I had a dirty little mongrel – a cross between a terrier and a rat, me dad used to say,’ he told Martin. ‘But I loved that perishin’ dog as though he were me brother, and when he died it fair broke me heart. So you see I know what you’re goin’ through, and it’s mighty hard. Time heals, though, old feller. In a few weeks that awful ache, the feelin’ that your Don is just about to come through the doorway, will gradually ease, just you see if it don’t.’

He was right. The pain of loss did ease and Martin was able to think of his old friend without tears. But what about Rose? Don had been as much her dog as his. He dared not think how she would feel when at last he was able to break the news of Don’s death.