‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing at all.’ Dickie forced a smile. ‘What about you?’ He paused. ‘Your dad still don’t know about us, does he?’

‘No. Nobody knows. Are you all right, Dickie? You look ill.’

‘No, I’m fine.’

Dora hesitated. She was in love with him. How could she even think he’d do what William had accused him of? But, deep down, she did. There was something about Dickie. Something that told you that, underneath all that easy, rather greasy charm, he had a short fuse. Her dad may have dealt with him over the wedding breakfast meat, it was cheap and they couldn’t afford much, but she knew Dad’s true opinion of Dickie was low. Dad still spat in the street at the mention of the men who had ducked the draft by fair means or foul, then profited as spivs on the black market while ‘our boys’ had been away fighting the war. Dickie had been one of those spivs, everyone knew that.

‘William Maguire was outside our gate last time I got home,’ said Dora.

‘Oh?’ Dickie took a hard, nervy puff on his cigarette and threw the stub onto the ground, grinding it out beneath his boot heel, letting out an irritated hiss of breath. ‘That little runt.’

‘He’s in a damned wheelchair, Dickie.’ The gold snake ring on Dickie’s right hand flashed in the sun as he moved. Dora looked at him imploringly. ‘Tell me you didn’t do it. Tell me, and I’ll believe it.’

Now Dickie looked angry. ‘I already told you.’

‘It’s just . . .’

‘You and me are gonna fall out over this,’ he said.

‘No, of course we’re not.’

He turned to her, stared hard into her eyes. ‘Then tell me you believe me. Say it and mean it.’

‘I believe you,’ said Dora, although she didn’t.

‘You do?’

‘Yeah. Course I do.’

She couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. Of going back to her dull old life at the corner shop, no pictures on Saturday, no delicious sex-sessions, just boring home and the shop and nothing else. She forced a smile onto her face. ‘So what are we going to see today?’ she asked, linking a hand through his arm, cuddling in close.

Dickie’s dark blue eyes were still fastened on her face. For long moments she thought, I’ve lost him, this is it, and then he tetchily leaned in for a kiss.

‘Nah, no pictures today. I got a bit of business to do, we’ll have to miss the flicks.’

‘Oh?’

Dora was disappointed, but tried not to show it. Deep down it was true; she knew Dickie was not kosher, but there was an excitement about that. He gave her gifts – gifts she had to hide away at home because June was always rummaging about in drawers, nosying around to see what Dora was up to.

The gifts Dickie gave her were fabulous. So different from those pitiful efforts she got from Mum and Dad at Christmas and on birthdays. A sheeny gold chiffon wrap, the sort you saw film stars wearing at premieres in the magazines. A gold St Christopher on a chain. A little red purse, made out of the softest buttery leather, ‘for you to keep all the money we’re going to make in’, Dickie told her.