A Reunion at Mulberry Lane. Rosie Clarke

laughed, sharing the joke. ‘Well, I have to get the terrible twins to bed, Sheila love, but I’m really looking forward to seeing you all again soon.’

      ‘I know you’re enjoying life down there, Mum, but we do all miss you…’ Sheila said. ‘Look forward to seeing you all. Give the family my love…’ She replaced the receiver quickly because otherwise she might get too emotional and cry. It wasn’t that Sheila was miserable. She knew Pip loved her and his son and she adored him. Her parents lived too far away for her to visit more than a few times a year and her mother never came to London these days.

      ‘I don’t have time, Sheila,’ she’d said when she’d last asked her to pop up, if only for a couple of days. ‘Your father is always busy and I can’t desert him – besides, I hate London. I came up once and disliked it very much. You’re welcome to visit us and bring your family, but don’t expect me to visit.’

      It sometimes seemed to Sheila that her mother resented the fact that she’d married and moved away. She’d believed that her daughter would always be there, helping out in the house and pub and running errands for her mother and she hadn’t forgiven her for putting her husband first and moving to London.

      Sighing, Sheila moved away from the phone and went into the big old-fashioned kitchen. It had hardly changed since Peggy left, except for a new scrubbed pine table that was easy to keep clean, a bigger gas oven, and the solid marble slabs she used for making pastry. Peggy had taken hers with her to the country.

      Sheila used both the range and the new gas oven, because she needed the capacity to keep up the production of cakes and tarts for the shop and savouries for the pub. She and Maureen worked solidly for four hours in the morning, cooking batches of cakes and making soups, sausage rolls, fresh bread rolls and sandwiches for the pub. They now served soup and crusty bread with butter, sandwiches, salads and a savoury tart made with cheese or bacon and egg or sometimes sweet mincemeat twists that could be eaten cold or hot. The menu was popular with girls from the factories and working men, as well as travelling salesmen, some of whom had been visiting since before the war, but some of the older customers said it wasn’t a patch on Peggy’s food, but Sheila tried her best to please and she’d had the best teacher in Peggy.

      The main change to the kitchen was the larger double sink. It held all the plates and baking tins soaking until the woman Sheila employed for washing up came in at twelve o’clock and then she gave them all a good scrub and returned them to the dresser shelves sparkling clean.

      Nellie – the lady who had helped Peggy for years – had finally retired the previous year, taking retirement down by the seaside with her daughter, husband and two grandchildren in a nice big boarding house. Before Nellie went off to the sea, she recommended a friend of hers called Doris Giles. Dot was in her forties, filled with energy and mother to three strapping sons who all worked in the jam factory. She had two jobs, scrubbing floors at a prestigious office block and then washing up for Sheila.

      ‘My man says I don’t need to do the scrubbin’,’ she’d told Sheila recently. ‘He earns enough to keep us and the lads bring home their wages, bless ’em. He reckons I ought ter ask yer if yer could give me an extra hour or two in the pub and forget the scrubbin’.’

      ‘Oh, Dot, I’d love to give you extra hours,’ Sheila had said, smiling at her. ‘You’re a worker and if you’d like to serve in the bar at night for an hour or two, you’re welcome – or you can just wash up, help us cook or pretty much whatever you choose…’

      ‘Well, I never,’ Dot had said, looking delighted. ‘I never thought of serving in the bar…’ She’d looked at Sheila in wonder. ‘I could do wivout the scrubbin’ ter tell yer the truth, so I’ll ask me old man and see what he says…’

      ‘You do that,’ Sheila had encouraged, feeling pleased. She could manage as she was, but Dot was reliable and if she wanted an extra few hours it would take the pressure from Sheila’s shoulders. Rose Barton came in sometimes and Maureen helped as much as she could, but they all had busy lives and it helped to have reliable domestic help. Pip could be pushed into serving in the bar occasionally, but he didn’t really enjoy it and preferred to retire to his study and get on with his real work. He wasn’t cut out for the life of a publican and would no doubt wish to be flying planes. His success at drawing them didn’t make up for what he’d lost when his eyesight was affected by war wounds, and though he’d been able to take up a small light aircraft from a private airfield a few times and fly it with a co-pilot to help him land, it wasn’t enough for him.

      In September 1920, de Havilland had taken on modest premises at Stag Lane Aerodrome in north London, close to where the defunct Airco company had been before they went bust. With the help of a man named George Holt Thomas, de Havilland had set up his company on a modest capital of £50,000, provided by various friends and associates. After making small profits for the first few years, the company went public in 1928. Initially, they’d concentrated on making single and two-seat biplanes until they introduced the Gipsy and Tiger Moth. These aircraft set many speed records and were flown by de Havilland himself and Amy Johnson, who flew solo from England to Australia in a Gipsy Moth in 1930. In later years, the company had expanded to a factory in Lostock near Manchester, to produce propellers for the RAF, and had continued to grow, playing an important part during the war.

      It was not until two years after the war that Pip had approached the firm to ask if they were interested in a design for a propeller that he’d been working on. Although the design had not been accepted, he’d been offered a job to join the design team and travelled to meetings in various parts of the country, but, of late, Sheila understood that he was working with a team at the Hatfield Aerodrome. It was closer to London and meant that he didn’t have such long journeys or need to stay away as long as when he travelled up north for his work. However, most of his actual work was done at home in his study, where he drew endlessly and made his ideas into models out of wood to show his employers.

      Sheila often felt lonely when Pip was away working and wished she had more children to keep her company. She shook her head. It didn’t do to dwell on what wasn’t perfect in her life. She’d always wanted more children despite the warnings from the hospital that it could cause the loss of her life. She’d risked leaving off the vaginal cap she’d had fitted in the hope that she might become pregnant, without consulting her husband’s wishes. She knew she ought not to have done it, but it hardly mattered. Even though Pip regularly made love to her and they were content in most ways she hadn’t become pregnant again. Perhaps the doctors were right when they told her that she couldn’t have more children.

      Poor Peggy had only the two grandchildren to spoil, though, of course, she’d had the twins late in life and they were of a similar age to their cousins. At nearly six, Chris was actually just over three years younger than the twins, but extremely clever and bright for his age, and Maggie was a couple of years older than Freddie and Fay.

      A little smile touched Sheila’s lips. In her mind, there was no doubt that her son was exceptionally talented and advanced, almost a child genius in her opinion, although that could be a fond mother’s imagination. Pip maintained that he was too young to learn the guitar seriously and would be better having toys to play with, but Sheila knew that her son, although possessed of a delightful smile and laugh, was a serious boy who liked to study. He read well, which was hardly surprising since his father had taught him as soon as he could hold a book, but he was extremely quick at picking things up and his teachers told Sheila that he was talented musically.

      ‘He plays the triangle and the drums during school music lessons,’ Mrs Andrews, the headmistress, had told her when she attended a school open day. ‘In tune, I might add.’ She’d paused and smiled oddly before proceeding, ‘However, we had someone here to play guitar for us when we had our summer concert and Chris was fascinated. He wanted to touch it and he picked out a tune immediately. Most of the children just strummed it, but your son played a tune he’d heard. I think he should have guitar lessons.’

      ‘Could I pay for lessons?’ Sheila had inquired.

      ‘Yes, the young man who played for us at the concert does private tuition when he isn’t giving concerts – his name