‘Tell me more about your family, Queenie,’ Albie smiled.

Queenie spoke fondly about her mum and sister, then finally mentioned her father. She didn’t go into too much detail, just told Albie he would stagger home drunk often. Thankfully, the hand mark on her face had now vanished and the bruise she’d managed to cover up with face powder.

‘What’s your dad’s name?’

‘Eric. Eric Wade. Do you know him?’ Queenie asked, praying that Albie didn’t.

‘I don’t know him personally, but I know of him,’ Albie said truthfully. Eric Wade had a reputation all right, as a violent, drunken shitbag who terrorized the brasses. People talked in the East End and he hadn’t heard a good word about the man.

Queenie could feel her cheeks reddening. She didn’t know the half of what they said about her dad, but she could imagine. She stuttered out an excuse. ‘He got shot and was medically discharged from the army last year. Since he’s been home, things have got worse. I keep urging my mum to leave him, but she won’t. She says we won’t manage on our own, but I know we’d be happier, even if we were poorer,’ Queenie explained.

Albie leaned across the table and squeezed Queenie’s hands. His own father had run off with another woman when he and his brother were young, so he’d had it tough too. ‘The war’s had a strange effect on a lot of men who came home battered and bruised,’ he said kindly.

‘Did you get called up?’ Queenie asked.

‘Erm, no. I wanted to fight, of course. But I’m Mum’s carer. She’d never manage alone. Fancy another drink, love?’

Queenie smiled. ‘Yes, please.’

The rest of the evening went smoothly. Conversation flowed easily with Albie and Queenie liked the fact he was popular and witty. He made her laugh out loud. He didn’t give her butterflies like Daniel, but now Daniel was married with a child, Queenie had to move on. She couldn’t wait to be a mum, have sons of her own.

‘Did you have a nice evening, Queenie?’ Albie asked, as they reached the corner of her street.

Queenie squeezed his arm. ‘Yes, thanks. I really enjoyed myself.’

‘Good. You coming down the Beehive on Friday?’

‘Erm, yes. That’s if you want me to?’

Albie tilted Queenie’s chin and stared into her eyes. ‘Of course I do. You’re my girl now, ain’t ya?’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

So, that’s how I became Albie Butler’s girl. And once I had my claws in him, I had no intention of letting him go.

We soon fell into an easy routine. I would proudly watch my man sing in the Beehive on a Friday and the Hoop and Grapes of a Sunday, and Albie would take me out twice in the week and on a Saturday night.

I met his mum, Ida. She was a large lady in a wheelchair who stank of piss. But she was nice enough, had a lovely kind face, and I kind of felt sorry for her. It was my idea that on my day off in the week, Albie and I take his mum out. We’d wheel her down Roman Road market and treat her to pie and mash. Ida loved going out and made no secret she thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. She was forever singing my praises to Albie.