Chapter 2

I remember the shiny perfection of that day.

The Onion Fair – and with Olivia and Alec Kemp! We sat in the back of his Bentley, every line of it sleek and gleaming, singing, ‘We’re going to the fair, the fair, the fair,’ to the tune of ‘The cat’s got the measles . . .’

‘I want to go on everything!’ Olivia cried, bouncing excitedly in her seat as we swept towards the centre of Birmingham.

‘Oh, I expect we can arrange that,’ Alec said easily from the driver’s seat. The two of us shivered and giggled with delight.

Olivia was wearing a very pretty dress in cream broderie anglaise, a matching strip of the material holding back her wild hair. My dress was of course much plainer and more ‘serviceable’ as Mummy would say, in blue and white gingham. But I did have a beautiful tortoiseshell slide to fasten my hair, which Livy had given me. She was forever giving me things.

She peered out of the window. ‘Are we going past the factory, Daddy?’

‘No,’ Alec Kemp replied, steering the huge, smooth-running car along the cobbled streets. He had a deep voice and was proud of his Birmingham accent. ‘No need today. We’re going out for some fun, aren’t we, girls?’

I stared at the back of his neck, the dark brown hair cut in a precise line above his white collar and beautifully tailored suit. It was a surprisingly sober suit for his tastes, in grey worsted. He seemed so much bigger than my father, who always had a stooped look as if other people’s problems were actually fixed heavy on his shoulders. Alec Kemp stood very tall and he was jaunty, engaging, with large brown eyes and a vivacious face.

People turned to stare at us as the Bentley eased to a standstill at the edge of the Serpentine ground in Perry Barr. The two of us must have looked very small sitting on the plush back seats, peering out eagerly, our feet not touching the floor. Most people came to the fairground by bus or tram, but we were arriving with Councillor Kemp.

‘Will people recognize him?’ I whispered.

‘Of course.’

Of course. Pictures in the Mail and Gazette, always immaculately dressed in expensive suits with suave, black hats, or clad in vivid Prince of Wales checks. He would smile genially from the photographs, his image of himself carefully presented.

‘Will you have your picture in the papers today?’ I couldn’t resist asking him.

‘We’ll have to see,’ he said. ‘I could have my photograph taken with my daughter and her lovely friend perhaps?’

I squirmed with pleasure. Alec Kemp had a way of making you feel like a princess in gold slippers, even if you knew you really looked more like one of the pumpkins.

The fairground was already packed and milling with people. As we walked from the car we could hear shouting and screams of laughter from some of the rides, the throb of hot engines driving the roundabouts and a band playing. Everywhere we looked was a blur of curved, coloured movement: merry-go-rounds turning and the twirl of dancing skirts and lights flashing on the machines and sideshows. And smells: a delicious mixture of potatoes baking, fried onions, cigarettes and sweat and the sharp whiff of blue smoke from the engines overlaid by sweetness of candyfloss.