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woman had once had an ‘unfortunate association’ with a gentleman friend – when she was much younger, of course. The strange thing was, to most of her neighbours in ‘the Buildings’, Louie herself looked more like a man than a seventy-four-year-old woman. With her short, cropped hair, bullish neck, and baggy trousers, her very appearance seemed intimidating, and she gave the impression that she could be a match for the World Champion himself, Joe Louis, in the boxing ring.
    Unlike Sunday’s mum, who not only kept the flat clean and tidy, but also did the cooking, ironing, and washing-up, Aunt Louie never seemed to do a stroke of work, but spent most days studying the racing papers. She had no income, for in the early part of her life she had been in and out of jobs like a dose of salts. That’s why, when Madge’s husband Reg died of cancer when Sunday was only three years old, Louie had moved in with her. It meant a roof over her head, food in her stomach, and a life of Riley.
    That Sunday morning, Sunday had a bit of a lie-in. The night before had been quite an experience, what with dancing the jitterbug with an RAF Lance-Corporal, and nearly being raped by Ernie Mancroft in a church portico. It was amazing that she had survived to tell the tale, if she ever decided to do such a thing. Luckily, the surprise air-raid had passed over in a very short time, and Sunday had been able to get home without being hit by any pieces of shrapnel. She woke up at about nine o’clock, and for about half an hour just lay there gazing aimlessly around the walls at the cut-out magazine photos of some of her favourite crooners, like Bing Crosby and Sam Browne, and bandleaders such as Joe Loss, and her number-one favourite, Glenn Miller. In fact, there were so many photos plastered all over the walls of the tiny room that it was difficult to see what remained of the faded flower-patterned wallpaper.
    When Sunday eventually surfaced, the first thing that hit her was the smell of Aunt Louie’s hand-rolled fags. She recognised it at once for it was a sour, pungent smell, which totally obliterated the fresh odour of Madge Collins’s carbolic. Sunday had often seen her aunt buying her usual two ounces of cheap tobacco. Usually she went to the kiosk at Holloway Road Tube Station for there she could argue with the assistant that she was being overcharged by a penny for the tobacco, and that if she didn’t get it at the proper retail price, she’d write a letter of complaint to the tobacco company. Aunt Louie always won. In fact, she always won at everything she did.
    ‘Your mother’s left you a bacon sandwich for your breakfast,’ growled Aunt Louie, as Sunday came out of her bedroom. ‘I’ve no doubt she’s given up her own week’s ration – as usual,’ she added acidly.
    Sunday refused to rise to the bait. It had already stuck in her gullet that she’d had to apologise to her aunt the previous evening for all the things she had said about her, and she knew only too well that if she started another row now, Aunt Louie would again threaten to pack her things and move out. Of course, Sunday knew that the old battle-axe would never do any such thing, despite the fact that she had made repeated threats over the years. But it was the distress those threats caused to Sunday’s mum that prevented her from telling her aunt a few home truths.
    Sunday sat opposite her aunt at the parlour table, where her mum had laid a place for her before leaving for Sunday morning church parade at the Highbury Salvation Army Mission Hall. She tucked into the bacon sandwich, then felt the teapot beneath the cosy and found that the tea was still warm, so she poured herself a cup. During all this, Aunt Louie remained hidden behind the
Sunday Pictorial
, which she always read starting from the sports pages at the back. Sunday herself only half-heartedly glanced at the front-page story which was being held up in front of her, with its reports of the