Four women portrait in an oval frame on back

You will not believe what Mrs Hollis has done to the front parlour. The four of us sat for the portrait man at Ramsgate last Thursday, and the boy from the photographer's shop had to climb the step ladder to hang the oval frame above the mantel, because Vera insisted on gold, not the walnut she wanted. The wall behind us is pink now. Pink as a sugared almond. Ivy painted it herself on a Sunday while the rest of the street was at chapel, and she has not stopped talking about it since.

Lil is at the front, of course, glasses pushed up, knitting something green that nobody asked for. Vera stands at the back in her grey, one hand on Lil's shoulder, looking as though she is about to tell the photographer off. Ivy has her red jacket on, the one she wore to the dance at the Pier, and I am in the blue because it was the only thing left clean after the lamp oil business. We are not arranged by height or age or anything sensible. We are arranged in the order we stepped off the 4.15 that first wet October, when the platform was empty and the stationmaster had gone off for his tea.

The frame cost more than the rent on the back room, but Vera says a face deserves a decent border, and I have stopped arguing with her about money.

Do not tell Father. He still thinks we are a boarding house with a bad reputation. We are, I suppose, but a good sort of bad.

Your loving sister, Edie