The only time Queenie had been out with Doreen was on her birthday. They’d got chatting to two strapping American servicemen. Doreen got sloshed, disappeared with one and the other insisted on walking Queenie home. On the way, he tried it on. He dragged Queenie down an alleyway, stuck his tongue down her throat and grabbed her tits. Petrified, Queenie had kneed him where it hurt the most and run for her life. She’d vowed there and then never to go out with Doreen again.

‘Please come, Queenie,’ urged Eliza. ‘It won’t be the same without you.’

Queenie rolled her eyes. Pubs reminded her of Aunt Edna, which was why she disliked going to them. She knew her aunt would want her to go out and enjoy herself though. ‘OK. You’ve twisted my arm. But I haven’t a clue what to wear.’

On the journey home, Queenie couldn’t help but feel excited about her spur-of-the-moment decision. She had recently turned seventeen and this would be the first New Year’s Eve she’d celebrated in a pub with friends. Watching Daniel O’Leary walk around with his new wife by his side hurt Queenie more than she could ever admit, but she was determined to show everyone in Whitechapel that she was getting on with her life as if nothing had happened.

Queenie opened her bag and ran her fingers over the pretty navy and white polka-dot dress. It was lovely material and by far the nicest thing she’d ever treated herself to. It was also only the second item she’d purchased for herself from the shop where she worked. Mr Cohen had been ever so kind, allowing her to buy the dress at cost price. Most of their customers were wealthy Jewish women and Queenie now knew why Mr Cohen lived in a posh house in North London and drove a Pontiac Streamliner. The mark-up on his dresses was immense.

Thinking about Doreen’s words, Queenie hoped there would be plenty of handsome men to choose from this evening. She’d been asked out on a few dates, but none of those men had met the criteria she was looking for. Only five foot three herself, she was determined any potential suitor must be tall, like Daniel. She didn’t want short kids. She also didn’t want girls; she wanted big strapping sons who would grow up to protect her, like Daniel and Patrick. Daniel had a child now, a daughter. Queenie was glad it wasn’t a boy. She’d have been even more jealous had it been. Mary kept urging her to go out with the girls, find the man of her dreams.

Picturing Clark Gable, her favourite actor, Queenie smiled. Tall, dark and handsome, that’s the type of man she wanted. He had to be kind too, and a good provider. And having seen what alcohol did to her father, she would be steering well clear of drunks.

‘What you all dressed up for? Where you going?’ exclaimed fourteen-year-old Vivian.

‘To a pub, with Doreen and Eliza from work. Do I look all right?’