It was a shabby, three-storey terraced house in a row of eight equally run-down ones. The other side of the street had fared even worse for, though the bomb sites between some of the houses had been cleared of rubble, weeds had taken over, and only partially covered the piles of dumped rubbish.As it was a pleasant day a great many people were sitting out by their front doors on boxes or chairs, and dozens of children were playing in the street. A gang of children had surrounded the car as he drove into the street and, though they appeared to be admiring it, Ted wished he’d come on a school day instead of a Saturday, as they might just let his tyres down while he was talking to Charley.He rapped on the door of number twelve.‘There’s no one in. Who you after?’ a strident female voice called out from the street.‘Charley Sanderson,’ he called back. ‘Do you know him?’‘Well, I do ’is washing, so I ’ope I do.’ A woman with red hair broke away from a group of other women and came towards him.
