Maggie placed her blouse on the washing board and started to rub at the purple stains. Oh, it was ruined! She didn’t even like wine, that was the stupid part. She’d never touch it again, no matter who was offering it.

Snowden’s scullery was huge – as big as their whole downstairs back home – but the contents weren’t any different: a mangle, a dolly tub and posser, a couple of washboards, a wicker basket and a bag of pegs. Through the window, Maggie could see the washing line strung up in the yard.

It had been a Monday – a washday – when they’d come for Mutti. Maggie had been working a late shift at the factory that day, so she was at home, pegging out sheets, when the police car drew up. Two uniformed coppers got out.

‘What do you want?’ Maggie asked but they marched straight past her, through the yard and into the house. They had papers and no time to spare. Mutti had five minutes to pack and say goodbye.

‘Do not worry, Maggie,’ she said. ‘It is all a mistake.’ She was trying to sound calm but there was a fearful look in her eyes.

Why was no one helping them? Why wasn’t Dad here when he was needed?

Maggie glanced out through the back door. Women from the street – neighbours – were standing in a line, with crossed arms and steely faces, not even pretending to scrub their steps. They watched as Mutti was marched out of the house. One or two – including Kath Deacon – nodded, as though they approved of what was happening. Maggie’s chest tightened. She’d never forgive them.

‘Noooo!’ she yelled, grabbing Mutti’s arm and trying to pull her back.

Mutti shook her head and gently pushed Maggie’s hands away. ‘I must,’ she said.

‘Where’re you taking her?’ Maggie demanded.

‘Holloway prison, Miss. Now, if you’ll stand out the way and let us do our job—’

Holloway? Maggie’s legs almost gave way.

‘Look after Violet, ja?’ Mutti called.

She was bundled into the back of the car. The last Maggie saw of her mother was a small white face like a petal, turning towards her. The car bounced over the cobbled street and away.

At the memory, Maggie started to cry. She could still hardly fathom how kind and gentle Mutti, who never even swore, had ended up in Holloway alongside murderers, thieves and vagabonds.

They hadn’t even been allowed to visit; they could only write and the last letter had been returned. If Mutti wasn’t at the prison any longer, where, in heaven’s name, was she?

There’d been a vain hope that the authorities had finally realised their mistake and released her but as the days went by and Mutti didn’t come home, all they could do was wait.