Netta caught sight of the silver-mounted cairngorm buttons on his black dress jacket, flashing in the light like the fear in his eyes. There was an odd solace in knowing somebody else was just as discomfited as she. Their strange encounter in Park Royal was a secret shared only by them, she was sure. Now they must collude in a mutual silence, an alliance of deceit. Each had power over the other in this affair; a disturbing thought. It was time for this Cinderella to change back into her rags and behind her. Nothing was going to stop her even the joys of Maison Dorelle awaiting her in the morning.

Spring 1948

There was cherry blossom dusting the pavements of Griseley High Street like pink confetti and wedding fever was in the air. The Royal wedding back in November had set its stamp of romance on the nation and Yorkshire brides were rushing to the altar in modest replicas of the ivory satin Hartnell creation which had staggered the world with its glorious embroidery and appliqué work. Vida was snowed under with cotton and net, farming out as much work to Netta as her weary eyes could manage. Dorelle’s were struggling to supply its quota of mother of the bride two-piece outfits and accessories. Netta crawled through the winter on her knees making alterations.

Even Maudie Venables had bowed to the inevitable and at last bought in some fashion stock. With every stitch of overtime and bridal piecework, Netta was counting more pound notes. At last she was on the move from Aireview Street to upper Griseley, renting a stone end-terraced cottage, two up, two down, on a ledge of houses halfway up towards the moors.

Her own place at last! No more early morning bus rides in the dark, no more grim streets and sooty smuts on her sewing for this was above the chimney line and away from the prevailing winds. Her thimble had been red hot with the effort to reach this milestone. Now she would have the right place to bring up her son, with schools close by and a nursery in the town. This was what she had been working towards all these years. So what if it had damp patches on the walls and a funny iron range with a will of its own, rickety steps up the middle of the house and an outside toilet in the backyard? For joy of joys, it also had its own front garden, just a fenced off little patch with a latched gate and a privet hedge with a view right up into the fields and the sky. Nothing had prepared her for the pleasure of such a momentous move.