‘A hostel in Hunslet, an old army barracks. Not exactly the Ritz but a roof over my head. It’ll do for now.’

‘You could stay here but you see how it is… What with the sewing, the bike and our rules, it would be difficult. But you must come whenever you like. We go to concerts, perhaps we can all go together?’

‘I’d like that. And if you hear of anything, I would be grateful.’

The city of Leeds went about its business briskly despite bombsites and rebuilding, gaping terraces with wallpaper hanging off the bedroom walls, crowds of shoppers packing the market hall each Saturday when Netta took herself out of the grim coke-fumed Nissen huts and lines of damp washing steaming over the stove, to lose herself among the fabric stalls. For a time the novelty of theatres and cinemas, music halls and concerts, distracted her from the sadness of being without Ray. The return to barracks each night, to the loud wireless music and the smoke and the coarse chatter of strangers, brought back the grim reality of her situation, pierced the bubble of all the colour and sounds of theatre fairyland.

It was sewing that kept her sane. Each weekend she browsed among the fent stalls for cheap offcuts from the textile mills to sew into rompers and smocked shirts for her son. She lost herself in the smells and sights of rolls of printed cottons and shirtings, woollen tweeds and suitings, fancy brocades and satins, velveteens and corduroys, fingering the textures, sniffing colours graduated like crayons in a Lakeland pencil set. Who could be sad at such extravagant sights: bold patterns, stripes and polka dots, checks and ginghams, florals and chintz?

There were boxes of offcuts for cushion covers and curtains too. How she longed for a place of her own to furnish with cushion covers and curtains, bedspreads and table napkins. She always saved the best until last to fortify herself for the bus ride back to the dingy hostel, wandering in a trance around the bridal fabrics and dress velvets, stroking the pile, silky smooth like the ears of a dog; comforting like the top of a baby’s head. Sheer organza and silk netting, all the colours of the rainbow at her fingertips.

Close by were the trimmings stalls, Aladdin’s caves, cluttered with cards of ribbons and braidings, hat trimmings, artificial flowers and cherries, neat drawers of buttons, zips, embroidery silks and displays of cottons. There were dress trimmings with glittering sequins in wondrous shades like jewelled brooches, instant glamour for a few pence to garnish the plainest of garments. Netta’s fingers were itching to play with all these treasures so she bought packets of sequins to satisfy the urge, a treat better than a teacake in Fuller’s for it was still there when she got back to Hunslet.