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green jumper she wanted to dance with joy. Yet at the same time she felt guilty. Surely it was bad to be revelling in such luxury when her mother was so ill? And shouldn't she have a bit more pride than to accept all these nice things so eagerly?
    She managed a wobbly smile.
    'Me and Paul haven't ever been anywhere as posh as this, Uncle George.'
    'Posh!' Laughter made his belly quiver and he sat down sharply on the white fur-covered settee, waving his hand around. 'Posh, sweetheart? Look at the mess. It's like a bloomin' slum!'
    Paradise Row was a Georgian terrace built originally for the middle classes. With four floors and a basement the houses may have degenerated between the Wars as the wealthy merchants moved further out of London, and each room became home to an entire family, yet they retained their old-world quaintness.
    Overlooking a narrow strip of grass between its cobbled street and the busy main road, the old railings had been put back, the steps up to its front doors were scrubbed again and developers anxious to flatten it and raise council flats were being held back by conservationists.
    Anne knew nothing of architecture, but she could sense the house's graceful proportions. Vast by her standards, its high ceilings, fancy roses round the lights and sense of elegance fired her imagination.
    She could see by the new carpets, curtains and furniture what George was trying to achieve, but his home also had an air of neglect, revealing the absence of a woman's touch. Piles of clean washing were dumped on chairs. A car engine lay in the lounge, only a thin sheet of newspaper underneath it protecting the bright carpet. Pictures were propped up against walls, boxes of china for his stall, spilling straw, stood everywhere.
    The kitchen was dull under a film of grease, burned saucepans had been left soaking and the floor couldn't have been washed for weeks. But it was lovely and warm. They had central heating, which only rich people had, and fabulous gadgets she'd never seen close up before – a toaster and refrigerator, even a Bendix washing machine like the ones they had down the launderette.
    'I 'ad 'igh 'opes when I bought this place a couple of years ago.' George grinned cheerfully round at the mess. 'Me and 'Arry planned to make it a palace, maybe let out a few rooms. We got the heatin' and the bathroom done, we decorated it all, but we ran outta steam.'
    Anne knew George's wife had died of tuberculosis when Harry was about two and he had brought up his son alone. She also knew what long hours he worked.
    'I can clean up for you.' Anne felt bolder now and sat down next to him. Harry was out in the kitchen seeing to the dinner and he'd taken Paul with him. 'Would that pay for our food?'
    George looked stunned for a moment, then spluttered with laughter.
    'You're a little worry-guts. Money don't come into the picture when it's old mates. This is your 'ome now, until your mum decides otherwise.'
    'But school. . .' she protested. 'And Paul wets the bed sometimes, Uncle George.'
    'Neither of you are fit to go back to school just yet.' George slid his arm round her shoulders.' 'Any used to wet the bed, too, after his mum died. I know all about sad little boys.'
    Anne felt as if all her life until now she'd been crawling along a narrow, dark shelf. Isolated from others, yet able to sense they didn't share the same kind of miserable life she had. But now through the open kitchen door she could hear Harry talking to Paul about clearing out a spare bedroom for them both, and his words showed her a sun-filled world, where she and her brother had a chance.
    'I know you're going to miss yer mum,' Harry said, 'but I'll take you both down to see her every day, Paul, and meanwhile you'll be like my little bruvver and sister and we'll share all the chores, like.'
    She wanted to understand so much.
    'Why was Harry so upset about Mum?' she asked.
    'She was kind to him when he was a little 'un.' George smiled and patted her knee with