Netta was so relieved when she boarded the Thames Clyde Express at last. The factory was shut for the annual Wakes week and she had saved hard for her first holiday back home. She had treated herself to a new hair cut. Off went the Victory roll in favour of a soft bob framing her freckled face. She’d made up a linen two-piece suit in beige, two cotton skirts with bibs and braces and a pair of slacks copied from a Claire McArdell original in the Vogue magazine that she shared with Vida, poring over it like a Bible.

Staggering from the hostel under the weight of cases full of sewing to the bus stop, she paused for breath. Every spare penny from her wages was spent on making clothes for Ray. She was going to arrive home looking chipper, not a down-at-heel factory girl. She pressed her nose to the window as the train drew into Kirkcudbright station to see if anyone was waiting to greet her. There, to her amazement, stood Peg on the platform with the baby who was toddling on his own, bow-legged around his thick nappy. He clung to Peg, eyeing Netta with suspicion again, a reminder of that first visit home from Park Royal.

The coat she had sent for his birthday was discarded in favour of a summer coat that looked shop-bought not home-made.

Netta tried to enthuse about her new life in Leeds but it sounded hollow. The only truthful bit she could add was how she was going to help make another wedding outfit with Vida Bloom for one of the girls in Saloman’s office. She gave them all the gen about Arnie, and the Blooms’ house, but no one seemed very interested.

Peg sifted through all Ray’s new outfits with a sniff. ‘Dinna waste yer money on all this fancy stuff. He cannae muck about the place in these frilly shirts. He’s a laddie not a lass. He disna want printed cottons at his age. Dungarees and overalls, something more serviceable if you want to make him anything – and make them the right size. Yon last lot you sent him for his birthday were awful skimpy. I passed them on. We can take care of his clothing, you know.’ It was never going to be an easy visit after that.

The worst moment was when Father dangled the baby before the mirror and whispered, ‘Gus.’ The toddler watched his lips intently and spat out, ‘Gust!’ All hopes of ever giving him his original name were quashed now but Netta swallowed her fury and disappointment. Nobody must see how this rejection of her choice was hurting her.