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Going to Mollie, I said, "I must be making for home, Mollie."

"Aye, it's getting' on, I suppose you must. Who's goin' with you?

You're not very steady on your pins. "

With a silly giggle I was about to say, "I'll manage all right," when Ted Farrel, putting his hand on my shoulder, said, "I'll see she gets home, never fear."

So with his arms in mine Ted walked me home. Sometimes we sang and sometimes we laughed, and when we reached the corner of the street I stopped, saying, "Now I'll manage."

"I'll see you the morrow then ?"

"Yes, Ted, the morrow."

"Give us a kiss, Christine."

"Wait until the morrow, Ted."

"The morrow's a long time, Christine."

"Not tonight Ted, the morrow."

I pulled away from him.

"Good night, Ted."

"Good night, Christine."

I made an effort to steady my steps as I neared our door, then in the dimness I saw someone standing on the Patterson's step, and I knew it was Sam. He didn't speak, and when I said, "That you, Sam?" he still did not speak, and I laughed and said, "Good night, Sam," then let myself into the house.

In the kitchen Dad was sitting waiting, and his look seemed to sober me a little, and as I pulled off. my hat and coat I said, "Don't say it.

Dad, dont say it."

"Do you know you've a baim?"

"I think so. Dad, I think so." My voice sounded high and careless.

"She's been crying her eyes out for you."

"She's got to be left sometimes. I brought her up wrong, I never left her a minute for years."

"You've no right to put on Mrs. Patterson."

"Mrs. Patterson likes having her."

"Mrs. Patterson likes having her so's she can turn her into a bloody Methodist."

"If she grows up like Mrs. Patterson then she won't be so bad."

"The next time you go out and stay out all day I'm goin' to put her in next door with Phyllis." 205 I swung round on him, no careless touch to my voice now. I was rocking slightly and I held on to the table, but my speech was steady as I said, "You do. You do that, Dad, and I'll walk out. There's nothing to stop me, y'know. I could take her and leave this house the morrow. You take her to Aunt Phyllis's just once' - I bounced my head emphasizing the 'once' - 'and I'll walk out.

I can get a job, in fact I'm going to get a job in any case. If I stay here I'm going to get a job, but I'll get one quicker than you think if you take her into Aunt Phyllis's."

I had beaten him and he knew it, and he turned from me saying, "My God!"

For a moment I felt a great pity for him and tears welled up unbidden into my eyes, but they didn't fall. I wanted to go to him and put my arms about him and say, "It's all right, I'm not going to go away.

It's all right. And dont worry about anything else, I've had my lesson. " I wanted to say that, but I didn't for I wasn't sure of myself. I didn't know if I was going to go wrong, really wrong, or not. I was all sixes and sevens inside unless I had a drop, and then all I wanted was to talk and have a laugh.

Slowly I turned about and went upstairs and into the front room.

Constance was awake and lying sucking her thumb as if she were a baby.

At the sight of me she raised herself in the bed and I went to her and, bending over her, I said some what thickly, "Hallo there, dear, kiss Mummie good night." I swayed a little as I bent, and put my hand out to the bed rail to steady myself. Her face was outlined in the night light, her eyes were peering at me, then her little hand came on to my chin and she pushed my face from her as she said, "I dont like you, I hate you, you smell nasty." Then flinging herself round in the bed she covered her head with the clothes.

Slowly I straightened myself up, and blindly now, for the tears were running down my face, I turned about and went into my room. I was filled with anger and pity for my plight, a maudlin pity. I was nasty and I smelt. My God! I tore my things off and, getting into bed, I crushed my face into the pillow and sobbed, but strangely enough I did not cry myself to sleep. I was dry-eyed and sober when at last sleep came to me.

The next morning Dad woke me with a cup of tea, and as I opened my eyes the light pierced through my head like a sheet of flame and I covered my face against the glare, and Dad, sitting on the side of the bed, looked at me and said quietly, "Lass, I'm worried to death about you."

"Oh, Dad, dont start again."

"I've got to talk with you, I can't see you going on like this. Every time you go down to that Mollie's you come back drunk. You who didn't know what the taste of it was like. What's got into you?"

"That's a daft question, isn't it, Dad?"

"I know, I know, lass." His hand came on to my shoulder.

"But you're not going to alter things, you're not going to make them better by killing yourself. You're not made for drink, you can't carry it, and if you go on the way you've been doing lately, that's what it'll do, it'll kill you. Your mind first and then your body. I've seen it afore with certain women. And, lass, I'm sick to the heart."

It was odd but I, too, was sick to the heart this morning, sick of myself and the memories of last night, not that there had been anything out of place, but the company in Mollie's from this distance seemed to be questionable not my kind of company. But what was my kind of company? Men who talked posh? I'd had some . with interest!

There . there I was thinking like Mollie's lot, so where was the difference?

"And you know something else?" went on Dad.

"Sam is worried about you.

And it's him who looks after Constance, more than Mrs. Patterson, that is when he's not on shifts. I'll tell you something. I think Sam wants to marry you. Mind you, he hasn't said anything to me, but I can twig it. "

"Dad, keep quiet." My voice was low.

"I'm not going to marry Sam or anybody else." Yet why did I think of Ted at this moment? I could think of marrying Ted when I couldn't think of marrying Sam, yet I cared for Sam. But Sam roused nothing but tenderness in me, and I had sensed already that Ted could rouse other feelings, and it seemed a necessary ingredient of love that these feelings should be roused, for I was just twenty-two.

"Don't go to that Mollie's any more, promise me that, lass, will you?"

"No, Dad, I can't promise. Mollie's been a good friend to me. But I'll promise to go steady. I won't repeat last night."

"And you won't leave the hairn so often when I'm not in? I dont mind when I'm in and can look after her."

"Yes, I promise that an' all. I won't leave her unless you or Sam's in."

He sighed and patted my hand and rose heavily from the bed, and my eyes lifted with him and I realized that in the five years since my mother died he had become an old man. He wasn't fifty but he was stooped and his face was lined, and there was no life or strength in him, only the strength necessary to hew coal, which was a different strength from that required for living.

That afternoon I took Constance for a walk. She had apparently forgotten her tantrum of the night before. I had dabbed my clothes with scent to take away any smell of the stale whisky that might be hanging about them, and while we were in the town I called at Mollie's.

The door was open as was usual. The place looked a shambles and nobody was there. I left a note on the mantelpiece to say that I wouldn't be able to come down this evening, but I left no message for Ted.

The following night we were sitting at tea. Dad, Constance and myself, when a knock came on the door. Dad went and opened it, and when he came back into the kitchen with Ted behind him I rose from the table, and my hands were trembling.

"Thought I would just look you up," said Ted.

"Sit down," said Dad.

"Have you had any tea ?"

"No," said Ted.

"Well sit yourself down and make yourself at home."

I could see that Dad liked the look of this man. I could see that his mind was working swiftly. Aye, even as mine was. Ted knew that I had Constance. What else he knew I didn't know, but he had come in search of me. I felt, above all things at that moment, grateful.

We had tea, and then Dad said.

"Well now, if you want to go out just leave the hairn with me. She'll be all right."

Ted and I looked at each other, and I went upstairs and made myself up with care and changed into another frock and put on my best coat.

Later that night, in the dark, we stood at the corner of the street and Ted took me in his arms and kissed me, and we were both sober and I hadn't laughed much all evening.

Three days later he brought me news that his unit was being moved.

Would I write to him?

Yes, I said, I would write.

"I'll soon be de mobbed but I'll get leave before then." He looked steadily into my eyes, then he kissed me.

I would be looking forward to his leave, I said.

I felt shy and awkward like a young girl, but the hungry feeling inside me was not that of a young girl.

Dad was happy, happier than I had seen him for years. He liked Ted. I liked Ted. What did Sam think of him? Sam, to my knowledge, hadn't met him, but I knew that he knew all that he wanted to know. Dad had likely told him in the gentlest way possible, but Sam said nothing. He showed no change, except perhaps that he was a Little more quiet with me than usual. It was a fortnight later that I received the first of the letters. It was not from Ted. The letter had no signature, but as I read the first horrible sentence I knew who had written it. The old fear, bursting like water from sluice-gates, swamped me and, turning my eyes to the wall, I could almost see Don, having timed the postman, watching my reactions as I read the filth and threats the page contained. Perhaps I should have done what the police are always telling you to do if you are unfortunate enough to be persecuted in this way, take the letter straight to them. But I could no more have done that than I could have read it aloud in the street. I could not even show it to Dad. Dad was happy, and although he didn't like Don and suspected him of many things, he would, I know, have found it hard to believe that he had written what was on this page. As for Sam, I had only to show this letter to him and he would know who the author was and there would be bloodshed and I feared for Sam, for I could never see anyone succeeding in hurting Don Dowling.

I was in no doubt as to why this letter had been written. Aunt Phyllis had seen Ted and me leave the house that night with Dad saying a cordial good-bye to Ted on the step. The purpose of this letter was to frighten me off, frighten me off Ted. Well it wouldn't. I knew what I was going to do with this letter put it on the fire, and if any more came they would have the same destination.

When the second one came I opened it, spread it out on the table, then sat down and clasped my hands tightly as I read it. The text was even worse and I felt my stomach heaving and had to put my hand over my mouth until I reached the scullery. Faint and shaking I went upstairs and lay down on the bed and, burying my face in the pillow, I cried until I could cry no more.

The letters continued to arrive, but I never opened another but put them straight into the fire.

Ted was no great writer. His letters were stilted and told me little, only that he was thinking of me and hoping to get a leave. But when the time of the leave drew near he wrote to say he was unable to make it, and Dad began to ask, "When's Ted coming? When does he say he'll be out?"

I had been getting a letter once a week from Ted, but now the intervals between the letters grew longer. Yet it did not worry me, it was July and soon, I hoped, he'd be de mobbed the Americans were wiping up the Japs.

I still went to Mollie's, and it fell to me to try and cheer her up, for Doddy had been posted to Dorset. He had stopped quoting poetry long enough to tell her that when he was de mobbed he hoped to get a teaching post for a while, before going to America to teach there. He didn't want to stay in England. She had learned what she hadn't known before, which had explained a great deal about him. He was without people, his mother, father, uncle and two sisters having been killed in one of the big raids at the beginning of the war. Mollie had looked at me, the nearest I had seen her to tears, as she said, "He wanted a mother and I was the nearest thing to it. He wanted some place where he could come and sleep when he could get away from the barracks, and this was as good a place as any. Mind you," she had jabbed her finger in my direction, 'he did nothing underhand. He never promised anything or asked anything. He gave me back twice as much as ever he got from me, with all the things he did for me, fetching and carrying and the like. And now he's gone, he owes me nowt. "

"You've still got Jackie," I said.

"Aye, I've still got Jackie, but Jackie knows no poetry. I dont know any poetry, and Doddy's bloody poetry used to get on me nerves."

She turned to me and added in a dead voice, "But what I wouldn't give to hear him spouting away now. There'll never be anybody like him.

I'll never know anybody like him again. "

I'd had Martin and she in a lesser way had had Doddy. Martin was now, and always would be, an ache in my heart, a loneliness to my nights, but Doddy would remain to her always an endearing memory, perhaps all the more endearing for it was without hope of fruition; the trying fruition of listening to Doddy for breakfast, dinner and tea and into the night. All during July I waited, waited and waited, and I heard nothing from Ted. I had written and asked him if anything was wrong, but he had not replied. I began to worry, and the thought was always in my mind . this mustn't go wrong. When he was de mobbed he would have to come to Fellbum, because his home was in Fellbum. I had passed the house where he lived. It was in quite a nice part of the town, very respectable. I wondered what his mother was like and had a little dread at the thought of meeting her if ever I did.

Then one morning I called in at Mollie's. I always went to a little shop quite near her with my sweet coupons. The woman had been more than kind when sweets were scarce and now, though they were still on ration, though a little more plentiful, I still continued to go there.