While still trying to come to terms with her husband’s abrupt departure, and also to quell her constant worry for his safety, Grace had been faced with yet another dilemma. And this was Betty. For the past year, ever since leaving school, Betty had refused to undertake a course in shorthand and typing, which would qualify her for a secretarial career.

‘It’s what many young women are doing these days, dear,’ Grace had suggested mildly, surprised that such a progressive girl as her daughter wouldn’t want to follow the modern path.

‘But I don’t want to be a secretary,’ Betty had insisted, ‘I don’t want to be locked away in an office. I want a social life where I get to meet people. I’m going to work in a shop.’

There was no budging the girl, and Grace could only hope it would be the right sort of shop, nothing too vulgar. Strangely enough, George hadn’t seemed in the least worried.

‘She’ll be married in a couple of years, Grace,’ he’d said airily. ‘A girl as pretty as our Betty – crikey, she’s already turning heads in the street. I wouldn’t worry about what shop she works in, my dear, I’d worry about what bloke she chooses. We’ll have to start vetting them carefully.’

The shop had proved to be acceptable – Mrs Bolton’s tea rooms in Flinders Street, where many a nice family gathered for morning or afternoon tea, particularly on a Saturday. George had also proved to be right – there were many young men keen to curry favour with pretty Betty Francis. In fact, the young male clientele who now frequented Mrs Bolton’s tea rooms showed a definite increase in numbers. Fortunately, Betty didn’t appear to take any of them seriously, although it had to be admitted she was wickedly flirtatious. Grace didn’t altogether approve of her daughter’s behaviour, which was clearly influenced by a passion for American film actresses, but she was thankful nonetheless. Seventeen was far too young for any serious commitment that might lead to marriage.

Then all of a sudden things had changed. George was no longer at home monitoring the situation and Betty was eighteen. And Betty wanted to work in a pub! Not as a receptionist behind a counter welcoming the arrival of hotel guests, but in the hotel’s bar! Which made it a pub! Which made her daughter a barmaid! Which was unthinkable!

Betty was not in the least fazed by her mother’s outrage. ‘Things are different now, Mum,’ she said with an insouciant shrug. ‘Since the war and all that, things have changed. Women are working all sorts of jobs these days.’

‘Not my daughter, and not in a bar!’

Grace had remained adamant and Betty unfazed.

‘It’s a really good job Val’s offering – pays twice as much as the tea rooms.’