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or his hand around the back of the head for an instant reprimand.
    It was usually Ray who was the recipient of the fiercest beatings because he just would not give in. Ruby and Arthur would cower together, staying as quiet as possible when their father was beating Ray into submission, each of them praying for him to apologise and end it, but he rarely would. It meant that afterwards, despite the pain and the silent tears, Ray would be victorious.
    Believing that girls were the responsibility of their mothers, Frank had never laid a finger on his daughter; but he had never interacted with her either. The news that he was dead had been a shock and she had felt sad – he was her father after all – but nowhere near as upset as some of the other evacuees had been when they had received similar news during the war. In the years she was in evacuation George Wheaton had been more of a responsible father figure to her than her own father had in the previous ten, and she adored him for it.
    ‘Mum?’ Ruby said as she helped her grandmother down the step into the back room. ‘Are you there, Mum?’
    She had expected her brothers to all be there to welcome her back; for her mother to be waiting for her; but no one seemed to be around.
    The room was long and dim, with a single standard lamp alight in the corner; it was dominated by an impressive round table with large bulbous feet, which was covered in a shiny oilskin tablecloth and encircled by six hard-back chairs. The alcoves either side of the chimney breast had built-in dressers, which were filled with assorted crockery, serving dishes and the best sherry glasses. A wooden canteen of cutlery had pride of place on one side, and two large Chinese-style vases, which had previously stood either side of the fireplace in the parlour, on the other.
    As her grandmother sat at the table and shuffled herself comfortable, Ruby went through the scullery to the back door, which was wedged open with an old iron pot. She stepped out into the back yard, trying to ignore the outside lavatory, which she knew she would have to get used to using again. Just the thought of it made her feel nauseous.
    ‘Mum? Where are you?’
    ‘Out here, Ruby, just getting the washing in. I should have done it hours ago. Can you come and help me?’
    ‘Nan wants her tea. I said I’d make her a cup of tea while she waits. I thought the boys would be here to say hello.’
    ‘Well, Nan will just have to wait until I’ve finished this, unless you want to heat it up for her. It’s in the oven with yours. The boys have gone off somewhere like they always do and there’s all this needs doing. Good job it’s been a nice day, but it’s already starting to get damp.’ Her mother looked at her and smiled brightly. ‘Now come over here and I’ll show you whose clothes are whose. The boys don’t like it if their clothes get all mixed up!’
    ‘The boys, the boys. Don’t you want to know what’s been going on for me? I’ve been away for five years.
Five years
,’ Ruby said flatly without moving. The washing line was stretched the length of the small back yard, which was part paved and part vegetable garden. A small corrugated roof extended out from the scullery and provided cover for the mangle. At the end, the gate that led out into the back alley was open.
    ‘Don’t be silly, Ruby, we’ve got plenty of time to catch up on everything now you’re back for good. Back where you belong, not up there with those snobs. Here, hold this for me …’
    Still smiling, Sarah pushed a battered laundry basket at her. Looking down, she remarked, ‘Those shoes are a bit too grown up for you. You’re only fifteen and they’ve got a heel …’
    ‘And they’re too big for you,’ Ruby replied quickly with a smile, aware of the way the conversation was about to go. ‘My feet are huge.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ her mother replied seriously, still looking at her daughter’s feet. ‘I can stuff paper in the