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‘I lost out same as him, don’t forget.’
    ‘That’s as maybe. Just make sure this ’un stays put.’
    ‘It might be better . . .’ Bart’s voice dwindled away. With Ada and Dora it had been easy to keep them living at home and working the streets at night. It had meant he’d had all their earnings after the cut to their whoremaster. But Josie had been nowt but a bit bairn of five or six when he’d put her older sisters on the game; she was twelve now and she thought the world of Gertie.
    ‘It might be better if Douglas keeps her in one of his houses,’ Bart said reluctantly. ‘Easier on her mam, see? Out of sight, out of mind.’ He couldn’t bring himself to admit to Patrick that it was his other daughter’s wrath he was wary of, should she find out the truth. Or rather the very real possibility that Josie would remove herself from the family home, taking a valuable source of income with her.
    Patrick’s brows lifted but he merely shrugged his shoulders before saying, ‘You know your own business best, but Doug’ll take a hefty slice of her earnings that way.’
    ‘Aye, I know, but it can’t be helped.’ Bart swallowed the last of the whisky Patrick had bought him and stood to his feet before saying, his voice louder now, ‘See you.’ He didn’t wait for a response, turning and passing through the press of bodies and out into the street.
    A weak winter sun had been shining earlier in the day but now, at just gone six in the evening, the air was bitterly cold and here and there a snowflake drifted aimlessly in the darkness. Bart pulled his cap further over his forehead and adjusted the muffler tucked in his cloth jacket before thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. His fingers closed over the small bag and he gave a grunt of satisfaction as he began to walk home. Strange how Patrick liked them young, but then it took all sorts, and with Gertie being none too bright and sickly into the bargain, this was the best thing all round. She was little use to him, like her mother. All them bairns he’d given Shirl and only six had lived, and four of ’em lasses at that. Mind, he had no complaints with what Josie brought in, and just by opening her gob. Who’d have thought it?
    When he opened the door of the house some minutes later he could hear Josie singing. The sound irritated him, it always had, although he hadn’t got it in him to analyse why. If someone had told him it was because the sound epitomised his daughter’s refusal to be brutalised by her life and her surroundings, he wouldn’t have acknowledged the truth of it anyway.
    The table was set for four when he stepped into the living room. Jimmy and Hubert normally ate their meal sitting on their bed due to lack of space at the table. The smell of stew from the big kale-pot on the stove was heavy in the air. A full loaf of bread was sliced ready in the centre of the table, and Josie and Gertie were busy in the kitchen, his wife and the lads sitting in front of the glowing fire.
    Shirley raised her head at his entrance but said nothing; they had all learned the hard way it was better to remain mute until Bart’s mood had been gauged. Once he had seated himself at the table she too rose, making her way to her chair slowly, like a very old woman. Gertie now scuttled in with a pint mug of black tea which she placed in front of her father, returning a moment later with one for her mother, whereupon she received a quiet, ‘Ta, me bairn.’
    Josie brought her father’s plate to the table first. It was twice the size of the rest, being a deep tin one with high edges, and it was full to the brim with thick meaty stew, several dumplings reposing in the middle. Bart reached for a shive of the bread Josie had made earlier which was neither white nor brown but a mixture of both, owing to the quality of Mr McKenzie’s flour, and without acknowledging his daughter began to eat. This released the others to take some bread, the boys