shoulder. ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t make him look any better. Oh Christ, sorry, Pearl, I forgot you were going out with him.’
‘That’s all right. I know he isn’t much to look at, but he’s a lovely man.’
Emma looked as if she was about to say something else, but then changed her mind as her mother found yet another drawing of someone she knew.
‘It’s young Eric Hanwell. He looks so happy in this picture. Did you draw it before, well … you know?’
Pearl nodded, her face saddening. In the sketch Eric looked mischievous, impish, his gap-toothed grin wide. Would he ever look like that again? She looked up as Emma spoke.
‘Mum told me that you found the kid. It must have been rotten for you.’
‘Yes, it was terrible, but nothing compared to what poor Eric went through.’
‘What was the bloke like who did it?’
‘In his forties, flabby, but to be honest I hardly saw him.’
‘I heard that he got done in.’
‘He didn’t. Bernie told me that he was castrated.’
‘That’s not what I heard, and anyway, he deserved more than having his balls cut off.’
‘Emma, that’s enough! I won’t have you talking like that,’ Mo admonished. ‘What we heard were rumours, that’s all and, if you ask me, nobody knows the truth.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘I should think so too. What’s done is done and it’s best forgotten. Pearl was in an awful state when she found the boy and it isn’t nice to make her go over it again.’
Pearl hung her head. They thought Trevor Bardington had been killed, but it had to be a rumour, it just had to be. Surely Bernie hadn’t lied.
She picked up her portfolio. ‘I’d best get ready to go round to Derek’s. They’re expecting me for dinner.’
‘That’s a shame. I was going to suggest taking you to meet a few of me mates,’ Emma said.
‘Oh, I’d have loved that. Maybe another time?’
‘All right, perhaps tomorrow night. You can wear that gear again.’
‘Thanks, I’d love to meet your friends.’
Pearl went back to her room. It had been a strange morning, but one she’d enjoyed until the conversation turned to Trevor Bardington. She liked Emma and maybe they really could become friends.
Pearl decided to leave the mascara and lipstick on, but when she sat across the table for dinner at Derek’s, she could sense an atmosphere.
‘Why are you wearing that muck on your face?’ Connie asked.
‘It’s only a bit of mascara and lipstick.’
‘You don’t need it, and if you ask me it makes you look like a tart.’
‘Gran, don’t say things like that. I think Pearl looks nice.’
‘Rubbish. Nice girls shouldn’t wear that stuff.’
‘All young girls wear make-up nowadays,’ Derek protested.
‘In my day only tarts painted their faces. Pearl looks better without it.’
‘I think she looks fine.’
As Connie scowled at her, Pearl felt like a naughty little girl. She lowered her eyes, but then Connie’s voice softened.
‘Take no notice of me, love. I saw my daughter painting all that muck on her face, and … well … has Derek told you what happened to her?’
Pearl lifted her head, seeing sadness in Connie’s eyes. ‘He told me that she was killed during the war.’
‘Yes, that’s right, but it was well before the war, in nineteen twenty-nine, when she met up with some rough characters and took to plastering her face with make-up. She started going to the West End, but wouldn’t tell me what she was up to. Then one day she came home with a bun in the oven.’
‘A bun in the oven?’
‘She was pregnant, and unmarried. I can’t tell you how ashamed I was. I mean, you can imagine what the neighbours would have said.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘I couldn’t face the gossip, and though I’ll regret it till the end of me days, I chucked her out. When Derek was born I still wouldn’t have anything to do with her. In fact, I didn’t even see him until my daughter was killed in nineteen forty, and by then he was ten years old.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Pearl whispered.
‘I don’t deserve sympathy. If I could turn the clock back I’d have done things differently, and then perhaps my daughter would still be alive.’
‘Leave it out, Gran. She was killed by a bloody bomb.’
‘Yeah, but if I hadn’t chucked her out, she wouldn’t have been in a pub. She’d have been at home, looking after you instead of palming you off with neighbours while she was out having a good time.’
‘Gran, you know that she was a bit wild, and I doubt you could have kept her in. Anyway, you can’t spend the rest of your life living on what might have been.’
‘Yeah, I expect you’re right, but it’s something I’ll never know.’ She turned to Pearl. ‘I’m sorry for lecturing you about make-up. It was wrong of me to compare you with my daughter. You’re a nice girl, a good and innocent girl, and I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’
Pearl flushed. Innocent – Connie thought she was innocent. Oh God, if only that were true.
After only two weeks of living at Mo’s, and the day before her birthday, Pearl was happier than she had ever been in her life. Emma had continued to take her under her wing, and now Pearl was transformed. Her hair had been restyled and, despite initially protesting, she had been unable to resist the young fashions for sale in Petticoat Lane.
Even the shopping trip had been a revelation. Emma thought nothing of bartering with the traders, returning their cheeky repartee, and managing to get a good few bob knocked off the prices. Pearl loved the wide flared skirt she had purchased, together with a sweater. They were the latest thing, Emma assured her, buying one too, but in a different colour.
It was Saturday night, and instead of going to the pictures with Derek, she was going dancing again with Emma. She loved the loud, foot-tapping music, and with Emma’s help had learned to jive. She hadn’t liked disappointing Derek again, but loved the company of Emma and her crowd, never before feeling so young, alive and carefree.
‘Does this look all right?’ she asked Emma, spinning around to show her the outfit.
‘Yeah, but don’t wear your sweater on the outside. Tuck it in, and clip that wide, elastic belt I gave you around your waist.’
Pearl nodded, happy to take Emma’s advice, and looking in the mirror she had to admit the outfit looked better. With a grimace she stuffed her feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes that Emma had lent her, wondering if she would ever get used to them.
‘Right, I’m ready.’
‘Me too, so let’s get going.’
As both girls went downstairs, Emma broke into song.
Pearl smiled, recognising ‘Be-Bop-a-Lula’ by Gene Vincent. Emma was mad on it. Mo stood at the kitchen door, doing her best to look stern.
‘Now, you two, I want you home by ten thirty and no later.’
‘Keep your socks