Jack Palmer staggered out from the ‘West Garside Working Man’s Institute,’ shivering in the sudden impact of the cold night air, a recent rain gleaming on the pavement and roads under the harsh street-light.
He had had a good night, playing on the sympathies of those who knew about the death of Rosie. He had accepted drinks and the occasional 10 shilling or £1 note donated towards the funeral expenses, £30 or £40 it was going to cost. He supposed he would have to go to the West Garside Co-operative Society to organise the funeral and haggle over the price.
What was the stupid girl doing, running across the road like that? And what was Ethel doing letting her out like that, even though he frequently sent Rosie out shopping, to get his cigarettes or a bottle of brown ale from under the co
