Bill walked into the garden and handed me a brandy. ‘You look shattered, Queenie. Drink that, it’ll calm your nerves.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I said. I was shattered. Fourteen long bloody hours Viv had been in labour for, but I was far too proud to go back into the room smelling like a lush in front of Dr Andrews and the midwives.

‘Shall I make you a cup of Rosy?’ asked Bill.

‘Nah. I’d better get back up there,’ I said. I’d warmed to Bill a bit. He did the right thing and married Viv in a registry office in March before she properly showed. He’d also treated her exceptionally well during her pregnancy, rented them a nice house about a ten-minute walk from mine, and was very excited about becoming a father. Viv didn’t care what sex the child was, but like myself, Bill craved a boy. He wanted to name the child Lenny after his beloved grandfather who’d recently died. His grandfather had by all accounts raised Bill.

‘Oh, Jesus, Queen. What’s happening?’ Bill asked. The scream was shrill, awful in fact.

I ran up the stairs. After all those hours holding Vivvy’s hand with her fingernails digging into mine, I’d missed the actual birth.

The child lay motionless as the umbilical cord was tied then cut. I could see it was a boy, a big boy, and he looked just perfect, but he wasn’t making a sound. I silently prayed once again.

My heart was beating rapidly as Dr Andrews took charge. A handsome grey-haired man in his late forties, the whole of Whitechapel trusted Dr Andrews. He had helped deliver many babies and on the odd occasion Albie and I had been able to afford a doctor, he’d been brilliant with the boys.

‘Why ain’t he crying? Why ain’t my baby crying?’ Vivian sobbed. ‘Please God make my baby live. Please God,’ she screamed.

I said nothing, but couldn’t help feel how odd it was that both Viv and I were turning to God when we’d always mocked religion.

Dr Andrews blew into the baby’s windpipe. The midwives exchanged worried glances. I feared the worst. A minute had passed, perhaps two.

All of a sudden, the baby made a choking noise and then started to cry.

‘He’s alive. Thank you, God. Thank you,’ sobbed Viv.

I’d honestly thought the baby was a goner. Relief fooded through my veins. ‘It’s a miracle, Viv. A miracle,’ I whispered in awe.

The baby was placed in Viv’s arms. His face was very red and his hair was blond like Bill’s. ‘Hello, Lenny. You didn’t arf give us all a scare,’ Viv smiled.

I couldn’t stop smiling. ‘He’s perfect, Viv. Truly perfect.’

Three Years Later

Autumn 1959

‘Lenny. No!’ Vivian grabbed hold of her son’s hand, just in time to stop him grabbing a handful of the birthday cake Queenie had spent ages making.

Relieved the cake was still in one piece, Queenie lifted her nephew up. ‘Who’s a little tinker, eh? That Lenny is, that’s who,’ she chuckled.