CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘My, oh my, look how she’s grown. Only seems like yesterday little Hope was born.’ Peg Price stepped away from the knot of women congregated by the kerb. They were all wearing a uniform of crossover apron in floral print with their hair bundled inside scarves knotted atop their heads. Peg ruffled the child’s flaxen curls. ‘She’ll be on her feet soon, won’t she, love?’

      To a casual observer the meeting might have seemed friendly, but Rosie knew differently and wasn’t having any of it. She attempted to barge past the weedy-looking woman blocking her way. But Peg Price was no pushover and stood her ground.

      ‘Some of ’em are late starters,’ another woman chipped in, eyeing the toddler sitting in her pram. ‘Don’t you worry, gel, kids do everything in their own sweet time.’

      ‘I’m not worried about a thing, thanks.’ Rosie gave a grim smile, attempting to manoeuvre around the trio of neighbours stationed in front of her. They were all aware that her daughter was walking because they spied over the fences and watched Hope playing in the back garden.

      Even after two years the local gossips hadn’t given up on probing for a bit of muck to rake over. Rosie knew what really irked them was that she had so far managed to remain unbowed by their malice. She’d never crept about, embarrassed. She’d brazened out their snide remarks about her daughter’s birth. And her father and Doris had done likewise.

      After the Gardiners’ home had been destroyed at the bottom end of the street the council had rehoused them in the same road, so they were still neighbours with the Price family.

      ‘Coming up to her second birthday, by my reckoning.’ Peg stepped into the road to foil Rosie’s next attempt to evade her.

      ‘She’s turned two.’ Rosie glared into a pair of spiteful eyes.

      ‘Shame about yer ’usband, ain’t it? Proud as punch, he’d be, of that little gel.’ May Reed chucked the child under her rosy chin. ‘’Course, she’ll ask about her daddy, so you’ll be ready with some answers for the kid, eh, love?’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve already thought of that, thanks all the same for your concern.’ Rosie’s sarcasm breezed over her shoulder as she moved on, ignoring May’s yelp as the pram clouted her hip.

      ‘Looks like you, don’t she, Rosie? Just as well, ain’t it?’

      It wasn’t the sly comment but Peg Price’s tittering that brought Rosie swinging about. ‘Yeah, she’s just like me: blonde and pretty. Lucky, aren’t I, to have a daughter like that? Jealous?’ Rosie’s jaunty taunt floated in her wake as she marched on.

      It wasn’t in Rosie’s nature to be vindictive, but she was happy to give as good as she got where those three old cows were concerned. Over two years Peg and her cronies had done their best to browbeat her into admitting her baby was a bastard and she was ashamed of Hope. But she’d never been ashamed of Hope, even in those early days when she’d considered giving her away.

      Everybody knew how to shut Peg Price up: rub the woman’s nose in the fact that her only child was an ugly brat. If anybody was ashamed of their own flesh and blood it was Peg. Not only was Irene a spotty, sullen teenager, she had a reputation for chasing after boys.

      ‘Conceited bleedin’ madam, ain’t yer?’ Peg had caught up with Rosie and grabbed her arm. All pretence at geniality had vanished.

      ‘Well, that’s ’cos I’ve got something to be conceited about.’ Rosie wrenched herself free of the woman’s chapped fingers. ‘Bet you wish your Irene could say the same, don’t you?’

      ‘What d’yer mean by that?’ Peg snarled, shoving her cardigan sleeves up to her elbows in a threatening way. ‘Come on, spit it out, so I can ram it back down yer throat.’

      Rosie gave her a quizzical look. Peg’s pals were enjoying the idea of a fight starting. May Reed had poked her tongue into the side of her cheek, her eyes alight with amusement as she waited expectantly for the first punch to be thrown.

      ‘You don’t want to let the likes of her talk to you like that, Peg.’ May prodded her friend’s shoulder when a tense silence lengthened and it seemed hostilities might flounder.

      ‘At least your Irene’s decent, unlike some I could mention.’ Lou Rawlings snorted her two penn’orth. ‘Widow, my eye! I reckon that’s a bleedin’ brass curtain ring.’ She pointed a grimy fingernail at Rosie’s hand, resting on the pram handle.

      ‘Decent, is she, your Irene?’ Rosie echoed, feigning surprise and ostentatiously twisting her late mother’s thin gold band on her finger. ‘Go ask Bobby West about that then …’cos I heard different, just yesterday.’

      Rosie carried on up the road with abuse hurled after her. She already felt bad about opening her mouth and repeating what Doris had told her. Peg’s daughter had been spotted behind the hut in the local rec with Bobby West.

      Although they’d lived close for many years the gap in their ages meant Rosie and Irene had never been friends. Previously they’d just exchanged a hello or a casual wave; once Irene found out who’d dropped her in it Rosie reckoned she’d get ignored … or thumped by Irene. In a way she felt sorry for Peg’s daughter. The poor girl had every reason to stomp about with her chops on her boots with that old dragon for a mother.

      Lost in thought, Rosie almost walked straight past her house. They’d been rehoused for ages but the Dorniers had kept coming although their street had so far avoided further damage. She still headed automatically to her childhood home, further along. She found it upsetting to see the place in ruins so usually took a detour to avoid the bomb site it now was. She unlatched the wooden gate, fumbling in her handbag for her street door key. Glancing over a shoulder, Rosie noticed that trouble was on its way: Peg was marching in her direction with fat Lou and May flanking her. The unholy trinity, as her father called the local harridans, looked about to attack again before Rosie could make good her escape.

      Rosie stuck her bag back under the cover of the pram then wheeled it about and set off along the road again. She was feeling so infuriated that, outnumbered or not, she felt she might just give Peg Price the scrap she was spoiling for. She wasn’t running scared of them; but Rosie was keen to avoid upsetting her little girl.

      Hope was sensitive to raised voices and a bad atmosphere. Just yesterday her daughter had whimpered when Rosie had given Doris a mouthful. Rosie