August 1926

After fleeing to Margate with you, Alfie bought you a bakery, a real bakery, where the distinction between bread and rum could be discussed without fear of painful consequences.

On the seafront in Margate, not far from your new home, sat your bakery, frequented by the people of Margate, coming to sample your cakes, pastries, bread, along with soup and rolls available at lunchtime.

Alfie was often in the kitchen, rarely manning the counter.

~ "A face like mine ain't exactly customer-friendly, treacle," ~

So, you looked after the shopfront while Alfie did most of the baking, leaving the decorating to you.

~ "Like shovels my 'ands, not made for prettying things up," ~

He did feel useful however, whenever the local boys would come into the bakery just to flirt with you, he'd emerge from the small kitchen in the back, looking over you from behind, his scars and one blind eye spooking the boys into never returning.

On a day like that, once the lads were gone, he'd let his arms rest around your hips, rough beard against your face as he pressed a rough kiss to your cheek.