‘You’re wasted on a factory floor. If you sew everything to this standard you ought to be making dresses for a living, not killin’ yerself after midnight for pennies!’

‘Making what, though?’ Netta mumbled.

‘You know fine what I mean: costumes like these, fancy stuff, theatricals, ballgowns, bridal dresses to order. You can do the lot. You’ve got an eye for colour and detail with that special bitty flair and sparkle. Yer own clothes have real style and you cannae buy that in shops these days.’

‘Style won’t pay my digs and board, Dixie, or buy messages at the store. I need regular work but yer right enough – I do so much moonlighting, I can hardly raise my neck it’s that sore. Sometimes I wake up in the night and I’m dreaming fabrics: fents and cotton reels and buttons dancing round my head even in the dark! I count bobbins, not sheep.’

‘Think about it, hen. You only come round the once. Why waste yer talents? I should talk to Arnie’s mum, see if she can help. No flies on that one when it comes to making a bob or two, I’d say, if he’s anything to go by.’

‘Are you seeing him?’ asked Netta. Dixie flashed her big eyes like a Kewpie Doll, putting one scarlet-fingered nail on her lips. ‘Mum’s the word!’ They both giggled.

Dixie’s suggestions were unsettling with Christmas so close and no one to discuss it all with but the festivities were only two days in the year after all. It would not be long before Netta would be back home to hold her boy again. Then they would take the road down to Carrick beach and she would tell him all about these scary possibilities. One step at a time, Dr Anwar had said. Was a golden path of opportunity opening up for Netta at last?

Saturday Afternoon in Kendal, 1949

Netta descended down the A6 to Kendal and parked the car by the river. She climbed up towards the town, pausing to browse in the shop windows and the indoor market. She drifted from one street to another looking for a café to slake her thirst. The town was full of holiday makers jostling their raffia shopping bags and ice creams, kiddies in sun bonnets whining for toys and treats on hot pavements. Youths lounged outside milk bars and old men in flat caps and open shirts chivvied their wives to be quick about their purchases.

It was late afternoon, close and sticky. She must find somewhere for afternoon tea to clear her dusty throat and throbbing head. There were still hours of driving ahead. Netta was swept along the street through the swing doors into Woolworth’s store which were jammed open to let in some air.