She drinks Gin Fizz.
It suits her. It’s sharp, bubbly and curiously old-fashioned.
She says things like ‘delightful’ and ‘top hole’ and ‘Abyssinia, darlings’. Wears pillbox hats and waspwaist dresses.
It’s an affectation. She makes up a personality for us. We thought she didn’t have one of her own.
But on the day the war came, the day the bombs fell on London and left our city a mess of smoke and concrete, she was the one who took us and led us from the wreckage.
Gin Fizz isn’t just made of sharpness and bubbles. It’s built on raw spirit.