Kathleen O'Connor had that perential gift of the Irish, the love of a good chat, so was apparently only to happy to share this bad news. Lottie's hands made large and calloused from a tough upbringing and years of mother crunched themselves into fists.

"Well, at least he's not dead. Thank you fer tellin' me Kathleen, I'll go find him." Lottie closed the door and her eyes as she rested her head on the wood of the door. Why? Turning about she saw John at the foot of the stairs sipping from a bottle.

"John Blacke, unless ye've just won a King's Commission, don't say nowt, or I shove my roller right up your Hindu Kush." Her comment was colourful certainly, but she stormed back into the kitchen come front room to find her shawl. What had she done with it?

"Jesus Feckin' Christ!" Lottie stamped her foot, her temper boiling like a kettle on heat "What is wrong with the men in this family? Hav ye all got no brains!" She shouted at John, the nearest member of the male species with the last name of Blacke.