Upstairs, Tom’s wife and the trusted workmate were parting company.

      ‘Ssh!’

      While the man frantically dressed, Ruth ran onto the land­ing and listened. Nervous, she fled back into the bed­room. ‘There’s somebody outside the front door. You’d best be quick!’

      She grabbed the money he was offering, then took him by the arm and led him quickly and silently onto the landing, where she peered down.

      ‘It’s all clear … hurry!’ She ran him down the stairs. ‘Go out the back way.’ Keeping one wary eye on the front door, she hissed, ‘Through the scullery and out, along the ginnel. Be quick, dammit!’ She shoved Len towards the back rooms.

      Relieved to hear that Tom was chatting with someone outside the front door, she fled swiftly back up the stairs and into the bedroom where, breathless and excited, she hid her shameful earnings in a purpose-made slit in the hem of the curtain linings.

      She then went to the mirror, where she wiped away the heavy make-up and tidied her hair.

      On checking herself in the mirror, she wagged a finger at the reflected image. ‘One o’ these days, my girl, if yer not careful, you’ll be caught out, sure as eggs are eggs!’ The thought of her conquest fleeing through the alley­ways with his underpants on back to front and his trouser-belt dangling, had her stifling a giggle.

      Outside, Tom bade the neighbour good night. ‘Mind how you go, Mick, lad.’ The amiable old man was away to get his regular pint of ale at the local. He was often too early, but the landlord always let him in, and no one ever complained. Even the local bobby looked the other way.

      Impatient, Tom struggled with the fish and chips, finally found his key, and slid the key in the lock. Just then, out the corner of his eye, he thought he saw someone running out of the ginnel some way down the street. For a split second he thought he recognised the figure. But it was dark, the man was quickly gone from sight, and now he was not altogether certain.

      Tom shook his head, No … it couldn’t be Len, he thought. What in God’s name would he be doing running out of a ginnel, and here of all places? Besides, as I recall, he sent word to the foreman, to say he was having some teeth taken out.

      Looking again at the shadowy place where the figure had disappeared, a niggling thought crossed his mind. Then he glanced up at the front bedroom, where the light was on. ‘No …’ He dared not allow himself to believe what was running through his mind: the shocking idea of his wife and Len … up there in his own bed. All the same, he knew from experience that it was not an impossibility. Don’t be so bloody stupid! Len’s a good mate! he angrily dispatched the wicked idea from his mind.

      But the seed was sown. Maybe it really was Len running out of the ginnel. ‘You’re wrong.’ he muttered angrily. ‘Take a grip of yourself, man!’

      Opening the door, he entered the house, and called out his son’s name. ‘Casey! Casey, where are you?’

      When there was no answer he closed the door, went down the passage and called up the stairs, ‘Ruth, I’m home.’

      Ruth came rushing from the parlour, where she’d been congratulating herself on her conquest of Len, and her quick wit in covering her tracks. But then she’d had enough practice over the years.

      Tom was surprised to see her coming from the direction of the back room. ‘I thought you were upstairs.’

      ‘Really? Well, now you can see I’m not.’

      ‘Did you know the lights are on up there?’

      She feigned surprise. ‘Oh, are they? Well, yes, I was up there changing the beds, but I came rushing down when I heard you at the door.’

      Cursing herself for leaving the lights on, she wisely changed the subject. ‘Anyway, you’re late! Where’ve you been?’ Keeping a distance, she groaned, ‘The tea isn’t ready yet, but I’ve been up to my neck in ironing, and I’ve been catching up on a multitude of things.’

      Tom was not surprised. ‘So there’s no tea ready, then?’

      ‘Like I said, I’ve been that busy I haven’t even had time to go to the butcher’s and get the sausages I planned for your meal.’

      Eager to vindicate herself she began to whine, ‘You’ve no idea of the time it takes to run a house.’ She held out her hand. ‘Oh, and I’ll need some money if I’m going to buy some food from the corner shop. You go and talk to Casey.’ She stretched out her hand, ‘come on then!’ waiting.

      ‘Where’s Casey?’ Normally, the boy would be at the door, looking for his dad.

      ‘He’s in the front parlour. He said something about cleaning your guitar.’

      At that moment, soft musical tones emanated from the front parlour.

      ‘Well! The little sod!’ Ruth said angrily. ‘I warned him not to play the guitar, but you know what he’s like … doesn’t listen to a damned word I say.’

      Oblivious to the fact that Tom was standing in wet clothes, she screeched at him, ‘Did you not hear what I said? If I’m going to the corner shop, I’ll need money.’

      ‘For pity’s sake, woman, let me catch my breath, will you!’ Not once had she asked how his day had been, or noticed that he was wet to the marrow. ‘I need to dry myself off …’

      ‘Oh, yes … you’re soaked, aren’t you!’ Stepping back a pace, she feigned concern. ‘You’d best dry yourself on the towel in the kitchen, while I go to the shop.’ She thrust her open palm beneath his face. ‘I’m waiting! The quicker you give me some money, the quicker I’ll be back.’

      When she leaned forward to collect the little brown packet containing his wages, Tom could smell the other man on her; the thick tobacco odour that clung to her skin and lingered in her hair. Ruth smoked Woodbines, while it seemed this man rolled a stronger brand of tobacco.

      The image of the man running from the ginnel raised a suspicion in his mind. He knew Len smoked roll-ups. Was it possible that he and Ruth had … No! It was too loathsome to imagine. Besides, any number of men smoked roll-ups.

      He knew his wife had been with a man, though. The telltale tobacco odour had a woody smell, while her Woodbines were much sweeter. Over the years, Tom had learned to tell the difference.

      With her wanton ways and devious nature, she had caused him a deal of misery, but now it no longer mattered. Now he had a plan. Whatever happened, Ruth was a survivor and would come through. It was young Casey he worried about, and to that end he had made contingencies.

      Reaching into his coat, he took out the bag of fish and chips and handed it to her.

      ‘What’s this?’ She sniffed. ‘Fish and chips!’ Her face fell. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve spent good money on fish and bloody chips? Especially when I’d already planned sausage and mash. But, oh no! You had to take matters into your own hands, didn’t you, eh?’

      Tom ignored her goading. ‘You just said yourself, you haven’t got the meal ready, so now you don’t have to bother, do you?’ Giving her a way out for not cooking a meal was becoming a regular occurrence.

      He handed her the open wage packet. ‘There you are. Count it, if you like, while I go and put these out on plates before they get too cold to eat.’

      ‘Hey!’ She caught him by the arm. ‘You seem to forget, there are bills to be paid and I need to get your trousers out of Foggarty’s pawn shop. What you’ve given me is not enough. Oh, and while we’re at it, your son needs new shoes. How he wears ’em out so quick, I never will know!’

      But with his troubling thoughts elsewhere, Tom was not listening.

      ‘Hey!