Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 1: Midnight, Blood Brothers, Songbird. Josephine Cox

didn’t mean to be so hard.’

      Eileen understood. ‘You were right,’ she answered. ‘He did hurt us both, very much.’ Her pretty brown eyes misted over. ‘It’s just that, well . . . I really miss him, that’s all.’

      ‘I realise that,’ Libby said kindly, ‘but it was a long time ago and, like Thomas said, you could never have changed him.’

      After her father went away, he was kept alive by the photographs lovingly placed about the house by her mother. And also by the stories her mother would tell over the years, about how it used to be, and how, one day, Ian Harrow was bound to come home. But he never did.

      ‘It’s best if you don’t think about the bad things any more,’ Libby suggested now.

      ‘You didn’t know, but last night, when you were fast asleep, I went to find him,’ Eileen confided. ‘I sneaked out and walked the streets – and there he was.’

      Sensibly , Libby let her talk. It was the only way.

      Eileen mumbled on: ‘I hoped he might be sorry for what he did to us. I wanted it to be like it was before . . . well, you know, don’t you, love?’

      ‘Yes, Mother, I think I do.’

      ‘When I found him, he was angry with me. At first he tried to send me away, but I told him if he would come home with me and be like he was before, I would forgive him. I even promised him money. He was bad, though, wasn’t he? He came back, but he only wanted to hurt us again.’ Her voice broke. ‘Oh, Libby, why would your father do such a thing?’

      Realising she was drifting away from reality, Thomas felt obliged to help. ‘Listen to me now, m’dear. That man you brought home was not your husband.’

      ‘Who was he, then?’ Eileen looked at them both, perplexed.

      ‘You should never have gone out, Mother,’ Libby said firmly. She had believed the precautions she’d taken were enough. Thomas had even fitted a gate at the top of the stairs. And yet again, her mother had outwitted them both.

      ‘I’m sorry, Libby, I won’t do it again.’

      ‘Good. I’m glad about that.’

      ‘The bad man who hurt us just now. Was that your father?’ Her confusion thickened.

      Libby suddenly found it hard to hold back the tears.

      She was losing her mother again. ‘No, Mum. That man was a stranger. Thomas sent him packing.’

      Inside her mind Eileen struggled to put the pieces together. ‘Who was he, then?’ she asked worriedly. ‘Why was he here?’

      ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, m’dear.’ Gently intervening, Thomas put her mind at rest. ‘He came in off the streets, wanting a handout. He was a rogue, and now he’s gone.’

      ‘I don’t want him to ever come back!’

      ‘You don’t need to worry, my darling, because he won’t be back.’

      ‘Not ever?’

      ‘No. Not ever.’

      ‘Do you promise?’

      Thomas nodded, his eyes moist with sorrow. ‘I promise. With every bone in my body.’

      ‘Thank you, Thomas. You’re the best friend to me and Libby,’ Eileen whispered, and in an impromptu move that surprised the other two, she leaned forward and pursed her lips for a kiss.

      With aching heart, Thomas took hold of her hands, and drawing her close, he kissed her quickly, with great tenderness. ‘I’m always here for you,’ he promised hoarsely. Then, addressing Libby, he stood up to leave. ‘Thanks for that nice bit o’ breakfast. Went down a treat, it did.’

      Libby nodded. ‘Mum’s right,’ she acknowledged. ‘You really are a true friend.’ She had been touched by the way her mother had asked him for a kiss, and he responded, appearing to be deeply moved.

      Thomas assured her, ‘What I did was only what any right-minded bloke would do. Now then, ladies, don’t forget: if you need me . . .’

      ‘We know where you are,’ Libby finished, and showed him to the door, where they bade each other good day.

      Thomas walked the few steps along Bower Street to his own little house next door, thinking about the vile creature he had sent packing. ‘He’ll not be back,’ he muttered. But like Libby, he had a feeling it would not be the last time Eileen would go wandering off. ‘We shall have to keep a sharper eye on her in future.’

      He gave an involuntary shiver. The sun was bright, but there was no warmth in it. ‘You should’ve put your coat on,’ he chided himself. ‘Catch your death o’ cold if you’re not careful!’

      Cheering up, he made his way through the little wooden gate and on down the garden path, pausing to see if the flower-buds were peeping out. ‘Too early yet!’ he chuckled wryly. ‘They’ve got more sense than me. Like as not, they won’t pop their heads up for a while yet.’

      Letting himself into the house, he closed the door behind him. It was only a few steps along the passageway to the living-room. Once there, he dropped his weary body into the depth of a big old armchair. When it creaked beneath his weight, he laughed out loud. ‘Sounds like I’m not the only one getting old,’ he remarked to the empty room. ‘Old and worn, me an’ the chair both.’

      Rolling up his shirt-sleeves, he noticed a dark, elon-gated bruise on his wrist. ‘I’m too bloody old to be rugby tackling fellas, that’s for sure!’

      He gave a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘Saw the bugger off though, didn’t we, eh? Me an’ the lasses – we saw the bugger off good and proper!’ For the first time in a long while, he felt useful. Moreover, he felt proud to have dealt with such an ugly situation.

      His mood sobering, Thomas gazed at the fire-grate and the dark coals flickering there. He felt safe in this little house; sheltered from the changing world and the harshness of life. This home was where he had been most happy, with his late wife. It had always been a deep disappointment that he and Rose were never able to have children. If they had, his life and hers would have been all the sweeter. Maybe then, she’d still be with him, grandchildren on her knee.

      Growing melancholic, he got up from the chair and ambled over to the sideboard, where he studied the array of photographs displayed there. His eyes settled on one in particular – of a pretty young woman seated on a swing near the rose-beds in Corporation Park.

      He recalled the day clearly. It was high summer and they’d been married for two years to the very day. The gentle breeze lifted her long fair hair, just as he was about to take the picture. She laughed, he clicked the button, and she was captured for ever. This photograph had always been his favourite one of her. They were young then, and she was so beautiful.

      He had always wondered what she saw in him – an ordinary-looking bloke with few prospects. But oh, how he loved her, and still did . . . to this very day, in spite of everything life had thrown at them.

      Collecting the photograph, he carried it to the chair, where he sat down and stared at it for what seemed an age, until the tears ran freely down his weathered old face. ‘I know what Eileen meant when she said she missed her husband,’ he told the image, ‘because I miss you, every minute of every day.’

      After a time he went to the back window and looked out. ‘See that!’ He turned the photograph, imagining she might see what he’d done to the garden. ‘I’ve set the flowers either side of the path, the way you like it,’ he said proudly. ‘And look at the potting shed . . . I’ve created a bed of your favourite red geraniums along the front. Should be lovely, come the summer.’ He gave himself an imaginary pat on the back. ‘Give it another month, an’ our little back garden will be ablaze with colour, you wait and see.’

      Glancing up at the skies, he chided himself, ‘Hark at me! Telling you what it looks like