All three boys nodded. ‘And in future, you respect your neighbours and elders, understand me? And if you think you might be in trouble, you come to me, whatever it is, got me? Not anybody else. You speak to me alone.’

When all three said ‘Yes, Mum,’ in unison, Queenie smiled, lit a match, burned the string and flushed it down the sink. She thought of Mrs O’Leary as she did so. Mary might not be here in person any more, but in spirit she was still helping her raise her boys. Queenie was sure of that.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Five Months Later

Autumn 1954

Queenie kicked her slippers off and put her throbbing feet in a bucket of water with Epsom salts. Her due date was nearing and this pregnancy hadn’t been as easy as her others.

The sickness was horrible, the first time Queenie had suffered badly from it. It wasn’t just in the mornings either. She’d felt so stupid when she’d vomited on the floor in the butcher’s one afternoon recently.

Queenie had already decided that this would be her last child. She’d be twenty-eight this December and four boys was enough, especially seeing how tight money was now.

The boys were good, would chop up the wooden crates left by the market traders, flog it for firewood and give her the money. Queenie had already made her mind up, though, that once the baby was born and she felt up to it, she’d go back to work herself. A couple of little cleaning jobs would suit her. She could work those around the kids.

‘Cooey. It’s only me. I bought you round a nice crusty loaf and some boiled bacon,’ shouted Molly, as she let herself into her daughter’s house. She knew Queenie was struggling at present and had been helping out as much as she could.

‘Hello, Mum.’

‘You stay there. I’ll make the sandwiches,’ Molly ordered. Times had been hard since the war. She still had to rent the upstairs of her house out. Two young Irish nurses were currently renting it while she and Viv lived downstairs. She hated it when he came round though, that cocky shyster, Bill Harris. Vivvy could do so much better, but who was she to choose her daughters’ husbands after the bastard she had married.

‘You been out, love?’ Molly asked as she reappeared with the sandwiches and a cuppa.

‘No. Not lately, Mum. Not felt that well. My feet are bleedin’ killing me.’ Queenie had hardly any money in her purse, which was another reason she hadn’t gone out, but would never admit such a thing to her mother, or Viv. They knew money was tight, but she was too proud to tell them how tight. She felt embarrassed by her husband’s inability to provide.

‘Not long to go now, darling.’

‘Ooh,’ Queenie winced, taking her feet out of the bucket. ‘I gotta do a wee. Thought I was gonna wet me knickers then.’

As Queenie stood up, she did more than wet her knickers. Her waters broke and saturated the carpet.