‘Even if that’s true –’ Florence leafed the pages in her book of recipes – ‘I still think we ought to hold on for a week or two. It’s not an urgent job.’

‘He’s left us in the lurch. Who cares what he thinks any more?’

‘Really, there’s no point in holding grudges. He must have his reasons.’

‘You’re too sweet by half, miss, that’s your trouble,’ Charlie said.

‘And you’re a charmer.’ Florence handed him the book, tapping her forefinger on the page. ‘Here’s what I suggest you cook for supper. Corned-beef hash. Go easy on the butter when you fry the onions and potatoes. It’s as simple as it gets.’

‘All right. If you say so.’

Too sweet by half, miss, that’s your trouble. Joyce would tease him for this later. Twenty months in borstal with no pretty face to look upon had clogged him up with yearnings – it was natural, she supposed, and she hadn’t said a thing about the crusted egg-white stains she’d noticed on his sheets when she did laundry duties. But just because the first nice skirt that wandered by belonged to Florence Mayhood, well, it didn’t mean he had to latch on to it. He was in for quite a heartache there, and it would ruin his relationship with Mr Mayhood – not to mention how it added complications to her own life she could do without. She goaded him about it every chance she got, because the only way she’d ever known to make her brother drop a habit was to give him the idea that everyone was laughing at him for it.

‘That’s me finished, miss,’ she said now, draping the tea towel on the range’s handle. ‘If there’s anything that you want posting, I’d be glad to stretch my legs.’

‘Yes, thank you, Joy. I think there are a few things in the drawer.’

‘Pick me up some ciggies while you’re at it,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

‘Shut up, mouse. I’m only going up the road.’

It had taken time to work out the right method – something so routine and innocent that nobody would ever think to question her behaviour – and, once she had things sorted in her mind, it wasn’t hard to put them into practice. She went to the hall and fetched the letters from the console table. There were seven envelopes inside the drawer with fresh green stamps showing the Queen at her most beautiful: this would mean no queuing at the counter for the postage, but it robbed her of a decent reason to be late returning. She put the letters in the outer pocket of her coat and made sure that her headscarf was still tucked inside the sleeve. When it was warmer out, she didn’t wear more than a pullover in case it looked unusual, but today was overcast and there was a good October chill. Taking the letters had become her daily errand. No one ever asked her why. They trusted her. It hurt how much they trusted her.