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eyes lit up and he broke into a grin, showing a row of wide even teeth. ‘Ironmonger Street. Cor! That’s a right ole street ter live in.’
    Connie gave him a hard stare. ‘What d’yer mean? Our street’s okay. I’ve lived there all me life. Molly lives there too. We’re cousins.’
    ‘I know you’re cousins. They told me,’ he said, nodding to the group of women who had produced a pack of cards and were beginning a game of pontoon. ‘Why don’t yer cousin talk ter me when I wink at ’er? Is she shy?’
    ‘She is a bit, I s’pose,’ Connie conceded.
    ‘I used ter go out wiv one o’ the girls ’ere,’ Michael said, standing up straight and puffing out his pigeon chest. ‘She left though. Got anuvver job in an office.’
    ‘Oh, an’ is that why yer packed ’er up?’
    ‘I didn’t pack ’er up. She packed me up,’ he admitted as he toyed with a pasting brush.
    Connie studied the tall, slim lad and felt suddenly sorry for him. His demeanour was innocent enough, although she sensed a fierce pride simmering below the surface. His face was open and friendly and his unruly mop of fair hair almost covered his ears. His clothes seemed to be hanging on him, and his boots were tied up with string. He had a pleasant smile and his full lips were constantly moving. He seemed somehow to be different from the rest of the lads in that he took every opportunity to chat to everyone within reach.
    ‘’Ow old are yer?’ Connie asked suddenly, flushing at her own impudence.
    ‘I’m nearly seventeen. ’Ow old are you?’
    ‘I’ll be fifteen in November,’ Connie replied.
    ‘Yer just a kid, Connie. Don’t worry though. I’ll keep me eye on yer. Some o’ those women are crafty,’ he whispered, nodding in the direction of the card players. ‘They’ll give yer all the worse jobs, you bein’ new an’ everyfing.’
    ‘I’m not a kid,’ Connie retorted sharply. ‘I’m only a little bit younger than you. Anyway, yer not a kid once yer start work,’ she added pointedly.
    ‘What’s up wiv yer cousin, Con?’ Michael said, in an effort to change the subject.
    ‘What d’yer mean what’s up wiv ’er?’
    ‘Well, she looks sort o’ different. Like she’s a dwarf or somefink.’
    Connie was furious at his impudence, and wanted to lash out with her tongue, but something stopped her. He seemed genuinely interested in Molly’s condition, and she saw the look of sympathy and concern on his elfin face.
    ‘Molly’s got a spine defect. She was born wiv it. That’s why she gets shy when boys talk to ’er,’ she said quietly. Michael’s look of puzzlement made her go on. ‘Yer see, Molly finks people pity ’er. She gets mad when people pity ’er.’
    ‘Can’t the ’ospital do anyfink – ter make ’er walk better I mean?’ Michael asked.
    Connie shook her head. ‘No. ’Er mum told me she might’ave ter wear irons on ’er legs soon. Don’t you tell ’er that, will yer?’ she said, her eyes widening.
    ‘’Course I won’t. What d’yer take me for?’ Michael said indignantly.
    Connie glanced over to where her friend was working and saw that the group on that particular bench was huddled around one of the women who seemed to be pointing out something from a catalogue. Molly appeared to be interested in what was being shown and did not seem to have noticed the conversation she was having. Connie looked back at Michael who was leaning against the work table, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’ve not seen yer in Tower Bridge Road,’ she said. ‘I’m always there, doin’ shoppin’ fer me aunt.’
    ‘I live in Albion Buildin’s, near the bridge. I live wiv me gran,’ he said, looking down at his scruffy boots.
    ‘Ain’t yer got no mum an’ dad then?’ Connie asked.
    ‘They split up when I was a little kid. I can’t remember much about ’em. I remember a little bit about me dad. ’E was very big. All I can remember about me mum is the scenty smell. She always smelt really