Free Secrets of the Singer Girls by Kate Thompson

it shut and picked up her handbag. ‘Don’t wait
up.’ The remark was tossed in her sister’s direction as the door slammed shut behind her.
    An awkward silence hung between Vera and Poppy, who grappled to say something that would ease Vera’s torment. She was about to tell her to ignore her younger sister’s exasperating
behaviour when the forelady suddenly dashed to the window. Poppy realized that in Daisy’s haste to escape, she had forgotten her coat.
    ‘Your coat!’ shouted Vera, flinging open the window. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’
    But Poppy could see that Daisy was already too far out of earshot, tripping down the road, her arm linked through Sal’s, their faces lit up with mischief.
    ‘When will she learn, Poppy?’ Vera sighed. ‘She’s always leaving it behind, the little madam. I spent weeks sewing that coat. It’s not fashionable, I’ll grant
you, but I used up fourteen clothing coupons buying the softest wool from Brick Lane.’
    Sniffing, Vera tugged on her scratchy old coat and muttered half to herself, ‘It’s practical and serves its purpose – what more do you need?’ A little like Vera herself,
Poppy thought.
    ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Shadwell,’ she smiled, patting her on the arm reassuringly. ‘She’ll come home when she gets cold enough.’
    The older woman smiled back at her and shook her head as if she were seeing her for the first time. ‘Such a level head for one so young.’ And with that, she slipped her arm through
Poppy’s. ‘Come on, then. Let’s find your new lodgings.’
    Grateful for the help, Poppy took her arm and together she and Vera picked their way down the darkened stairwell.
    As they walked, Poppy sensed Vera had a question on the tip of her tongue.
    ‘You said you couldn’t go to the dance earlier. Why?’ The directness of the question took Poppy by surprise.
    ‘Not can’t. I meant won’t,’ she replied, flustered. ‘I’m far too tired.’
    Poppy knew the stairwell was too dark for Vera to be able to read her expression, but her cheeks coloured immediately.
    When they reached the factory doors, Vera turned to her. ‘Not all secrets are best kept to yourself, Poppy,’ she said softly, and then, with a catch in her voice, ‘Take it from
one who knows.’ In the gloom Poppy felt Vera’s hand reach out and squeeze hers. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
    Poppy went to reply but faltered at the last moment, pressing her lips together. ‘Come on.’ She shivered. ‘It’s getting dark. I don’t really want to be out again
like last night.’
    As they turned into the street, the wind became fierce, and rain started to pour relentlessly from a blackening sky.
    ‘Out there in this weather and no warm coat,’ muttered Vera to herself. ‘Daft little article.’
    Number 42 Burnham Street was a fine, strong house that had remained unscathed from the Nazi onslaught. In fact, it looked like it might just remain standing forever. The same
couldn’t be said for its landlady, a woman with fingernails as black as her teeth and a full head of greasy grey hair. Poppy smiled at her nervously.
    ‘My name’s Mrs Brown,’ the landlady rasped. ‘I was expecting yer last night. Follow me.’
    Poppy shot a nervous look at Vera before stepping inside the house. Mrs Brown staggered slightly as she walked down a long, dark hallway, then stopped in front of a door. Poppy sniffed and
immediately wished she had a handkerchief. The hall smelt of cabbages and mothballs.
    ‘This is yer room. Yer board’s five shillings a week, and make sure yer keep the place nice and tidy. And no male visitors. I got a reputation to keep and standards to uphold.’
With that she absent-mindedly scratched her left armpit.
    Anyways,’ she grinned, turning the key in the lock,
    ‘toilet’s out back in the yard, but I think yer’ll find it’s got all yer need, lovey.’
    The door swung open to reveal the most miserable fleapit Poppy had ever seen. A damp