On the way through the grounds, they passed Charity pushing a loaded wheelbarrow. Her face was pink and glowing with exertion. Maggie couldn’t help but admire her friend; she still looked impossibly glamorous.

Charity set the barrow down and blew a strand of blonde hair off her face. ‘Hey, where are you going? Following Ray like he’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin?’

Maggie told her. ‘When do you finish work? Why don’t you come too, if it’s not too much of a busman’s holiday?’

Charity’s face lit up. ‘A scramble in the brambles, eh? Yes, please! I’ve got to chuck this manure on the turnips, then I’ll see you over there!’

The brambles stretched for yards along a grassy ridge and as they approached, Maggie spotted dozens of glossy blackberries. She felt her spirits lift. Good old Ray for organising this little excursion. He wasn’t half bad, really.

‘Right, everyone!’ he yelled at that moment. ‘Spread out and take a few feet each.’ He was directing them with his umbrella. ‘Pam, there; Maggie, there. There’s plenty for everyone. No need to bunch up!’

Maggie sighed. Bossy as ever. She’d spoken too soon.

Nancy was still puffing. She threw herself down on the grass. ‘One second, Sergeant Major, let me catch my breath!’

Ray gazed out over the fields and made a big show of breathing in the fresh air. ‘Not half bad, is it? The countryside?’

Elsie pulled a face. ‘It’s fine when you’re hop-picking in Kent but I’m not sure about livin’ out in the sticks for ever. Bet there’s not a Woolies for miles!’

Everyone laughed.

‘Did you go hop-picking, Ray?’ Elsie continued. ‘You must’ve done. You’re from Bromley, aren’t you?’

Maggie looked around. Bromley wasn’t far from where she lived, in the East End. But Ray didn’t answer. He looked uncomfortable. ‘Hop-picking?’ he said vaguely. ‘Yes, I think we might have done. Once or twice. When I was very young.’

Pam frowned. ‘What’s hop-picking when it’s at home?’

‘It’s how us East Enders get our ’olidays,’ Elsie said. ‘Isn’t that right, Ray? It’s a bit like being here. It’s like an ’oliday but you’re working too. And you make your own entertainment in the evenings.’

Maggie had been hop-picking once, with Vi and Mutti and Dad. It had been a disaster. Dad wasn’t exactly the life and soul of the party and after supper, when all the families gathered together for a drink and a sing-song, he didn’t want to join in. He’d rowed with Mutti when she’d stayed late one evening, daring to enjoy herself.

They never went again.

‘Ah, very clever, Raymondo,’ Nancy said as they watched him use the handle of his umbrella to hook down brambles that were too high to reach.

He smiled. ‘I’m not just a pretty face.’

‘Hallooo!’