‘Thanks, Mum,’ Queenie smiled. ‘Means a lot,’ she added, not meaning a word of it. She was about to crack a funny and ask her mum if she could have a word with God regarding Albie getting a proper job, but Queenie bit her tongue instead. Her mum didn’t get her jokes any more. Never had done really.

An hour later, the only two people left in the house, apart from herself, were Vinny and Yvonne. Albie was back down the pub, Roy and Michael had gone out with their pals and Viv had taken Brenda home with Lenny to save Queenie dropping her off in the morning before she went to work.

Queenie made a pot of tea, put some biscuits on the tray and was horrified as she walked into the lounge to see the kitten running riot all over her new Dralon sofa. ‘Erm, get that cat off my couch please, Vinny. Look! There’s white hair all over it.’

Yvonne giggled. ‘Sparkle. Come to Mummy. There’s a good boy,’ she said, cradling the kitten in her arms.

Queenie was bemused. ‘Sparkle! That’s not its name, is it?’

‘Yes, Mum. Yvonne chose it,’ Vinny grinned.

‘But it’s a boy. You can’t call a boy cat Sparkle.’

‘I like sparkly things, you see,’ Yvonne explained.

‘Oh well. Don’t be moaning to me when it gets laughed at and bullied by all the other cats. Never gonna find a girlfriend, is it? Not with a name like Sparkle.’

Vinny gave his mum a warning look, then squeezed Yvonne’s hand. ‘I told you my mum was funny, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ Yvonne said, putting the cat back in his box, so she could hold Vinny’s hand.

‘So tell me more about yourself, Yvonne. Vinny told me you work as a hairdresser. I take it you live with your parents. What area do you come from?’

‘Bethnal Green, and I live with my mum. She and my dad are divorced.’

‘Oh right. Why’s that then? Did your dad cheat on your mum?’

‘Mum!’ Vinny hissed.

‘What? I’m only trying to get to know more about Yvonne.’

‘My mum left my dad for another man actually, but she’s not with him any more. It’s just me and my mum now, and Sparkle,’ Yvonne giggled.

‘That must be tough. Does she work then, your mum?’ enquired Queenie.

‘Yes. She works on a fruit and veg stall on Whitechapel market.’

‘Really! What’s her name? I must know her.’

‘Alice. She’s blonde like me and very bubbly. Everyone knows my mum.’

It was at that point, Queenie choked on her tea. Everybody knew Slack Alice, for all the wrong bloody reasons.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Once Queenie had a bee in her bonnet, she found it hard to dislodge it, therefore spent the following day at work, fuming. Slack Alice was a buxom blonde with a mouth like a foghorn. She was also a notorious tart and had gone through more American servicemen during the war than Queenie had had hot dinners.