To supplement her dole Mary Maloney worked as a cleaner in one of the big Highgate houses. Though only a few hundred yards from her home in Archway the hill was steep and she never had the fare so she’d set off early to ensure she’d be there on time. Mary hated it when they scolded her, the rich ladies who owned the fine houses.
They all seemed taken, one way or the other, these ladies: married, affairing, courting, jetting off, inviting in, a non-stop carnival of lust and sin. After forty years of marriage, Mary Maloney had almost given up on love: almost, but not quite. Her night-dreams were filled with erotic passions, gossamer ghosts entwined, lithe angels embracing, in a universe of warm honey.