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dreadful, having spent the early morning fighting sickness and, in between running to the lavatory, trying to work out what on
earth she was going to do. Apart from anything else, a burgeoning stomach would cut short her employment at the Windmill in a matter of weeks.
    She hadn’t slept at all last night, the fear in the pit of her stomach making it impossible. As she’d tossed and turned, Greta had even considered going back home. But she knew in
her heart that could never be an option.
    Shuddering at the unbidden memory, she forced herself to concentrate on her current predicament. As she sat in front of the mirror in the dressing room, despair overwhelmed her. It was all very
well to leave the Windmill to go into the arms of a wealthy American husband, but what she faced now was, at best, a place in one of the homes that dealt with women in her position. Although the
management were kind, the moral rules laid down for the girls at the Windmill were unbreakable. And being unmarried and pregnant was the biggest sin a girl could commit.
    Greta knew her life was in ruins. All her plans for a future marriage or a film career were over if she had this baby. Unless . . . she stared at her terrified reflection in the mirror but
realised there was nothing else for it. She would have to ask Doris for the address of a ‘Mr Fix-it’. Surely it would be fairer on her unborn baby? She had nothing to give it: no home,
no money and no father.
    The curtain came down at ten forty-five and the girls made their way back wearily to the dressing room.
    ‘Doris,’ Greta whispered, ‘can I have a quick word?’
    ‘Of course, love.’
    Greta waited until the other girls had gone into the dressing room before she spoke. As calmly as she could, she asked for the address she needed.
    Doris’s beady eyes scrutinised her closely. ‘Oh, dearie me. That GI gave you a goodbye present, didn’t he?’
    Greta hung her head and nodded. Doris sighed and laid a sympathetic hand on Greta’s arm. She could be as hard as nails on occasion, but underneath the brashness there beat a heart of
gold.
    ‘Of course I’ll give you the address, dear. But it’ll cost you, you know.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Depends. Tell him you’re a friend of mine and he might do it cheaper.’
    Greta shuddered again. Doris made it sound as if she were going for a perm. ‘Is it safe?’ she ventured.
    ‘Well, I’ve had two and I’m still here to tell the tale, but I have heard some horror stories,’ Doris remarked. ‘When he’s done it, go home and lie down until
the bleeding stops. If it doesn’t, get yourself to a hospital sharpish. Come on, I’ll write down the address. Pop along and see him tomorrow and he’ll fix you up with an
appointment. Do you want me come with you?’
    ‘No, I’ll be fine. But thanks, Doris,’ Greta said gratefully.
    ‘No problem. Us girls have got to look after each other, haven’t we? And remember, dear, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’
    Early the following morning Greta took a bus up the Edgware Road to Cricklewood. She found the street where Mr Fix-it lived and walked slowly along it. Stopping in front of a
gate, she glanced up at a small red-brick house. Taking a deep breath, she opened the gate, walked up the path and knocked on the front door. After a moment, she saw a net curtain twitch, then
heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back.
    ‘Yes?’
    A diminutive man, who bore an unsettling resemblance to the pictures of Rumpelstiltskin from Greta’s childhood storybooks, answered the door.
    ‘Hello. I . . . er . . . Doris sent me.’
    ‘You’d better come in, then.’ The man opened the door wider to let Greta through and she entered a small, dingy hall.
    ‘Please wait in there. I’m just finishing with a patient,’ he said, indicating a sparsely furnished front room. Greta sat down in a stained armchair and, wrinkling her nose at
the smell of cat and old carpet, picked up a tatty copy