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she felt sadder and even more bewildered than she had before. She walked home in the gently falling rain. Nearly time to get the tea on.
    Joe was cleaning his shoes in shirtsleeves and braces at the kitchen table when she got back home. Flanagan and Allen were singing ‘Underneath the Arches’ on the radio and Joe was whistling along to the tune.
    ‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Ruby, coming in and taking off her coat. This was always her first question. She wanted to know where Dad was, know where any new threat was going to come from.
    Joe stopped whistling and looked at her. ‘Went up to bed early. You’ll have to take him up his tea on a tray. Foot’s playing him up.’
    ‘And Charlie?’
    ‘Out. Tea in the pot, if you want it.’
    Ruby sat down and poured herself a cup. She sat there, looking at Joe.
    ‘What is it?’ he asked, glancing at her, buffing the black leather to a high shine.
    Joe wasn’t a bad sort, not really. Ruby had always believed him to be a cut above her dad and Charlie. He’d never laid a finger on her, there was that to say in his favour. Even if he never intervened, at least he never participated , unlike Charlie.
    Still, Ruby had to force the words out of her mouth. ‘About Mum . . .’ she said.
    Joe looked taken aback. Then he spat on his shoe and went on rubbing at the leather.
    ‘What about her?’ he asked, not looking at her face.
    ‘Do you remember her at all?’
    Joe’s big stubby hand stopped rubbing. He looked up at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
    ‘Only,’ Ruby went on in a rush, before her nerve failed her, ‘you were five when I was born. I just thought . . . if you remembered anything, I’d like to know.’
    ‘I don’t remember a thing,’ said Joe, his jaw set. ‘Drop it, will you?’
    ‘But Joe . . .’
    ‘I said drop it,’ he snapped, his eyes suddenly fierce. ‘Didn’t you hear me? And don’t ever be daft enough to ask Dad or Charlie about it, or you’ll get a right hiding.’
    Ruby was going to bed that night when Joe stopped her on the landing.
    He hesitated, glanced left and right, then spoke. ‘She had a gramophone. A Maxitone Dad bought her. It had an oak case,’ he said. ‘She used to play jazz music on it. Jelly Roll Morton, you heard of him? And Fats Waller. Nigger music, Dad called it. And she was pretty. Blonde. I remember that.’ He paused. ‘Dad smashed the Maxitone. I remember that, too. Now get off to bed.’

9
     
    1922
    Alicia Darke was crossing the road to the corner shop when she saw him for the first time. He was young – younger than her, she thought – and very black, with the loosely muscular way of standing his kind so often displayed. He was outside the shop talking to two other black men, and all three turned and looked as she passed by.
    Alicia was a little surprised to see them there. All around these streets,the hotels and guest houses displayed signs in their windows that said No Irish, No Coloureds . They weren’t welcome here, they were viewed with suspicion.
    She kept her head down, but she heard one of them say:‘Hey, sweetness,’ and she glanced up, ready with a sharp retort.
    She looked up, straight into his face. His skin had the grain and polish of finest ebony, his nostrils were flaring, his eyes dark as night, his mouth broad and very sensual. When he smiled at her – he was smiling now – his whole face seemed to light from within.
    Alicia felt herself blushing. She was a married woman, wed seven years to Ted Darke. He was much older than her, but her mum and dad had been impressed by his prospects;Ted had his own shop, inherited from his parents. He was a man of substance. And Ted had been kind to her, attentive – at first. Now she worked day in, day out in the corner shop, lugging stuff up from the cellar to line the shelves – and then at home, scrubbing and polishing, white-leading the doorstep, polishing the brass, while their kids – little Charlie and Joe – went to school, and Ted sat