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Road Police Station. They’d share a pot of tea in Jac’s shed at the railway end of Shand Street, and Jac would pass on titbits of news. Who was stealing scrap iron around the place? Who’d just acquired a motor-van or a pair of shiny boots he couldn’t rightly afford? As a foreigner, Jac didn’t subscribe to the Londoner’s code that said you’d rather cut out your own tongue than nark to the police. People hinted that Jac and Sheila were sweet on each other, but that couldn’t be right . . . Jac must be thirty years older. No, it was a business deal. Tea and information.
    Sheila doubtless dished out tales about Cora. How else had Jac known about the race-day ballot, and about her ironing money? Feeling quite justified in her theft, Cora lifted the lid off the hatbox and made a noise of disgust. The mound of black feathers inside looked more like a dead crow than a hat. Lifting it out, she found it had a label stitched into its sisal lining. La Passerinette, Paris.
    Her eyes widened. Paris was where she went in her dreams. Her favourite films of all time were set there and sometimes, when life scraped like a rusty wheel, she’d imagine herself as Jeanette MacDonald being fitted for new clothes by Maurice Chevalier and singing ‘Isn’t It Romantic?’ in harmony with him. Cora put on the hat in front of the mirror, tilting it forward until it obscured her injured eye. It had a fishnet veil that dropped down to her top lip. Suddenly, the hat made sense. Not a dead crow, but a fantasy of iridescent feathers. It wasn’t Cora Masson staring back at her, but a stranger whose face was composed of striking planes. She sucked in her cheeks and murmured huskily, ‘She boards a train, blind to other passengers who gasp at her beauty and shake their heads, recognising the sultry—’
    ‘Have you gone nuts?’ Donal demanded from the doorway.
    ‘I’m being Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express .’
    ‘You sound like my sister Doreen after she had her tonsils out. Please, let’s go.’
    Her last act was to grab a handbag off a hook on the door. Olive green, cheap leather, but she needed something to carry her winnings home in.

    As the train pulled out of London Bridge station, she and Donal travelling third-class to save money, Cora studied her borrowed feathers in the window’s reflection. There’d be a price to pay for this. There always was.
    Ticket number 22 had been pulled from the hat in the company canteen last Friday, during the afternoon break. Pettrew & Lofthouse was progressive, allowing staff twenty minutes off during the long second shift. Giant teapots would pour out strong tea, resembling a line of silver swans dipping their beaks to feed. You could choose either a currant bun or a slice of bread-and-butter with your tea. When her winning ticket was pulled out, Cora had pushed back her chair, her bun half eaten, and struck up a Charleston in the middle of the floor. It was a dance her mother had taught her, and it lived inside her feet, ready to burst out at the smallest provocation. Scuffing and kicking, flashing her hands towards the iron-vaulted ceiling, she’d played to her audience. Even the cool regard of Old Pettrew and his fellow directors had failed to quell her.
    ‘Go on, Cora, give us a shimmy!’ her friends had roared, the moment she began to flag, and she would have done, had she not been brought out of her trance by a loud ‘Ahem, Miss Masson?’ It was her section forelady, Miss McCullum, indicating Cora should precede her out of the door.
    In her private office, Miss McCullum had said, ‘Cora, that display was most improper.’
    ‘I know, miss, but I’m celebrating.’
    ‘Quite so, but Pettrew & Lofthouse holds to the values of its founders. Singing quietly while we work is one thing. Impressions of Josephine Baker over the teacups is not what I expect from you.’
    Cora conceded, though she really wanted to say, Then you don’t know me very well, do you?
    There was a brief