Paradise Lane by Ruth Hamilton

have good, visible eyebrows, dark lashes, blond hair. Women would kill for a skin as soft as yours. Flesh is all you lack.’
    Maureen Mason blinked rapidly. Oh, if only he would speak to her like this! If only he would compliment her . . . She crushed the thought, hated herself for almost resenting a little waif who needed every ounce of support from every source. ‘Sally,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll eat my Easter bonnet in 1960 if you’re not the belle of the ball.’
    Tom turned, looked at his next-door neighbour. In spite of her unwanted approaches, Tom had always judged Maureen Mason to be a good woman. But now, with a suddenness that was almost frightening, he was struck by her beauty. Like many Irish people, she was blessed with pale skin, hair that was nearing black, eyes of a green that managed to be soft. But he was in no position to . . . He glanced from Maureen to Sally, back to Maureen.
    Ivy, who was old enough to read the thoughts of most people, could almost hear the man’s brain slipping into gear. If he married Maureen, he could take Sally into his house and . . . Oh, this was a good man. She busied herself by tidying up Derek’s bed. ‘You always were a messy sleeper, our Derek. Used to tie all the bedclothes in knots, didn’t you?’
    He was becoming tired again. ‘Yes, Mam.’
    She couldn’t go on for ever. Her bones complained while she bent to tuck in a sheet, the room spun when she lifted her head. Most mornings, her extremities were numb, as if her heart had slowed to a point where the blood was scarcely moving. But oh, she could go gladly to her Maker if Maureen and Tom could just be there for Sal. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked her son. At least Sally had stopped weeping. If only Derek would eat, if only he could fool the doctors by pulling round . . .
    ‘No, thanks. I think I’ll have a doze now.’
    Ivy ushered everyone into the parlour, closed the door to the kitchen. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘We can all set to, now. Would you two lend some pans, towels and bedding?’
    The neighbours answered in the affirmative.
    ‘I’ll get some bits and pieces off Rosie Blunt, then there’s my own stuff. I want . . . I want them to have a proper home till . . .’ She glanced at her granddaughter. ‘We can fix them up between us. But I want to say ta to both of you. Without neighbours like you and the Blunts, I don’t know how we would have managed.’
    Tom Goodfellow put his arms round the old lady who was frail in body, powerful in spirit. ‘Anything, Ivy,’ he whispered. ‘Maureen and I will do all we can.’
    ‘I know.’ Ivy pulled away from him, was surprised to feel the heat in her face. ‘Stop chasing after me, Tom Goodfellow,’ she said jauntily. ‘I’m not in the market for a man. Fact is, I’m too clever and good-looking for any of you.’
    She left number 1, dragged Sally to the house in Worthington Street, sorted out some essentials, piled them on the floor. ‘Sal,’ she said when the task was nearly done. ‘Don’t cry for your mam. No use getting yourself in a state over her. What’s done is done, and it can’t be undone.’
    ‘I won’t cry,’ the little girl replied. ‘From now on, I’ll hardly think about her at all.’
    She did, though. All through the night, she was plagued by dreams whose central character was always Lottie Crumpsall. Most of the time, Sally was chasing her mother, trying to catch up with her. But the further she ran, the further away her mother moved. Sally’s dream legs were like lead, holding her back, making her too heavy to run properly.
    ‘Go away,’ called Lottie. ‘Morton doesn’t want you, doesn’t like children. I’ll send for you.’
    ‘You won’t.’
    Even from a distance, the grin on Lottie’s face was visible. ‘I will if you’re good. If you’re not good, you’ll have to stay upstairs. I know about the basket. There’ll be no more baskets.’
    ‘I’m hungry.’
    ‘You’re always bloody hungry.’
    Towards