Looking across to number 103, she felt a mixture of relief she’d finally found it, and trepidation at what was to come.She had only been to London a few times in her life, and then only to art galleries or the West End shops, so she had little idea of what to expect of ordinary working-class areas. Instinct, and descriptions Adele had given her of the East End, told her that Hammersmith was a quite respectable area, but it looked hideous and squalid to her.It was 23 August, yet another hot day, and the leaves on the trees hung down limply, covered in a film of dust and soot. Windows criss-crossed with sticking tape, and piles of sandbags were an inevitable and expected aspect of war, but the overflowing dustbins and the smell of drains repulsed her. She didn’t think she could bear to live in a street where hordes of grubby children ran around yelling stridently all day. She thought the women in pinafores and turban-style headscarves gossiping on the front steps should get their backsides off and take their offspring to a park.Yesterday, Honour had received a letter from Rose.
