‘I’m with you there,’ said Frank, shooting him a wry smile. ‘More tea?’

‘No thanks, son. I’ve got to get back to Beach View, check on the tiler and hose down Harvey.’ He looked towards the dog which was now rolling in the pile of discarded fish guts by the water’s edge. ‘Ach, to be sure there are times I could cheerfully murder that heathen beast,’ he muttered without real rancour.

He squeezed Frank’s shoulder. ‘Chin up, son. Have a sleep, and when you’ve been to see Brendon, come to the Anchor for a pint.’

Frank’s smile was weary. ‘Thanks, Da. I might just do that.’

Solly’s new enterprise on the factory estate was in full swing that afternoon, the production running as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. The cutters, machinists, checkers and packers were busy working at their stations on the array of maternity clothes and babywear in an atmosphere of pent-up excitement. It was the day of the election, and everyone had an opinion as to which party would win, so there had been a bit of argy-bargy when things had grown heated, but Peggy had managed to cool things down enough so it didn’t come to blows.

She kept an eye on the less experienced machinists she’d placed close to an old hand and saw that most of them were getting along well, so went to see how the girls on the checking tables were doing. It was here that the work was assessed and either passed or set aside as seconds which would be sold on market stalls. She noted with pleasure that the seconds pile was smaller than of late, but having checked the machinist’s number on the tag inside each piece, her spirits fell. Marge Sherman’s work was still well below an acceptable standard.

She gathered up the maternity dresses and took them into the small office which had been partitioned off from the factory floor. Dumping the dresses on her desk, she pulled Marge’s file from the cabinet and read through it even though she was familiar with the woman’s background and work history.

Marge had been working in the armaments factory when her soldier husband had been killed during the beach landings, and she’d been left with three small children to raise. Both her parents were frail and unable to help, and her husband’s family had been wiped out during the bombing raids on Coventry. The armaments factory had closed, and like so many others, Marge was out of work.