Beach View was emptier than ever now that Rita had moved into the bungalow with her father, but she called in most days to tell her how they were getting on with setting up the new motor repair shop on the factory estate. All the units had been leased now to small independent businesses, and she and Jack were quickly building up a good number of customers as cars were being brought out of storage. But the girl was anxiously waiting for Pete’s official permission to get married, and was worried that if it took too long in coming, the war in the Far East would be over and he’d be sent home without her.

On the brighter side, there was no such hold-up for Ivy and Andy. Their wedding was to take place next weekend – and none too soon to Peggy’s mind, for that had been an extended weekend she’d spent with Andy at the flat and, most unusually, she’d been off her food these last few days.

Pregnant or not, the girl appeared far too calm and relaxed about it all in Peggy’s opinion, and apart from going into mysterious huddles with Rita, and dashing back and forth between Doris and Gloria, she didn’t seem to have organised anything. And yet she’d flatly refused to let Peggy arrange so much as a small party on the eve of the wedding, and all she could do was hope it didn’t end up a total disaster.

Peggy smiled to herself, for life was at last looking up for Ivy, and when she’d returned from that long weekend in London in high spirits, she’d been confident that she and Andy would feel very much at home in Walthamstow. It seemed that, despite the tarpaulins and scaffolding Andy had first seen, the work to be done on the flat wasn’t structural at all, but was in fact a complete overhaul and redecoration by the staff at the fire station to welcome their new recruit and his bride.

Dear Ivy had been quite tearful as she’d described the lovely new windows, bright white paint, varnished floors and the pretty curtains one of their wives had sewn. There were even a few sticks of second-hand furniture to start them off, and Peggy had suggested Ivy should write a letter thanking them for their kindness. It had taken a while, she remembered fondly, for Ivy could barely write legibly, let alone spell, and it had ended up looking so much like a dog’s dinner, Peggy had copied it out on fresh notepaper before it was posted.