Gran put her knitting down and picked up the big black handbag at her feet. Tess often teased her by saying that the bag contained everything but the kitchen sink, and now it disgorged some pennies which Gran handed to Tess. ‘You’ll have to buy a stamp, chuck; I’ve used up all the ones I got for Christmas cards,’ she explained. She shivered, glancing towards the kitchen window, where the frost flowers were still in evidence in the corners of the pane. ‘Tell you what, if you pop into the corner shop and buy some margarine – I’ve got some coupons in here – we’ll have hot buttered toast when you get home.’

She held out her purse and Tess went to take it, then hesitated. ‘But that means visiting Mrs Thomas’s shop, and Marilyn helps in there sometimes,’ she pointed out. ‘You’ve never sent me in there before, Gran. Suppose she just grabs the book and rips out all the coupons? What’ll I do then, eh?’

Gran giggled. ‘Don’t be so daft, queen. If she did such a mad thing I’d have the scuffers on her tail before you could say Sir Stafford Cripps,’ she said, twinkling at Tess, and for the first time it occurred to Tess that Gran looked awfully young to be anyone’s grandmother. To be sure she had a thick thatch of curly snow-white hair but her skin was soft and young-looking and her sparkling blue eyes could have belonged to someone half her age. Taking the purse, Tess asked the question which hovered on her lips. ‘How old are you, Gran? I’ve never thought to ask, but apart from your white hair you could be almost any age.’

‘I’m the same age as me tongue and a few years older than me teeth,’ Gran said, chuckling, then sobered up. ‘Why do you want to know? You’ve never asked before.’

Tess shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Go on, Gran, how old are you?’

‘Old enough to know better,’ Gran said smartly, picking up her knitting once more and pushing her spectacles, which had slid down her straight little nose, back into position. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Mm-hm,’ Tess said. ‘Oh well, you’re jolly young to be a grandmother anyhow. Is there anything else you want from Mrs Thomas’s shop?’

Gran put down her knitting, got to her feet and crossed the kitchen to her store cupboard. ‘Tell her you’ll have anything she’s got off ration. I’m rare fond of bloater paste. But of course she doesn’t know you, so she’s unlikely to hand out any little extras.’ She returned to her chair, sat down and picked up her knitting once more, then glanced up at Tess over the tops of her spectacles. ‘Good Lord, girl, are you still here? Get off if you’re going, or the shops will all be closed. And that means the post office as well, so if you want that letter to go tonight . . .’

‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Tess said hastily, pushing Gran’s purse deeply into her coat pocket. ‘See you later, Gran. Margarine and bloater paste, and I just hope Marilyn isn’t in charge.’