No one spoke to her on this side of the river either, but at least there were no vile insults. At least no one called her a Judas. She could walk unseen. She could sit for hours in an old church to keep warm when it was raining, or in a park, watching the birds, when the weak early-spring sun shone. And she could, whenever she wished, visit her favourite stores – the large and the small – and run her fingers over silks and furs. She could not lift much, though. Not on her own. Not without the others to watch for her and run with her. Besides, she had nowhere to take her steals, so would have had no opportunity to exchange a fur coat or even a set of handkerchiefs for a few bob – and what else would she have wanted with four sets of handkerchiefs? And the thinner and grubbier she became, the more she attracted the attention of the store walkers, who watched her with hawk eyes whenever she picked up a hat or a scent bottle. So, lately she has gone back to the tricks she learned as a child on the street: picking pockets for a few pence so that she can buy herself something to eat. Then she returns, alone, to Solly’s and lets herself into the flat without being seen.

It is a meagre existence, and it shows no sign of changing. She had thought her future looked dull when she was part of the Forties; now, it is bleak.

Not a single person believed her when she said that she had nothing to do with that newspaper article. Not Maggs. Not even Solly. The injustice of it still cuts her. It is one thing for her to want to plan her own operations or to take off with Billy occasionally or to keep some of her steals – it is one thing to break the rules sometimes. It is another matter altogether that she is being punished, shunned, shamed, for a breach of trust she has not committed.

The fury burns inside her every time she tortures herself, trying to work out how it could have happened.

The Forties, for all she wrestled with their rules, were her family. They have provided for her, cared for her. And now, like her six-year-old self with her nose pressed against the grubby window of Solly’s glittering emporium, she is on her own again, straining to survive.

‘Well, well, look who it is.’ The voice, low, amused, is right behind her ear. She spins around and comes face to face with Peter Lazenby.

He grabs her by the arm before she can run and pulls her tightly towards him. He is, she is momentarily relieved to see, smiling. ‘The famous Ruby Mills. The Jewel of the Borough. I wondered where you’d gone.’