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In the kitchen once more, Lizzie slapped down the heaped plate of meat and bread in the middle of the table, saying, ‘Is it tea or are you gettin’ the cans on?’

The men glanced furtively from one to the other, their eyes asking a question. Then Paddy and Bill turned simultaneously and looked towards the women, and as usual it was Lizzie who answered them, crying loudly now, ‘There’s none of us goin’ trapesing down there the night an’ it fit to cut the lugs off you. If you want your beer there’s the cans.’ She thrust out her thick arm and pointed towards four assorted cans, their lids dangling by pieces of string from the handles www.suissecasinoenligne.com/revues/betamo/.

The men made no answer but still continued to look towards the women, and then Ruth spoke. Quietly and in levelled tones, she said, ‘It’s Sunday.’

The men sighed and turned back to the table again, and Bill Waggett muttered under his breath, ‘An’ that’s that then. Bloody Sunday. You know’—he glanced up from the cards and, catching Jimmy’s attention, he nodded at him, saying softly, ‘I hate Sundays. I always have hated Sundays ever since I was a lad ’cos she kept me going harder on a Sunday than when I was at work.’ He had inclined his head backwards towards the fire-place and had hardly finished speaking when his mother, her dewlap chin wobbling, cried across the room, ‘Lazy bugger! you always were. Wouldn’t even kick when you were born; slid out like a dead fly on hot fat.’

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