Ruby says nothing. Billy is standing at the bar, talking with Clara, downing a pint. He doesn’t look like he’s going out in search of trouble: he’s wearing a decent suit and his favourite tie.

‘What’s this about a fight?’ Edith leans into Maggs. ‘You mean the boxing match?’

‘I mean the fight after the match. I saw him packing a knife and his razor blades,’ says Maggs, pushing her away with a scowl. ‘Could be worse; he’s got a gun he keeps in a drawer he doesn’t think I know about. It’s still there. I checked.’

Alf had spent most of the war as a prisoner in Belgium. He was fed and watered and missed most of the action. Like many of the Elephants, he’d brought a gun home and failed to hand it into the authorities. There are plenty such weapons around London.

‘They’re going over to Clerkenwell,’ Maggs continues. ‘Boxing match at the back of Frank Parsons’ billiards hall, but there’s going to be trouble.’

‘What’s new? There’s always trouble after a match,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘Or during.’

Grace views all men with a degree of disdain. They fight too readily when they’ve had a beer, and they’re haphazard about it, not being as organised as the Forties.

‘This is different. Planned.’

Edith gives a little shiver. ‘Why? Why are they fighting?’

Edith detests fighting. Every man she’s stepped out with has had to put up with her whining about it. She was sweet on Billy for a while when he returned from the war, but she clung to him like a barnacle, trying to suppress his natural instincts for brawling with a combination of neediness and over-protection. Billy chose to move on, preferring to cling instead to an uncomplicated blonde with enormous breasts two streets away. And, lately, to Ruby.

‘Alf said that someone took all the flowers off our roll of honour,’ Maggs says. ‘Couple of MacCarthy’s boys, he says. Clerkenwell gang.’

Grace spits on the ground. ‘The bastards. Why on earth would anyone do that? I hope they chop their hands off.’