“Ma… Ma… there’re two men…”
George and Brant exchanged glances.
“It’s always the same,” George said. “Damn kids…”
A middle-aged, slatternly-looking woman came down the passage, drying her pink, soap-softened hands on a dimly towel.
“’Oo is it?” she asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
“I suppose Mr Thomas isn’t in?” George asked, raising his hat and edging slowly away from the door.
“’E’s in the garden.” She raised her voice and shouted “Bert… ’ere… come ’ere…”
“That’s all right,” George said hastily. “We’ll go round", and before the woman could protest, he left her and walked round to the hack garden.
Mr Thomas was resting after a bout of digging. He stood in the middle of a patch of newly turned ground, his cap at the back of his head, the spade thrust into the soil and the glow of sweat and health on his large, simple face.
He blinked when he saw George and Brant, and paused as he was about to light his pipe, uncertain, uneasy.