Val had wondered briefly about whether she should take advantage of this newfound freedom and the semi-official sanction afforded otherwise-illegal brothels. But no, she decided, those days were over. She liked being a publican.

Not that she was ashamed of her past. She didn’t dine out on it, certainly, but nor did she bother hiding her background. Who cares, she thought. On the odd occasion when a man recognised her and made some intentionally smartarse, smutty ‘Caravan Callahan’ comment intended to humiliate, she’d come back with a riposte of her own.

‘Oh, those were the days, mate,’ she’d say with a friendly smile. ‘Nice you remember me. Don’t remember you, I’m afraid. You must have been a dud.’

Nope, Val thought, I don’t care if there’s big money to be had in brothels, I’ll stick with my pub just being a pub.

She looked fondly at her girls, Betty and Jill. They were the daughters she’d lost all those years ago in little Daisy. They’re my Daisy all grown up, she thought. Course they’ve got mums of their own, and bloody good mums at that, but no harm feeling motherly is there? And I wouldn’t want one of my girls on the game. All the more reason for not opening a brothel.

She watched as Ben, having delivered the beers to his friends, returned to the bar, a bit of a swagger in his step, determined to chat up Betty. Betty kept working away, serving customers, wiping down the counter and transferring empty glasses to the sink behind her, all the while fielding his flirtatious chat with ease.

Val couldn’t hear what was being said over the general noise of the bar, but she admired the girl’s confidence. She always had. Betty fascinated her. Where did that slender little thing with the pretty fair hair and the blue, blue eyes get such strength, she wondered. Because Betty was strong, there was no doubt about that. In fact, she might even go so far as to call Betty tough.

She rounded the counter and headed for the stairs. She’d leave the girls handling things here and do some work in her office.

As she passed by Ben, who was lounging nonchalantly against the bar convinced he was making inroads, she heard Betty finally call a halt to the proceedings, and with such admirable aplomb.

‘Sorry, Soldier Ben baby,’ Betty said, flashing the young man a radiant smile and managing at the same time to look regretful, ‘but I can’t meet you after work. I’m afraid I’m taken.’ Which was an outright lie.

Yep, Val thought, she’s tough all right. Guts and charm. She’d have made a damn good hooker.