Then she winced and went red in the face with the effort of lifting her sturdy grandson. Agnes was the proud owner of a pair of cami-knickers made from parachute silk. These were fine, but she also insisted on wearing a peach-coloured corset with severe bones, which, after a couple of hours of decorating chocolates, felt like an instrument of medieval torture. In consequence, it made breathing very difficult. Ruby had tried to encourage her to purchase a rubber roll-on corset, but to no avail.

‘Tek y’corset off, Mam, an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea,’ said Ruby.

Agnes looked at Ruby and a crease of worry appeared on her forehead. ‘You look proper peaky. What’s matter?’

‘Ah’m all at sixes an’ sevens t’day,’ said Ruby.

‘Mebbe you ought t’fill that brain o’ yours wi’ summat useful, Ruby,’ said Agnes with feeling, ‘’cause empty cans mek most noise.’

‘Ah’m too busy, Mam.’

‘Y’need t’go an’ learn summat useful.’

‘Mebbe ah will.’ Ruby glanced at the clock. ‘Ah’ll ’ave t’go, if y’don’t mind lookin’ after our Andy. Ah’ve got an appointment wi’ Doctor Davenport.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Nowt … jus’ not feelin’ m’self,’ and with that she hurried out.

She passed their next-door neighbour, Mrs Cuthbertson, in the doorway. Betty Cuthbertson was known as the local scrounger. She knocked on the door and walked straight in. No one on the council estate locked their back doors and it was the norm for neighbours to arrive unannounced.

‘’As tha got a cup o’ sugar, Agnes luv?’ She sat down heavily on a chair. ‘Tea in t’pot?’ she enquired.

It was well known that Betty’s four children drank out of jam jars as she only owned two old pottery mugs. As usual, she had sent them to school with a slice of bread and dripping.

‘So what’s matter wi’ your Ruby?’ asked Betty, who was never backwards in coming forwards.

Richard Davenport’s surgery was on the Morton road, in the front room of Elderberry Cottage, where he lived with his wife, Joyce. He was a kindly twenty-seven-year-old, who had recently qualified and had grown used to the village community with its wide variety of ailments and problems. Often he could be seen hurrying out with his little black bag and bottles of strange-smelling medicine and jumping into his Morris Minor.

On occasions, home visits were requested by telephone, but more often than not there would be a knock on his door and an eager face would look up with the urgent message, ‘M’mam’s been tekken badly, Doctor.’

‘Oh dear, do you know what’s wrong with her?’

‘Women’s troubles.’

Dr Davenport would nod knowingly and reach for his black bag.

When Ruby Smith arrived at his surgery, it didn’t take long for him to realize the young woman needed time and reassurance, and their conversation was lengthy.