A Wife's Courage

Book 3: Battersea Tavern

by Kitty Neale

Genres: World War II

Synopsis

London, 1944. With bombs raining over London, keeping the Battersea Tavern open is no easy feat for owner Winnie Berry - but the community need the warmth and familiarity of the pub more than ever.

After marriage, Maureen Fanning had moved out to Wandsworth with her bad-tempered husband Brancher. But when he loses both his job and their lodgings, the only people who will take them in are her kindly grandparents, Len and Renee. Getting a cleaning job at the Battersea Tavern is the least she can do to pay them back. It would all be fine... if it weren't for Brancher.

Winnie is determined to take timid Maureen under her wing. But when tragedy strikes, it will be up to Maureen to find the strength she didn't know she possessed...

Release date: August 3, 2023

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 416

Sample

Battersea, London 12 June, 1944

Maureen Fanning looked straight ahead as she trudged through Battersea, pushing her few belongings in a perambulator. Her husband, Brancher, walked beside her, with one hand shoved into his trouser pocket and the other holding a roll-up. His confident swagger irked Maureen. It was Brancher’s big mouth and bad temper that had got them thrown out of their lodgings. Now they had to go cap in hand and ask her grandparents to accommodate them for a while.

For a while, Maureen thought, silently seething. For a while would more than likely turn into several months. Brancher had lost his job again and God only knows when he’d find another! But Maureen wouldn’t moan at him about it. She’d keep her mouth shut, as usual, and, hopefully, save herself from having to listen to yet another tirade of abuse. She supposed she should be grateful that at least her husband didn’t beat her. He’d push and shove her, and sometimes he’d throw things in her direction, but he’d never actually whacked her. She could put up with shouting, though Brancher’s words always cut her deeply. Indeed, his words could hurt just as much as a slap around the face and the pain would linger for longer.

‘I don’t know why you insist on keeping that bloomin’ pram. It ain’t like we’ve got a kid, and we ain’t likely to ever have one again. You baron cow,’ Brancher spat. He took a long, angry draw on his roll-up before throwing it into the gutter.

Maureen’s jaw clenched as sharp grief stabbed at her heart. Brancher had done it again: in one sentence, he’d managed to reduce her to tears. It wasn’t as if she needed reminding of the baby she’d lost two years earlier. There wasn’t a day that passed when she didn’t think about the child that she’d birthed. She’d been six months gone when her waters had broken and a wrenching pain had ripped through her stomach. In a flood of blood and agony, the tiny, perfectly formed boy had been born, but he hadn’t opened his eyes or taken a breath. He was with the angels now.

She dashed away her tears, hoping that her husband hadn’t noticed her crying. She was sure that he got some sort of sick pleasure in seeing her upset.

‘Give me a couple of bob,’ he demanded loudly.

Maureen stopped walking and, with a heavy heart, she fished in her cloth bag for the small purse that held their money. She knew that there was barely enough in there to last them for more than a few days. But she wouldn’t dare argue with him. Instead, her voice little more than a croak, she asked, ‘What do you want money for?’

‘The pub,’ Brancher answered bluntly.

She wasn’t surprised that he was going to put their cash behind the bar. He’d always liked a good drink, but alcohol made him even more intolerable than usual and would bring out his jealous streak. She’d lost count of the number of times that, after a few pints, her husband had accused her of flirting with other men or of having an affair. The idea of even looking at another man seemed preposterous to her – she wouldn’t have the guts!

‘Sorry, but that’ll have to do you,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t demand more.

Maureen handed Brancher a couple of coins, half of the money that was left in the purse. He looked at the meagre amount in his hand and shrugged. ‘I’ll see ya later,’ he said, and then sloped off.

She watched him strut away. Her stomach knotted at the thought of him turning up later at her grandparents’ with a belly full of beer. She hoped that he’d hold his tongue in front of them and not lay into her with another verbal slating. She cringed at the thought of her grandparents hearing Brancher throwing abuse around. And it was very likely that they would hear every vile word that would spew out of his mouth. After all, Brancher was never quiet. Half deaf, he was prone to shouting instead of talking. Maureen felt ashamed of never standing up for herself. But as Brancher had told her on numerous occasions that she was useless, she believed him. After all, she’d proven how useless she was when she hadn’t even managed to keep their baby in her womb for nine months.

Once her husband had turned the corner, Maureen carried on towards her grandparents’ home. She felt a flutter of excitement at seeing them both, though her delight was marred by the thought of Brancher showing her up. As she drew closer to their terraced house, she realised that it had been a month since she’d last visited. Her gran was bound to ask why she hadn’t been sooner. What could Maureen say? She couldn’t tell them the truth; that she’d been too exhausted to call in because she’d been working three cleaning jobs that paid the rent and for Brancher’s booze. Her gran would be furious and would probably give him a right telling-off! Brancher wouldn’t stand for that, but it wouldn’t be her gran he’d turn on. No, it would be her. Maureen’s mind whirred. She could fib and tell her gran that she’d been under the weather. Yes, that would do. She’d fob her off with a tale about having a summer cold.

Maureen knocked on the front door. A wide smile spread across her face in anticipation of seeing her dear gran. When no one answered, she knocked again and called through the letter box, ‘Gran, it’s me, Maureen.’

She was pleased to hear her gran call back.

‘Let yourself in, pet. The key is under the pot.’

Maureen left the pram under the front window and went inside to find her gran sitting by the empty hearth with her feet up on a pouf.

‘Hello, dear, what a lovely surprise,’ Renee greeted.

‘Hello, Gran. How are you?’

‘I’m all right, but my old legs aren’t working too well, that’s why your granddad left the key under the pot. He knew that if anyone called, it would take me forever to get to the door. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, it’s smashing to see you. Your granddad will be back soon. You haven’t got to rush off, have you?’

‘No, not at all,’ Maureen answered. She sat on the corner of the sofa and nervously twiddled a strand of her chestnut-brown hair, suddenly feeling apprehensive about asking if she and Brancher could move in.

‘What’s bothering you?’ her gran asked.

The perceptive old woman could read her like a book, so there was no point in beating around the bush. ‘Me and Brancher haven’t got anywhere to live, Gran,’ she answered, embarrassed, looking down at her scuffed and tatty shoes.

‘Why? What happened to the flat you were renting in Wandsworth?’

‘The landlord wants to sell the place, we had to leave,’ Maureen lied.

‘Didn’t he give you notice to find somewhere else?’

‘Yes, a bit, but it’s hard to find anywhere. So many families have had their homes bombed, there’s a real shortage of decent housing.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I – erm – I was wondering if we could move in here? Just until we find somewhere.’

‘Of course you can. It’ll be lovely having you around.’

Maureen leapt from the sofa and rushed to her gran’s side. She placed an enthusiastic kiss on the woman’s papery cheek. ‘Thanks, Gran, thanks so much. I’ve got our things outside; I’ll fetch them in.’

As Maureen went to turn towards the door, she felt her gran grab a hold of her hand. ‘There’s something you should know,’ she said, her tone serious. ‘It’s your granddad. He’s becoming ever so forgetful.’

‘Well, he is getting on a bit.’

‘It’s not just that. I think he’s losing his marbles.’

Maureen wasn’t overly concerned. Her gran had always been a worrier. She doubted very much that there was anything wrong with her granddad other than old age. ‘I’m sure he’s fine, but I’ll keep an eye on him,’ she assured. If anything, Maureen was more concerned about her gran’s legs, especially as it appeared that she was struggling to walk. Her grandparents had aged a lot this past year, yet Maureen hadn’t noticed until now. A wave of guilt washed over her as she thought that she should have visited them more often. Perhaps living with them was the best thing that could have happened … just as long as Brancher behaved himself.

‘Well, I never!’ Winnie Berry exclaimed when she set eyes on Brancher Fanning. ‘I haven’t seen you in my pub for ages.’

‘Hello, Mrs Berry,’ Brancher boomed with a wide smile. ‘This place ain’t changed a bit. I knew I’d get a welcome smile in the Battersea Tavern. I’m glad to see you’re still the landlady. You’re looking well.’

Len, who was sat at the end of the bar in his usual place, turned on his stool. He scowled when his eyes set on his grandson-in-law. ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

‘Half a mild, thanks, Len.’

‘You cheeky sod, that’s not what I meant and you know it. What are you doing here in Battersea?’

‘Maureen is round at yours, so I popped in for a quick drink.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

‘Yeah, I’d love to be, but I got laid off.’

‘Give the supervisor a load of lip again, did you?’

‘No, Len, it weren’t like that.’

‘Yeah, I bet. It never is, is it?’

Winnie went to pour Brancher his drink, leaving him and Len to catch up. It was no secret that Len didn’t think much of Brancher, but Winnie had always put it down to the pedestal on which Len had placed his granddaughter. In the old man’s eyes, no one would have been good enough for Maureen. Especially someone like Brancher who was full of himself and liked a good few pints. But Winnie didn’t see what was so wrong with the bloke. He’d been one of her regular customers since he’d been old enough to drink. Though Winnie hadn’t seen him since he’d moved to Wandsworth with Maureen.

‘How are you, love? And Maureen, is she well?’ Winnie asked as she placed his drink on the bar.

‘Yeah, thanks, Mrs Berry, can’t complain. But I was just telling Len about how I lost my job.’

‘Oh no, that’s a pity.’

‘Yeah. I got laid off. Mind you, there’s plenty of housebuilding going on so I should be able to find a labouring job easily enough.’

Len stood up and knocked back the last few mouthfuls of his stout. ‘I’ve heard enough of his rubbish. He’s a bleedin’ sorry excuse for a man. I’m off home to see … erm … err … I’ll see you tomorrow, Win.’

‘Yes, see you, Len,’ Winnie replied with a weak smile. She’d noticed that Len had lost track of what he was saying again. The man never said much, but just lately, when he did speak, he sometimes muddled his sentences. Poor old bugger, she thought. None of them were getting any younger!

‘I’ll be home in a bit, Len. I’m just gonna finish me drink,’ Brancher said, picking up his glass.

Len didn’t answer and marched out of the pub.

‘I don’t know what his problem is,’ Brancher said, sighing heavily.

‘Don’t worry, love, it’s not personal. After Maureen’s mother died, Len became very protective over Maureen and her brother. He’d be the same with anyone the girl had married. I reckon that even if you were royalty, Len would still give you a hard time.’

‘I suppose so. But I’ve been married to Maureen for nearly five years now and he ain’t come round. He’s never going to like me, is he?’

Winnie smiled. ‘Probably not, but Len’s a miserable bugger and doesn’t like many people.’

Brancher drank his half pint quickly and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I’d best get off.’

‘Don’t be a stranger.’

‘I won’t. I’m hoping to be in here a lot more. Maureen is asking Len and Renee if we can move in with them. I’ll be seeing you.’

Carmen, Winnie’s barmaid and lodger, came to stand beside Winnie. ‘Was that Brancher Fanning?’ she asked as the door closed behind him.

‘Yes. He might be moving in with Len and Renee.’

‘Blimey, I’ve not seen him in years. He used to knock about with my Errol when they were kids.’

‘He’s a few years older than Errol, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. Errol used to look up to him. He’s a nice lad.’

Winnie agreed. Brancher was nice, though she thought he must be nearly thirty years old by now, hardly a lad. And though Winnie liked the fella, Len never had a good word to say about him. According to Len, Brancher was a skiver for not doing his bit and fighting against the Germans. But Winnie knew that Brancher had hearing difficulties, which also explained his loud, booming voice.

The door opened again and Winnie beamed with delight when she saw her four-year-old granddaughter running in. ‘Nanny, nanny,’ Martha squealed excitedly. ‘I stwoked a puppy. He licked my face and it tickled me.’

Winnie’s heart melted at the beautiful sight of Martha’s sparkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Her blonde hair glistened in the sunlight that streamed in through one of the windows. She looked so angelic, the apple of Winnie’s eye. She was grateful that Martha took after her mother, Rachel, and bore very little resemblance to her father, David. Rarely a day passed when Winnie didn’t think about her son David, but he had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She would never forgive him for the terrible things that he’d done.

Winnie pushed memories of him from her mind, and smiled down at her granddaughter.

‘Sorry, Win,’ Rachel said as she hurried in behind Martha. ‘I tried to drag her round to the back door, but she wriggled out of my grip, the little madam. She will insist on coming in the pub.’

‘It’s all right, love. She’s just been telling me about a puppy.’

‘Yes, there’s a litter of them out the back of the corner shop. Cute little things.’

‘They need a home, Nanny. Can we have one? Please, Nanny,’ Martha asked. Her little hands held on to the brown painted bar as she enthusiastically jumped up and down.

‘I’ve already told her “no”,’ Rachel mouthed.

‘We can’t have a puppy, love. We haven’t got a garden for the puppy to play in.’

‘Please, Nanny. I’ve always wanted a puppy,’ Martha pleaded, her head cocked to one side.

Winnie smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, all right then, I suppose so,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to take the puppy out every day and look after it.’

‘I will! I pwomise! Thanks, Nanny. I luff you!’

‘You’re too soft with her,’ Rachel scoffed.

‘I know. I can never say no to her. She’s got her old nan wrapped around her little finger.’

‘Can we go and get the puppy now?’ Martha asked her mum, excitedly.

‘Come on then,’ Rachel answered with a sigh. ‘But no running ahead of me this time. Keep a hold of my hand.’

‘ ’Ere you are, love,’ Winnie said, and went to the till. She took out several coins and handed them to Rachel. ‘Use this to get whatever the puppy needs.’

Once Martha had skipped off holding her mother’s hand, Carmen turned to Winnie and said ruefully, ‘You’re lucky to have your granddaughter living here with us. It’s nice that you’re so close.’

Winnie felt sorry for Carmen. The woman had a strained relationship with her own daughter, Cheryl, and saw little of her new grandson. And since Carmen’s son, Errol, had been released from prison, no one had seen him in Battersea, though Winnie thought that Errol’s absence was a good thing. Carmen had no family of her own to speak of but had become an integral part of Winnie’s life and the Battersea Tavern. They lived in the flat upstairs: Winnie, Carmen, Rachel and Martha. And although Rachel’s mother, Hilda Duff, didn’t live with them, she spent a lot of time upstairs too. And there was also Winnie’s adopted daughter, Jan, a nurse, married to Terry. Jan would visit whenever she could, but her work at St Thomas’ Hospital kept her busy. Though they weren’t all blood related, as far as Winnie was concerned, they were one big, happy family.

‘I do feel very blessed,’ Winnie said. But as she spoke, her stomach twisted with nerves. So far, her family had escaped the atrocities of the damned war. They’d had their run-ins and lucky escapes – Jan had been buried under rubble when a bomb had landed on the nurses’ home and Carmen had nearly lost Cheryl when Balham underground station had been flooded. But, unlike so many other unfortunate families, Winnie wasn’t left to grieve the loss of her loved ones. Granted, her husband, Brian, had been killed, and so had Carmen’s husband, Harry. But neither women were upset about being widows. In fact, the opposite was true!

She wondered how much longer her luck would last. The war had been raging for years now. Surely it had to end soon. Troops had landed in Normandy and were fighting the enemy back through France. She gritted her teeth as she hoped with every sinew of her body that Hitler would be defeated and her family left unscathed.

The following morning, Len plodded back from the corner shop with his daily newspaper tucked under his arm. He was in no rush to get home to read it. He already knew what the headline would read – Pilotless bombs attacked East London in the early hours of the morning. Len had heard the news bulletins on the wireless. His blood had run cold when he’d listened to the announcer reporting on the rockets sent by Hitler. The Germans were in France, just across the Channel and close enough to launch their deadly weapons. Len was sure that the rockets were sent in retaliation for the British, American and Canadian troops landing in France a week ago. It had been a massive operation and the resilient Brits had been swept up in a wave of euphoria. Now though, they were going to pay the price of Hitler’s wrath.

Len drew in a long breath. As if things weren’t bad enough, to make matters worse, he would have to sit and look at Brancher’s face across the breakfast table. His lip curled in disgust. What Maureen saw in Brancher would remain a mystery to Len. He found the man to be brash and loud, with a lazy streak and no ambition. Not nearly good enough for Maureen. But his granddaughter seemed to love her husband, so he supposed that he’d have to put up with the bloke.

Arriving back home, Len ambled through to his kitchen in the back of the house. Renee was sitting at the table and sipping a cup of tea. Maureen had some bread under the grill and the kettle was on the stove. And there was Brancher, sat on a seat with his feet up on another and smoking a roll-up.

‘Shouldn’t you be out looking for work?’ Len barked. He pulled his newspaper from under his arm and whacked it across Brancher’s boots. ‘My kitchen chairs are made for backsides, not feet,’ he scowled.

‘Yeah, I will look for work, Len, but I can’t on an empty stomach,’ Brancher replied. He pulled his booted feet off the seat and ran his hand through his greased black hair.

Len watched in disgust as Brancher then wiped his hand on the tablecloth. ‘Oi, wash your bleedin’ … thingy, erm, hand, at the sink. I don’t want that hair pomade stuff on Renee’s clean linen.’

Maureen rushed over with a dishcloth and rubbed the tablecloth. ‘Sorry, Granddad. Brancher’s got a bad habit of doing that. I don’t think he even realises what he’s doing.’

‘Don’t apologise for me,’ Brancher growled.

Len saw Maureen lower her eyes and the colour drain from her face. She walked back to the stove, her back rod-straight. He was surprised that his granddaughter had allowed Brancher to talk to her in that tone. He was about to stick up for Maureen and have a go at the man, but Renee suddenly cried out.

‘Pilotless bombs!’ she shrieked. ‘Oh, Len, have you seen this?’

Maureen came to stand behind Renee and looked over her gran’s shoulder at the newspaper spread on the table. ‘Good grief! Whatever next?’

‘What are you on about?’ Brancher asked and snatched the paper towards him. ‘Rockets … the Jerries are firing rockets at us from France,’ he blurted, sounding aghast.

‘Yes, I heard it on the wireless this morning. But there’s no need to panic. The RAF will shoot ’em down, pilot or no pilot.’

‘But, Granddad, it says here that one witness said they heard the engines, humming, and then it cut out and went deathly quiet until there was a huge explosion. The rocket falls out of the sky and you can’t hear it coming!’

‘The Hun got lucky, that’s all. Now our boys know what to expect, they won’t let no more rockets through,’ Len reassured her.

‘Bloomin’ clever though, eh? Pilotless bombs, who’d have thought it,’ Brancher said, his hazel eyes wide.

Len didn’t like the fact that Brancher appeared to be impressed with the German’s invention. He slammed his fist down hard on the table. ‘Don’t you give them murdering bastards any credit,’ he ground out through his gritted teeth.

‘I ain’t, Len. I was just say—’

‘Nothing. Don’t say nothing,’ Len interrupted. His nose wrinkled at the smell of burning toast and he looked over his shoulder.

‘Oh, blimey,’ Maureen said and dashed back to the stove. She quickly forked the blackened bread from under the grill and onto a plate. ‘It’s ruined,’ she moaned and blew on it.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Renee assured. ‘Just scrape it. Do it over the sink, mind.’

‘But it’s burned to a cinder, Gran.’

‘Have you seen the queues for a loaf? We can’t afford to waste bread. Like I said, give it a scrape and it’ll do.’

Len wasn’t hungry anyway. The thought of rockets flying over from the continent had turned his stomach. Though he’d play it down in front of Renee. As it was, his wife lived on her nerves. He didn’t want to give her something else to worry about.

Maureen placed a plate in front of him and gave another to Brancher, both with two slices of scraped toast on them. Len peered at the plate, suddenly feeling confused. What was Maureen doing here? Why was she giving him his breakfast? His heart raced. Renee, where was Renee? And why hadn’t Renee given him his breakfast? He looked up, relieved to see his wife at the other end of the table.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Len gulped. ‘Er, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he added, pushing his plate away. He grabbed the newspaper and pretended to read as his mind tried to work out what was happening to him. These lapses of memory seemed to be happening more often. One minute, he’d be perfectly lucid and then the next, he wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow. It had happened the other day on the way back from the Battersea Tavern. He remembered saying goodbye to Winnie and then he’d found himself in a street that he didn’t recognise. He had no idea how he’d got there. Luckily, once the fog in his head had cleared, he’d managed to find his way home. But Len had to admit to himself that it had worried him. And he wondered if Renee had noticed. If she had, she hadn’t said anything. Or maybe she had and he’d forgotten!

Brancher reached across for Len’s plate. ‘I’ll have that if it’s going begging.’

Len didn’t respond. He kept his head in his newspaper, gripped by his worries. The thought of going doolally terrified him. He’d seen it happen to his father and his father’s brother. Both had lived to a ripe old age but had become drooling wrecks who didn’t know who they were, or recognise anyone else. They hadn’t been able to feed or clean themselves and were totally reliant on their wives. Len feared the same fate. He’d rather be dead than live in that state. And it wouldn’t be fair on Renee. The woman could hardly walk. She’d never be capable of caring for him and he wouldn’t expect her to.

Maureen’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘I’ll be doing all the cooking from now on, Granddad. Do you fancy a nice stew later?’

‘Long as you can manage not to burn it,’ Len answered and forced a chortle.

He smiled tenderly at his granddaughter, though his insides were churning and his mind in turmoil. He hoped against all the odds that his moments of confusion were merely old age creeping in and that he wasn’t turning into a dribbling replica of what his father had become. But if the truth be told, deep down, Len knew his fate, though he was yet to accept it.

‘I can’t believe it, flying bombs without pilots! It’s really scary,’ Rachel said with a shake of her head.

She was sat in the front room with Winnie and Carmen while Martha was in her bedroom with the new puppy. Martha had again asserted her independence and was getting herself dressed. She’d shown herself to have a stubborn streak and insisted on doing everything for herself. Rachel couldn’t wait to see what clothes her daughter would choose to wear today.

Carmen checked her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Her once ebony black hair was now almost completely white. Rachel mused that maybe the stress of the war had taken the colour out of Carmen’s hair. The woman was about the same age as Winnie and though they looked nothing alike, Rachel thought that they were similar in many ways. She admired the fact that they were both strong and were good at putting on a brave face. And neither Carmen nor Winnie were afraid to speak their minds.

Carmen turned away from the mirror, saying, ‘I thought we’d pretty much seen the back of Hitler’s bombs, but these rocket things are a whole new kettle of fish.’

‘Well, we got through the Blitz, so we’ll get through this,’ Winnie said firmly. ‘This is just Hitler retaliating ’cos of our troops landing on the beaches in Normandy last week.’

‘Maybe. But, Rachel, you really ought to think about sending Martha to the countryside, somewhere safe,’ Carmen suggested.

Rachel leapt to her feet. ‘No, I won’t hear of it,’ she answered adamantly.

‘I don’t blame you for wanting to keep her with you, but Carmen has a good point,’ Winnie joined in. ‘We don’t know how many of those rockets Hitler has or how many he’s going to send over here. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want my granddaughter away from home any more than you do, but perhaps evacuating Martha is something to consider?’

‘No, Win. There’s no way and that’s final,’ Rachel snapped.

Carmen cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me, young lady, but there’s no need to bite Winnie’s head off.’

‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’ Rachel hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive, but she felt passionate about keeping Martha with her. She’d nearly lost Martha once before when the girl had been a baby and Lucy Little had kidnapped her. Lucy hadn’t been of sound mind and had stolen Martha to run away with David. Unfortunately, though no one knew what really happened on the platform of Clapham Junction railway station, Lucy had been killed under a train. Winnie blamed David, her own son, for Lucy’s death. It had been a terrifying day for Rachel, one that she’d never forget. And now, she couldn’t stand the thought of her daughter being away from her. No one knew how much longer the war would last, it could be months or even years! All the more reason to keep Martha at home.

Martha came clumping into the room, with her puppy jumping around her ankles. Rachel tried not to laugh at the sight of her daughter wearing a back-to-front dress and balancing in a pair of Rachel’s high-heeled shoes.

‘I’m dwessed, Mummy,’ she said proudly.

‘I can see that.’

Winnie also looked as though she was trying not to laugh. ‘And you look as pretty as a picture, love. Have you got a name yet for your puppy?’ she asked.

‘Yes. His name is Cake because he’s the same colour as cake and cake is my favewit. I luff cake and I luff my puppy.’

‘You’ve clearly given it a lot of thought,’ Rachel said. ‘Now, go and put your own shoes on and we can take Cake for a walk.’

Martha clumped back out of the room, calling, ‘Come on, Cake.’

‘She’s special, bless her,’ Winnie giggled in Martha’s wake.

‘Yes, she really is. I’m popping up the Junction to get her a new pair of shoes. She’s almost grown out of the ones on her feet. I can’t keep up with her, she’s shooting up so fast. Can I leave Cake with you?’

‘Of course you can, love. Go in my purse and get a few bob. I’ll treat her to a new pair of shoes,’ Winnie smiled.

‘Thanks, Win. That’s ever so good of you. She’s a lucky girl. When I was her age and had grown out of my shoes, my gran used to cut the ends off.’

‘Me an’ all. That’s how things were. But Martha won’t know what it is to be poor or hungry. I shan’t have any granddaughter of mine with an empty belly or ever wanting for anything.’

‘Just as long as you don’t spoil her,’ Carmen remarked. ‘It’s none of my business, but I do think you’re too soft with the girl. Spare the rod, spoil the child.’

‘I’m her nan, I’m allowed to spoil her.’

‘And I won’t have anyone spank my child!’ Rachel said indignantly. ‘Anyway, I’ll take Cake for a quick walk and then I’ll see about her new shoes. See you later.’

After walking Cake to the end of the street and back, Rachel popped the puppy back indoors and then headed to Clapham Junction. Martha held her hand and was chatting keenly about what shoes she wanted, and about Cake’s wet nose and then she started jabbering on about the new ribbons that Carmen had given her. Rachel wasn’t really paying . . .