The work party began to dig up some of the ruts in the road and shovel the dirt on to wheelbarrows. ‘Your brother came back all right, then?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. He was a POW in Holland. Got home eventually.’ It had taken six months for many of the POWs to make it back under their own steam, the Soviets not being too keen on the return of even the ragged remnants of our army. We had never been told what became of those who had surrendered to the Japs in Burma and Ceylon. She led me inside. ‘Anyway, it’s all over now, isn’t it? So let’s get you settled in. For a night out, is it?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to a show with my husband.’

‘Lovely.’

I sat for an hour as she tinted and teased my hair into the same French twist that she wore. After that, she spent another five minutes redoing my rouge. ‘Don’t worry, no extra charge,’ she said. ‘Oh, and me name’s Stephanie. Next time you come, ask for me.’

‘All right.’

She continued to fuss over me. ‘So what was it you wanted over there, anyway?’ She tipped her head towards the print shop opposite.

‘I found their details in an old address book of mine. I couldn’t remember why I went there.’

She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. ‘I see.’ She clearly didn’t believe me. But she just as clearly had a grudge against her neighbour. ‘I could tell you some stories about that place.’

‘Could you?’

‘Oh, I could. They print all sorts there, they say. Dirty postcards; snide papers; magazines they say are French, though the girls in them are about as French as I am, and I’m from sodding Whitechapel, if you’ll pardon the expression. Should wash me mouth out with soap ’n’ water. Call me a gossip if you must but just telling what I’ve heard. Can’t shoot me for that.’ She stood back and flexed her back. ‘Now it’s seventy-five new pence, or have you got something to swap?’

‘Not really.’

‘Nothing? What’s your job?’

‘I’m a schoolteacher.’

‘Oh. Pity,’ she said sympathetically as she went back to my make-up. ‘Seventy-five new pence, then.’

I handed over the coins and left, bidding her goodbye. The few cars on the road crawled through the smog at the same pace as the pedestrians, with their headlights shining to make them look like giant insects. A motorcycle, one that seemed to have been salvaged from the War, drove through the wet gutter, spraying dirty water over my legs. I absent-mindedly stopped to brush it off my stockings and noticed footsteps some way behind me.