The Bad Penny by Katie Flynn Page A

the time she eventually tumbled into her own bed, dawn was greying the sky and she knew she would not get much sleep before her day’s work began. Even so, before she slept she considered what Mrs Clarke had told her about her neighbour’s son. Young Mr Knight had lost his wife and baby three years ago, according to Mrs Clarke’s memory of the affair. Patty could not remember any such happening and she had been on the district for three years, perhaps a little over. But then she remembered that the young Knights might have been living on the opposite side of the city at the time and put the whole matter out of her head. It was, after all, none of her business. But it was very sad, and explained, she supposed, why Darky Knight always looked so grim.
    Patty turned over and pushed her face into the cool pillow. Sleep, she commanded herself, or you’ll be no use to anyone in the morning. And presently, worn out, she obeyed.
    Darky Knight had been about to step out of the front door and on to the balcony when the voices gave him pause. He stopped short, clicking his fingers impatiently. It was the bleedin’ women, gossiping out there; he’d hang on a moment until they finished talking and went their ways, then he would set off for the docks. The pubs down there were always open for when the dockers came off shift. Fortunately, his mother had gone to do her messages some time earlier, or she would have chided him for lurking indoors on a fine and sunny day. What was more, she would have guessed just why he was unwilling to go out whilst the women were jangling on the balcony.
    ‘There’s no sense in avoiding our neighbours, even if they do happen to be young women,’ she would have said. ‘For God’s sweet sake, boy, it’s nigh on three year since you lost your dear Alison; isn’t it time you started to live again? That young Mrs Clarke’s a grand girl so she is, and the new one, the nurse … well, she’s pretty as a picture and anyone can see she’s been let down by a feller or she wouldn’t be bringin’ up that babby by herself, so she ain’t on the lookout for a man of her own, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
    He would say he was not afraid, merely indifferent, and his mam would snort and say that it was time he pulled himself together, began to meet people again, to go to dances, to the cinema … time he began to take a girl about. Despite himself, Darky grinned. In his heart, he knew that Mam was probably right. Alison and the baby had died a long time ago. It was time he at least tried to put it behind him. And you couldn’t deny that the girl next door – Nurse Peel, wasn’t it? – was a real little cracker. That abundant, white-blonde hair, the brilliant blue of her eyes, the rose-petal complexion … he had been amazed when his mam had told him, in a hushed voice, that she was single, seemed indifferent to the feller who had fathered her child, and apparently had no man in her life.
    No relatives, either, he thought musingly now. Nor friends, for that matter. She had been in the flat for three weeks and no one had called to see her save those who wanted her professional services. Odd, that. A pretty girl in a good job … but even thinking that way made him feel a traitor to Alison’s memory. His dear little love with her soft, reddish-gold hair, skin like milk dusted with golden freckles, her round, hazel eyes, the lilt of her soft Scots accent, the bubble of laughter never far away … he felt the familiar contraction of his stomach. Gone. Gone. Because they had married and he’d taken no precautions, and she’d got in the family way … nine months of marriage and then …
    Darky felt the stupid rage begin to build, the rage which sent him out on drinking binges which had twice almost lost him his job. He closed his eyes and pressed his fists against them until he could see brilliant sunbursts on the blackness behind his lids. Then he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the