Violet shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s been a long time coming, that has. I’ll just put my nose round the door and see if she’s happy with Spam fritters.’ She carefully shut the door to what used to be Winnie Kennedy’s breakfast room, which Rita had turned into a cosy sitting room now her ex-husband’s mother was dead. The once stuffy, over-formal space was now warm and inviting, as Rita had collected scraps of fabric and made patchwork cushions and rag rugs, even if there was no new furniture to be had. She had stored away Winnie’s favoured dark, heavy pieces and kept only the softer, lighter ones, and had begged some tins of paint off Danny Callaghan to brighten the walls and woodwork. Danny, in his former occupation down on the docks, had been able to get hold of the most surprising items, and he still had the odd few tucked away. Usually Rita disapproved; but for this – making a home fit for her new baby – she’d made an exception. Ruby had as much of a claim to the place as she did, but hadn’t objected. Hardly anyone knew but Ruby was actually Winnie’s unacknowledged daughter, but the mean old woman had gone to her grave keeping the secret of who the father was. Charlie had never so much as indicated he’d known this was his sister, either. He’d gone to his own grave despising Ruby as much as Winnie, their mother, had.

Violet pushed open the door to the shop and saw Ruby was out in front of the counter, not hiding in the account books for a change. There was a man there, not young but not elderly either, in a faded brown overall and peaked cap. He looked familiar but Violet couldn’t place him.

‘Oh … oh, hello, Violet.’ Ruby jumped back. She was a little red in the face. Violet supposed it had taken a considerable effort for the shy young woman to talk to the customer, and forgave her the nervousness.

‘Ruby, I’ve just come to see what you’d like for your tea,’ Violet said directly. She turned to the man. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t quite place …’

The man stepped forward and she could now see that he must be about forty. His hair, or what was visible of it, was beginning to grey and he had wrinkles around his eyes, but his expression was friendly. ‘James. Reggie James. It’s Mrs Feeny, isn’t it? My dad told me about you.’