A Reunion at Mulberry Lane. Rosie Clarke

London

      ‘Do you fancy going to the flicks this weekend?’ Gordon Hart said, making his wife, Maureen, look at him in surprise.

      ‘Why, what’s on that you’d like to see?’

      ‘I don’t know – a thriller or something you fancy. I’d just like to take my wife out.’

      Maureen smiled, pleased at his thoughtfulness. ‘Yes, I think we could go – if Shirley doesn’t have any plans to go out with her friends.’

      Shirley seldom went out with her friends, unless it was a school function or, sometimes on a Friday night, she went to first-aid classes at night school. Shirley wanted to be a doctor, which involved hard work and meant she had her nose in a medical book most of the time, studying.

      ‘Rose Barton would keep an eye on the kids if Shirley doesn’t want to…’

      ‘Yes, all right. I like a good mystery and I think there’s a Hitchcock film on at the Regal…’

      Maureen Hart looked at her husband thoughtfully. He was looking a bit tired and she worried about him, even though she knew that he was completely recovered from the serious leg wound he’d received during the war. Gordon still had a bit of a limp, but he swore it didn’t pain him now. Maureen wasn’t sure if he always told her the truth on that score, because he would never worry her if he could help it. She had her children to look after and life had blessed them. Besides, their daughter Shirley – Maureen’s stepdaughter but loved as much as any of her own children – they had little Gordon and Matthew, called Matty by all his adoring family and spoiled silly by Shirley. Matty was now three and Gordy would be eight next year. Had her darling little Robin lived, he would have been nine in March 1950…

      Robin had been the child of a man Maureen had had an affair with when she was nursing. He’d come and gone in her life a few times, but when she discovered he’d cheated on her with a young nurse while also sleeping with her, Maureen had broken with him. Rory had caused her trouble a few times, refusing to take no for an answer even after she married Gordon, but he was dead now. He had blamed her for Robin’s death, claiming she’d neglected his son. It was so far from the truth, it was ridiculous, but he’d been convinced she’d done it to punish him.

      Maureen blinked hard to keep the tears away. Losing a child you adored was so painful and after all these years she still hadn’t quite got over it. Most of the time, she was able to push the memory of her darling son’s death to the back of her mind, but then something would bring it back and the tears would hover – however, she mustn’t give way to self-pity. She had three lovely children and she was usually too busy to dwell on the past.

      The tea shop she ran with Sheila, Pip Ashley’s wife, was booming and they could hardly keep up with the trade. Rose Barton helped out as much as she could, but she had two children and that limited her hours. Maureen hadn’t seen much of Anne Ross for years now. She’d been a regular visitor to the pub Peggy used to run, helping behind the bar in her spare time until her husband came home after the war and she’d at last given birth to her much-wanted child. Anne was now teaching in Cambridgeshire with her family and kept in touch, sending cards and gifts at Christmas and the occasional letter or phone call, but she seldom visited; although, in her last phone call, Peggy had told Maureen that Anne and Kirk had been down to visit them in the summer. They’d stayed in the nearby resort of Torquay and visited Peggy at home and at the café. Anne had told Maureen how much she’d enjoyed visiting with Peggy when she rang, but she still hadn’t made time to come up to London other than once for Christmas, though she kept promising she would one day soon.

      ‘You’re not worried about the business, are you?’ Maureen asked because her husband still looked a bit down. He ran the grocers on the corner, which had belonged to her family and was now theirs; Maureen had transferred the deeds into their joint names, because she thought it was only fair. She’d changed the name to Harts, too. Gordon worked hard there and deserved to be her partner, but he bore all the responsibility himself, determined to make a success of it for her and their children and she understood why he was anxious. Back in September, the pound had been devalued and that had led to rises in the price of food – the fourpence-ha’penny loaf had been raised to sixpence and for a week or two some of their customers had cut back on their shopping.

      ‘No, we’re still doing well,’ Gordon told her now. ‘Our customers are loyal, Maureen. They might cut back on their shopping if they have to, but they don’t stop coming…’ He smiled at her. ‘I suppose they still remember we treated them right in the war…’ Some shopkeepers had inflated their prices when food was short, but Maureen had always kept her prices as low as she could.

      Sighing, Maureen did something she’d promised Gordon she wouldn’t and that was to let herself wish they could go back to the days when Peggy lived just around the corner at the Pig & Whistle and she could visit with her every day. Yes, Sheila was a good friend; yes, Maureen had a wonderful family, but she did miss Peggy. They phoned each other at least twice a week and sent cards, presents and letters, but it wasn’t like being able to hug each other when things got you down.

      Gordon had taken Maureen down to Devon for a visit every year since Peggy had departed to run her café in the country. The week had flown by each time and was never enough for Maureen. She knew that annoyed Gordon a bit, because he thought that she should be satisfied with all she had – and she knew he was right. They had a good business; it was a large general shop and sold everything from newspapers and magazines to knitting wools and, of course, all the foodstuffs families needed, as well as cigarettes and sweets. Gordon had recently applied for a licence to sell alcohol. Maureen had been unsure about that, because Sheila and Pip Ashley ran the pub, but Sheila had assured her that it wouldn’t affect her business.

      ‘We sell alcohol to be consumed on the premises,’ she’d told Maureen. ‘We also sell cigarettes – but that doesn’t affect your trade. If Gordon sells some bottles of sherry and whisky, it won’t bother us much, because we sell ours over the bar…’

      ‘As long as you don’t feel we’re treading on your toes,’ Maureen had said. ‘I should hate to do that, Sheila…’

      ‘You’ve got a really good shop there,’ Sheila had assured her. ‘People round here like it that you sell such a variety. It means they don’t have to walk far or catch a bus to buy what they want – and it’s a different business. You sell biscuits and some cakes in boxes and we sell them in the café on the plate or in a paper bag…’

      ‘Yes, I know – that’s what Gordon says…’ Maureen had replied. She still hadn’t felt quite easy about the alcohol, but she’d put it out of her mind now, because Pip had told her it meant nothing to him.

      ‘I earn my living designing aeroplanes,’ he’d told her with a contented look. ‘I only keep the pub going because Sheila says we have to…’ He shrugged. ‘She says it would upset Mum if we let it go, because she let us take over the lease for nothing when she moved – and it wouldn’t be popular with folk in Mulberry Lane if new people took over…’

      ‘She’s right,’ Maureen had replied. ‘Alice was saying the other day that she misses Peggy too much and I think a lot of other people would feel the same…’

      ‘Sheila has asked Mum to come up for Christmas for the past three years, but she was too busy and then Janet was ill and she felt she had to be with her…’ Pip had frowned. ‘I think I’m going to insist they come this year…’

      ‘Oh yes, please do,’ Maureen had said and squeezed his arm. ‘I never see enough of her. I know I was there in July, but it’s nearly the end of November now and it seems ages since she came here…’

      ‘A couple of years, I think. We were down there in August – but we find it difficult to get people to look after the pub… I know you manage the tea shop when we go for a holiday, Maureen, but we can’t expect you to do the pub as well. Mum said they’re going to close the café for three weeks over Christmas and the New Year this time – she says they both need a rest and I think she’ll only get that if she comes here…’

      ‘Pip,