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thoughts she had entertained earlier in the
day were suddenly not so wicked, not as unusual as she had believed. Women had had enough. As the world entered the second half of the twentieth century, females were beginning to think for and of
themselves. After all, hadn’t they managed well enough for six years while men had fought for king and country?
    She prodded her pastry to make sure it was cooked, fetched a loaf, a knife and some butter. The difference between herself and Dot was that Dot hated her husband with a deep, quiet passion. For
Sam, Lily entertained no such feeling. She didn’t love him, didn’t hate him, was able to tolerate the man as long as he brought some wages home.
    Then there were the boys. Dot’s two were long gone, one into the army then the Merchant Navy, the other into the pit, out of the pit, into a little general store in a pretty village.
‘There’ll be butterflies there,’ whispered Lily, ‘butterflies, flowers and birds.’
    She found herself envying Dot, the woman she had always called ‘poor thing’, realized that she wanted exactly what Dot was moving towards – fresh air, country walks, a nice
little job.
    The front door crashed inward. ‘It’s only me,’ yelled Sam.
    It was only him. He said those same words every time he came home. Yes, yes, it was only him, miner, drinker, husband and father.
    Lily picked up a large knife, held it like a dagger, smiled as she plunged it into golden pastry. If little Dot Barnes could find a new life, then anything was possible. Brown gravy trickled
through the stab marks. Yes, there would be changes next door. And not before time, too.

Three
    Sarah and John Higgins lived in happy, careless squalor with their eight daughters and a son they laughingly claimed to have kidnapped, as he was not of their blood. A meaty
couple of average blond looks, they had combined to clone children of remarkable beauty and even, generous temperament. Strangely, this yellow-haired pair had produced dark-haired offspring, though
each Higgins daughter was blessed with a fair complexion.
    In a house with just two bedrooms, a parlour, a kitchen and a tiny scullery, they made their unorthodox living arrangements, ate while sitting, standing or lying down, went to school, went to
work, sang and played until they faded into sleep. There were few quarrels, and any small skirmishes were always settled before bedtime, to make, as John put it, a clean sheet for the morrow.
    Ranging in age from eighteen down to eight, the daughters were Rachel, Vera, Theresa, Eileen, Annie, Mary, Angela and Maureen. They were all the same, all pretty, with dark hair and flawless
Irish skin, soft eyes in a variety of shades, and singing voices like a heavenly choir. Ambition was not a compulsory part of their schedule, so most of the girls passed effortlessly from school to
mill or to serving in shops, happily, with no apparent resentment towards their parents, siblings or employers.
    John and Sarah, the latter commonly known as Sal, were inordinately proud of their daughters. Grief, whenever it floated to the surface on a sea of black beer, was attached to Peter, John and
Patrick, the three sons who had failed to thrive, and Nuala, a baby girl who had been stillborn. The loss of their babies was a cross they bore stoically between them, neither blaming the other,
each managing to remain in love with life, with wife or husband and with the children. Life was good and they were noisily grateful for the little they had this side of eternity.
    In the front parlour, three beds were squeezed, two along the walls and one under the window. During daylight hours, these formed the basic seating arrangements, but were transformed into beds
for the use of the four older girls, who took turns to sleep ‘single,’ then top and tail on a rota basis. The four younger occupied a pair of double beds in the larger of the two
bedrooms, while their parents were squeezed into the smaller room at