‘Where will it all end?’ murmured Prudence. She studied the side of the tin. ‘It says here that it’s composed of coffee solids and powdered with dextrins, maltose and dextrose added to protect the flavour.’

‘Goodness gracious, that sounds ominous! Whatever next? It will never catch on and, if it did, poor Mrs Clutterbuck would have a heart attack.’ Vera looked down at her neat list. ‘And a tin of Cherry Blossom Boot Polish.’

‘Would you like to try the new shade, dark tan? It’s proving very popular.’

Vera looked surprised. ‘Brown shoes, Prudence? I don’t think we have any.’

‘Is there anything else, Vera?’

‘There is something,’ said Vera. She lowered her voice. ‘Joseph has brought home a television set.’

‘Goodness me!’ It took a moment for Prudence to recover. ‘You must let me know how it goes.’

Vera nodded. ‘And a packet of Lyons tea, please.’

Prudence smiled wistfully as normality was restored.

Further up the High Street, Fred Kershaw, the local coalman, was delivering to the row of cottages next to The Royal Oak. His swollen knee had recovered thanks to the liberal quantities of goose grease his mother had applied to his leg. Significantly, he had not visited the doctor. As Tommy Piercy had remarked to him in the butcher’s shop, ‘Who needs a doctor when you’ve got goose grease?’

There was a rumour that Fred never washed, because even during his first deliveries each morning his face was black with coal dust. Also, hanging from his bottom lip was a cigarette. Fred was a chain smoker and he was happy to share the knowledge that he was addicted to the best possible cigarette. As a tough member of the Ragley Rovers football team, he too had seen an advertisement in the News of the World of his favourite footballer, the Blackpool and England winger Stanley Matthews, advertising Craven A cigarettes. So Fred lit up another of his sixty-a-day habit, hefted a bag of coal on to his broad shoulders and scurried round the back of The Royal Oak.