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why the doctor’s voice was so small, so insignificant? And what had they done to Mam, why had they pulled the sheet right over her face? She would have difficulty breathing, he really ought to be more careful of a patient, even if she was neither rich nor important.
    She leaned forward and twitched the sheet down before anyone had divined her intention or could stop her.
    There lay the mortal remains of Kathleen O’Shaughnessy, her face glassily pale, her eyes closed. The pillow on which her head lay was dark with blood, her hair, loose for once, matted with it. And horrifyingly, even as Biddy watched, her mother’s jaw dropped slowly open and her head rolled a little on the blotched and bloodstained pillow.
    Biddy screamed, as shrill as one of the trains drawing out of Exchange Station, and jumped back, then as swiftly moved forward, to fall on her knees by the bed.
    ‘Mam, are you all right? You aren’t dead, you aren’t, you aren’t! Oh, Mam, say something!’
    A pair of hands caught her shoulders, pulling her upright, then turning her so that she faced away from the carnage on the sheets.
    ‘It’s awright, Bridget, it’s awright, she’s gone luv, she’s gone where no one can’t ’urt her no more. Come on, come on, you don’t want to stay ’ere, because your Mam ain’t ’ere no more, she’s left, that ain’t your Mam, that’s just an empty shell, a body what she don’t want no more. She were a good soul, your Mam, a good friend and a good little fighter, but she’s gone from ’ere, now, and you must be gone too. Come down wi’ me an’ the kids, we’ll get a meal, talk about what’s to be done. Come on, come downstairs wi’ your Aunt Edie.’
    Biddy had never called Mrs Kilbride anything but Mrs Kilbride, but now she sobbed in the woman’s arms, clutching her desperately, hanging onto the only solid thing in the suddenly tippling world, Edith Kilbride’s plump, motherly arms.
    ‘Is … is she really dead?’ she asked fearfully. ‘Really gone for good? Won’t there be no more laughs, no more good times?’
    Mrs Kilbride did not answer at once but Biddy heard her swallow convulsively and felt the plump little hand pat her back.
    ‘Sure there’ll be laughs an’ good times, chuck, but it’ll be up to you to make ’em, now. Your Mam can’t help you there. Ah, she were a good Mam to you an’ a good pal to me.… Come on, come downstairs, I’ll ’ave the kettle on and we’ll wet our t’rottles an’ ’ave a bit of a chat, like. Come on, leave the doctor to see to things here.’
    Biddy heaved a deep, tremulous sigh and glanced once more towards the bed. Dimly, she realised that there was truth in what Mrs Kilbride had said. That thing lying on the pillow wasn’t really her mother, it was just a cast-off shell which had been left behind when her mother’s soul had fled.
    Slowly, but without a backward glance, she allowed herself to be led from the room.
    ‘It’s ever so good of you, Mrs Kilbride, to suggest that I stay wi’ you and keep an eye on the kids, like my Mam used to do,’ Biddy said wearily, when the funeral was over and she was packing her pathetically few possessions into the old carpet bag her mother had once used for her heavy shopping. ‘I’m not ungrateful, honest, but it wouldn’t be fair on you, not in the long run. Mrs Kettle’s said I can move in wi’ them, she doesn’t have a daughter, only sons, so I’ll be useful. And it’ll be a roof over my head and a job, for a while at least.’
    She had been very surprised when Mrs Kettle had not only come to the funeral but had made the offer.
    ‘You come along o’ me and live over the shop, same as all us Kettles do,’ she had urged. ‘I’ll feed you, dress you, see you right. What d’you say?’
    She had to say she would, of course. Mrs Kilbride couldn’t afford to feed another mouth unless that other mouth could bring in a wage, and since Biddy couldn’t be in two places at once she could not