Shocked at her sister shouting at her, Vivian did as she was told.

When Viv left the bedroom, Queenie breathed a sigh of relief. It was so hard trying to act normal. She couldn’t sleep or eat, her nerves were in tatters. Thankfully, the Briggs had a proper bath inside the farmhouse which she had loved when she’d first moved here. She’d thought of it as a luxury. Now she just saw it as a way to scrub his rancid smell off her, but no matter how much she scrubbed herself, she could still smell that awful reek of stale sweat and rancid breath. It had obviously left an imprint on her brain, just like he had. The vile, disgusting pervert.

Queenie shut her eyes. She’d written a letter to Mrs O’Leary, begging for help. She’d kept it short and sweet, telling her that something had happened and she would explain when she got home. In the meantime she asked Mary not to say anything to her family.

Viv had posted the letter on Sunday and Queenie knew by the other letters she’d written and received that Mary should have received it by now. Thank God the O’Learys were back in Whitechapel, because if they’d still been in Ireland, Queenie wouldn’t have known who to turn to. Aunt Edna would have been the only other option, but Queenie couldn’t tell her what had happened. She would die of shame if her parents ever found out. It was all too shameful for words. She wasn’t even sure she could tell Mary, but knew she ought to tell someone. Say she’d caught something off the dirty unwashed nonce? She’d caught nits at school twice in the past because some of the other kids were so unclean. None of those kids were as dirty as him – the monster!

The tap at the door startled Queenie. ‘OK to come in, Queenie? I’ve made you some breakfast and tea.’

‘Yes. Come in, Betty.’

‘Vivian informs me you’re feeling a bit better. I’m so pleased. I’ve done you two boiled eggs, toast, and put a sausage on the side. I know how you like our sausages, but don’t worry if you can’t finish it all. Just eat what you can.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

Betty put the tray on Queenie’s lap. ‘We’ve all been worried about you, duck. John insisted I send for a doctor, but I told him you were adamant you didn’t need one. Ivan sends his love too. He’s left you a present downstairs. I’ll bring it up later. Oh, and he said to tell Miss Queenie the dart flights you bought him brought him luck. He won last night,’ smiled Betty.

Feeling the bile rise in her throat, Queenie put her hand over her mouth. ‘Take the tray. Gonna be sick.’

Hearing the girl run from the room, retching, Betty made her mind up. Like it or not, Queenie was going to see a doctor.

A couple of days later, Queenie was lying on her bed reading Oliver Twist when Betty called up the stairs: ‘Queenie, you have a telegram.’