Jenny bowed her head and struggled to keep the worry at bay. The talk was that this was just the start. The depression was beginning to take hold and touch almost everyone, but it was the working classes who were going to suffer the most. She prayed she would be able to keep her job, because the money was helping to keep food on the table, and like everyone else in the street she did what she could, especially for the old and those with young children. She touched the pendant around her neck and felt comforted. At least she still had that, but she knew she wouldn’t hesitate to sell it to help the people she’d come to love.

‘Jen,’ Ma called, ‘you done yet?’

She straightened up, put the smile back on her face and went back to the other room.

‘Ah, there you are.’ Ma held out a book. ‘Read to me. My eyes ain’t what they was, and I do love to hear your smashing voice. Quite brings the story to life.’

Jenny opened Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice at the marker she’d put in last night. This was Ma’s favourite book, and she never seemed to tire of it. She read until Ma couldn’t keep her eyes open, and then helped her up to bed.

This routine became a pattern on Jenny’s days. It was a hard life, but there was laughter as well. The residents of Forest Road knew how to throw a party, even if they were boracic lint – she had soon learnt that that meant skint, no money. All they needed was a joanna – piano – and a couple of drinks and they were away. She was learning quite a few cockney rhyming-slang words now. There was always a birthday, anniversary or christening. The neighbours would all come with a small donation of food for the table, and troubles would be forgotten for a short time. They didn’t have much in the way of worldly goods, but they had something far more precious: friendship and a desire to look after each other. Jenny was certainly seeing the other side of life, and her love and respect for them grew every day.

It was now a year since she had left home. After shedding tears on the anniversary of her father’s death, she tried to put it behind her. Her days were too busy to dwell on the past. She had made her decision last November; there was no going back now.

She reached home – for that was how she thought about Ma’s now – at the end of another week and was surprised to see the front room crowded. There was Fred, Glad, Stan, Ma and several of the neighbours, all talking very seriously.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked in alarm.

‘There’s people asking for Jenny Baker or Eugenie Winford,’ said a voice from behind her.