‘It’s illegal,’ Betty said. ‘You do know that, don’t you? Not just immoral. Illegal. No one I know would risk it.’

‘Please, Dee, can you just ask around? It wouldn’t get you into trouble, would it?’

Dee pulled her hands back, lifted the teapot.

‘There’s a drop more,’ she said. ‘Would you like it?’

‘No thanks,’ Betty said. Dee poured the stewed dregs into her mug, spooned in a teaspoon of sugar.

‘How can you drink it like that?’ Betty thought of Mutti’s Meissen tea set, the golden liquid she drank and savoured, a treat to live for. She’d died before she knew what happened to Lieselotte, to herself. Perhaps it was just as well.

‘I can’t promise anything,’ Dee said. ‘You need to make your own enquiries too.’

‘Thanks,’ Betty said. ‘Thanks so much.’

§

The model-maker was called Nick.

‘Can you sew?’

‘No,’ Betty said. ‘But I can glue. Or paint.’

He rolled his eyes. He wanted a man. Too bad, Betty thought. Beggars can’t be choosers.

‘Come back when the frames are made,’ he said. ‘And we can put you to work on the scales.’

She left them, the men, boys really, sawing bits of balsa and tapping them in place with tacks. She caught the train home, sat in the carriage, knots in her gut twisting and tightening. Was it hot baths and gin? Difficult to do in Dee’s house. She’d have to book a hotel room. Could she will this thing out? Could her body absorb it, get rid of it? Like a giant panda. She’d read that. If she wanted it enough, could it happen? But an abortion. She should never have asked Dee. It went against everything Dee believed in. And what if something went wrong? She’d heard stories about women bleeding to death, or getting blood poisoning, or going batty. What if she was caught? She’d end up in prison, her reputation, her life, ruined. She couldn’t go through with the pregnancy either. How would she survive without a job, or somewhere to live? She couldn’t go home, even if she wanted to. Her father would throw her out for sure. She was trapped. Whichever way she turned, there was no exit point. Ruined. An old-fashioned word, but it hit the nail on the head. It was all right for John. He got off scot-free. Lieselotte’s words came back. Why is it always the women who have to pick up the pieces? Why did women always pay the price?

§

Dee took her into the kitchen when she arrived home.

‘We’ve kept your tea warm,’ she said, taking it out of the oven and placing it on a mat on the table. ‘Toad in the hole.’

‘Thanks.’ Betty poured herself a glass of water and sat down. The batter looked heavy and the gravy thick and lumpy.

‘Ah, Bisto,’ she said, sniffing.