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have some cheerful music. And once you’ve eaten your butty, you’d better get to bed. Your dad would have a fit if . . . ”
    She was about to add, “if he knew you were still up,” and bit her tongue. Francis no doubt would be angry if he knew.
    He’d always insisted Tony go to bed at half past six, even if it were the height of summer and no matter what day it might be, and even if all his mates were still playing outside. But there’d be no more of that, she thought grimly. Tony’d go to bed when she said and Francis could like it or lump it.
    Anyroad, if he started laying down the law it would be time for his wife and son to make their departure.
    The phosphorous fingers on the alarm clock showed nearly half past two. Eileen felt convinced she’d never sleep that night. The ticking of the clock got on her nerves.
    She’d never realised it was so loud, almost deafening in the dead of night with not another sound to be heard except Tony’s light breathing next to her. A floorboard creaked, but there were often strange, slight noises in the house when everywhere was quiet, as if the structure’s joints were flexing.
    Eileen turned over for the umpteenth time, but her mind felt like the inside of the damned clock, as if there were wheels and cogs whirring away and her brain was ticking just as loudly.
    She sat up and wished she’d brought her ciggies to bed; she could really do with a fag right now, but couldn’t be bothered going downstairs to fetch them. The room was brightly illuminated by a clear full moon outside. Before getting into bed she’d drawn the curtains back because she hated sleeping in total blackness; nightlights and candles were becoming more and more difficult to get and best saved for emergencies.
    Tony stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw her propped against the headboard, he mumbled, “What are you doing, Mam?”
    “I’m practising sleeping a different way,” she told him.
    “Tomorrer night I’m going to stick me legs up in the air and see how I get on. Now go to sleep. You’re spoiling me concentration.”
    “You’re not half daft, Mam.”
    He obediently closed his eyes. At least the problem of Tony had been sorted out, Eileen thought with satisfaction.
    Mr Singerman had called earlier to say Gladstone and Alexandra Docks had been hit and you could see the smoke spiralling into the sky from Pearl Street. Tony had insisted on having a look, despite being in his pyjamas.
    “You know, Eileen, I’d be only too happy to look after him when you’re at work,” Mr Singerman said when they were back in the house having a cup of tea and Tony was in bed. Francis was still asleep. The and Tony get on famously. He has the makings of a proper capitalist the way he always beats me at Monopoly! I could teach him to play cards and perhaps we could go to the pictures now and then. After he’s gone to bed, I could listen to your wireless until you or Francis came home. I know Francis will be a busy man once he’s back to normal, what with his job and his Corporation meetings.”
    “Oh, would you, Mr Singerman?” Eileen said delightedly.
    The only thing she’d dreaded about moving was the thought of no longer seeing her friends and family every single day. She was very fond of Paddy O’Hara and all her other neighbours, even Agnes Donovan in a sort of way, but Jacob Singerman was the dearest of them all. He was an excitable, vivacious will-o”-the-wisp old man with a halo of silver hair and a penchant for the pictures, which he visited whenever he had a few coppers to spare. She was certain Tony would be enamoured of the idea of spending the evenings with him the weeks she was at work.
    “It would be a pleasure, and I need to start practising my fatherly skills again now it seems my Ruth will be coming home.”
    His old short-sighted eyes sparkled over the half-moon glasses which were perched on the middle of his nose.
    Eileen had never known Ruth. It was more than twenty years