Little Paddy placed one hand on the wall as he leant in and felt the cool brickwork against his forehead. He had just seen the ghost of Kitty, for far longer than was usual, had been thumped with a handbag by a strange woman, Max had almost been killed with a swing from the same bag – and he hadn’t even got down his own street to the bombed-out wasteland yet. Something about it all made him feel just so sad and he knew it was Kitty. She had appeared because she’d sensed he was frightened, and he had instinctively known that. Why did everything have to change, he thought, as he buttoned his trousers back up, ready to run around the entry to the back gate and tell his mam everything. None of it would be news his mother wanted to hear.

Then he heard a voice and, looking up the street, saw Auntie Kathleen seeing Nellie off from number 42. Her granddaughter would be off out with the girls. They would gather together and divide into groups, each taking a street, where they would knock on doors and ask, ‘Can I push your baby up and down the street, missus?’ They would reassemble at the wasteland, comparing knitted bonnets and judging the prettiest babies whilst their mothers rinsed out enamel buckets that lived under the kitchen sink, changed the dirty Napisan water and filled washing lines full of fluffy white terry towelling squares before they peered over the walls to check whose were the whitest.

Kathleen saw little Paddy and made Nellie wait. She called out to the boy, ‘Hang on there, little Paddy, love,’ and disappeared back inside. Seconds later she was back and thrust something into Nellie’s hand. The girl waved to Paddy who ran down the street to meet her, his bag firmly held so as not to jolt Max about.

Nellie grinned as he approached and Nana Kathleen exclaimed, ‘Thank God we caught you, Paddy! I was keeping something for you. I was only thinking at mass this morning how I haven’t seen you all week. Is your mam well? Maggie Trott was asking, only we haven’t seen her since she came to the meeting about the carnival. She’s not been out for a natter or to have her leaves read.’ Before he could blink, she continued, ‘Jerry left without the time to eat his toast so will you have it?’ And without waiting for an answer, she thrust a slice of bread the size of a house brick into his hand.

‘Go on, Paddy,’ she said, ‘you’ll be doing me a favour. I hate throwing good food in the bin.’ And Paddy immediately forgot about his encounter with Margaret Wright. The melting butter and jam were calling out to him and, within seconds, butter was dribbling down his chin.

‘Ah, God, that’s lovely that,’ he said as he licked his lips and grinned up at Kathleen.