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above the words ‘Civil Defence’. They provided food, blankets and clothing for homeless families, and worked all hours running the local salvage centre, all instigated by Lord Beaverbook.
    ‘I . . . suppose I could say I was doing salvage voluntary work at the centre, it’s just down the road,’ said Ruby.
    The thought of going anywhere with the fabulous Vi was daunting, but my God! What would Dad and Charlie and Joe think if they ever found out the truth? They’d hit the roof.
    ‘Your dad would like you volunteering,’ said Vi. ‘He’s a churchgoer, isn’t he? He’d think of it as an act of Christian charity.’
    Ruby considered this. It was true, what Vi was saying. And there was less chance of him pounding her if she could keep out of his way during the day.
    ‘Think of that bleeding shell factory,’ said Betsy. ‘Would you rather be doing something like that? ’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ Ruby didn’t relish the prospect of change the way Betsy did; she never had. But she was bored, and unhappy, and Vi was right: they could all be dead tomorrow. Probably would be, the way things were going.
    ‘Well, make your mind up, girl,’ said Vi. ‘What’s it to be, yes or no?’
    Ruby looked at Vi. Thought of her boring, routine life and had a whiff – just the tiniest whiff – of the life she could be leading. If she dared.
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ said Ruby.
    ‘Jesus, you’re wet,’ said Vi with a sharp sigh. ‘Think it over. We’ll meet up outside the Windy. Monday at ten. That’ll give you time to get your story straight. If you’re not there, I’ll know you’re not interested.’

8
     
    After Ruby left Betsy’s she had an hour or two to spare before she had to get the tea on, so she wandered down to the church. There were a lot of new graves there, casualties of the war, with soil piled up on them. The misty rain was spoiling the petals on the floral offerings, smudging the ink on the small poignant cards left on the new graves by loved ones.
    Ruby walked around the graves, looking at the headstones. She didn’t know exactly where Mum’s grave was. She had never been privileged with that information. Only Charlie and Dad and occasionally Joe ever came here; she was never invited.
    She ended up at the cluster of older graves, right over in the far corner, shaded by ancient yews. It was cold here, and the grass was spongy with moss. She looked around nervously; she didn’t want anyone spotting her. She didn’t want word getting back to Dad or Charlie that she’d been here looking for the grave. But there wasn’t another soul around.
    And . . . there it was. The wording on the headstone seemed to leap out at her.
    Here lies Alicia Darke
    Beloved wife and mother
    Sadly missed
     
    There was nothing else, except the date of Alicia’s birth, and the date of her death, which was the twenty-ninth of July 1923 – the day after Ruby’s birth. She stood there staring at the headstone and felt tears spill over. In giving life to her, Alicia had forfeited her own. And for what? So that her daughter could live caged in by fear and guilt?
    Ruby couldn’t believe her mother would have wanted that for her. She thought of Vi, and the Windmill. Of what it must be like: the excitement of theatre life, the bright lights and the gaiety of it. Her own world was dull and troubled by comparison. She had never been inside a theatre, or even a cinema. There had never been culture, or even much laughter, in the Darke household.
    But she couldn’t do it . . . could she?
    No. She couldn’t.
    She couldn’t lie to her father; that wouldn’t be a Christian thing to do, would it? But then . . . was his treatment of her all that Christian? She didn’t think so. It wasn’t her fault her mother had died, it wasn’t something she could have prevented, any more than she could change the not-quite-acceptable colour of her skin.
    Ruby turned away from her mother’s grave; far from being comforted by coming here,