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Lark Rise was cloaked in fog on a cold Sunday in late February, and when someone rang the doorbell, Celia Frost huffed with impatience. Though Celia always ensured that she looked immaculate, she nevertheless patted her light brown, permed hair and then whipped off her apron. A quick glance showed her living room looked immaculate too, her plush, blue sofa and matching fireside chairs standing alongside a mahogany sideboard polished so highly that the surface reflected her cut glass rose-bowl.

When she opened the door, Celia wasn’t pleased to see Amy Miller and from her superior height of five foot six she looked down at Amy haughtily. ‘Yes, what do you want?’

‘Hello, Mrs Frost,’ Amy said. ‘I’ve just popped up to see how Tommy is.’

‘How many times have I to tell you that my son’s name is Thomas and I’d thank you not to shorten it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Thomas had an unsettled night and he’s still in bed.’

‘Can I see him, if only for a minute?’ Amy appealed.

‘Certainly not! This is a respectable house and I do not allow young women into my son’s bedroom. Also, as I doubt Thomas will be fit to see anyone for several days yet there’s no point in calling again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy preparing our Sunday lunch,’ and with that clipped comment, Celia firmly closed the door.

‘Who was that?’ George Frost asked as he folded his Sunday newspaper.

‘Amy,’ she told her husband, who was six foot tall, his good looks in Celia’s opinion only marred by dark, unruly, bushy hair and eyebrows. She was forever telling him to get his hair cut, and when short it looked a lot tidier.

‘Why didn’t you invite Amy in?’ George asked.

‘I should think that’s obvious,’ Celia answered. ‘Thomas is in bed and in no fit state for visitors.’

‘Amy’s a pretty little thing and seeing her might have cheered the lad up a bit.’

‘She’s as common as muck and totally unsuitable for Thomas.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish, woman,’ George snapped. ‘Amy’s a nice girl and her parents are no different to us.’

‘Of course they are,’ Celia protested. ‘You have your own business whereas Amy’s father works in a factory. As for her mother, well, she’s just a cleaner.’

‘My own business, don’t make me laugh,’ George said derisively. ‘All I’ve got is a small unit and one van.’

‘If you’d accepted my help, you could have expanded, but nevertheless you still work for yourself. We also have a nicer house than the pokey one the Millers live in at the bottom of the hill. Ours is an end of terrace too.’

‘That doesn’t make us any better than them.’

‘Of course it does. We are members of the Conservative Club and enjoy a social standing far superior to that of the Millers. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got lunch to prepare,’ Celia snapped, in no mood to argue. She’d been up half the night with Thomas and was tired. Not only that, she didn’t care what George said, she wanted better than the likes of Amy Miller for her son.

From childhood Thomas had been sickly with a weak chest, prone to bronchitis and attacks of asthma. It was just as well Thomas worked for his father, a self-employed glazier, as with the amount of time Thomas had to have off she doubted he’d find any other employment.

Sighing, Celia placed the joint of lamb in the oven, her thoughts still on her son. Thomas had always been intelligent, yet hampered by frequent absences from school her dreams of him going on to further education and finding a white collar job had turned to ashes.

‘I’m off to the pub for a couple of pints,’ George said when Celia returned to the living room.

‘You can hardly see a hand in front of your face out there,’ she warned.

‘I could find my way to the Park Tavern blindfolded.’

Celia wasn’t amused and complained, ‘It’s like a ritual with you. Every Sunday at noon you go off to the pub while I’m left to cook our Sunday roast.’

‘If you feel like that, there’s nothing to stop you coming with me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said indignantly. ‘I can’t leave Thomas and you know I wouldn’t be seen dead in a public house.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt you to loosen your corsets a bit now and then, Celia, and your apron strings while you’re at it. Thomas isn’t a child, he’s a grown man and you should stop mollycoddling him.’

Celia’s lips tightened with annoyance. ‘Thomas might be twenty-one years old, but when ill he needs constant care, nursing. I’d hardly call that mollycoddling.’

‘You’re the same when he’s up and about, fussing over him all the time,’ George snapped and before Celia had a chance of rebuttal, he stomped out.

Celia heard the front door slam and was left fuming. She had married George when she was eighteen and her elder son, Jeremy, was born before she was nineteen. Thomas came along four years later, both boys before the outbreak of the Second World War.

George had been conscripted into the army, and by the time he came home at the end of the war, he was a stranger to his sons. Jeremy had been sixteen then; almost the man of the house and he’d resented being usurped. He and his father had locked horns, and within two years Jeremy had left home.

Celia had no idea where Jeremy got his adventurous streak from, but he’d gone off with a friend saying they were going to travel, to see a bit of the world and it was rare that she heard from him. His last letter had arrived from Greece a year ago, and though she’d replied with all their news, he hadn’t responded.

Now it seemed that George was ready to lock horns with their younger son, but Celia wasn’t going to stand for that. She still had Thomas, and there was no way she’d allow George to drive him away too.

Phyllis Miller thought her seventeen-year-old daughter, Amy, looked upset when she arrived home. Amy had gone to find out how Tommy, her boyfriend was, but she was soon back.

There was no hall in their home, with the front door leading straight into the living room, and a blast of cold air came in with Amy which made the flames in the hearth flicker. It wasn’t a large room, crammed with an old horsehair sofa and two mismatched fireside chairs. A wooden table was pushed against one wall where they sat to eat their meals. On the other side of the room there was an old sideboard, and then a gap, curtained off, where a staircase led up to two bedrooms.

‘How is he, love?’ Phyllis asked.

‘Mrs Frost said he had a bad night. I asked to see him, but as he’s in bed she got on her high horse and wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Frost by name, and frosty knickers would be a good way to describe her,’ Stan Miller commented.

Phyllis was amused, but tried to keep a straight face as she looked at her husband. Amy had inherited his blonde, curly hair and blue eyes, but Stan was five foot eight, a lot taller than both of them. ‘That’s no way to talk about Tommy’s mother,’ she told him.

‘I got told off again for calling him Tommy,’ said Amy. ‘Mrs Frost insists on Thomas, but when I first met him he said he was Tommy and I’ve got used to it.’

‘If you ask me, girl, you should think hard about finding yourself another chap,’ Stan said. ‘If you don’t, you could end up with that stuck-up cow for a mother-in-law and that’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.’

‘Dad, I’ve only been seeing him for a few months. It’s too soon to think about marriage.’

‘Good, I’m glad to hear it. Tommy’s a nice boy, I won’t deny that, but he’s a bit of a weakling, always sick and I don’t see how he’ll ever be able to support a wife, let alone a family.’

‘I think your dad’s right,’ Phyllis said. She too thought that Tommy was a nice boy, but his mother, well, she couldn’t stand her. There were five houses at the top of the hill, cut off from the rest by an alley that led to the adjacent Rook Rise. These five houses were different, bay-fronted with three bedrooms, and as Celia lived in one of them, she felt herself superior.

‘Tommy works for his father,’ Amy said, ‘and gets paid when he’s off sick, but as I said, it’s too soon to think about marriage.’

‘George Frost is a good bloke,’ Stan said, standing up. ‘I’m off for a pint and I might see him in the pub.’

‘Dinner will be ready at two,’ Phyllis told him.

‘Yeah, I know, love, and I won’t be late,’ Stan said, limping as he went to get his overcoat.

Stan had been wounded during the war, taking a bullet in his thigh, but after so many husbands and sons had been killed, Phyllis was forever thankful that he made it home. He’d been a milkman before the war, but now, unable to walk far, he sat at a bench as an assembler in a local engineering factory.

Phyllis knew that Stan felt diminished by his low earnings, yet he hid his feelings behind joviality. He threw her a smile now as he wrapped a scarf around his neck, called goodbye, and let in another blast of cold air as he hurried out.

‘Do you want a hand with the dinner, Mum?’ Amy asked as she ran to pull the draught curtain across the front door again.

‘Thanks, pet. You can peel the potatoes while I prepare the carrots and sprouts.’

They walked through to the scullery where Amy stood at the sink, while Phyllis found a space, hoping as she began to top the sprouts that there would be enough meat to go round. It was only a cheap bit of brisket, and she had to cook it very slowly or it would be tough, yet it was bound to shrink. As long as there was enough for Amy, Stan, and Winnie, the old lady who lived next door, Phyllis would be happy. As she had done many times before she would go without meat herself if necessary and worried about Winnie’s weight loss since she’d been widowed, Phyllis was determined to feed her up.

Next door, on the other side, her neighbour Mabel Povis was known as the local gossip, but despite this, they were good friends. Mabel was always popping in and out with the latest bit of news, but with it being Sunday and her husband at home, there’d be no sign of her today. Mabel’s husband, Jack Povis wasn’t a drinker. He had a good job as a railway guard, but was a rather stern and taciturn man who rarely smiled. He wasn’t Phyllis’s cup of tea, but then she berated herself for these uncharitable thoughts. After all, with what he and Mabel had been through, it was no wonder that Jack had lost his sense of humour.

Stan had his scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose to prevent breathing in the smoky fog, but yanked it down as he limped into the pub. It wasn’t a lot better inside, the air thick with cigarette and pipe smoke, his eyes stinging as he joined George Frost at the bar. ‘Watcha, George. Amy tells me that Tommy’s still rough.’

‘Yes, he is, but hopefully he’s on the mend.’

‘That’s good. What are you drinking?’ Stan asked.

‘I’ll have another pint of bitter,’ he replied, gulping down the small amount left in his glass.

‘Hello, Stan,’ the barmaid, Rose Bridges, said brightly. ‘How’s Phyllis? I haven’t seen her for ages.’

Rose was Phyllis’s cousin and they were around the same age, but Stan knew that his wife didn’t approve of her. It was the way Rose carried on, along with the way she dressed, in tight, low-cut tops. Her make-up was always thick, and her lipstick a slash of scarlet. ‘Phyllis is fine, but as busy as always.’

‘Give her my best,’ Rose said. ‘Now then, what can I get you?’

Stan gave the order and as Rose pulled on the pump he glanced around the pub. Despite the fog and the difficulty in getting there it was busy, with a good few of his neighbours sitting at tables, some playing cribbage and a team of four were at the dart board. The Park Tavern had been his local for as long as he could remember, and as a pint was put down in front of him, he said, ‘Thanks, Rose.’

‘And one for you, darling,’ Rose said to George as she put another pint on the bar, her manner flirtatious.

Rose’s dark roots were showing in her stringy, peroxide blonde hair, yet she wasn’t bad looking. She had lost her husband during the war and was always on the hunt to replace him, so much so that she had lost her reputation along the way. ‘George, I think you’re in there,’ Stan said jokingly as Rose took his money and then moved on to serve another customer. ‘I reckon my wife’s cousin has got her eye on you.’

‘Of course she hasn’t,’ George said sharply.

Stan wasn’t sure if it was temper or embarrassment that made George’s neck redden and he said quickly, ‘No offence, mate. I was only kidding.’

‘None taken,’ George replied, relaxing his tense stance.

For the rest of the time they were in the pub, they chatted about this and that as they were joined by a couple of other men, the conversation mainly about football, but Stan couldn’t help noticing how often George’s eyes strayed to Rose.

Bloody hell, Stan thought, surely they weren’t having an affair?

The landlord rang the brass bar bell, shouting last orders, and as Stan finished his pint, he decided to make it his last. He hoped he was mistaken about George’s interest in Rose, and there was no way he was going to voice his suspicions to anyone. Gossip was rife enough locally, and Stan wasn’t going to add to it. If anyone else got wind of what might be happening, especially their nosey neighbour, Mabel Povis, it would spread like wildfire.

Stan couldn’t imagine how Celia Frost would react if she got to hear any of it, but one thing was certain, all hell was sure to break loose. He called his goodbyes and with the fog still thick he groped his way home, the wonderful, rich aroma of roast beef assailing his nostrils when he limped indoors.

Phyllis greeted him with a smile, her olive skin flushed from the heat of cooking and her straight, brown hair tucked back behind her ears. She was only five feet tall, with hazel eyes that twinkled as he gave her a hug.

‘What was that for?’ she asked.

‘’Cos I love you.’

‘You daft sod. You’re tipsy,’ she said, pushing him away.

‘You wound me, my darling,’ he said, affecting a posh tone. ‘I’m just drunk with love.’

‘Dad, you are funny,’ Amy said, giggling.

‘If he doesn’t take his coat off and sit at the table, I’ll give him funny,’ Phyllis threatened. ‘Dinner is ready, and waiting to be eaten.’

‘Your wish is my command, my Queen,’ Stan said, flourishing a bow.

Phyllis laughed, Amy giggled again, and Stan took off his coat to sit at the table where he picked up his knife and fork, holding them up as he said, ‘Right, woman, feed me.’

Phyllis shook her head, feigning disgust, but Stan could see that she was hiding a smile. Theirs was a good marriage, and though hard-up, they were happy. He wanted the same for his daughter, but now his face straightened as he thought about the Frosts again. If George was having an affair with Rose and Celia found out, the fact that they were related might affect Amy and he didn’t want her taking any flak.

Tommy might be a nice lad, thought Stan, but the sooner his daughter found herself another boyfriend, the better.