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would do when he’d had a chance to recover himself, and she didn’t know what she’d do if he failed to respond to her threats. She wouldn’t carry them out, of course. She wasn’t the sort to make trouble for the sake of it – and what would be the point? Revenge – but that wouldn’t get a house for them, only ensure that her name went to the very bottom of the list. Suppose he knew that – George Parsons – and called her bluff? Suppose he took revenge and moved her name to the bottom of the list anyway? She hadn’t thought of that before.
    Oh well, what was done was done. Now all she could do was wait and hope that it worked!
    â€˜You bloody bitch!’ Joyce Edgell hissed.
    She had cornered Carrie in the serving area; Ivy and Mary were both out in the main hall, setting tables.
    â€˜You bloody bitch!’ She stabbed Carrie with her forefinger.
    â€˜I don’t know what you’re on about,’ Carrie said, pretending indignation.
    â€˜You do! You know very well! I’ll get you for this!’
    â€˜Oh grow up, Joyce, for goodness sake!’ Carrie elbowed her out of the corner. ‘You sound like one of the kids.’
    She saw Ivy heading back towards the serving hatch and called out to her.
    â€˜Looks like it’s going to rain again.’
    â€˜It is a bit dark, yes,’ Ivy called back, and the moment passed.
    Carrie wondered what George had said to Joyce, whether he’d finished their affair or just told her they’d have to be more careful. Either way, she’d made an enemy. Not one enemy but two. It didn’t worry her what George thought of her. But Joyce was a different matter. She had to work with her every day and if things turned out as she hoped, have her for a neighbour too. But it couldn’t be helped. At least she wouldn’t have to live with her. At least she’d have her own four walls around her and a home to call her own when she shut the front door at night.
    Carrie set her chin, high hopes racing, and went on with her work.
    The letter came the following Wednesday.
    When she saw the franking on the envelope, Carrie was almost afraid to open it. It wasn’t addressed to her, of course. It was addressed to Joe. But Carrie had never been one to let a little thing like that stop her.
    She took it into the bathroom – always the best place for a bit of privacy, sometimes the only place – and tore it open. Then, as she read it, she felt a great surge of excitement that made her want to whoop with joy and burst into tears, both at the same time.
    She’d done it! The council was offering them one of the new houses. A three-bedroomed semi-detached. Number 27, Alder Road. It should be ready for occupation soon after Christmas.
    Carrie flung open the bathroom door, ran into the living room where Glad was having her usual breakfast of All Bran and toast.
    â€˜Glad! What do you think! We’ve got one of the new houses! We’ve got one of the new houses!’

Chapter Two
    Above the crowded dance floor of the local Palais de Danse a net of balloons swung precariously beneath the myriad-faceted globe which bathed the hall in twinkling light; on stage the best dance band in the district – Jack Tucker and his Swinging Strings – were playing ‘Charmaine’. Heather Simmons sat on one of the chairs which lined three of the walls, the apricot taffeta of her full, ballerina-length skirt spread around her like a blown rose, her chin resting on her knuckles as she leaned forward to watch the dancers.
    The Annual Carnival Queen Selection Ball was in full swing, but Heather was not really enjoying it. There had been a stream of young men asking her to dance as there always was and she had accepted some of them, twirling under that twinkling globe on her three-inch heels, smiling, laughing sometimes, sparkling as if she had not a care in the world. But beneath the façade the