Nobody was at home, so Queenie and Viv sat on the kerb outside rather than sit inside alone. They had no idea where their dad was, but their mum would most certainly have got wind of the news down the Lane and was probably rushing home to them at this minute.

‘Are your ma and da not in?’ shouted a voice. It was Daniel O’Leary.

‘No. But they’ll be back soon,’ Queenie managed to reply.

‘Ma said come in for a cup of tea. You can wait for your ma and da with us.’

Queenie leaned towards Viv. ‘You show me up and say I fancy him, I’ll never speak to you again.’

Within twenty minutes of sitting inside Mrs O’Leary’s house, Queenie had temporarily forgotten England was at war. Mary made them sweet tea to help with the shock and cut them each a slice of Irish apple cake, which was gorgeous. Then she told funny stories, mainly about her sons, to make them laugh. Daniel was eighteen, Patrick twenty-two, and Queenie could not stop smiling. The lads joined in with the fun too, telling stories about their mother and the rest of their family back in County Cork.

‘Have you not got a husband?’ Vivian asked bluntly.

Queenie nudged her sister. ‘You don’t ask people such questions. Apologize to Mrs O’Leary at once.’

Mrs O’Leary waved her hand. ‘It’s fine, honestly. Yes, I do have a husband. Paddy. I kicked his useless backside out years ago, mind, the drunken old goat. Good for nothing, that man. Well, apart from giving me three gorgeous sons.’

‘Our dad used to drink too much when Viv and me were little. My mum made him stop,’ exclaimed Queenie.

‘I don’t ever remember Dad being drunk,’ queried Viv.

‘Neither do I. But that’s what Mum told me. He was drunk when he registered your birth, Viv, that’s why your name’s spelt wrong.’

‘What do you mean it’s spelt wrong?’

Seeing the look of indignation on her sister’s face, Queenie pretended she was joking and decided to change the subject. Their mum had nearly died giving birth to Viv, had been ill for ages afterwards. The spelling of her sister’s name was meant to be Vivienne, but their dad had made a cock-up and registered it as Vivian, which was usually the man’s version of the same name. ‘Is your other son married, Mrs O’Leary?’ enquired Queenie.

‘Call me Mary. All my friends call me Mary. Seamus died, my love, back in Ireland. He would’ve been twenty now, God rest his soul.’ She solemnly made the sign of the cross across her heart.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Queenie mumbled.

‘Me too,’ added Viv. She craned her neck. ‘Aunt Edna’s just turned up at ours, Queenie.’

‘We better go now. Thank you so much for the tea and cake, Mary. It was very kind of you.’

Mary O’Leary smiled. ‘You’re very welcome, girls. The boys go to work all week, so if you’re ever bored, you’re always welcome to pop in. That’s if it’s OK with your mum, of course.’