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gone, I know the back door’s open, ’cos there’s no key. It can only be bolted from the inside, and Lottie must have opened it to scarper. So get in that way and see to Derek, will you?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    Satisfied that Tom would also be keeping young Sally occupied, Ivy faced her fellow soldiers, rubbed her hands together, then beckoned towards a gathering clutch of onlookers. ‘She’s done a bunk,’ she said loudly. ‘Took her cases and every penny in yon house, I shouldn’t wonder. I think we should give her a nice little ta-ra party to wish her well. We need a few bits and pieces, though.’
    ‘Good idea,’ called a younger woman.
    Ivy nominated search areas. ‘Jimmy Foster’s shop’s your best bet,’ she announced. ‘Root through his back yard, then make your way to the Rec. The rest of you split up and cover Worthington and Spencer. Five minutes, that’s all. We meet on the Rec as soon as we’ve collected enough ammunition. Are we all game?’
    ‘Yes,’ came the spirited response.
    ‘Right,’ ordered Ivy, every inch the Sergeant Major. ‘On your marks – get gone!’
    A short time later, a dishevelled group gathered on the Parry Rec, each woman breathing hard and carrying a miscellany of putrid vegetable matter. ‘You want to see what’s in some of them Spencer Street middens,’ complained a fat housewife with sweat streaming down reddened cheeks. ‘Fair turns your stomach, it does.’
    ‘Shut up, Molly Hargreaves,’ snapped Ivy. Her hair had tumbled down, and a few streaks of dirt mingled with caked blood on her cheeks. ‘This is serious business. Right. Are you all listening?’
    They all listened.
    ‘Remember when Cissie Burns-as-was left her children in the house all night? Remember what we did to her when she showed up next morning?’
    ‘Aye,’ replied Rosie Blunt. ‘That were a right good do. Eeh, I did enjoy it.’
    ‘Well, we want more of the same.’ Ivy knew she looked fearsome. Various substances had clung to her skin, giving her the appearance of a Native American painted in readiness for battle with white intruders. ‘Follow me,’ she commanded. ‘Her won’t have got far, not with two cases.’
    The women crossed the open ground, turned into Wigan Road and made a beeline for Trinity Street Station. As they walked past the market, several members of the group stopped to pick up bits of discarded fruit and veg. On Newport Street, passers-by gave Ivy’s army a wide berth, as the smell of putrefaction was becoming far too strong for most noses.
    They turned into Trinity Street, Ivy still in the lead. She stopped abruptly, causing a slight pile-up of breathless females in her wake. ‘I can see her,’ she said. ‘Stand still a minute, keep out of the road where she can’t catch sight.’
    She stood alone on the corner, watched while Lottie Kerrigan teetered across tram tracks on thick wedge heels. The suitcases made her weight uneven, and she was plainly struggling to carry all the luggage.
    ‘Well,’ said Ivy. ‘Poor lass needs help. She can’t manage all yon packages, so we’d better go and give her a hand, eh?’
    With a whoop of joy, nine women dashed into the road, each pushing and shoving her neighbours in an effort to be the first on the scene. Ivy simply stood under the station clock, arms akimbo, head to one side as she studied the scenario.
    Lottie was soon separated from her bags. Lids flew open, clothes were grabbed, torn, fought over. ‘I allers wanted some of these fancy keks,’ cried a woman from Spencer Street. She waved a pair of satin knickers above her head. ‘I reckon I might even stir the owld man back to life if I wear these.’
    Within a matter of seconds, Lottie stood alone. The empty cases lay on their sides, and not one item of clothing was intact. Ivy’s gang began to circle the traveller, each tossing a tomato or a rotten cabbage in her hands. Ivy came forward at last. ‘Girls?’ she asked.
    Money was passed from hand to hand,