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almost cartoonish beauty, which seemed exaggerated next to the stout, matronly figures of Pat, Doris and Ivy.
    What must it be like to be the most beautiful woman in any room you walk into? Poppy wondered.
    ‘I may be an East End girl, but I got big aspirations, see,’ Daisy went on in her wonderful breathy voice. As she spoke, she absent-mindedly played with the hem of her red dress, her
fingers seductively toying with the silky folds of the gown. The men on the neighbouring table looked like they were about to expire.
    ‘I want an inside toilet, a proper garden, hot running water. My old mate Sandra’s family upped sticks to Jaywick Sands. Expect she’s living the life of Riley. Eighteen
thousand people have left Bethnal Green in the last ten years alone, they reckon. I just wish I was one of ‘em.’
    ‘Yeah,’ interrupted Vera. ‘And you know how many have come back?’ Without waiting for anyone to answer, she went on, her scarred chest heaving with indignation. A third,
that’s how many. And I’ll tell you for why – there’s no community. An inside toilet can’t compensate for not being with your own.’
    ‘That’s right,’ agreed Ivy, while Sal nodded.
    ‘Where’s the markets, the pubs and the music halls in the suburbs?’ Vera said. ‘Who’d look after your kids if you were ill, or run stuff down the
pawnbroker’s? You pay a high price for indoor plumbing.’
    ‘But that’s the point,’ protested Daisy. ‘I want to look out at green fields, not pawnbrokers. As soon as this war’s over, I’m making a better life for
myself. I want to raise my nippers out in the fresh air, do a proper job of it.’
    Vera stared hard at a puddle of beer that was creeping towards the side of the table, dangerously close to spilling over the edge.
    Poppy watched the older woman’s face flicker with emotion. Vera fished out a hanky and furiously wiped at the mess on the table.
    ‘You don’t know you’re born, young lady,’ she spat. ‘You’re too young to really remember the days before this war changed our neighbourhood.’
    Daisy tutted and rolled her eyes.
    Sensing that the sisters were about to engage in round two, Poppy focused her gaze on Sal.
    ‘You mentioned your boys, Sal,’ she ventured sweetly. ‘I’d love to hear about them.’
    Sal’s expression changed in a heartbeat. Her mouth stretched into a dazzling smile. Even her halo of copper hair seemed to shine more brightly at the mention of her sons.
    ‘Well, there’s Billy – he’s seven – and Joey, who’s five. Lil’ bleeders they are,’ she said.
    ‘Don’t listen to her,’ chuckled Daisy. ‘She loves the bones of them. Don’t you, Sal?’
    ‘That I do,’ she grinned. ‘I might be biased, but they are gorgeous. You want to see?’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    Placing her glass down, Sal pulled a crumpled black-and-white photo from inside her blouse and proudly thrust it at Poppy. Staring back at her were two adorable little boys. They had quite the
grubbiest faces she had ever seen – street urchins, Cook would have called them – but beneath the dyed-in grime shone a sweetness and intelligence. At least they have a mother who would
quite obviously fight like a lioness if anyone so much as harmed a hair on their heads, thought Poppy. More than could be said for her own mother, who had spent every day of Poppy’s childhood
scrubbing her with carbolic soap and washing the fun clean out of her life. And when danger had come knocking, how had her mother helped her?
    ‘They’re beautiful, Sal,’ said Poppy, as she carefully handed her back the photo.
    Sal took her picture and traced her finger down it with a touching fervour, as if she was stroking her sons’ warm cheeks and not just a faded black-and-white image of them. Her mothering
instincts were beyond reproach and Poppy felt humbled by such a strong love, displayed so honestly.
    ‘You must be very proud of them – angels with dirty faces,’ she blurted, so moved