'I don't think I've had the pleasure,' the older man said, smiling sarcastically.

George straightened his coat and glared back. 'What's your game?' he growled, trying to compose himself.

'I might ask the same of you,' the man replied calmly, walking slowly towards George. 'It appears that you have been visiting Miss Martin on various occasions during the past few weeks. Tuesdays and Fridays, to be precise. You arrive at two-thirty in the afternoon and stay until around five o'clock. Later on one occasion.'

George swallowed drily and searched desperately for a way out of his predicament. 'That's right,' he said quickly, his eye catching the piano in the far corner of the room. 'I give 'er pianner lessons every Tuesdays and Fridays.'

The older man's face broke into a cruel smile and he looked down at the distressed figure of Rose. 'That's not what Miss Martin told me before you knocked on the door,' he said with measured relish. 'She told me you were her uncle who had lost his wife and was feeling lonely, and so you came round to have a nice little chat. Now which of these stories should I believe? Surely you're not both lying?'

Rose dabbed at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief and George stared helplessly at his tormentor.

'Norman, will you show our visitor to the piano? Perhaps we could be honoured with a brief demonstration of the gentleman's talents,' the older man said quietly.

The beefy young man took George by the arm and led him over to the piano.

'Are you familiar with Chopin's Nocturne in E-Flat?' the senior man said in a silky voice. 'Opus nine number two. Or maybe you'd like to entertain us with your interpretation of Liszt's Hungarian Fantasy.'

George looked down at the piano keys and then stared back dumbly.

'Perhaps you'd prefer to offer us a short medley of popular tunes,' the man said condescendingly.

George's mind was racing. He had lived by his wits all his life and suddenly he felt as if he was back in the days of his youth, cornered beneath the stinking arches with policemen closing in, their truncheons drawn ready to beat a lone young animal into submission. He could feel the blows again and the laughter as they walked off, leaving him b.l.o.o.d.y and barely alive.

George smiled thinly as he bent over the keyboard, and delicately tested the keys with his forefinger, his other hand resting on the top of the piano, inches away from a cut-gla.s.s vase. 'Pa.s.s us the music, will yer?' he said casually, pointing to the table.

For an instant the young man's attention was distracted and George knew that he could not hesitate. In one swipe he grabbed the heavy vase and smashed it with all the force he could muster full into the hoodlum's face. The young man dropped as though pole-axed and George wheeled, a snarl on his face as he closed on the older man.

'Don't you touch me!' he cried, backing away.

George made a grab for him and the man tumbled over Rose's legs and collapsed in a heap, his hands covering his head. George stood for a moment looking at Rose, wondering what he should do.

'Go!' she shouted. 'Just go.'

Beads of sweat were starting on his forehead as he hurried down the stairs and out into the street. He was still sweating profusely as he sat in the trap and let the horse have his head.

It was a quarter to five when Galloway drove his trap into the yard. He did not want to go home and face Nora's searching gaze, and as he sat watching the rising and falling of the gelding's flanks his thoughts were still racing. What would happen to Rose? he wondered. She would no doubt suffer a beating, but she would survive. She would gush tears and swear her loyalty, and maybe the excuse for a man who kept her would forgive her and shower more gifts upon her. He'd survive without Rose too - in fact he'd be better off. With Jake Mitch.e.l.l coming to fight for him and being a good earner, he wouldn't have to waste his money on that woman. He grinned smugly.

George crossed the yard and walked into the empty office. He sat down at his desk and reached for the whisky bottle, aware of the loud ticking noise from the clock. For a while he sat at his desk and then he swivelled around and stretched out his feet. He glanced up at the clock and noted that it was one minute to five o'clock. It was then that his eyes caught sight of the sealed envelope that was propped against the far desk. George felt a sudden sense of bewilderment and he frowned as he tore open the letter. As he read the few words written in a flowing script he groaned loudly and lifted his misted eyes to the ceiling. He was still staring up as if transfixed when William walked into the office.

'What's wrong?' the yard foreman asked in alarm.

George pa.s.sed the note over without a word and William slowly read the short message: Dear George, When you read this note my life will be over. Loneliness is a cross I could no longer bear. Only my work sustained me through the years. And now that's been taken away from me. Take heart, the books are in order and up to date. Just one last thought: value old friends. Without them life is empty, as I have sadly discovered.

Yours in eternity,

Horace Gallagher

'Oh my Gawd! The silly ole fool,' William breathed. 'Why? Why did 'e do it, George? Surely 'e could 'ave talked about what was troublin' 'im? We might 'ave bin able ter 'elp the poor bleeder.'

George shook his head. 'I doubt it. I doubt if anybody could. 'Orace was a private man. 'E kept 'imself to 'imself.'

William suddenly recalled the day Horace had warned him about Mitch.e.l.l. He must have been planning to take his own life then, he thought. He slumped down in Horace's desk chair and looked across at his employer's strained face. 'I can't understand what 'e said about bein' lonely. 'E 'ad a wife, didn't 'e, George?' he said in a puzzled voice.

The firm's owner made a pained grimace and nodded slowly. 'Yeah, 'Orace 'ad a wife, that much I do know. She left 'im more than twenty years ago.'

William picked up the note again and after studying it for a few moments he looked up at his boss. 'This bit about "only my work sustained me". Yer wasn't finkin' o' puttin' 'im off, was yer, George?' he asked, frowning.

Galloway shook his head vigorously. ''E was too valuable. 'Orace knew 'e 'ad nuffink ter worry about on that score.'

The two sat staring down at the floor in silence, then suddenly George got up and walked over to the corner of the room. He took down a ledger from the shelf and opened it on his desk. 'Come 'ere, Will,' he said after a few moments. 'Take a look at this.'

William studied the unfamiliar entries and looked in puzzlement at George. 'What is it? he asked.

'There's yer answer,' the firm's owner said positively. 'Jus' look at those entries. These are the latest ones. See 'ow they run inter the lines on the page? The earlier entries are much neater. 'E could 'ardly see what 'e was doin'. The poor bleeder used ter polish those gla.s.ses of 'is all the time. I thought it was just 'is nerves. That's what 'e meant when 'e said that bit about 'is work sustainin' 'im.'

'Yer mean ...'

'That's right, Will. 'Orace was goin' blind.'

Chapter Twenty-five.

The evening was stormy and unseasonably cold, and outside heavy rain was falling from the dark, ma.s.sed clouds that hung in the sky like a pall. Nora sat alone in the back kitchen, her slippered feet warming in front of the small open fire. The rocking-chair creaked rhythmically as she worked at tucking and tacking hems on a new pair of curtains, and she glanced up at the covered window every time she heard a loud roll of thunder. George had gone to his room soon after tea, saying he had some papers to look through, and Josephine was visiting her school friend in the house across the square. Nora welcomed the evening solitude as she threaded the needle in and out of the fabric. The last few weeks had been a very trying time for her. When she had gone to George's room that fateful night, full of fire and indignation and ready to face her lover down, she had ended up trying to console him over his accountant's sudden death, searching vainly for words of comfort until finally he fell into a drunken sleep.

Horace Gallagher's suicide seemed to have affected George more badly than Nora would have predicted. He was slipping back into his old ways, becoming morose for no reason and spending a lot of time alone, and he was drinking heavily again. It worried her that he had begun to use the trap for his evening pub meetings now. Often he would return from the yard or a pub with the gelding sweating and flecks of foam spattered along its flanks, having raced it along the cobbled streets and sometimes through traffic, and then Nora found herself fearing for his life. It was a small glimmer of comfort to her that she had stayed with him on that terrible night and tried to share his grief, and he had not shut himself up in his room away from her. He appeared to have forsaken his afternoon trips out lately too, and she guessed that whatever attachment he had formed was now over. Nora knew that she had neither youth nor beauty to offer, but she felt that the love she had shared with George had been genuine, growing slowly from a feeling of needing and being needed. She considered herself to be a practical woman, and tried to make herself believe that the depression afflicting George would pa.s.s and she would be able to draw him back to her and stop his dangerous drinking.

She started from her reverie as the front door opened and closed and she heard the sound of footsteps coming along the pa.s.sage. Geoffrey walked into the room, puffing loudly as he removed his sodden hat and coat and threw them over the back of a chair.

'It's raining cats and dogs out there, Nora,' he said, giving her a smile. 'Any tea in the pot?'

She made to get up but he waved her back. 'I'll get us some,' he said cheerfully, taking the teapot from off the hearth.

They sat facing each other beside the fire, Nora slowly rocking back and forth with the unfinished curtains across her lap and Geoffrey sitting forward in his chair, sipping his tea thoughtfully. Outside the storm was raging unabated. Thunderclaps broke the quietness of the room.

'The old man's asleep by the fire,' Geoffrey said. 'I looked in on him as I came in.'

''E's back on the drink, Geoff,' she said quietly. 'I'm worried about 'im.'

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. 'He's upset over Horace. It was a terrible shock to all of us but Father's taken it badly,' he remarked, staring into the fire. 'It's strange really. All the years Horace worked for us and we knew practically nothing about the man. He never socialised with Dad, at least not that I know of. All the time he was in the office, his head was bent over the ledgers. He kept them in tiptop order. He was always on hand with advice about money matters, and I suppose we came to see him as part of the furniture. He wasn't the sort of man you could have a casual conversation with.'

Nora nodded her head sadly. 'Yer farvver showed me the letter 'Orace left be'ind before 'e took it ter the police station. Loneliness is a terrible fing. I know what it's like.'

They were silent for a while, both staring into the fire, then Geoffrey frowned and stretched out his legs.

'The old man was asking me about Mary,' he said suddenly. 'He wanted to know if it was her I was walking out with.'

'I'm surprised George remembers anything o' that weddin', considerin' the state 'e was in,' Nora replied. 'What did yer tell 'im?'

'I told him the girl at the wedding was just someone I'd met and she wasn't the girl I'm seeing,' he said ruefully.

'Why, Geoff ? Why not tell 'im the truth? Nothing good can come out of deceivin' yer farvver. 'E's got ter know one day,' Nora warned him.

Geoffrey sighed as he stared into the flickering flames, then he raised his eyes to hers. 'He's never understood me, Nora,' he said sadly. 'He wants me to marry and give him an heir. He's set standards for me and I'm expected to conform. How could I bring Mary home and tell him she's a married woman? He'd shun her and we'd get to arguing. No, I'll just carry on seeing her and leave things the way they are for the present.'

'I've only met 'er the once but she seems a nice young lady,' Nora said, taking up her sewing. 'D'yer fink she'll get a divorce eventually?'

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know, Nora. I guess not. We'll go on seeing each other, and when the old man asks me why I don't bring her home I'll do the same as I'm doing now, I'll make excuses.'

Nora shook her head sadly. 'It seems such a shame. Fings could be so different,' she said quietly.

Geoffrey looked up at Nora and suddenly felt sad for her. She was a good woman and he knew of the love she had for his father. It was all too plain in the way she spoke of him and in the way she looked at him. His father was treating her badly by ignoring her and drinking to excess, knowing how she hated it. Nora was right, he thought, things could be so different.

Later that summer a small group of Bermondsey publicans staged their first illegal boxing tournament in the Crown, a seedy public house near Dockhead. The pub was a regular haunt of the Russian and Scandinavian merchant seamen who manned the timber ships that sailed into nearby Surrey Docks, and it attracted a regular crowd of prost.i.tutes who plied their trade inside and outside. The women had a lot of business and guarded their patch well. Strange faces who were seen to be soliciting soon found themselves roughly thrown out of the pub with a warning of what they could expect if they had the temerity to show up in the area again.

The group of publicans who called themselves the Bermondsey Beer Boys saw the Crown as an ideal site for their first meeting. The merchant seamen had money in their pockets and could be relied upon to lay fair-size bets on the fights, with due encouragement and prompting from the prost.i.tutes who had a special arrangement with Fat Donald McBain the landlord. The Crown also had a large back yard with a bolt-hole, a back gate opening on to a riverside alley that led to a warren of backstreets.

The Bermondsey Beer Boys were careful to keep the tournament a secret from the general public. Only their most well-known and trusted customers were invited, along with street bookmakers who paid for the privilege. Each of the publicans had his own fighter and put up the stake money on him as well as making side bets. Certain trusted outsiders were allowed to bring along their own fighters and supporters providing they staked the fighter and were responsible for the behaviour of the camp followers. The Bermondsey Beer Boys insisted that the rules must be enforced, for if the police or the breweries got to hear of what was taking place in the pubs, the landlords concerned would most definitely lose their licences.

The contests were scheduled to go for twenty rounds with a knock-down counting as the end of the round, as in the bare-knuckle fairground fights. The contestants would wear standard-size gloves that were little better than ordinary leather gloves. The padding was minimal, and the facial scars and cauliflower ears on some of the older fighters testified to the damage they caused.

The marquee that had been hastily erected in the back yard of the Crown and lit with Tilley lamps was filling with excited spectators. There was a ring in the middle of the covered area and the floor of the roped arena was strewn with sawdust. People were crowding on to the benches that were placed around the ring, and at the back of the marquee the street bookmakers stood chewing on cigars and pa.s.sing out betting-slips.

There was a sudden hush as the fighters emerged from the changing-room behind the saloon bar and marched into the marquee. Each had a blanket draped round his shoulders. As Jake Mitch.e.l.l ducked under the ropes for his contest there was complete silence, but when his opponent got into the ring loud clapping broke out.

George Galloway stood beside Jake, leaning on the ropes and eyeing the other fighter closely. 'Now remember what I said, Jake. 'E comes in like a bull so watch 'is barnet. 'E's young an' full of 'imself so be careful, an' don't let the crowd see yer use yer thumbs. It looks like some of 'em 'ave taken a shine ter the boy.'

'I gathered that much,' Jake growled, banging his clenched fists together and glaring over at his young opponent.

Don McBain ducked under the ropes to perform the ceremonies and Galloway looked around the ring, nodding to acquaintances and nervously chewing on his fat cigar. Mitch.e.l.l was introduced as 'Battling Jake Mitch.e.l.l from the East End' amidst a few boos and cat-calls. The young Scottish fighter whom McBain had brought down from the Glasgow Gorbals was presented simply as 'Jock McIver' and the announcement brought forth loud cheers and clapping. Galloway had learned about the Scot from McBain, who had bragged about his man and described his technique when the two of them were drinking together. Galloway felt that the young fighter was ideal fodder for the rougher and more experienced Jake, and had made a few sizeable bets on his man at fair odds.

The marquee was becoming filled with smoke and the noise died down as the crowd waited for battle to begin. An impatient timekeeper sitting at a small table beside the ring rang a handbell to start the fight and the two contestants moved confidently out of their corners.

As Galloway had predicted the young fighter rushed Mitch.e.l.l, his fists flailing. The older fighter took most of the blows on his arms but one sharp jab caught him on the nose and as he jerked back blood started to trickle down on to his chin. Mitch.e.l.l was undaunted. He moved into the centre of the ring and stood his ground as the younger man charged in again with his head held low. He could hear the crowd willing the Scot on, and as they clinched moved his left arm under his opponent's head. Mitch.e.l.l had fought in boxing booths around the country and knew that the boy was little more than a novice, strong and brave perhaps but unprepared for his devious tactics. He brought his hand up sharply and with his thumb prodded the young Scot in the eye, his foul play shielded from the crowd by the man's lowered head.

They parted and moved around in the middle of the ring and Mitch.e.l.l could see his opponent blinking his right eye as he tried to clear his sight. The tactic had worked and Mitch.e.l.l felt confident, since his left hook was his best punch and it would be coming from the Scot's blind side. As the young man rushed him again, Jake looped his left fist round. His opponent did not see it until it landed hard on his temple. He staggered slightly and shook his head, holding his hand close to his face as he prepared to come forward again. His raw courage was his undoing. Instead of keeping out of reach until his head had cleared, the Scot charged in again and Mitch.e.l.l caught him with another looping left hand that sank him to his knees. The crowd were disappointed as the young man was half dragged back to his corner, and Jake Mitch.e.l.l grinned cheekily to the booing punters.

As the contest went on the young man's spirit and endurance began to wear down against Mitch.e.l.l's experience and his face was becoming b.l.o.o.d.y. His eyes were swollen, blood was dripping from his nose and his lips were split. He managed to stay on his feet for the duration of each round until the fifth, when he was caught by a swingeing blow and dropped like a stone. Mitch.e.l.l felt sure that the young man was finished, but to his astonishment he climbed painfully to his feet and staggered to his corner.

When the Scot came back out he seemed to have gained a second wind, bobbing and weaving his way out of trouble until the bell ended the round. Galloway was becoming worried. He had wagered heavily on his fighter and he could see that Mitch.e.l.l was tiring. He had never had to go the whole twenty rounds, and it seemed that unless he could despatch his man in the next round or two, youth and stamina would beat him.

The betting was changing now. The odds were lengthening, and with the outcome of the fight still unsure Galloway laid down another bet. It was all or nothing now. He realised that he stood to lose a lot of money unless his fighter pulled something out of the hat. The appointed second was working hard on Mitch.e.l.l, dousing him with water and whispering words of advice in his ear, and when the timekeeper reached for his bell to start the next round Galloway bit through his unlighted cigar.

The men traded punches in the middle of the ring and Mitch.e.l.l was gasping for breath. The young Scot tried to keep his opponent on his left side, and the crowd were cheering every blow that he landed. Suddenly they were in a clinch. Mitch.e.l.l used his thumb again, bringing it up sharply and stabbing his opponent in the left eye. As they broke apart Mitch.e.l.l knew that he had his man now. The youngster was blinking and moving his head from left to right, trying to focus his eyes. Mitch.e.l.l gathered his flagging strength and moved in, swinging a flurry of left and right hooks in a desperate frenzy. A hard left swipe caught the Scot on the point of his chin and he went down and rolled over on to his face. Jake had felt the jar right up to his shoulder, and knew instinctively that the young man's fight was over. He was dragged to his corner still unconscious, and when the bell rang to start the twelfth round a towel was thrown into the centre of the ring. There was barely any applause as Mitch.e.l.l ducked under the ropes and with a blanket draped around his heaving shoulders walked wearily out of the marquee, without glancing back at his defeated opponent.

Throughout the summer of 1913 the suffragette movement continued to attract attention with large marches and gatherings, and more of the women's leaders were arrested and imprisoned. The newspapers carried stories of hunger strikes by the women prisoners, and the accounts of their force-feeding inflamed the pa.s.sions of their supporters even more. One of their leaders who had suffered the torture, Emily Davison, threw herself in front of the King's horse during the Derby and died a few days later in hospital. When her funeral took place the West End streets were lined with women followers, many of them factory girls from the backstreets of London.

Carrie wanted to join the mourners along the route but decided against it. She was ashamed at letting her allegiance falter and felt it would be hypocritical to attend. Her two ex-workmates from the leather factory went along, Jessica defying her future husband's wishes and Freda holding her young baby in her arms. Mary Caldwell was given the honour of acting as representative for working-cla.s.s women, and along with the other representatives, she walked beside the cortege, dressed in white and wearing a wide black sash.

Carrie had been growing steadily more depressed as the summer months wore on. Her dreams and hopes for the future seemed to be slowly dying as Tommy was compelled to spend more and more time caring for his ageing mother. There had been occasions when she and Tommy had gone back to his house and she had wanted him to make love to her but he had resisted her importunings. Carrie could see that he was not relaxed and was always waiting for his mother's inevitable call, and felt a mixture of pity and anger towards him. It was wrong for a young man to be burdened so, she thought, but wished he could be more firm and less willing to hurry at his mother's every whim. She was using him, denying him a life of his own, and Carrie found herself arguing constantly with Tommy about what it was doing to their relationship. He invariably became sullen with her and had told her on more than one occasion that his mother would always have to come first. It could go on like this for years, she thought, and things would not improve as long as he allowed himself to be manipulated by the old lady. She was taking advantage of her son's gentle, caring nature and it angered Carrie and made her sad to see the change in him. It had been his happy-go-lucky nature and his considerate att.i.tude towards her which had first endeared him to her. He was so different from Billy Sullivan, who had proved to be self-centred and interested in only one thing, apart from boxing. Tommy had made her feel good and made her laugh a lot, but now he had grown morose and hard to talk to.

It was very hard for the young man, she had to admit. He was being pulled in two different directions. Carrie had agonised about breaking off their relationship, wondering whether it would perhaps be better for everyone concerned if they parted. Even on the rare occasions when they went to bed, Tommy had been nervous and unable to satisfy her. It was as though he was terrified of making her pregnant, and when she became excited and aroused he did not respond in the way she wanted him to and she ended up feeling terribly alone.

Carrie was in low spirits as she walked to work on Monday morning, unable to quell the troubled thoughts tumbling around in her mind. As she neared the dining rooms she could see the horse carts parked outside, the animals munching from their nosebags while the carmen chatted together. A group of dockers were standing outside the shop and one grinned at her as she approached.

'C'mon, Carrie, poor ole Fred's run orf 'is feet in there,' he joked.

Normally she would have been quick with an answer but on this particular morning Carrie ignored the comment and hurried inside. Fred Bradley bade her good morning as she slipped off her coat and put on her clean ap.r.o.n, and his eyes fixed on her enquiringly as she mumbled a reply. Instantly regretting her sullenness she gave him a wan smile and got on with her ch.o.r.es. There was little time to dwell on things as she served endless cups of tea and waited on tables, and for most of the morning Fred was hard put to it in the kitchen to keep up with the orders for bacon sandwiches and toasted teacakes. The regular carmen and dockers joked with Carrie as they came and went, and when Sharkey Morris came in he managed to bring a smile to her face with his account of Soapy Symonds' latest exploit.

'Yer'd never credit it, Carrie,' he began. 'Soapy took this load of 'ops ter the brewery last Friday an' yer know what 'e's like where there's a chance of a drink. Anyway, Soapy gets 'is ticket fer a free pint an' when 'e goes ter the tap room 'e finds out that the bloke what's servin' the beer is an ole mate of 'is. One pint leads ter anuvver an' by the time 'e's finished Soapy's three-parts p.i.s.sed. From what we can make out 'e must 'ave fell asleep on the way back an' the 'orse decided it'd bring 'im 'ome. Trouble was, the nag took one o' the little turnin's too sharp an' the back wheel caught one o' them iron posts they 'ave on the street corners. Over the top Soapy goes an' lands on 'is 'ead in the kerb. Out like a light 'e was. When this copper comes up, 'e calls a doctor from nearby who must 'ave bin p.i.s.sed 'imself 'cos 'e said Soapy was dead. Anyway, they cart 'im orf ter the mortuary an' leave 'im on the slab wiv a sheet over 'im while they send fer the pathological bloke. Meanwhile, Soapy comes to an' sits up. 'E told us the first fing 'e remembered was 'earin' an awful scream. It must 'ave bin the mortuary attendant. 'E's p.i.s.sed orf an' n.o.body can find 'im. Poor sod must 'ave bin frightened out of 'is wits seein' Soapy sit up under that sheet.'

Carrie could not help bursting out laughing at Sharkey's tale, and for the rest of the day kept herself busy and tried to forget her depression.

It was as she was preparing to leave that Fred called her into the back room.

'I 'ope yer don't fink I'm pryin', Carrie, but yer seemed a bit upset terday,' he said, looking at her closely.

She shrugged her shoulders. She wanted to tell Fred about her emotional problems, he seemed genuinely concerned, but instead she smiled briefly and decided it was too personal. 'It's nuffink, Fred,' she said quickly. 'It's jus' bin one o' them days.'

He nodded and looked down at his feet as he struggled for words. 'If there's anyfink I can do, anyfink at all,' he continued with an earnest tone to his voice.

Carrie shook her head. 'Franks fer yer concern, Fred, but it's nuffink really,' she replied.

'Like I said, I don't wanna pry,' he went on, looking up at her, 'but lately yer've not bin yerself an' I thought there might be somefing wrong. If yer don't wanna talk about it that's all right, but if yer ever feel the need I'm always willin' ter listen. Yer see, Carrie, I fink a lot of yer. I'm not very good wiv words, but what I'm trying' ter say is, if yer ever need a friend, somebody ter confide in, I'm 'ere.'

Carrie saw the strange, distant look in his eyes and felt a sudden shock as she realised. Fred was in love with her! There was no mistaking his expression, nor the feeling in his measured words. She searched his face as if looking for a way out and saw that he was flushing with embarra.s.sment as he averted his gaze.

'I'll remember that, Fred,' she answered softly, giving him a warm smile.

'I've never 'ad much ter do wiv young ladies, it's always bin the business,' he went on haltingly. 'I s'pose I missed out when I was younger, but it don't stop me 'avin' feelin's. I feel a lot fer yer, Carrie, an' if yer ever get ter finkin' likewise I'd be proud ter walk out wiv yer.'

'Yer a nice man, Fred,' she told him. 'I won't ferget what yer said. I like yer a lot, but love ain't the same as likin' somebody.'

'I realise that,' he said, looking down at his feet again. 'P'raps yer could learn ter love me, given time? I won't 'arp on it an' I promise I won't pester yer, but jus' remember, love can grow on somebody. I'd marry yer termorrer if yer'd 'ave me, an' yer'd never regret it. I'd look after yer an' care fer yer.'