This book is a work of fiction inspired by my husband’s maternal grandparents, Walter and Violet Dowling. Walter met Violet when he returned from a seven-year stint in India with the Royal Hampshire Regiment. Once he’d recovered from recurring bouts of malaria, he found a job as a tram driver, although maybe not the one involved in rescuing Oswald Mosley from an angry mob on Southampton Common on 18 July 1937. He soon settled down with Violet on Lobelia Road, Swaythling, and started a family. Apparently, Walter was a man of moods, but a diary written in the early days of his relationship with Violet shows a romantic with a soft heart beneath his bluff and bravado.
My grandmother, Laura White, lived on Carnation Road, a few yards from Walter and Violet. Their paths would certainly have crossed. Violet was ten years younger than Laura and was, in my head at least, more genteel than my raucous, fun-loving Big Nanny, but I have made them friends in the story. Perhaps they were.
The Drewitts are a fictional family. Clara made her debut in A Dish Best Served Cold as Gladys’s fearful and slightly dim friend. After Arthur, I thought she deserved some time in the spotlight. Her sweetheart, Harold, is based on my cousin, Harold Edward Haley, from Plagued and A Dish Best Served Cold.
The Morales family are figments of my imagination, although Sophie appeared at the end of A Dish Best Served Cold. Eduardo’s war experiences are an amalgamation of several articles and first-hand accounts of the Battle of Jarma. Richard Baxell’s Thesis, The British Battalion of the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War, was a useful resource.
Sid and Joe are fictional characters. Joe played a minor part in Plagued, Land Fit For Heroes, and A Dish Best Served Cold. In the beginning, I didn’t know his secret, but along the way, I realised his many female conquests were a smokescreen, and little by little, he inched the closet door open. My research into the prejudices faced by Sid and Joe included an article in the New European — Forgotten gay soldiers in World War I — and books such as Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth and Goodbye to All That by Robert Graves. Their story, and Walter’s struggle to come to terms with the revelation, echo those told to me by dear friends who will remain nameless.
I am indebted to local history groups, including SEE Southampton, Southampton Heritage Photos and Southampton Memories People and Places, for invaluable information about Mosley’s visit to Southampton and the events on Southampton Common that day. The website www.basquechildren.org and several articles in the Daily Echo archive provided useful reports about the Basque child refugees who arrived on the SS Habana on 21 May 1937, and their stay in Stoneham.
The illegal gambling club and the murder are fictional, although the shops mentioned in the book and the alleyway leading to the backs of houses on Belgrave Road were real. Online access to Kelly’s Directories, the National Library of Scotland historic Ordnance Survey maps and weather reports from the Met Office archives were invaluable.
This book exists thanks to encouragement from wonderful readers who took the time to contact me or leave reviews of my first four novels. You will never understand how much your kind words mean. Thanks, too, to Aleks Kruz and Hayley Yates of Hangar47, who provided the technical know-how. Last, but definitely not least, I have to thank my long-suffering husband, Dave Keates, for his patience in listening to the story, believing in me, and giving his feedback. This tale owes much to Walter and Violet, but the enduring ripples of the Great War, and the struggles to overcome them, are the dominant themes. In times where prejudice and shame often led to secrets, lies and quiet despair, exposure wasn’t always the worst-case scenario. With courage, resilience, and forgiveness, those who survived could prosper.
Copyright © 2023 Marie Keates
All rights reserved.
ISBN: B0CBQF219X
1 – Sunday 18 July 1937
‘I’m bloody starving.’ Walter leaned against the side of the tram and peered through his cigarette smoke at the dense wall of green leaves and tree trunks across the road. ‘Vi said she was making a fruitcake this morning. I can’t wait to get home to my tea.’
He’d rather not have been driving his tram on such a glorious sunny day, but Sunday shifts paid well, so he took them whenever he had the chance. Besides, they were often interesting, thanks to meetings and events on the Common. This Sunday might be more eventful than most. Oswald Mosley was bound to draw a crowd. Not all of them would be his supporters.
‘I’m not surprised. Your Vi’s fruitcakes are a wonder.’ Sid nodded and flicked the ash from his own cigarette.
‘You’re welcome to have tea at mine. You know, Vi always makes enough to feed an army.’
‘I’d love to, Wal, but I’ve got plans for tonight.’
‘What sort of plans?’ Walter hoped they involved a woman. Sid should have settled down long ago. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty of options. His wide grey eyes, chiselled jaw and blonde curls made him popular with the ladies, but he was too fickle. He’d take them out a handful of times and then decide they were friend material but not wife material. He had women friends coming out of his ears, but he said he’d never been in love.
‘Nothing I want to jinx by telling you.’ Sid tapped the side of his nose.
‘Would it involve that girl I saw you snuggling up to earlier?’
‘Good God, no!’ Sid looked horrified. ‘That was the girl from Locke’s fried fish shop, the one who lives opposite you. She’s only sixteen.’
‘I didn’t realise it was Sophie Morales, but you looked pretty cosy with your arm around her shoulder.’
‘What do you take me for? I’m twice her age. I was comforting her, that’s all. She was crying. She said the children she’s been teaching at the Basque camp had left, and she missed them. I told her how lonely I was when you joined the army.’
‘Aww, you missed me?’ Walter put his arm around Sid’s shoulder and pretended to comfort him. ‘You could have joined up yourself when we left school instead of working on the trams. You’d have seen the world like I did.’
‘I wouldn’t say I missed you,’ Sid said with a cheeky grin. ‘And I certainly didn’t miss getting malaria in India. Anyway, you turned up again like a bad penny, didn’t you?’
‘So who are you seeing tonight, then? Do I know her?’
‘I told you, I don’t want to jinx it.’
Across the road, a squirrel darted up a tree, and Walter smiled to himself. Maybe Sid had finally met the right one. Then he heard a roar of voices. They didn’t sound happy. In fact, it sounded like trouble. There was no need for discussion. They’d dealt with plenty of rowdy crowds in their time. He frowned at Sid, ground his cigarette under his foot, and climbed onto the tram. Sid threw his half-finished cigarette onto the road and jumped aboard behind him.
Moments later, a crowd of policemen emerged from the line of trees, with a mob of angry-looking locals hot on their heels. They crossed the Avenue and bundled a tall, slim man onto the tram. Walter recognised the dark hair, small moustache and black clothes from the picture he’d seen in the paper. It was Oswald Mosley. There was blood on his forehead, and he looked shocked. Walter had expected excitement, but not this. There was a time when he’d thought Mosley talked sense. Who’d disagree with being against war and helping the unemployed? Back then, Mosley was a Labour man, and Walter had listened to him. The fascist stuff was hard to swallow, though. He couldn’t see anything good happening in Spain, Germany, or Italy, and he didn’t want it in England. He certainly didn’t want Oswald Mosley on his tram or to be in the thick of the action. Still, after his time in India, he was used to angry crowds. He didn’t have a rifle now, but he wasn’t standing face-to-face with the dissenters, and he had his tram for protection.
As soon as they were aboard, he set off towards the Bargate. The crowd ran behind, throwing missiles. One chap climbed onto the front buffer and hitched a ride for a few hundred yards. He glared at Walter through the windscreen, but he soon jumped off when a policeman leaned out and tried to grab him. It was a relief when they got away from the stones and bricks. According to the reflection in the glass, Walter looked more alarmed than he felt. His square, clean-shaven jaw was tight, and under his dark brows, his eyes were wide with shock. He looked through himself as the trees gave way to houses and shops, and the crowd receded into the distance.
When he sailed past the stop near the Cenotaph and saw the dismay on the faces of a handful of waiting passengers, he realised he should have changed the sign to ‘Out Of Service.’ It was too late now, so he carried on. They went around the Bargate and past Holyrood Church without further incident. A constable waved his hand to urge him down Bernard Street to the Terminus Station, and Walter curled his lip and complied. The army had taught him to obey orders, even when he didn’t like them. Mosley was probably staying at the South Western Hotel. A man like that had the money for posh places.
While the constables helped Mosley off the tram and ushered him into the hotel, Walter took off his cap, swept back his Brylcreemed hair, and tried to collect his thoughts. He despised Mosley and what he stood for, but he didn’t appreciate being put in danger. It felt as if they’d escaped by the skin of their teeth. At least he’d have a tale to tell Vi when he got home. With a wry smile, he put his cap back on and stepped onto the street.
‘Are you all right, Sid?’ he said when he caught sight of his friend’s expression.
There was no sign of his amiable smile. His angular brows were raised, his blonde curls were ruffled, and his eyes were full of alarm. Walter looked at the green-tiled walls and arched windows of the London Hotel. Should he buy Sid a brandy or something?
‘They threw a bloody brick through the window,’ Sid pointed out the broken pane. ‘It almost hit me in the head.’
‘Blimey, we’ll have to take her back to the depot. We can’t have passengers on board with broken glass everywhere. Imagine having Oswald Mosley on our tram, though. I hope you made the bugger buy a ticket.’ Walter chuckled.
‘I never got near enough to him. If he wasn’t so tall and dressed in that black polo neck, I’d never have known who he was. The coppers and Blackshirts kept him surrounded the whole time.’
‘Was I seeing things, or was he bleeding?’
‘He had a tiny graze on his forehead, nothing much. I believe a stone hit him. He looked shaken up, though.’
‘I expect he’s more used to being cheered than jeered.’
‘Or chased by women.’ Sid lit a cigarette with shaking hands. ‘He’s a handsome chap. I’ll give him that much, with that little moustache, those dark eyes and his dapper clothes.’
‘I wonder what he said to make the crowd turn on him?’ Walter leaned his back against the damaged tram and rubbed his fingers across his bottom lip.
‘I think him being there was enough,’ Sid said. ‘One copper told me he was on top of a van. He was talking through a loudspeaker, but the crowd booed and shouted, “We don’t want Mosley,” so loud he couldn’t make himself heard. The copper reckoned there were twenty thousand men or more. Mosley’s bodyguards had a job to keep them off the van. One young lad, a docker, he said, climbed up and tried to drag him down, but a bodyguard grabbed him. The copper said it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He’d only caught hold of the lad’s trousers, and, of course, they came down. He was stark naked underneath. The copper didn’t know whether to arrest him for indecency or breach of the peace, but he couldn’t catch him, anyway.’
Walter was glad to see Sid looking less frazzled. He’d actually smiled about the lad losing his trousers.
‘Vi will have a laugh over that. Let’s get this tram back to the depot. Then you can come home with me and tell her all about it.’
‘You’ll have to tell her yourself, mate. I’ve got plans, remember?’ Sid gave him a cheeky grin.
‘Oh, come on, you have to eat to keep your strength up, especially if you’ve got your sights set on impressing a woman.’
‘Maybe just a cup of tea, and a slice of that fruitcake, then.’ Walter jumped back into his cab and watched Sid throw his cigarette end on the ground and climb aboard. He would have embellished the story by the time they got home. He had a way with words and was quite the storyteller. No doubt he’d turn himself into the hero of the hour, too. Walter didn’t mind. Anything that made Vi laugh was fine by him. Maybe she’d even find out who Sid’s mystery woman was.
2 – Monday 19 July 1937
When Laura turned up halfway through Monday morning, Vi thought something had happened at the Basque camp. It was how they’d become friends, after all. Until May, Laura McAllen had been just another neighbour Vi knew to nod to in the street. Then the children came, hundreds of poor little mites crowded into buses heading for the tented camp. Those frightened faces pressed against the windows, the handkerchiefs waving, and the labels pinned to their coats as if they were parcels had torn at Vi’s heart. What horrors they must have seen in Spain with their country ravaged by civil war and Nazi bombs.
Queenie, the widow across the road, had been married to a Spaniard. When she started organising the local women to knit socks, scarves and jumpers to keep the children warm, she roped Vi in. Queenie made a collection and bought the wool. Laura, who knitted and crocheted for a living, provided the patterns.
Laura was a large, loud woman with a head of short, wild coppery curls, always laughing and often crude. She couldn’t have been more different to slim, shy Vi with her soft, plump lips and dark, neat hair pinned at the back of her neck, but Vi liked her. Apart from ten-year-old Ronnie, Laura’s children were grown-up, but she was full of fun and good advice, and Vi saw something of her future in her.
‘Oh, I thought it had stopped raining,’ she said when she noticed the water dripping off Laura’s cloche hat. It and the loose-fitting, wide-collared coat were out-dated, but a widow ten years older than Vi probably had more on her mind than fashion.
‘I think it’s set in for the day.’ Laura stepped inside, removed the wet hat, and unbuttoned her coat. ‘In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if we had more thunder.’
‘Come on through. I’ll make tea.’ Vi took Laura’s damp coat, hung it on the newel post to dry, and placed her finger to her lips as they passed through the living room into the kitchen. ‘I’ve just fed April and settled her in her pram, and Beryl has fallen asleep in the armchair.’
After putting the kettle on the range, Vi moved a pile of ironing from a dining chair so Laura could sit. What a good job she’d taken advantage of the dry weather and done the washing yesterday while Walter worked his Sunday shift. If she hadn’t, she’d have been up to her armpits in soapsuds and Laura’s visit would have been an unwelcome distraction. If Laura had abandoned her laundry, something must be wrong.
‘Has something happened at the camp?’ she asked as Laura sank onto the chair with a grateful sigh.
‘No, it’s Queenie’s daughter, Sophie. She’s gone missing, so I’ve been going around the houses asking if anyone’s seen her. You haven’t seen or heard anything, have you?’
‘Sophie? Are you sure she isn’t at the camp? She spends most of her spare time there.’
Like everything else, Queenie had organised it. She thought teaching the children English would stop Sophie from forgetting her Spanish roots.
‘It was the first place she looked when Sophie didn’t come home. No one had seen her. Now Queenie is beside herself,’ Laura said with a sad shake of her head.
‘I can imagine.’ Vi spooned tea into the pot and thought of her girls, three-month-old April and three-year-old Beryl. They were rarely out of her sight, but the idea of one of them disappearing made her blood run cold.
‘My Glad says she was upset because the children she’d been teaching were going off to Wales or somewhere. Maybe it’s something to do with that?’
‘I expect she spent the night with one of her friends and either forgot to tell Queenie, or, more likely, Queenie has forgotten she was told. You know how she is, too busy talking and organising everyone to listen half the time.’
‘You’re probably right. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s come home while I’ve been traipsing around the streets in the bloody rain looking for her. My poor old feet are throbbing, and I’m half-starved. I don’t suppose you’ve got any cake to go with that tea, have you?’
‘There’s a little fruitcake left. Although Wal and Sid made a big dent in it yesterday when they got back from work.’ Vi opened the cabinet and took out her cake tin. ‘You’ll never guess who they had on their tram, only Oswald Mosley.’
‘I heard about the ruckus on the Common.’ Laura gave the cake tin a hungry look. ‘It was on the cards. I don’t know why anyone would want to listen to bloody fascists talking. Well, no one but Norm McCartney, anyway. That stupid sod is always going on about foreigners taking all the jobs. He even grumbles when the tinkers come to mend the roads, not that he’d ever volunteer to do it. The lazy devil wouldn’t know what to do with a proper job if someone came up and gave him one. A couple of days a week in the fried fish shop is hardly work, is it? He didn’t even get off his arse to help set up the camp while your Walter and my brother Percy were there every night digging out latrines and setting up tents. Anyway, how did Mosley end up on Walter’s tram? He doesn’t seem the type to travel with us commoners.’
While Vi made the tea and sliced the cake, she told Laura how the police had bundled Mosley onto Walter’s tram when the crowd turned ugly. ‘Sid said he’s a handsome devil and very tall, but he looked scared out of his wits.’ Vi put the teapot and plates of cake on the table and sat opposite Laura. ‘Trembling in his boots, he said he was. A policeman told Sid that Mosley had climbed on top of a van, and the crowd threw stones at him.’
‘It’s only what the bugger deserves.’ Laura took a bite of cake. ‘My brother Percy’s got no time for fascists. One of them tried to kill him once, but he shot my Lenny by mistake.’
‘I thought he died of TB.’
‘He did. This was ages ago, just after the General Strike. It was only a flesh wound, although it frightened me half to death. Fascists are nothing but trouble, the lot of them. Look at those poor Basque children. Most of them are orphans because of Franco, not to mention Mussolini and Hitler joining in. A couple of years back, the bloody Blackshirts played havoc in the Ditches. They smashed shop windows and asked the Jews and the Italians to pay them protection money, or so Yaffi Goldstrom said. We don’t want that malarkey here in England.’
‘I can’t see Fascism taking off here, and I don’t imagine Mosley will come back in a hurry. Sid says he had a massive lump on his head where a stone hit him, and they had a mob chasing after the tram, throwing things. A brick came through one of the windows. It almost took Sid’s head off.’
‘That sounds frightening. Were they both all right?’
‘Sid was a bit shaken up, although he tried to pretend he wasn’t. Wal is made from sterner stuff. He spent most of his army years over in India, so he says he’s used to angry mobs.’
They had a laugh over the lad losing his trousers. The way Sid told it, he’d actually seen it, but Vi didn’t think he could have from the road. Sid liked to embellish his stories, but it was a good one, well worth sharing. Laura roared with laughter at the idea of it.
‘If I’d known that would happen, I’d have taken a tram into town and had a look myself.’ She wiped tears from her eyes. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a young man’s arse. I’ll bet it’ll be a long while before the poor lad lives it down, too.’ By the time Laura finished her tea and got up to leave, they’d both forgotten about Sophie, Queenie, and the reason for her visit.
3 – Friday 23 July 1937
Clara linked arms with Harold as the door of the Prince of Wales closed behind them. What a relief to get out of the crowded, smoky pub where she’d barely been able to hear herself think amid the noise and chatter. She liked Harold’s family, but there were so many of them — three brothers and a sister, plus his mum and dad, his uncle and aunt and the cousins. And then there were his dad’s friends. Her family was just Mum, Dad, and her. They didn’t have big parties in pubs to celebrate birthdays. Her dad worked at the Rank Flour Mills, but he didn’t have friends, he had gambling buddies, and he wouldn’t bring them home, never mind have a party with them. She had felt shy and out of place despite everyone being friendly. They were clever people who had interesting conversations. Anything she said would show her ignorance and make them laugh. She’d have sat in silence if Gladys hadn’t been there with Eric.
Harold usually took her home on his motorbike, but he’d had a few drinks, and he said motorbikes and booze didn’t mix well. He’d never been much of a drinker, but he said it wasn’t every day your dad turned forty-six and put money behind the bar, so he’d taken advantage. It made him talkative more than drunk.
‘Do you want to put my coat around your shoulders?’ he said when he noticed her shivering at the tram stop.
‘No, I’ll be fine. The tram will arrive in a minute.’
The chill outside took her by surprise, especially after the warm pub. She only had a thin cardigan over her summer dress, but she didn’t want him to be cold, too. She shot a hopeful look towards the bridge.
‘It’s always colder here because it’s so near the water. Dad says it’s something to do with the sea breeze. I think Mum was a little tipsy tonight. Did you notice?’
A strawberry blonde curl escaped from her plait and blew across her face. He tucked it under her beret and wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm. The sun had set, but the golden light still battled with the darkness. The empty streets and long shadows felt magical, encased in Harold’s arms.
‘She seemed happy, but your mum’s always happy.’
‘She’ll be singing all the way home if I know my mum. Unlike Dad, she knows how to enjoy herself. I swear he spent half the evening huddled with Uncle Tom, Bert and Joe, getting worked up over the Spanish, Italians and Germans. He and Uncle Tom are obsessed with fascists and war. That’s why Eric and Ron have signed up for the Volunteer Reserve. Uncle Tom says the Air Force is the safest place to be if another war breaks out. If it does, and they end up flying, he says they’ll likely just be taking photographs like they did in the Great War.’
‘I didn’t think they’d be flying.’ Clara frowned. ‘Gladys says Eric is training to be a cook.’
‘They won’t. He wanted to fly, but he hated it. He thought it’d be a cross between being one of his bloody pigeons and riding a motorbike. Once his feet left the ground, he was as sick as a dog, though. Eric likes his food too much to waste it by puking. They put him and Ron on the cook’s course because of their butchery training. I expect that’s where they’d put me, too, if I joined up.’
‘You won’t, will you?’ She looked into his eyes, afraid he might think of it. How would she cope if he went away on courses all the time like Eric?
‘I don’t think there’s any need yet, and I certainly don’t fancy flying in an aircraft my brother Gordon might have built. He used to make bikes for me. Once, my wheel fell off halfway along the High Street because he hadn’t tightened the nut properly. That’s where I got this scar.’ He lifted his head and pointed to a small silver line under the point of his chin.
She kissed the scar and tried to ignore the word ‘yet’ hanging in the air. What if his father and uncle were right about another war? Would he join up, or would they conscript him? How could she bear to be parted from him? She stared at him as if he might suddenly vanish. He had a sharp chin and a long, thin face with thick, black brows to go with his thick, black hair. His mum, Alice, said he looked like his dad, Harry, had as a young man, apart from his brown eyes. She said he got them from his Granddad Brodrick. Thank heavens his eyes weren’t blue. She’d had enough of blue-eyed men for one lifetime. Her last boyfriend, Arthur, had done nothing but lie and cheat on her. She’d thought she loved him, but it had only been a stupid infatuation based on the lies he’d told her. She was well rid of him.
Finally, the tram arrived. The only other passengers were a fat old lady with a basket and a couple of young lads in flat caps. Harold led Clara to the back corner, and they snuggled together.
‘Stop looking at me that way with those big grey eyes, Clara,’ Harold said once the conductor had taken their fares and given them tickets. ‘I won’t sign up, so you needn’t worry.’
She rested her head on his shoulder, and they sat in silence as the tram clattered and squealed through Six Dials and whirred up towards the Avenue. At the Cenotaph, the flat-cap-lads got off, and a few new passengers got on. They heard them clumping up the stairs and chattering overhead.
‘Your Aunt Mary’s nice, isn’t she?’ Clara said. ‘She asked Gladys about Sophie being missing and the search party. She seemed awfully worried.’
‘Mum says she’s always been a worrier. Mind you, she’s had plenty to worry about in her time. Uncle Tom fought in the trenches in France during the Great War. He got shot and lost a lung. Then their little girl died of the Spanish flu.’
‘That’s terrible.’ It was too horrific to contemplate. She wished he hadn’t told her. Why did every conversation turn to war?
‘She caught it too and nearly died, or so Mum says. It came in on the hospital ships, apparently. Their little girl, Freda, was the same age as me. I remember playing with her. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, and she danced around our garden singing songs and looking for fairies. Mum says Auntie Mary never got over it.’
The tram rattled across the Stag Gates junction. Clara snuggled into Harold and tried to banish thoughts of war and death. She looked at the houses they passed. Imagine if they lived in one of them. With her wages and his, they could afford to rent one, but his dad said they’d be fools to waste money that way, so they were saving up to buy a house. She didn’t mind saving or miss going to the pictures and dances. As long as she had Harold, she was happy. Harold’s dad said owning their own house would be the basis for a strong marriage. Once they’d bought it, no one could take it away from them. His mum said not having to pay rent would give them more money when the babies started coming. Clara wanted to have Harold’s babies, but she could wait. His dad said they had all the time in the world. Her dad said, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ He probably meant Arthur. She’d have been repenting now if she’d married him. Dad might have meant her mum, though. They barely had a good word to say to each other. Maybe it explained why she’d remained an only child?
‘Mum says you can have dinner at ours on Sunday if you’re going to help with the search.’ Thinking about her mum had reminded her to tell him.
‘That’ll be nice.’ He kissed her nose. ‘The dinner, of course, not the search. If she’s been in those woods for a week, it won’t be a happy ending, will it?’
‘The police have already searched, so I can’t see her being there. I think they’ve only organised it to show they’re doing something. Gladys thinks she’s gone looking for those Spanish children she missed so much or had a row with her mum and gone off in a huff. She’s probably hiding somewhere, trying to make her mum feel bad. According to Gladys, they’re always having rows, and Sophie can be spiteful. She has her father’s Spanish temper, so Gladys says.’
‘She’s not wrong about that.’
‘I didn’t think you knew her.’ Clara tilted her head to look at him.
‘I don’t, but I know who she is because she lives on your road and works at the fried fish shop. Last week, when I was at the camp delivering meat, I saw her arguing with a chap. I assume he was a priest. He was wearing a black dress thing and a funny hat. They were both speaking Spanish, so I couldn’t tell what they were arguing about, but it was heated. Arguing with a priest isn’t normal, is it?’
‘No, but it sounds like Sophie.’ Clara didn’t know her well, but Gladys did because she’d courted her brother, Bobby, for a while. ‘Gladys says she could start a row in an empty room.’
‘So could Gladys.’ Harold laughed. ‘It’s a good job Eric is so easy-going. It’s water off a duck’s back to him.’
‘Gladys is pretty, though, in a tall, thin kind of way. Don’t you think she looks a bit like Fay Wray?’
‘Maybe a bit, but she’s not nearly as pretty as you.’ Harold nuzzled her neck and sent a delicious tingle down her spine. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Especially after all the trouble she’d had with Arthur. For a start, he wasn’t a liar. Arthur had taught her the importance of honesty in a relationship. Harold wasn’t always trying to change her, and he hadn’t tried to pressure her to have sex, either. He knew Arthur had cheated her out of her virginity, but they’d been together for eighteen months before he’d done more than kiss her. His dad was probably right about them having all the time in the world, but she wished it would pass quickly. She couldn’t wait to get married and have their own little house.
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