Margaret Wilson, also known as Maggs, Peg, Polly or Dolly – depending on which copper she’s talking to or which court she’s in – is a hard-eyed woman of around thirty. To Ruby, she’s like a mother – her own one long buried – but to most people, she’s more terrifying than a Zeppelin raid and about as lethal. Ruby once watched Maggs kick a man over and over, leaving him groaning in agony on the ground, before walking away to talk to Grace about a trip to the pictures, as if nothing had happened. Ruby never found out why she gave him a kicking. Perhaps he’d said something to upset Grace.

Grace Bartlett owns a clothing and fancy goods warehouse out towards London Bridge, which is well located for storing and re-selling anything the Forties have hoisted over the other side of the river. Her husband died some years ago, before the war. She never liked him much and only married because she was pregnant. She’s never bothered to find another husband. Her son’s old enough to be helpful now, and business is thriving and she prefers to remain in charge of her own life.

‘You’re getting slow, Alice,’ Edith says in her mean voice, taking a draw on her cigarette and blowing smoke into the air while she watches Daisy giggling at something Billy has said. ‘I can’t pull you along, you know. You’re too heavy for that.’

‘It’s my hip.’ Alice rubs the offending joint, laughing away the insult. ‘It’ll right itself soon enough. And I still lift more than you, you lazy cow.’

‘Neither of you lifted half as much as young Ruby,’ says Maggs, throwing an arm over Ruby’s shoulders and pulling her close. ‘You could both do with taking a lesson from her.’

Edith levels her gaze at Ruby, saying nothing for a second. Then she forces her mouth into a smile. ‘Yeah. Ruby’s our best now, we all know that.’

‘Cheers, Ede.’ Ruby raises her glass, returning the cold smile with an empty expression of her own.

The men jostle one another around the bar, beer glasses in their hands. From the gestures and jeers, Ruby knows they’ll be talking about sport – boxing, probably. There’s a big match coming up next week. Watching someone else fight makes a change from fighting yourself, they tell her. They’re always fighting. They call themselves the Elephant Boys – a nod to the Elephant and Castle at the end of the High Street, the southern tip of their territory. They fought the Germans alongside other local gangs, joining men from Clerkenwell, Bermondsey, Bethnal Green, and the Titanic Boys from Hackney, but, now they’re back home, the usual hostilities have resumed. The forthcoming match is focusing their attention. It’ll be a night out and an opportunity to settle some scores with the men of Clerkenwell. Few of them will come home without bruises.