A/N: *apologies that i didn't get time to edit this chapter as closely as i'd have liked, i'll get on it as soon as i get the chance, but i wanted to post it.

again thank you for all the feedback! :) it always makes my day to see favourites or reviews!


six


Stepping into the old flat, I breathed the scent of copper which had soaked into the floorboards; rusted patches of dried blood stained those wooden planks, stained its crusted splinters. Faint moonlight bloomed through the frosted windowpanes and bathed me in its coldness. I felt the heaviness of my boots, tattered and worn at the laces. I trailed through the hall and stood at the bathroom, looked into its blue depths and sensed a sudden dampness spreading within my chest. I flinched at the sight of the basin, turned from its silver taunting. I went to the bedroom and settled in its dust.

I sat there like another piece of furniture.

Eventually, I pushed numb hands around the cot, scratched sharp nails against its edges and felt for a familiar cut in its fabric. I knew that Esther had hidden a small box in its folds. I could recall late nights and faces cast in candlelight, arms propped beneath my head for a pillow, eyelids lowered so that Esther might not realise that I watched her wriggle her hand into that fold and pull out the little box, its speckled shell glinting against the orange flicker.

I never knew what Esther put in there.

I was too afraid of her to attempt a search in her absence, especially because I was never alone in that flat. I was always surrounded by other girls. I was never able to be alone. Besides, I knew quite well that if Esther had ever stumbled into the bedroom and caught me with a hand stuffed into the folds of her cot, she would have surely beaten me to death right there in flat; it was something that I had known like I had known that a dog which spat foam from its muzzle and which become rabid with disease would be shot by fathers of Bell Road, who would drag it out into the fields behind the tenements and press the barrel against its skull just before the bullet came.

I was the dog and Esther had stood in the same place as all those fathers.

It had always been like that between us. I had just never understood how bad it had become until Esther died and the gun had been pulled away from my forehead and all that foam had dripped away from my muzzle and I realised that I was sat alone in a field, not too sure just how I had been spared when all those other dogs had been put down before me.

It had always been like that. And I had never really questioned it.

Then my fingertips brushed the crinkle of paper, letters plied into many folds, like the folds in which they had been hidden and I knew that Esther had to have been made of a special kind of cruelty to hide Johnny's letters from me. She never destroyed them, but rather kept them in this small box inches from where I slept. I suddenly understood that Esther liked power too much to pull the trigger and put the dog out of its misery.

It was as simple as that. I thought there was not much point in prolonging it, no point in attempting to understand her reasoning for what she had done. Esther had just been like that.

So, I just pulled the trigger and read the letters for myself.

Chey, Johnny had written through the hand of my cousin Shelta, I hope you are doing well in England – we miss you so much here – the weather there is not so different but please wear the coat that I gave you – and I want to come over soon to you, show you all the sights in London – I told you to stay dry so please wear that coat – and I told Esther to take care of you until I can come there and do it myself –…

It went onward and onward like that until the pile of letters dwindled into nothingness and still my hands reached and hoped to clamp onto something – like the memories of that coat, lined in a rich fur. I had barely remembered it until I read about it in his letters, and I could not exactly recall just what had happened to it either.

I knew that Esther had probably sold it and that the coat had been another thing loved and lost in this old flat on Bell Road.

I felt the loss like I felt the pressure of a barrel against my forehead and the whip of cold wind in the fields blown against a frothing muzzle just before the bullet came – and come it did, for he had signed: for my cheywith love always, Johnny.

I slumped against the cot and stayed there.

ii

Creaking footsteps echoed in the hall. I stirred, aware that the inky blackness which came through the curtains had become brightened smears of orange blended into streaks of pink from the first call of morning. I had not fallen asleep, not quite – I was fully there, but I had just drifted off into other worlds, dreamt of other places. I dreamt of wagons. The flat was cold, terribly cold. I breathed out in puffs of white, saw tendrils swirl before a silhouette stepped into the doorframe and filled its edges with its broadness.

And I thought that perhaps Harry Reed had really come to kill me.

Only I knew that silhouette. I could have traced the bumps of its shoulders, could have easily outlined its bow-legged stance with its frame hunched forward; Alfie.

Oh, how I knew my Alfie.

Because somewhere along the line, he had become my Alfie. I knew he was my Alfie, because I had etched him into my brain many years beforehand. I had painted him every day that the war had lasted. I scrapped the canvas at night and begun anew at dawn.

I had always been his Willa. He said that once, without even an ounce of doubt in his tone. He knew it before I did. He knew it well, felt secure in it.

So, he came into the flat, the first time that he had ever done so. His boots scuffed the floorboards and he lifted a hand to scratch at his stubble. He loomed in the bedroom because of his large frame, but he tried to make himself small, crouched low and sat on the cot alongside me. I saw his pale eyes flick around the room, before he said, "I always wondered what it was like for you, whenever we were apart."

I drew my eyes toward him properly, half-tilted myself toward him.

"I used to think about what you thought about in this room," he continued. "I walked 'ome to me own place and thought 'bout you all the way there. I used to think about it in France, too. Now, I'm sittin' 'ere with ya and I'm still wonderin' the same thing."

I felt an odd emotion; it was guilt, guilt which came from those letters held in my hand and guilt from having never known that Johnny had written to me and guilt that I had not yet told Alfie that Johnny had told me that he could resettle me with kin in the wet fields. It swirled in my chest, around and around. I put the letters on the bed and reached for his hands, held them in mine, felt the scarring there, around his wrists.

"Alfie, I need to – I want to tell you something," I said. "And I need you to let me tell you it."

I saw it in his stare; he thought that his Willa had become the Willa of another, because in this month, many wives had left husbands because of their sudden night-terrors or odd bursts in temper.

"I can tell you what I am thinking about, Alfie Solomons. I am thinking about a man who came to see me yesterday." I almost winced at my wording because his eyes darted from mine and his jaw became tight, his hands gripped around mine, unaware of his tight and painful hold. I quickly added, "His name is Johnny Dogs, Alf. He came 'round to see me – he's my uncle."

His hands were softer. Gruff, coated in lingering uncertainty, he muttered, "Never talked 'bout your fam'ly before."

"Never thought I had any."

He shrugged his shoulders in an oddly helpless manner, his mouth opening for words which never came. Finally, the sounds fell out in flatness. He said, "What's this Dogs fella want then, anyway? Why ain't he been 'round before?"

"He asked if I wanted to come back to Ireland with him. He tried his best to come see me, Alfie. Never worked out."

Alfie drew in a sharp breath. I think he only heard the first part. "Right."

"He told me that he had sent me letters," I told him. "Esther kept them from me. Johnny tells me that I have kin – more kin, more than just him."

"Right," he said. He shifted his weight. His hands fell from mine, fell onto his lap. "Right."

He had reacted poorly. I knew that he thought this was final, that I was only telling him all this out of formality before I packed suitcases and packed myself along with it – his Willa, now the Willa of anybody and nobody all at once. But he surprised me more once he took my hands again, drew in another breath and said, "Might be good for ya, to know your kin. What Esther took from ya, y'know."

I watched him closely. I caught the twitch of his jaw. His eyes could not meet mine. "You really mean that, Alfie?"

"Yeah," he said; it echoed into the room and reverberated against the walls, came back and slapped us both into momentary silence. He broke it first. "Yeah. Deserve kin, you do, Willa. Deserve to know yourself better than you do. I want that for ya. Want you 'appy even if it means I ain't part o' it."

"Would you ever come with me?"

His eyes were distant, fogged in the mist that I thought had once floated over those trenches in France. "Can't leave London, me. 'ad enough of an 'oliday in France, didn' I? Got all me postcards over there, darlin', don't need any more o' them. Over in France, I was always tellin' me-self that we could make a trip to Margate, you and me, Willa. But you have a chance to meet your fam'ly and – and it could be good for ya. Yeah. Hm. I want you to be 'appy, I do."

I smiled, but it was not full, not whole. "You really thought about that in France, did you?"

He was made of the same coldness which dried out the flat. I regretted that I had ever tried to make a joke out of it, because it had become harder to tell just what amused Alfie and what stung him. "I used to think about what you thought about in this room, Willa. I thought about whether you were safe or not, whether any of them thoughts in your 'ead were about me –…"

"They were always about you, you big lug."

His lips curved upward, and I felt a rush of heat in my stomach. "Well, after the first letter came – and then the second, and the third – I thought you'd used up all the fuckin' paper left England to write to me. So, I knew that you thought about me. And I thought about you in the trenches. I thought about you and I stood there on that beach in Margate every time the sky exploded, and the earth went up in flames along with it, y'know. 'elped settle me nerves, it did, to think o' us out there on that beach where there weren't none of this noise in London and none of this fightin' with fellas who, in another life, I might'a been friends with, ya know. But I thought 'bout you and I thought 'bout us in Margate, I did."

He turned toward me. I sensed the shift in him.

"But Willa," he went on, "…if you told me that you wanted to go back there to Ireland, that you wanted your kin and you wanted to be with your uncle, then I would bring you to the ship me-self and I would watch you go because I ain't Esther and I ain't gonna be the ball that she chained 'round your ankle to keep you in this place. I ain't gonna do it to ya."

I was sad. It was a childish word to use, sad, so plain and simple, but that was what it was for me. It was this powerful sadness which made me ache for him. I saw how badly it hurt him, saw him shrivel inward from me at the thought of separation, another separation with more letters sent between us.

Oh, how I knew my Alfie; for I had etched him, I had painted him.

Now I had him here before me and it seemed that he was still made of watercolours, faded around the edges, spilled outward into lighter shades.

I thought of Johnny and all that could have been between him and his chey in her fur-lined coat before she had been shipped off to England. But that had been a mistake on his part, to pass me off onto Esther, even if it had not been his intention to permanently pull us apart. I thought of kin that I had imagined with eyes like mine, lined in kohl and the familiarity of a family which I had never gotten to know because that was just how it went for dogs with foaming muzzles shot in wet fields.

I looked toward the letters from Johnny, looked at his second-hand words.

I brought my eyes to Alfie once more. His jaw was still locked but his thumbs smoothed warm circles against my knuckles. He had that sheen to his stare which had been foreign before the war; now it was all him, because it was what the war had done to him, made him look away toward other worlds, other trenches around himself even if I could not see them. I thought about what might become of him, if I did walk out of this flat.

I thought about what might become of me.

There could be all the kin and wet fields in the world that might fill the blank spots of my childhood, fill the holes which Esther had dug out of me, but I could not see the point in resurrection for chey in her fur-lined coat. She had been buried in the soil. The girls of the flat had been buried in the soil. I was still here – most of me was still here. After all that I had told him, he had not tried to convince me that to be with him was to be happier, because he never thought that he could be the one to decide that for me.

Chey had been buried in the soil; the girls buried alongside her.

"I heard that sand gets everywhere," I started tentatively. "But I also heard that the best fish and chips in England are always found at the seaside, too. I bet it would be beautiful, Margate…"

It started in his chest, which puffed out, expanded by something which might be called hope, because then it flooded his eyes and he was pulled from the trenches, the mist had been blown clear. He knew me like I knew him, knew what I was telling him; he had etched me, painted me, too. He was quiet. He let me speak, and I could tell that he was hanging onto this – he had reached out, hoped to clamp onto something –…

And that was why his hands squeezed mine because here it was, all that he held onto.

He understood. He understood that I had made the decision. He leaned forward and kissed me and in the rush of emotion which fizzled between us, I realised that it was our first kiss since France – the first proper kiss, not like those frantic, peppered kisses in the kitchen of the flat, made in a heated moment of uncertainty between us. This was slow and warm and full of – of love, and I knew that that was what it was, because his watercolour pallor bloomed into stronger shades and mixed with mine.

iii

Before Johnny Dogs came around, I stood in the hall and repeated my part of the conversation with him, imagined what it would be, because I wanted to ensure that I did not hurt him. I saw his spritely form from behind the frosted windowpane of the door and watched it come closer and closer, larger and larger. He knocked and I pulled open the door, prepared my words like I had ever since Alfie had left. Johnny looked me over, his smile still bright and cheerful – only his eyebrow quirked upward, his smile dripped into a contemplative scrunch of his lips.

"Aye, I thought as much," he muttered. "Fuck it, if Tilly ain't always right in what she dreams about."

Tilly was a cousin of mine that I had long since forgotten, but her name sprouted memories of a wispy girl in a pale dress. I had been unaware of her apparent foresight. "Oh, Johnny –…"

"Tell me, Willa, is he a soldier or a workin' man?"

"What's the difference between them?"

He smiled too, but his was weighed down in ruefulness. "I knew it was a long-shot, Willa, to ask you to leave all that you've known here. But I ain't gonna be far from you. I'm movin' back me-self for a little while to see our kin in Ireland. I won't be long. Had an old friend contact me in Birmingham. Cousin of yours, he is."

"Who isn't a cousin of mine, Johnny? Seems half of England is my cousin."

He held his arms out and I stepped into them. I let myself be held and felt the comfort of knowing that he was here, that we had planted the first brick in the bridge now stood between us.

"Are you cross with me, Johnny?"

"Never, chey," he said gently. He brushed aside my hair and cupped my cheek. "Proud of you, I am. I've only ever been proud, Willa." He hesitated, then added, "But if this soldier wants any claim on ye that could be recognised by Gypsies, he'll have to come talkin' to me about it."

"How did you know he was a soldier?" I asked, eyes narrowed.

Johnny grinned. "Tilly ain't the only one with dreams, girl."

He turned to walk off, seeming quite satisfied with himself.

Before I closed the door, I called out, "He's a fucking Captain, Johnny."

iv

Pinned against the table had been a note written in his handwriting, which read: IVOR SQUARE, 3PM – TELL OLLIE HE ISN'T INVITED AND TO FUCK OFF. I glanced behind at Ollie, who was unaware of the note and who stood in front of the mirror to fix his skullcap against his curly hair. He must have sensed my eyes on him, because he found me through the mirror and his eyebrows scrunched together.

"What?"

I quickly grabbed the note and crumbled it in my fist. "Alfie sends his best wishes, that's all."

Ollie's eyebrows dropped, his expression deadpan. "He told me to fuck off, didn't he?"

I hesitated, then nodded with a sympathetic purse of my lips.

"Right," Ollie muttered, his skullcap fixed against his head, reaching out for the scarf that I had made him. "Orders are orders, I suppose."

"Take your scarf, Ollie," I told him.

He paused, casting me an exasperated look.

I shrugged. "Orders, Ollie."

The front-door slammed behind him. He had taken the scarf, after all.

v

Shrugging on a coat, I walked toward Ivor Square with my hands bundled into my pockets because of the bitter chill which spread between the narrow paths and seeped deep into my skin. It was toward the end of December and the air was damp, but its bitter cold peeled at my cheeks and turned the tip of my nose a splotchy red. I had tried not to walk around Ivor Square since the war came along, because it reminded me too much of Alfie and those languid strolls which we had taken together; arms linked, leaned against him.

I walked there now with a spring in my steps. I thought that he might want to sit on our old wall, surrounded by its pretty greenery from the small park nestled in its centre, the houses dotted around it in a ring, its cobbled walls which were so familiar to us.

There he was – sat upon a wall with a cane held between his legs that I had never seen before, his hat still there in its round blackness, dipped low to shroud his eyes from those strangers who passed him without another glance. His scarf was draped around his shoulders; it had a blue zig-zag stitched into its ends, which I had put there myself. I was warmed by the sight of it. He glanced sideways and saw me, standing from the wall only to wince and grip the cane.

Startled, I rushed toward him, placed my hands around his arms to steady him. "Alfie, are you –…"

"All right?" he cut off. "Fuckin' made of sunshine and all good things, I am, Willa. Slept funny, is all, darlin' – don't be worryin' yourself about me, sweet'eart. Even them Germans couldn't hurt me more than that fuckin' mattress in me old place – wreaks 'avoc on me back, it does."

I knew that he brushed it off with humour, but his hand still gripped the cane so much that his knuckles flushed white and I wanted him to settle back against the wall. Instead, he looked outward at the park behind us and said, "Pretty little place, innit?"

My eyes drifted downward toward his cane. "Alfie –…"

"I was thinkin' some more."

I inhaled deeply and tried to smooth out my frustration. "What about?"

"Expansion. Betterment. You know, them words what businessmen say when they ain't really sayin' nothin' o' substance. I met a businessman today, actually. He said a lotta words – like expansion, like betterment. I listened, right, and I 'eard nothin' but some facts and figures."

"Alfie –…"

"So, I said to me-self –…"

"Alfie!" I barked, which surprised both of us. It surprised him enough that his mouth snapped shut and he looked sheepis. "Stop interrupting me and tell me what you really mean, or I'll bring Ollie next time, no matter what your note says."

"Treason, that is," he replied. "Mutiny of the 'ighest order. Shockin' behaviour from a lady like yer-self. Right. Well. I went to meet a fella what said them words – I shan't repeat 'em, but 'e said them over and over again until I suddenly found some keys in me 'and I was lookin' up at Number Seventeen of Ivor Square with its lovely garden and de-light-ful windows that allow a good bit o' sunlight in, y'know, spacious and all that – he said that word too, spacious, called it top-o'-the-line, called it –…"

Still lost in his ramble of words, I barely noticed how his hand loosened from the cane and reached out for mine, thought that he just wanted to hold it until he plopped some keys there in my open palm. I looked at them with wide eyes, mulling his words over – Number Seventeen of Ivor Square. I turned around, scanning the long row of tall, prim houses with all those things he had said; lovely gardens, delightful windows for sunshine and spaciousness and all those things that this businessman said.

"You bought a house," I stated, stunned.

"Hm. Yeah. I bought a house," he nodded. "I did, yeah."

I was baffled, amazed, confused. "But what about Ollie?"

"Ollie ain't a fuckin' poodle, Willa," Alfie responded tersely. "Despite what 'is 'air might make you think. The boy'll be fine."

"You bought a house," I repeated. "For us?"

"No," he replied. "For the King, thought 'e might fancy a 'oliday 'ome to get away from Bucking'am Palace every once in a while."

Lightly, I slapped at his chest, rolling my eyes at him.

"Bought somethin' else, too."

I eyed him warily. "An actual poodle? To keep Ollie company, be with his own kind?"

"Har-har. No – Got us a bakery."

I stared at him with a very blank expression and waited for him to smile or laugh or do anything that might suggest he was messing me around, but he was very serious. He did not even twitch, but rather lifted his chin upward so that his hat tilted backward, and I could see all of him, every detail.

"Where did you get the money for it?"

"Saved up from what I had left after Butcher – never spent much o' it, never had much to spend it on, with me brother locked up and me Mum –…" Alfie swallowed and then cleared his throat before he continued, "Saved up me money from the army, too. I got a discount from some old friends, worked it out between us."

"And why did you buy a bakery?"

"Love bakin', me. Bake all sorts," he replied.

"Name one thing you have ever baked, Alfie Solomons."

"Oh, 'ang on a minute Willa, me back is actin' up somethin' terrible again," he moaned, placing his hand against his lower back and hunching forward.

"Very convenient timing, Alf."

"I'm not sure I appreciate your tone – and fuck, if all these accusations aren't only makin' me worse – never seen the likes of it, a lady upsettin' a man when 'e is already in so much pain –…"

"Show me the house, Alfie."

He straightened quite suddenly, that cane momentarily pushed aside in favour of looping my arm around his and shuffling us toward the houses, away from that greenery. He walked us along the footpath, like any other couple in a nice, respectable neighbourhood.

I felt very out of place, at first, until he turned us into the garden of Number Seventeen on Ivor Square and I was too overwhelmed to think much about anything other than the house itself. I craned my neck up at the rich, black paint of its front-door with its golden knocker, its neat little letter-box, the beautiful staircase leading up to that door stabled into its beige exterior.

"Suppose Ollie could sleep in the servant's quarters," Alfie mumbled absently, scratching at his beard.

"Garden seems to have enough space for him," I replied, dazed by its size.

"Nah, need it for a dog, we do. Although Ollie could share the kennel." Alfie shook his head.

I cracked first, letting out a sputter of laughter. Alfie could hold a straight-face much longer than I could, glancing down at me in feigned confusion.

"What?" he grumbled "Ollie would only piss all over the 'ouse, y'know. Best keep it just between us, yeah?"

vi

Sprawling rooms had been left without furniture and Alfie had asked that it not be filled apart from a mattress and bed-sheets in the master bedroom. I had only ever heard of a master bedroom when I stayed in Rosewood Manor. I had never slept alone. I had never spent a night alone even in Rosewood, where I was surrounded by the other maids. I sat on the mattress and thought it was a lot like how the cotton-candy had been at that fairground before the war – because it was only ever before the war, after the war, now. It was all fluff and softness, so that I sank into it and felt my bones melt into lightness. I stretched my arms out, stretched them wide to take up all the space.

"You like it, then."

I never moved or looked around me but sensed him in the bedroom all the same. I always seemed to be aware of Alfie, attuned to his presence; hoping for it, praying for it, wanting him always to be close. "I could stay here forever."

"Well, can't be doin' that, with a bakery to run."

I blinked at the ceiling, then forced myself upward to look at him. "You were serious about this bakery, then?"

"When am I ever not serious, Willa?"

I dodged the bait. "What do you really want it for?"

"I'll need aprons, mind," he rattled onward. Alfie usually rambled like that whenever he was about to drop another bombshell and I could feel myself preparing for it, watching his eyes flit around the room and his hands flow with his explanation. "What baker don't have aprons with all that flour and sugar flyin' 'round, eh? Well, I'll have to do interviews, find the right person for the job."

Again, I avoided the little carrot that he had dangled in front of me. His lips pressed into a hard line.

"Right. Well. It was always gonna be you, anyway."

"I'm flattered."

"Rum," he told me, rolling the word.

"Rum?"

"Aye. Rum. What soldiers who still 'ave their 'ands screwed on like to drink and like to drink a lot, don' they? And them what lost their 'ands in the war like to drink, too. You look at the United States, right, all them lads what want to drink too – and there's a market for it there, market for it 'ere in London. Could make a right livin' outta this bakery, Willa. Set ourselves up very nicely."

Alfie had taken to talking about 'us' and 'we'; Alfie and Willa, one and the same. I had never noticed it so much until we sat in that house on Ivor Square and he spoke of his future now intertwined with mine all because I had agreed to Margate and agreed to him.

I must have looked doubtful.

"The bakery would have Jewish lads workin' for me, Willa, lads we can trust to make the rum and keep up the idea of a bakery on top while the distillery runs underneath it."

I must have looked doubtful, but only because I was doubtful. I thought of Butcher and Esther – the factory. I thought that there was not much difference between them, but Alfie swept toward me and bent onto his knees despite the crinkle between his eyebrows which made me think that perhaps his back-pain had not been entirely faked for humour.

"I'll take you to it, show you want I got planned, darlin'. I'll show you the whole buildin'. We'll get Ollie workin' with us, you'll know all the Jewish lads already from makin' 'em shirts and caps, yeah? I'll take on the distillery business, you can 'elp me maintain the bakery side of it, keep makin' them aprons and we'll do it together, Willa."

His eyes were filled with a feeling that I had not seen in a long time, not since the carousel when the orange lights had warmed his colouring.

"You won't 'ave to rob anymore, Willa," he said. There was the slightest hint of yearning in his voice, yearning to convince me and yearning to show that he had thought this all through for the both of us. "Won't ever 'ave to even worry 'bout makin' enough to live or worry 'bout sharin' rooms for the rest o' your life. You want to stay in that dump with Ollie?"

Bristling, I replied, "That was your flat, too, Alfie."

"Yeah, and that's why I'm able to call it what it is," he said. "I reckon we work for a couple years, yeah, make our way up to the top and get enough cash what can give us a good life out on the seaside. Get ourselves our dog, hm, and bring 'im with us. Eat fish and chips every day, lookin' out at the ocean."

"You're making it sound too easy," I mumbled.

"Because it can be, love. It can be. You trust me, don' ya?"

"That's not fair, Alfie, you know –…"

"You trust me, don't you?" he repeated more strongly, reaching upward to really grip my hands.

I looked into his eyes, eager and pleading. "I do," I answered finally.

He leaned his forehead against mine. "Trust me now, Willa. Trust me, darlin –…"

I saw the mirror behind him, which showed his damaged spine curved before me, his large and bulky body held against my legs and I saw myself in a smudge of wild hair and dark, dark eyes, Gypsy eyes.

Soldier, workman, baker, distillery-worker; what was the difference between them, anyway?

vii

Emerging from the clammy warmth of the bathroom, I saw him still on the bed and I had not fully copped that we would share it. He was half-asleep already, eyelids fluttered shut. I had never slept beside a man before – apart from boy-cousins and Johnny and that never really counted because it had been kin. Alfie was different. Alfie was always different, always separate from all those other experiences in my life.

Briefly, I debated slipping out into the hall and taking to the floorboards for sleep because I was unsure of what he expected. I was not some innocent, unaware soul. I had heard the girls talk about boys and men and bees and birds but the girls in our flat never used bees or birds and preferred words like fuck and romp for the act.

Only Alfie had never been very forceful, never rough or mean.

I settled on the bed alongside him, rigid and uncomfortable and unaware of how I was supposed to lie with him when I had only ever really slept closely with the other girls. I was used to Charlotte slumped on top of me and I had often awoken to find myself pressed against Josephine's armpit or with Rosie's foot near my face because we never had much space.

Alfie rolled over against the cushions and blinked, eyes bleary with sleep. "What you doin', Willa?"

Awkwardly, I muttered, "Thinkin'."

"'Bout what?" he mumbled. I did not answer, but he pushed himself upward and asked, "Are you afraid to sleep beside me, is that it?"

I blushed furiously. I both loved and hated that he could tell such things about me, as if I was an open book for him.

He flopped against the cushions and grumbled, "Ain't gonna do nothin'."

"I didn't think you would."

"Yeah, you did. And you're allowed to. Yaxley made you nervous. Ain't gotta be sorry for it, Willa."

Yaxley had never really been discussed any further between us and the sound of his name shot through me, made me prickly and anxious – nervous, was right. He patted the cushion beside him, and I sank against it, limbs tucked against me, flat and looking toward the ceiling. I turned my head toward him and thought that I would like to be close with him despite all my worry. Alfie was not Yaxley. He had never forced his touch upon me, and he had never tried anything that I had not also wanted from him.

I scooted toward him. The mattress rippled against my weight and I felt myself dip toward him because the mattress was lower beneath him.

He lifted his arm. He waited. He did not order me to move closer, did not expressly say that that was what he was implying.

But it was very simple, like a puzzle-piece slotting right into place and it made it easier for me to do it – to just be with him.

"G'night, Willa," he whispered sleepily.

I felt the rumble of his words against my throat.

"Goodnight, Alfie."