Not My Child

by Kitty Neale

Genres: World War II; Sagas

Synopsis

London, 1923. Cyril Black is finally out of prison. Rather than going home to his wife and son, he visits his mistress only to find that she's given birth to his daughter - and wants nothing to do with her. His wife, Florrie, reluctantly agrees to take them in. But there's no love in her heart for another woman's child...

1939. At sixteen, Penny Black lives in constant fear of her mother's temper. Her only friend is her twelve-year-old neighbour, Katy Darwin. When they learn Katy will be evacuated to the countryside, the two come up with a plan to smuggle Penny along. Farm life in Kent is a far cry from Penny's Battersea upbringing... but there's only so long she can live a lie. Will Penny ever find the love and acceptance she's always longed for?

The stunning new standalone wartime saga from Sunday Times bestselling author Kitty Neale. Pre-order now!

Release date: August 14, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

‘Try and keep your nose clean now, eh, Black.’

‘I won’t be sad to see the back of this place,’ Cyril Black replied, grinning at the prison guard, revealing his missing tooth to the side of his mouth and the rest of his yellowed teeth.

‘How long has it been this time? A year? I expect the missus will be pleased to have you home.’

‘I doubt that my Florrie will have the bunting out to greet me,’ Cyril scoffed, thinking of his hard-faced wife. Then leaning over the counter towards the guard, he winked and lowered his voice, ‘But I know a lady who will be very welcoming,’ he smiled, cheekily.

‘Cor, you’re not even out of the prison gates yet and you’re already up to mischief. Just stay on the right side of the law.’

‘I’ll do me best, gov,’ Cyril said with a tug on his flat cap.

It felt good to be back in his own clothes and out of the prison issue clobber. Cyril was thankful that at least he hadn’t had to wear the broad arrow uniform that had been abolished the year before. And neither had his head been shaved. Thank gawd, he thought, pleased that at thirty-four years old, he still had a mop of thick, red hair and hadn’t gone bald like his father had by his age.

Cyril stood outside of the prison and raised his face to the sun. He breathed in a long breath, expanding his lungs with free air. His liberty felt good, and he couldn’t wait to fall into Jill’s sexy arms and tumble into her bed. Granted, the delights that Jill offered would cost him a bob or two, but Cyril hoped she might waive her fees and pleasure him as a welcoming home gift. It was more than he could hope to receive from his wife. The miserable cow, he mused, shuddering at the idea of seeing Florrie’s sour expression.

It took Cyril a couple of hours to meander across London. Nothing much had changed during his incarceration. Horses still pulled carts and delivery boys rode bicycles with baskets on the front, but he did notice that there seemed to be more motorcars on the road. An open top double-decker bus passed him, its carriage advertising Lipton’s tea. Cor, thought Cyril. He could do with a decent cuppa and a nice hot meal. A woman on the top deck smiled down at him. Her hair was cut short, a new fashion that Cyril had heard about; Flappers. They were wild women, set on drinking and dancing, nothing like his Florrie who rarely cracked a smile.

As he cheerfully made his way towards home, Cyril kept his eyes peeled for any opportunities. He was a chancer and would readily steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. Though after this last arduous stint in gaol, he had every intention of avoiding the long arm of the law. As he passed over the Albert Bridge that spanned the river Thames, he flounced into Battersea, his spirits soaring at the familiar sight of the run-down and overcrowded terraced houses. Most folk in the borough lived in poverty, but it was home, and Cyril had been born and bred in Battersea. At thirteen, he’d started work at Price’s Candle factory alongside his father. But Cyril was bored by the mundanity of factory work and had instead turned to a life of petty crime to earn a decent living. Factory work had never suited him, and he’d soon discovered that stealing excited him. It made him feel alive. The high risk came with high returns … except on the occasions when he’d been caught by the Old Bill and hauled before a judge. Cyril shrugged. He’d be more careful in future.

Finally arriving at Jill’s house, Cyril rapped on the shabby door. Stepping back, he smiled broadly as he felt his groin stir in eager anticipation. The woman had an ample bosom and firm thighs. He pictured her long, blonde hair cascading over her milky-white skin and tickling his face as she straddled him. But when the door swung open, Cyril baulked. Jill, who had been slim and pretty, now looked worn-out and slovenly. Her dishevelled hair was lank and greasy, and infected sores marked her once clear complexion. Cyril glanced, shocked at the sight of a baby in the woman’s arms, wrapped in rags and quietly whining.

‘It’s about time you showed your face,’ Jill snapped.

‘I’ve been banged up for a year, love, you know that. I’ve only just got out.’

‘Yeah, well, they should have hung you by your neck.’

‘Come off it, sweetheart, that’s a bit harsh. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’

‘I am. You can take this,’ Jill barked, thrusting the baby towards Cyril.

‘Whoa,’ Cyril cried, throwing his hands in the air. ‘I ain’t come round here to babysit your sprog. You’ve obviously got your hands full … I’d best get off home to see the missus … take care, Jill.’

As Cyril spun on the heel of his worn boots and made a hasty retreat, Jill’s shrill voice followed him.

‘She’s yours, you bloody fool. You left me lumbered wiv her.’

Cyril stopped. He could feel the blood draining from his freckled face. A kid … surely not. He already had a young boy at home, Jimmy, a smashing lad but spoiled rotten by Florrie. Two mouths were enough to feed. He wouldn’t take responsibility for Jill’s bastard too. And anyway, the woman was a whore which meant that the father could be any one of countless fellas.

‘Do you hear me, Cyril Black?’ Jill shrieked.

Cyril turned to face her. ‘Yeah, I hear you. You reckon she’s mine, do ya? I ain’t being funny, love, but you’ve had more men in your bed than I’ve had hot dinners!’

‘She’s yours all right, look,’ Jill said, sharply, and pulled back the rags from the baby to reveal her head.

Cyril gawped. The girl didn’t have much hair, but she had a fine covering of ginger tufts, the exact same colour as his own and the same as Jimmy’s.

‘That’s right, Cyril, look on. You and me both know that there ain’t many blokes in these streets with red hair. And another thing, look at her thumbs …’ Jill raised the baby’s arm. ‘See how short they are. Her thumbs are deformed, just like yours. You don’t need no more proof. I’m telling you: the girl is yours.’

Swallowing hard, Cyril felt winded, as though he’d been punched in the stomach. This was the last news he’d expected to come home to.

Jill continued, ‘I can’t keep her. How am I supposed to work with her screaming the house down?’

‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Cyril uttered.

‘Take her. We’re both starving. She’ll be better off with you and Florrie.’

Cyril’s eyes widened. He couldn’t take a baby home to his wife!

‘Don’t look so worried, Cyril. Florrie’s known for donkey’s years that you’ve been regularly visiting me, and she’s happy to turn a blind eye ’cos I see to your needs so that she don’t have to. Stand up to the woman for once in your life.’

‘But – but …’

‘But bleedin’ nothing! Either you take the girl, or me and her will end up in a workhouse.’

Cyril hung his head. He couldn’t imagine a worse place to be. The workhouses were reputed to be even more dire than the gaols. Thinking fast, Cyril pleaded desperately, ‘I could support you both … I’ll give you money, enough for you and the baby to live on …’

‘Don’t talk daft, Cyril Black,’ Jill spat, scathingly. ‘You can barely keep a roof over Florrie’s and Jimmy’s heads, let alone look after another family. Anyway, I don’t want the girl. Just take her.’

Before Cyril could protest further, Jill had thrust the child into his reluctant arms.

‘Florrie will take good care of her,’ she said, her voice softer. With a final sad glance at her daughter, she turned and stepped back inside, slamming shut the door.

Cyril stood stunned, holding his scrawny-looking daughter. He peered down into her sea-blue eyes, the same shade as his own, and he smiled tenderly. It was clear that the baby needed a good meal. ‘It looks like you’re coming home with me,’ he cooed. ‘Gawd help us both when my Florrie meets you.’

‘You dirty, filthy, good-for-nothing git! You can take your bastard back to where you got it from. It ain’t staying in my house and I ain’t looking after it!’ Florence Black screamed at her husband. She glanced with disgust at the wriggling baby on her kitchen table, shaking her head at the audacity of Cyril. ‘You must have turned lunatic if you really believe that I’m going to take on that whore’s child!’

‘Please, love, I’m begging you. I know it’s a lot to ask but the poor mite is hungry, and she needs us.’

‘Out … go on … the pair of you can sling your hook. Go back to your slut and take the baby with you. It ain’t welcome here and neither are you.’

Exhausted, Florence slumped onto a kitchen chair and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She ran her hand over her face, fighting back tears. She’d been working two jobs to cover the rent and put food on the table. Cyril’s return from gaol was supposed to be a welcome relief. In fact, she’d been counting down the days and had been looking forward to his homecoming to lighten the financial burden. But she hadn’t anticipated that he’d walk through the door with another woman’s child! Florence glanced again at the girl, hatred gnarling her empty stomach that growled with hunger.

Cyril stamped across the kitchen and clumsily gathered the baby. Then to Florence’s surprise, he shoved the bundle at her.

‘Feed her,’ he ordered, his voice ominous. ‘Then when you’ve done feeding her, give me a list of what you’ll need for the girl. I’ll have it by sun fall.’

Forced to hold the baby, Florence glared at her husband. ‘She’s yours. You feed her,’ she said, pushing the baby back towards him.

Cyril’s lips twisted in anger, and she could see that his temples were throbbing. Florence had only ever seen him in this much of a rage the once before. It had been when his father had backhanded his mother in front of them both on Christmas day. Florence recalled how she’d stood back, aghast, as Cyril had grabbed his father by the neck, almost strangling the life out of the man. Though her husband rarely lost his temper, when he did, he could be dangerous. Snapped back into the present, Florence’s pulse quickened and her heart began to race. Still, she wouldn’t back down and accept the child into her home.

‘I’m warning you, woman,’ Cyril growled through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll do as I say!’

‘Oh yeah,’ Florence taunted boldly, ‘and what if I don’t?’

‘Then you’ll see my fist in your hateful mouth! Don’t push me, Florrie. Me and the kid are staying whether you like it or not. This is my house and you’re my wife.’

‘Your wife! Huh, was you thinking about your wife when you made that?’ Florence asked, flicking her eyes towards the baby who was still in her arms, gurgling unhappily.

‘If you had been a proper wife instead of turning your back on me every night, I wouldn’t have needed to visit Jill. But all of that is by the by now. That child doesn’t have the energy to cry. Feed her. You’ll take care of her as our own. Is that clear?’

Florence pursed her lips. She wanted to tell Cyril to go and take a running jump, but she could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t going to accept any nonsense from her. He wasn’t often a violent man, though he’d grown up taking aggressive beatings from his father and had watched him regularly attack his mother. Cyril had always vowed that he’d never be anything like the man his father was, yet she knew he struggled to contain his anger, instead masking it with a cheeky character. She’d pushed him in the past to the point where he’d snapped and punched a hole in the door or cracked his knuckles whacking the wall. He’d blacked her eyes a couple of times, but only after she’d driven him to it. And on this occasion, she had a feeling that if she didn’t comply, she’d likely feel the brunt of his fists again.

‘I said, is that clear?’ Cyril repeated, seething.

Florence lowered her eyes and nodded.

‘Right you are. Tell me what you need for the baby.’

Florence sighed. She’d need a list of things as long as her arm, but she also needed her larder stocking and Jimmy had no shoes on his feet. Many of the neighbour’s children went barefoot, but summer was coming to an end and the boy couldn’t be expected to walk to school in the cold with no shoes. Florence wanted better for her son. She’d hoped that the little she was earning from mending clothes and cleaning would be boosted now that Cyril was home. Instead, she’d have to give up her job to look after a whore’s child and Cyril would be concentrating his efforts on acquiring stuff for the baby rather than for her and Jimmy.

‘Does it have a name?’ Florence asked, trying her utmost to contain her resentment.

Cyril looked blank.

‘She must have a name,’ Florence pushed.

‘Penny,’ he finally answered. ‘Her name is Penny Black, just like the stamp.’

Later that day, Cyril was pleased with his work. He’d managed to pinch nearly everything that Florrie had requested, including the perambulator that was laden with the stolen goods. He walked smugly down his street, greeting the neighbours and doffing his flat cap at Mrs Whetstone in number seventy-nine. The old woman had been widowed for over twenty years; her husband killed in the Boer War. Cyril had been devasted by his death. The man had been like the father that Cyril had always wanted: kind, gentle and caring. Unlike his own dad who had battered him for everything from using the last sheet of newspaper to wipe his backside to accidently smashing the teapot. Even when Cyril had tried his best to be the perfect son, his tyrannical dad had found an excuse to violently punish him.

‘Welcome home, lad,’ Mrs Whetstone smiled warmly. ‘What’s the perambulator for? Are you going to make a cart for Jimmy?’

‘No, Mrs Whetstone. This ’ere pram is for my daughter,’ Cyril grinned. It felt peculiar to say my daughter, but he found himself beaming with pride. He’d always wanted a girl, though with Florrie being such a cold fish, he’d never thought that there would be any chance of one.

‘Your daughter?’ Mrs Whetstone parroted, sceptically.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Penny. Penny Black. Ah, you wait ’til you meet her, she’s the spit of me.’

‘When was she born?’

‘About three months ago, I reckon.’

‘And Florrie?’

‘What about her?’ Cyril asked.

‘Well, I know that Florrie didn’t have a baby three months ago.’

‘She’ll be a good mum.’

‘You’re a scallywag, Cyril, a bad boy,’ Mrs Whetstone admonished with a smile, wagging her gnarled finger at him. ‘But I shall look forward to meeting Penny. Be sure to bring her down to see me. I suppose I’d best get knitting.’

‘Will do, and when I bring her to see you, I’ll bring you some wool an’ all,’ Cyril replied with a wink. He often dropped stolen gifts in to the old woman who always gave him a friendly telling off yet readily accepted the presents all the same. With her salt and pepper hair smoothed into a bun, a shawl always across her shoulders and long, high-necked black dresses that swept the ground, the woman put Cyril in mind of a Victorian schoolmistress.

Back indoors, Cyril pushed the pram into the kitchen and glanced around for his daughter. He was delighted to see her sleeping soundly on the table, lying in a drawer from his bedroom cupboard, and now wrapped in a clean blanket. Jill had been right in what she’d said about standing up to Florrie. He’d spoken firmly to the woman, and she’d already proven herself to be a good mother to Penny.

‘Where’s me boy?’ Cyril asked, looking forward to seeing Jimmy.

‘He’ll be home soon. He went to my mum’s after school.’

‘Good, I can’t wait to see the lad. Now, how’s my girl?’

‘Settled,’ Florence answered brusquely.

His wife had once been a fine-looking woman, but she’d let her figure go. Luckily for Florence, she was big boned with broad shoulders and wide hips. It meant she carried her extra weight well. And with her olive skin, black hair and dark eyes, Cyril had thought his wife to be exotic … until she’d open her nagging mouth.

‘I’ve managed to get just about everything on the list … and this …’ Cyril reached into the perambulator and pulled out a silk umbrella, delicately printed with a bamboo and lotus design. ‘This is for you, my lovely,’ he grinned, hoping that the fancy gift would appease his wife.

Florence looked at the umbrella he offered and scoffed.

‘I thought you’d like it,’ Cyril said, his feelings hurt.

‘What do you expect me to do with it, eh? I need food in my cupboards and clothes on Jimmy’s back, not a posh brolly. As if I could use something like that round here. I’d be a laughing stock, you fool!’

His ungrateful wife had always been harsh with her words, and a year of his absence hadn’t softened her. Rage rose through Cyril’s chest. He whipped off his flat cap and threw it down angrily onto the table.

‘I ain’t been home more than two minutes and already I’ve had enough of your lip, Florrie. I’ve a good mind to shove this brolly up where the sun don’t shine,’ he shouted.

Florrie marched towards him, her face just inches from his. Her dark eyes blazed with fury as she said quietly, ‘I’m warning you, Cyril. If you lay even one finger on me, I won’t ever again care for your child.’

Cyril sucked in a long breath. His wife had him over a barrel and she knew she had the upper hand. If he wanted his daughter to be well looked after, then he’d have to toe the line with Florence and go back to doing her bidding.

The door flew open wider and six-year-old Jimmy ran in. ‘Dad!’ he exclaimed, wrapping his small arms around Cyril’s legs.

Cyril ruffled the boy’s ginger hair. Peeling Jimmy’s arms from around him, he said, ‘Stand back, let me take a look at you.’

Jimmy stood rod-straight, grinning.

‘Cor blimey, Son, I swear you’ve grown another foot.’ Cyril held his hand up, showing his palm to the boy. ‘Go on lad, punch it. Give it all you’ve got. Let’s see how hard you can hit.’

Jimmy pulled back his elbow and hit Cyril’s hand.

‘Good one, Son, but don’t tuck your thumb inside your fist,’ Cyril instructed.

Hearing a noise, Jimmy turned and looked at the drawer sitting on the kitchen table. Dashing over, he peered inside. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

‘That’s Penny, your sister,’ Cyril answered.

‘My sister?’

‘Yes, lad. You’re a big brother now which means you’ve got to always look after Penny. You’ll do that, won’t you, Son?’

‘Yes, Dad. Where did she come from? Did you buy her from a baby shop?’

‘Enough questions,’ Florence snapped. ‘Upstairs, to your room.’

‘Aw, but I want to see my—’

‘Upstairs! Now!’ Florence interrupted.

‘Do as your mother tells you,’ Cyril added. ‘But tomorrow, you can have the day off school and come out with me.’

‘He’ll do no such thing!’ Florence barked.

‘Oh, come on, love. It’ll be good for me and him to spend some time together. I ain’t seen the boy for ages.’

Florence looked derisively at her husband. ‘You should have thought about that before you went and got yourself banged up.’ Then, turning back to her son, she said softly, ‘Up to your room, Jimmy. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’

Jimmy sloped off and Florence closed the door behind him. Her eyes narrowed, and she warned quietly, ‘You’d better not get up to any of your tricks tomorrow. I won’t allow Jimmy to go out pinching with you.’

‘No, Florrie, I wouldn’t,’ Cyril lied. But he had every intention of teaching the boy the skills of being an artful thief. After all, such talents might come in handy one day for Jimmy.

Florence roughly shoved a bottle into Penny’s mouth and the girl at last stopped crying. For over two weeks now, day and night, the crying had been relentless. The only time that Penny was quiet was when she had a bottle in her mouth. The endless bawling had worn down Florence and her bitter resentment towards the child had increased tenfold.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Jimmy asked as he came into the kitchen, rubbing his tired eyes.

‘Gawd knows. I reckon he’s staying away to avoid all the racket that this one makes.’ Florence frowned when she noticed the dark circles that ringed Jimmy’s blue eyes. ‘Did Penny keep you up last night?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, a bit,’ Jimmy replied.

‘You can stay at your gran’s tonight and over the weekend, if you like?’

‘Nah … I don’t like the man who lives upstairs in Grandma’s house. I want to stay here with my sister.’

Florence placed the baby back into the drawer that was used for a cot and then gently grabbed Jimmy’s arm. Crouching down and holding the boy squarely by the shoulders, she looked deeply into his eyes. ‘Listen to me, Jimmy,’ she said, her tone serious, ‘Penny isn’t really your sister. You’re not to have anything to do with her. I don’t want to see you playing with her or talking to her. Do you understand?’

Jimmy looked confused and his young brow furrowed.

‘We don’t love Penny. We don’t even like Penny. She’s a wicked, horrible child, so I want you to stay well away from her, all right?’

Jimmy nodded.

‘Good. You’re my best boy, Jimmy. You’ll do as I say, won’t you?’

Again, the boy nodded, but Florence didn’t think that he looked convinced.

‘Your dad doesn’t know that Penny is evil and even if I told him, he wouldn’t believe me. But she is evil, Jimmy. She’s got the devil inside her. That’s why you must keep away from her. But like I said, your dad wouldn’t believe me so you mustn’t mention any of this conversation to him. We wouldn’t want to upset your father, eh?’

Jimmy shook his head, his eyes wide and his skin deathly pale.

‘It’s all right, don’t be scared. Penny can’t hurt you and I’ll always protect you. Just ignore her. Don’t look at her. Pretend like she’s not even there. I promise you, Jimmy, she’s bad down to the core but she’ll never, ever get past me to hurt you.’

‘Gran said she’s a bastard … what’s a bastard?’

‘Its another word for evil, but it’s not a word that you should say. Just stay away from Penny. Now, remember, this is our secret. Off you go, or you’ll be late for school.’

As Florence heard the front door close behind Jimmy, she looked down at the baby who was just about to start crying again. An horrific thought struck her. She was tempted to put a pillow over the girl’s face and shut her up for once and all. ‘No one would ever know,’ she whispered. ‘Babies die all the time.’

Penny kicked out her skinny legs, then pulled them up to her stomach. Her face turned purple as her small lungs bellowed an ear-piercing scream.

‘SHUT UP!’ Florence yelled. ‘Just shut up for one bleedin’ minute!’

Feeling at breaking point, her head thumping and tiredness swamping her aching body, Florence walked to the sink and picked up a towel, which she carefully folded into four. Her heart felt as though it would pump out of her chest as she crept towards the baby. Gripping the towel in both hands, Florence lowered it towards Penny’s face. Her mouth felt dry with fear, but without any doubts, she callously placed the towel over the baby’s face. As she held it down, Penny instantly fell quiet. Florence closed her eyes, bile burning the back of her throat. Die, she silently urged, die.

‘Hello, love. Where’s my two favourite girls?’

Cyril’s voice reached her ears followed by the sound of his heavy boots thumping along the passageway. Florence gasped, quickly pulling away the towel from Penny’s face. She peered at the child, relieved when she saw her draw in a desperate breath and then begin to screech.

‘Cor, there’s nothing wrong with her lungs, eh,’ Cyril smiled as he came into the kitchen.

‘She never flippin’ shuts up,’ Florence spat.

‘She’ll grow out of it.’

‘You better not have been with one of your tarts all night, Cyril. I won’t bring up another one of your bastards.’

‘Don’t be like that, love. I’ve been out grafting.’

‘Grafting, eh? So, where’s the spoils of your night’s work?’

‘’Ere,’ Cyril answered, and threw a pocket full of coins onto the table. ‘That should pay the rent for four weeks and buy Jimmy a pair of shoes. Any chance of a cuppa?’

Florence quickly gathered the coins and squirrelled them away in an old tea tin. ‘The kettle’s on. I’m popping out to see my mum.’

‘The witch,’ Cyril mumbled under his breath.

‘Yeah, well, you can call her what you like but you should be grateful to her. If it weren’t for my mum, me and Jimmy might have been doing a midnight flit. Thanks to mum, we’ve still got a roof over our heads and we ain’t got to share the house with any other families, unlike most folk on this street who are packed into stinkin’ rooms. Mum helped me to keep me standards up. She deserves your gratitude.’

‘I’ve paid her back every penny that she lent you, and some.’

Florence rolled her eyes, unimpressed.

‘Can’t you feed her or something?’ Cyril asked, throwing a look towards Penny.

‘She’s been fed and changed,’ Florence replied. Then going into the passageway, she grabbed her coat from the newel post. Back in the kitchen, pulling it on, she said to Cyril, ‘I’ll see you later.’

As she walked towards the front door, Cyril called, ‘Ain’t you forgotten something?’

Florence sighed before shouting back, ‘She’s your daughter. Can’t you look after her for a change?’

Cyril was in the passageway now. ‘Men don’t look after kids, and anyway, I’ve got work to do. Take her round to see the witch with you. The fresh air might do her good.’

Florence trudged back into the kitchen. Reaching into the drawer for Penny, a wave of guilt washed over her. Thank goodness Cyril had come home when he had. If he hadn’t, Penny would be dead and Florence would have the girl’s blood on her hands. She reasoned that it had been a moment of madness which endless sleepless nights had driven her to. Though deep down, truth be known, she longed for the child to die.

‘It’s only me, Mum,’ Florence called as she kicked the front door closed behind her. Walking into her mother’s crammed room with Penny in her arms, her mother looked up from an armchair.

‘I wish you wouldn’t bring that bastard here,’ Lou grumbled.

‘And I wish I didn’t have to, but what choice do I have?’

‘You can divorce him. It’s legal now. As a woman, you’ve the right to divorce Cyril on the grounds of adultery. That new prime minister, Baldwin, he’ll be ringing in the changes, you mark my words.’

‘Don’t be daft, Mum. A wife can’t file for divorce on adultery.’

‘Daft, am I? What’s this say then?’ Lou asked, handing a newspaper to Florence and pointing at a small article.

Florence put the newspaper to one side and laid Penny on the small sofa beside her. ‘I don’t care what the paper says, I couldn’t divorce Cyril. It’s not what women do round here, and I wouldn’t know how to go about it. So I ain’t doing it.’

‘Why not? When he’s not behind bars, he comes and goes like the wind. You’d be better off without him.’

‘No, Mum, I wouldn’t. He ain’t always home, sometimes disappearing for weeks on end, but he always sees me all right. I only just managed to scrape by when he was sent down the last time and I would have been homeless if you hadn’t’ve of helped. I need him, which means I have to put up with her.’ Florence peered coldly at Penny. For once, the girl wasn’t screaming.

‘He takes liberties. I wouldn’t stand for it. Your father, God rest his soul, he never even looked at another woman, let alone bring his bastard home to me.’

‘Dad was a good man.’

‘He was, and he hated Cyril. If the Spanish Flu hadn’t killed him and he was still alive today, I reckon your father would have strung Cyril up by his whats-its by now.’

Florence smiled. Her father had made no secret of his dislike for Cyril. He’d believed in hard work, and he never broke the law. But his death had left Lou almost destitute. Luckily, the quick-witted woman had turned to hawking for a living and now sold her wares three times a week on the streets around Lavender Hill and Clapham Junction. Lou would peddle anything from bundles of watercress to baskets of kindling. It didn’t earn her a fortune, but the woman led a simple life. And though Lou would never admit it, Florence was sure that her mother made a side income from shoplifting to order.

‘By the way, Mum, can you mind your language in front of Jimmy. He asked me what a bastard is.’

‘I’m only speaking the truth. Jimmy’s old enough to understand.’

‘He’s only six, Mum.’

‘Old head on young shoulders, that one.’

‘Not half,’ Florence guffawed, proud of her clever young man.

‘I’ve made him some rock cakes. If he ain’t coming round to see me, you can take them home with you. Go and wrap them up and make us a cuppa while you’re in the kitchen.’

‘Jimmy said that he doesn’t like Ned upstairs. That’s why he’s not been round.’

‘I can’t say I blame him, I’m not keen on the fella either and I don’t trust him.’

‘Why, what’s he done?’ Florence asked. She had always thought that Ned seemed nice enough, albeit he could be moody sometimes. He lived with his wife and three young boys in the two rooms upstairs