THE DINEY COSTELOE COLLECTION

Diney Costeloe

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About The Diney Costeloe Collection

A collection of three novels by Diney Costeloe:

THE RUNAWAY FAMILY

A mother’s struggle to protect her family and escape Nazi persecution in World War Two Germany.

THE SISTERS OF ST CROIX

A gripping story of love, death and danger in Nazi-occupied France from the bestselling author of The Throwaway Children.

THE THROWAWAY CHILDREN

Gritty, heartrending and unputdownable – the story of two sisters sent first to an English, then an Australian orphanage in the aftermath of World War 2.

THE RUNAWAY FAMILY

Diney Costeloe

Germany 1937: Fear and betrayal stalk the streets. People disappear. Persecution of the Jews has become a national pastime.

When Ruth Friedman’s husband is arrested by the SS, she is left to fend for herself and her four children. She alone stands as their shield against the Nazis. But where can she go? Where will her family be safe?

Ruth must overcome the indifference, hatred and cruelty that surrounds her as she and her family race to escape the advancing Nazi army’s final solution...

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Table of Contents

Contents

Cover

Welcome Page

Preface

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

The Kindertransports

Copyright

Preface

The Nuremberg Laws on Citizenship and Race:

September 15, 1935

Article 4 (1) A Jew cannot be a citizen of the Reich. He cannot exercise the right to vote; he cannot hold public office. (2) Jewish officials will be retired as of December 31, 1935. In the event that such officials served at the front in the World War either for Germany or her allies, they shall receive as pension, until they reach the age limit, the full salary last received, on the basis of which their pension would have been computed. They shall not, however, be promoted according to their seniority in rank. When they reach the age limit, their pension will be computed again, according to the salary last received on which their pension was to be calculated. (3) These provisions do not concern the affairs of religious organisations. (4) The conditions regarding service of teachers in public Jewish schools remains unchanged until the promulgation of new laws on the Jewish school system.

Article 5 (1) A Jew is an individual who is descended from at least three grandparents who were, racially, full Jews… (2) A Jew is also an individual who is descended from two full-Jewish grandparents if: (a) he was a member of the Jewish religious community when this law was issued, or joined the community later; (b) when the law was issued, he was married to a person who was a Jew, or was subsequently married to a Jew; (c) he is the issue from a marriage with a Jew, in the sense of Section I, which was contracted after the coming into effect of the Law for the Protection of German Blood and Honour of September 15, 1935; (d) he is the issue of an extramarital relationship with a Jew, in the sense of Section I, and was born out of wedlock after July 31, 1936.

Article 6 (1) Insofar as there are, in the laws of the Reich or in the decrees of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party and its affiliates, certain requirements for the purity of German blood which extend beyond Article 5, the same remain untouched…

Article 7 The Fuehrer and Chancellor of the Reich is empowered to release anyone from the provisions of these administrative decrees.

Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honour

September 15, 1935

Thoroughly convinced by the knowledge that the purity of German blood is essential for the further existence of the German people and animated by the inflexible will to safeguard the German nation for the entire future, the Reichstag has resolved upon the following law unanimously, which is promulgated herewith:

Section 1 1 Marriages between Jews and nationals of German or kindred blood are forbidden. Marriages concluded in defiance of this law are void, even if, for the purpose of evading this law, they are concluded abroad. 2 Proceedings for annulment may be initiated only by the Public Prosecutor.

Section 2 Relations outside marriage between Jews and nationals for German or kindred blood are forbidden.

Section 3 Jews will not be permitted to employ female nationals of German or kindred blood in their households.

Section 4 1 Jews are forbidden to hoist the Reich and national flag and to present the colours of the Reich. 2 On the other hand they are permitted to present the Jewish colours. The exercise of this authority is protected by the State.

Section 5 1 A person who acts contrary to the prohibition of section 1 will be punished with hard labour. 2 A person who acts contrary to the prohibition of section 2 will be punished with imprisonment or with hard labour. 3 A person who acts contrary to the provisions of section 3 or 4 will be punished with imprisonment up to a year and with a fine or with one of these penalties.

Section 6 The Reich Minister of the Interior in agreement with the Deputy of the Fuehrer will issue the legal and administrative regulations which are required for the implementation and supplementation of this law.

Section 7 The law will become effective on the day after the promulgation, section 3 however only on January 1, 1936.

Nuremberg, the 15th day of September 1935 at the Reich Party Rally of Freedom.

The Fuehrer and Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler

The Reich Minister of the Interior Frick

The Reich Minister of Justice Dr Goertner

To all those who suffered under Nazi tyranny… those who survived and those who did not.

1

The crash of shattering glass and the sound of shouting in the street below startled Laura awake. More shouting and banging, a piercing scream and then more breaking glass. Laura sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide with fear as she listened in the darkness to the uproar outside, the shouts, bangs and crashes getting nearer. People were chanting something, Laura couldn’t make out what, but their voices, combining into the throaty roar of a mob, were angry and frightening.

It was dark outside, though the faint light of a streetlamp gleamed through the gap in the curtains, but there was another light too, a flickering light, dancing and leaping, casting weird shadows on the ceiling. What was happening down there? What was going on?

Laura stole out of bed and crept to the window. Cautiously she lifted the corner of the curtain and peeped out. She stared down into the street in fascinated horror. A crowd was surging along the road, their snarling faces lit by the streetlamps and the flaming torches some of them carried. Many brandished stout walking sticks in the air, others carried stones, bricks and iron bars. They were led by men in uniform, guns held high, urging the crowd on. The windows of the baker’s shop across the way were already smashed, and its door hanging on a broken hinge. Even as she watched, Laura saw a man throw another brick, this time at the windows of the apartment above the shop. There was a cheer as the glass shattered, its shards flying inwards.

“Jews out! Jews out! Jews out!” She could hear what they were chanting now as the voices grew louder, stronger, as more and more people joined the crowd.

“Laura, what’s happening?” Inge, her seven-year-old sister, asked sleepily from the other bed.

“I don’t know,” Laura said, shrinking back behind the curtain, but somehow unable to turn away. “There’re people outside throwing stones and shouting.”

There was another sound too, the crackle of flames, and Laura realised with growing horror that the dancing light she had seen through the curtains was fire. There was smoke now, and the red and gold tongues of flame appeared at the windows of the synagogue further up the road. Even as Laura watched, horrified, the door burst open and Rabbi Rosner came rushing out, shouting for the fire brigade. He ran straight into the crowd that bayed with delight at his terror, and brandishing their sticks and hurling stones, they chased him back into the burning building.

“I don’t like it!” Inge was wailing. “Where’s Mutti?”

At that moment the bedroom door opened and Ruth Friedman, the girls’ mother, came quickly into the room, her face white with fear.

“Laura! Come away from the window!” she cried and, rushing over, dragged her daughter away. “Out of here, quickly.” She scooped Inge off the bed and clutching her in her arms, pushed Laura in front of her as she hurried them into her own bedroom at the back of the house. Her husband, Kurt, was already in the room with the twins, Peter and Hans, aged just three; both were crying at having been awoken so suddenly and their father was trying to hush them. Ruth turned the key in the lock, and, placing Inge on the bed, went to the twins.

“Papa, the synagogue’s on fire.” Laura tugged at her father’s sleeve. “It’s burning down, and Rabbi Rosner is inside.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” her father put an arm round her. “He’ll have got out safely.”

“No, Papa,” Laura insisted, her eyes wide, “when he ran out some people chased him back inside. They were hitting him!”

Before her father could answer, there came a thundering on their own front door, the splintering of wood and the sound of breaking glass as the window in the shop below became the target for the bricks. Ruth drew the twins closely into her arms, and Kurt gathered the now screaming Inge against him, his other arm still firmly round Laura.

“Ssh! Ssh!” he hushed them. “It’ll be all right. Mutti and Papa are here! It’ll be all right.”

But it wasn’t. Within moments they heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then a voice, which bellowed, “Come out, Jews! Come out, dirty Jews! Come out of your holes!”

Before they could do anything, there was a crash and the door flew open, the lock hanging sideways where a jackboot had kicked it free. A tall man in storm-trooper’s uniform, his cap – with its death’s head badge – dark over his fair hair, stood on the threshold, a gun in his hand, towering over the family who crouched together around the bed. Behind him two others moved along the landing, kicking open the bedroom doors, and shouting down to the mob below, “Jews up here!”

“You, Jew, you’re under arrest!” The first man advanced on Kurt, who pushed his daughters behind him in an effort to shield them.

“Why? What for?” It was Ruth who asked, her voice cracking with fear. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

“He’s a Jew. He’s under arrest!”

“But…” Ruth began to protest.

“Shut up,” bellowed the man, “or I’ll arrest the lot of you!”

“Don’t worry, Ruth,” Kurt said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll go with him. I’m sure there’s some mistake and I’ll be back in no time.” For a moment their eyes met, hers wide and fearful. Kurt’s strong face was calm and determined, but fear flickered behind his eyes too, and, seeing it, Ruth began to shake.

“You look after the children, I’ll be back soon. And if not,” there was the slightest tremor in his voice, “go to Herbert.”

“Out!” The storm trooper grasped him by the shoulder, and spinning him round, shoved him roughly through the door. “Out! Out!” Immediately the two men on the landing grabbed his arms, one punching him violently in the stomach so that he doubled over, groaning with pain, before they dragged him, still bent double, down the stairs.

The storm trooper, still in the bedroom, glanced across at the trembling woman surrounded by her four children. “You’ll stay up here if you know what’s good for you,” he said coldly, and turning on his heel, stamped his way back down the stairs.

For a moment there was silence in the bedroom and then Inge began to wail again. “Where’s Papa gone? I want Papa.”

Ruth suppressed the cry that rose in her throat that she wanted him too, and tried to soothe the terrified children.

“Don’t cry,” she said, rocking Peter on her knee and holding Inge to her with the other arm. “Don’t cry, Peter, there’s a good boy. Look, Hansi isn’t crying. Laura, give Hansi a cuddle, he’s being very brave. Come on now, you must be brave, all of you. That’s what Papa would want. We must all be brave!”

She gathered the four children close, rocking them comfortingly, and as they huddled together on her bed, she listened to shattering glass and splintering wood as the mob downstairs ransacked the shop, their voices raised in shouts of glee. Then with the bang of a door and shouts of laughter, the baying mob moved onward down the street. The stillness they left behind was, if anything, more terrifying than their animal howls. What was happening down there? Had the mob moved on somewhere else? Was it safe to come out of the bedroom? Ruth went quietly across the room, and, opening the door, peeped out onto the landing. The apartment was empty; there was no sound from downstairs.

“You’ll stay up here if you know what’s good for you,” the trooper had said, but Ruth could not. She had to go down, to find out what had happened.

“Stay here,” she said to the children and quietly crossed into the girls’ bedroom to look out into the street below. She lifted the corner of the curtain as Laura had done and looked down. Their street was almost empty now, the mob had moved on to the next. She could still hear its animal roar, but more distant, the chanting indistinct. She looked over towards the synagogue. There were still flames behind the windows, but she could see the shadows of people running around inside, trying to douse the fire before it really took hold and burned the place to the ground. The smell of smoke was bitter and acrid as it billowed out from the broken windows, wafting along the street.

Ruth returned to her bedroom door. “Stay here, Laura,” she said. “Look after the little ones. I’ll be back in a minute.” Steeling herself to what she might find below, Ruth crept downstairs. She was still afraid the storm troopers might be there lying in wait for her, but as she peered round the corner into the shop there was no one. Complete chaos greeted her eyes, and for a long moment she stood, aghast at what she saw. In the few minutes the mob had given its attention to Friedmans’ Grocery, they had destroyed everything they could find.

The till had been broken open and lay upended on the counter, with what little money there had been in it, gone. Broken jars and bottles littered the floor, their contents mixed with the shards of glass from the window. Sacks of flour, too heavy to carry, had been ripped open and tipped out, tea and rice, coffee, jam and oil all added to the glutinous mess that covered the floor. Ruth crossed to the cold store and opened the door. Where there should have been cheese and butter, eggs and milk, the shelves were empty. Trays of eggs had been tossed to the floor, a milk churn upended. Two large cheeses, wrapped in their linen cloths, had disappeared. For a moment she stared at the mess in sick dismay. Then she smelled the smoke.

At first she thought it must be coming from the burning synagogue along the street, but then she realised that it was in the shop with her. Looking round wildly she saw that smoke was seeping out from under the door of the storeroom where they kept all the dry goods. Running into the kitchen, Ruth grabbed a bucket from under the sink and quickly filled it with water. Cautiously she edged the storeroom door open, her bucket poised to douse the fire, but with the draught from the outer door drawing them, the flames leapt towards her. Her tossed bucket of water made no impression on the fire and in that moment Ruth knew it was already too late to save the shop and their home. Feeding on oil which had been liberally emptied onto floor and shelves, it was a glorified chip-pan fire and had too firm a hold to be controlled; water would only make matters worse.

With a shriek of terror, Ruth tried to slam the storeroom door shut, but the heat from within was too great and flames had already laid claim to the door. Ruth’s one thought now was to save her children from the fire. As she fled back up the stairs she could hear the crackle of the fire almost at her heels. There was a door at the top of the stairs separating the apartment from the shop below and she slammed this behind her, hoping to keep the fire at bay, but even with this door safely closed the smoke was wreathing its way underneath, wafting along the landing.

“Hurry,” she cried as she flew into the bedroom where the children waited. “Hurry! Hurry! There’s a fire, we must get out now. Laura, you carry Hans, I’ll take Peter. Inge, stop crying, darling, and hold tight to my skirt.”

Laura reached out for Hans, gathering him into her arms and holding him against her body. “Come on, Hansi, put your arms round my neck,” she said, trying to ease the dead weight of his body as he snuggled against her. Obediently he reached up and she felt his arms snake round her neck, the hair on the top of his head soft under the curve of her chin. She turned for the door, following her mother who had Peter on her hip and was holding Inge’s hand firmly in her own. Ruth strode along the landing to the door at the top of the stairs. The smoke was thicker now, forcing its way under the door in thick black coils, making them cough. Even before she eased the door open, Ruth knew that they were too late. The fire had taken hold of the stairs, crackling merrily as it ate up the tinder-dry wood of the ancient staircase.

“Back! Go back!” Ruth cried as she flung the door closed again and pushed them back along the landing. For a moment she stood in the bedroom, the bedroom she had shared with Kurt for almost fifteen years, the room where all the children had been conceived and born, and which now seemed likely to be their grave. Putting Peter back onto the bed she ran into the front room and looked down into the street again. A few people had ventured outside to stare in horror at the trail of destruction the mob had left behind, the mob that even now howled its rage on other Jewish homes, other Jewish businesses. Leah Meyer was standing outside her husband’s baker’s shop, trying to take in the damage that had been inflicted on it so suddenly and so swiftly. Other shadows appeared by the synagogue, from which smoke was still pouring in a thick dark cloud, though the combined efforts of the neighbours seemed to have doused the flames, their flickering light no longer dancing in the windows.

Nobody had noticed that Friedmans’ Grocery was also on fire. Ruth threw up the window and began calling for help. At first no one seemed to hear her frantic cries, but at last Leah Meyer looked up and seeing Ruth at the window raised her hand in salute.

“Help!” Ruth screamed. “Help us! We’re trapped. The stairs are on fire! Help! Oh, help us, please!”

Frau Meyer seemed to be turning away again, but Ruth screamed at her, calling her by name. “Leah! Leah! Get help! My children will be burned alive!”

At last the words seemed to register in the old lady’s brain and she ran towards the synagogue and went inside. Within moments people came rushing out. One woman ran to the shop door, but was driven back by the flames that now completely engulfed the ground floor.

“Jump!” she shouted. “You must jump! We can’t get in to rescue you.”

“I can’t!” shrieked Ruth in panic. “The children can’t jump from this high.”

“Get a sheet and lower them down,” the woman shouted. “Quickly, tie them to a sheet and let them down. We’ll catch them.”

Ruth nodded and, dashing back to her bedroom, hustled the children into the girls’ room. “Look after the twins,” she instructed the girls as she grabbed the sheet from Laura’s bed. Tearing at it, she tried to rip it in half, but the quality was too good, the hems too strong to be torn. With a bellow of frustration, she ran into her bedroom and grabbed the manicure set off her dressing table. The nail scissors were small, but they cut enough to start the tear.

Smoke was pouring along the landing now, and, choking, Ruth slammed the bedroom door closed. She concentrated on ripping the sheet into two strips to tie together for a makeshift rope. Dragging the bedstead to the window, she made one end fast to the metal frame and dropped the other out of the window. It was too short. There were still at least six feet to drop to the ground. Grasping the quilt from the bed, she tossed it out of the window. Willing hands below grabbed it and held it taut, to make a makeshift landing place.

“You first, Laura,” Ruth said. “Remember, grip the rope with your feet as well as your hands so you don’t go too fast.” She gave her daughter a hug. “Come on, darling, be brave, I need you down there to catch the twins.”

The smoke was pouring under the door now and the other children began to cough, their eyes streaming as it coiled round them, hiding them from their mother. Laura sat on the windowsill, and with a terrified glance at her mother, slid down the rope, the taut linen ripping at her hands, so that she screamed with pain and fear as she reached the end and landed in a crumpled heap in the middle of the quilt. The moment the rope was free, Ruth hauled it up and knotted it tightly round Peter’s waist, then even as he screamed and clung to her in terror she edged him off the sill and lowered him down to the waiting arms reaching up from below.

The flames were crackling outside the bedroom door now, and it was buckling under the increasing heat. Frantically Ruth knotted the rope round Hans’s waist and slipped him over the sill, lowering him to the safety of the ground below. All this was done to the accompanying screams of Inge, who lay on the floor, drumming her heels in fear and rage. As Ruth hauled the rope up again, the door finally gave way and the fire exploded into the room, the flames spreading and feeding on the furnishings. With one backward glance, Ruth gathered up the bellowing Inge in her arms and dragged her to the window. There was no time to tie her safely into the rope of sheets, so with a warning cry to those gathered below, she tipped the little girl out of the window onto the quilt that was spread ready to catch her. Even as the child landed and was gathered into waiting arms, Ruth felt the heat on her back as her clothes began to smoke and smoulder. With another warning cry, she jumped.

Laura watched in horror as her mother fell from the bedroom window, arms flailing as she tried to grasp the linen rope to slow her fall. Her fall was broken by Rabbi Rosner as he reached up his arms to try and catch her. They collapsed together in a heap on the ground, their arms and legs entwined as if in some passionate embrace, the wind knocked out of the old man as Ruth landed heavily on his chest.

Forgetting the pain in her hands, Laura rushed over to her mother, crying out as she saw her lying on the ground. “Mutti! Are you all right? Mutti!”

Her mother lay still, and Laura thought she was dead until she heard a faint moan and saw her legs twitch. Ruth, winded by her fall, couldn’t answer for a moment, and in truth she didn’t know the answer. Every inch of her felt bruised, she could still feel the heat on her back, and her ankle felt as if it had been pierced by a red-hot needle. Underneath her Rabbi Rosner groaned, and Ruth tried to disentangle herself so that he could get up. Frau Rosner hurried up, and, pulling Laura out of the way, knelt beside her husband. The twins, being looked after by Frau Meyer, began to whimper and Inge, who had never ceased wailing, increased the volume of her crying to maximum. The savage roar of the mob surged back through the darkness as it circled round to continue its way along a parallel street.

There was an anguished cry. “They’re coming back. They’re coming back!”

The few people gathered in the street melted away into the darkness, scurrying for the illusory safety of their homes as they heard the monstrous crowd baying for its prey.

“We must get away from here,” Frau Rosner urged. “Come on, Samuel! You must get up.” She pulled at Ruth’s arm to try and move her out of the way so that the rabbi could get to his feet. “They’re coming back!” she cried, terrified by the sound of the shouting. “We must get off the street! Samuel!”

Ruth dragged herself clear and Laura and Inge rushed to her side. “Mutti!” Laura clutched at her hand: “Are you all right?”

This time Ruth did manage to answer. “Yes, darlings, I’m all right. Just a bit bruised. I think I may have sprained my ankle.”

“They’re coming back!” Leah Meyer shouted, her voice cracking with fear. “We must get off the street.” She took the twins firmly by the hand and dragged them back towards her own home, above her husband’s shop.

“We must call the fire brigade,” cried Ruth as she looked up and saw the flames devouring the curtains at the window of the bedroom, reaching out to lick at the overhanging wooden eaves.

“They won’t come!” snapped Frau Rosner as she pushed her still-wheezing husband ahead of her. But she was wrong. Within a few minutes a fire engine was racing down the street and the powerful hoses were trained on what was left of the Friedmans’ home. Ruth had not had to call them, they had come at the summons of another neighbour whose home backed onto the Friedmans’; a neighbour who was not Jewish and so didn’t deserve to have his house burned down.

The Friedman family were taken in and given refuge by the Meyers. Although their shop had been damaged and daubed with paint, the brick through the first-floor window was the only damage to their living quarters above. With infinite care, Frau Meyer, who had no children of her own, bathed Laura’s rope burns in cold water and bandaged her hands with clean strips of linen. She warmed some milk for the younger children, and then took the twins into the tiny spare bedroom and placed them top to toe under the quilt on its single bed, crooning to them softly as they fell into exhausted sleep.

Ruth sat in an armchair, her injured foot up on a footstool. It was so swollen that when they had taken off her shoe she could hardly see her toes. Leah had put on a cold compress.

“Tomorrow we will try and get Dr Kohn to have a look,” she said.

“It’ll be much better in the morning,” Ruth assured her, her face pale and pinched with the pain that shot through her ankle if she so much as moved it an inch. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“We’ll see in the morning,” Leah insisted. “It may be broken.”

Laura, her hands a little less painful now, looked anxiously across at her mother. Inge had finally stopped crying and was curled beside her, her fair hair hiding her face as she buried her head in Mutti’s shoulder.

Laura saw Mutti wince with pain as Inge shifted to get more comfortable, and she said sharply, “Inge! Sit still, you’re hurting Mutti!”

Inge ignored her, snuggling closer, and Mutti said, “It’s all right, darling. I’m all right.” She smiled weakly across at Laura and added, “How are your hands?”

Laura looked down at the bandages and said, “Frau Meyer says she’ll get Dr Kohn to look if he comes to see you.”

At last Inge had drifted into an uneasy sleep against her mother’s shoulder. Leo Meyer lifted her gently and placed her in the big double bed in his own room.

“She’ll sleep now, poor little thing,” he said. He added, as Laura went over to sit by her mother, “Be careful now, Laura. Your mother is very bruised. It is a miracle she wasn’t killed!”

“It’s a miracle that we weren’t all killed,” Frau Meyer was saying as Laura thought, it’s always Inge. She’s allowed to sit with Mutti.

“Now then, Laura, time you got some sleep as well,” said the old lady. “You can go in the bed next to Inge, all right?”

“I can’t sleep,” Laura insisted, her voice trembling, on the verge of tears. “How can I sleep? Where’s Papa?”

But sleep she did. When Frau Meyer had tucked her into the bed beside the sleeping Inge, Laura had buried her face in the pillow, and with muffled sobs cried herself to sleep; she didn’t wake until several hours later, needing the bathroom. Inge was no longer in the bed beside her, just a damp patch across the sheet. Inge had also needed the bathroom, but she hadn’t been able to wait. Laura screwed up her nose at the sour smell of the damp sheet, and felt scarlet with embarrassment that her sister should have done such a thing in someone else’s bed.

A wet bed, however, was the least of the household’s worries that morning. Leo Meyer went out to find out what was happening and to try and discover what had happened to Kurt Friedman, but no one knew. So many of their friends’ homes had been damaged; other men had been dragged off as Kurt had been. As he learned more of what had happened to so many Jewish families that night, Leo could hardly believe he had not been arrested too.

Ruth managed to convince Leah that she didn’t need Dr Kohn to come to see her. She had no money, and she hated to become even more indebted to the Meyers. The old lady replaced the compress, and as they could both see that the swelling had lessened a little, she said no more about the doctor.

“I think you should be keeping it up though,” she said.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Ruth agreed, “but I can’t sit here and do nothing. I have to go over to the shop and see what can be salvaged before anyone else does.” Very gingerly she lowered her foot to the floor. Leah understood. She found an old walking stick and helped Ruth get to her feet.

“I’ll mind the little ones,” she said. “You take Laura with you and go and have a look.”

Using Laura’s shoulder and Leah’s stick for support, Ruth emerged from the bakery. Outside she paused, looking along Gerbergasse, the street where she had lived all her married life. A narrow twisting street that wound its way through a largely Jewish neighbourhood, and dominated by the synagogue at one end, it had been the centre of her community life; doors left open, children running in and out of each other’s homes, neighbours gossiping on the pavement, a street vibrant with life. Now, not a soul was abroad; Gerbergasse was deserted. Several of the buildings showed superficial damage, caused in the riot, but it was when Ruth turned her eyes to her shop, her home, that despair flooded through her. Leaning heavily on Laura and the stick, she hobbled across the road to contemplate what was left of it. The shop window was a smoke-blackened gaping hole and the remains of the charred front door hung from one hinge. As Laura pushed against the hanging door, the single hinge creaked ominously before the weight of the door was too much and it crashed inwards, allowing Ruth and Laura to see what was left of the family business. There was nothing. The shop had been completely destroyed. An acrid pall still hung in the air. They gazed in despair at the blackened shell. Only a few tins lay on the floor. Gone were the counter and the shelves, gone the staircase leading to the apartment above.

Ruth fought back the tears that sprang to her eyes. Everything they had in the world was gone, and she had to face it all alone. They had taken Kurt, and now it was she who would have to find somewhere for herself and the children to live. How were they going to survive? What were they going to live on? They couldn’t stay with the Meyers more than another couple of days, they had problems of their own. Ruth felt a wave of panic rising within her, black fear filling her head and threatening to engulf her. Everything they had possessed had gone and she couldn’t even stand on her own feet.

“Mutti!” Laura’s small voice brought her back and she realised that she had been gripping her daughter’s arm so tightly that it hurt.

Forcing herself to relax her grip she said, “Sorry, darling. Come on, let’s go. There’s nothing for us here.”

“Shouldn’t we get the box from the garden?” asked Laura. For a moment her mother looked at her blankly and Laura said again, “You know, Papa’s box. The one he buried?”

The deed box. For a moment Ruth looked stunned. She had forgotten all about the deed box. Kurt, no longer trusting the bank to deal fairly with its Jewish customers, had put all their important documents into a strong metal box and had buried it in the garden beneath one of the paving slabs outside the back door. How could she have forgotten?

“Good girl! Come on!” With new purpose, Ruth hobbled through the burnt-out shop and down the steps into the tiny yard below at the back. She remembered which stone Kurt had raised, but it seemed as firmly embedded as those around it.

“We need something to lever up the stone slab,” she said, looking round to see what they might use.

“I’ll look in the shed,” Laura said, and crossed to the lean-to shed that stood against the back wall. Inside she found the coal shovel and returned to the yard. “This should do.” She put the blade of the shovel under the edge of the paving stone and leaned hard on the handle. She felt a little movement, but wasn’t strong enough to lift the slab. For a moment or two she heaved in vain.

“I can’t shift it, Mutti!” she said despairingly. “It’s too heavy! Shall I run and get Herr Meyer?”

“No.” Her mother’s reply was sharp. “No, this is private family business. Here, hold this stick and let me have a go.” Ruth handed the walking stick to Laura, and balancing awkwardly on one leg tried to lever the stone. “Here, Laura, put your weight on it too.”

Time and again they leaned on the shovel, and gradually they felt the stone loosening.

“We’re getting there,” Ruth said breathlessly. “At least Papa didn’t cement it back down. One more go!”

This time the stone shifted enough to allow the edge of the shovel to slide right in underneath it.

“Now we need something to wedge it open,” puffed Ruth, and then gave a little cry as she stepped back onto her sprained ankle, and sat down hard on the ground.

“Mutti! Are you all right?” cried Laura.

The stab of pain had taken her breath away, but she managed to say, “Yes, Laura, I’m fine. See what you can find to hold the stone up, so we can get at the box.”

Laura went back into the shed and came out moments later carrying a brick. “There are more of these in there,” she said. “We can put them under the edge of the stone.”

At last it was done. The heavy paving stone was resting on bricks and Laura was able to reach in underneath and pull out the strongbox her father had hidden there.

“Well done,” said her mother. “Let’s put the stone back, and then we’ll go.” It was a struggle to put the slab back in place, but Ruth was determined that there should be as little evidence of the hiding place as possible. Who knew when they might need it again? Once the stone was flat, she instructed Laura to push the loose dust back round it, pressing it down into the cracks, so that at a casual glance anyway there was nothing to see. Laura put the shovel and the bricks back into the shed. They, too, might serve again another day. She helped Ruth to her feet, handed her the stick and then picked up the box.

“We don’t want anyone to see this,” Ruth said. “I’ll go to the front door, and if there’s no one about, you carry it quickly to the Meyers’.”

“What about you?” asked Laura anxiously.

“I can’t move fast enough,” Ruth replied. “You take the box to safety, I can manage on my own. Try not to let anyone see what you’ve got. Hide it under the bed for now.”

“Not even Frau Meyer?”

“Better not,” answered her mother. “If she does, never mind, but better if she doesn’t. Come on.” Ruth was anxious to get their valuable box to safety. She couldn’t remember all it contained, but, apart from the clothes they stood up in, it was all they had left in the world, and she wanted to take no risks. “Wait, while I have a look outside.” She edged past the broken front door and looked along the narrow street. There were a few people still moving in and out of the synagogue, but no one seemed to be coming in their direction.

“Go! Fast!” Ruth stood back to let her daughter slip out of the door and dart across the road to the comparative safety of the Meyers’ home. Once she saw that Laura was safely inside, Ruth set out to hobble the thirty yards or so to join her. As she negotiated the uneven cobbles of the street, two boys wearing the uniform of the Hitler Youth came round the corner, carrying a bucket of red paint.

“Here’s one,” cried the first. “Give me the brush!” He snatched a large paintbrush from his companion and dipping it in the bucket daubed two words in red paint on the remains of the Friedmans’ shop window. Jüden Raus! Jews Out!

Unable to stop herself, Ruth turned round, as he laughed and began chanting “Jews out! Jews out!”

His friend took up the chant, and then seeing Ruth standing unsteadily in the middle of the street, he pointed a finger. “Poor old Jew!” he jeered. “Poor old Jew! She’s got a bad leg.”

Before she realised what he was going to do, the boy came up behind Ruth and kicked her savagely in the back of the leg, so that her knees buckled and she fell to the ground with a cry.

“Jew! Jew! Dirty Jew!” chorused the boys, as they pranced round her. The one with the paintbrush still in his hand slashed it across her face, the red paint running into her eyes, and as she reached up to dash it away, the other gave her a brutal kick, his boot ramming into her side. Ruth curled up in the road, sobbing as he aimed one last kick at her head before they marched on down the street chanting, “Jews out! Heil Hitler! Jews out!” and daubing other shop windows as they went.

Ruth pulled herself up onto her hands and knees, and began to crawl the last few yards to the Meyers’ shop door. It, too, had received the red-paint treatment, but the youths were too keen to daub as many doors as possible to bother breaking in again. As she reached it, the door opened and Laura erupted into the street.

“Mutti! Mutti! Are you all right? Oh Mutti!” Laura was sobbing as she tried to help her mother to her feet. Leah Meyer came out behind her and together they eased Ruth into the shop and onto a chair. “Frau Meyer wouldn’t let me come to you!”

“She was quite right,” wheezed Ruth, still winded from the kicks. “Worse if you’d come out.”

This time Leah insisted on calling Dr Kohn. “We’ll pay him,” she said, guessing at Ruth’s dilemma. “You can pay us back in happier times.”

Feeling so completely battered, Ruth could only accept their generosity. She hoped there was some money in the deed box.

Dr Kohn came as dusk was falling, gratefully accepting the coffee Leah Meyer offered him. After examining Ruth, he said he thought that there was no permanent damage done, just very heavy bruising. He treated the bruises with ointment, gently rubbing it in while Ruth winced at every touch.

“You were lucky,” he said. “They could have ruptured a kidney with kicks like that! Try and get some rest.” With a smile, he shook his head at the proffered money. “Not after last night,” he said.

“What will you do, Ruth?” asked Leah, when only she, her husband and Ruth were left in the living room. “Where will you go?”

“Of course you can stay here for as long as you want,” Leo had said, but Ruth had caught the glance that flashed between husband and wife and knew, though the offer had had to be made, it was not possible for her to accept. For one thing there was no room for them all. Already the Meyers had given up their bed, and she was propped up on the only other piece of furniture on which one might lie down.

Ruth was pale with exhaustion and fear, her eyes huge and dark in her stark white face. Her ankle throbbed, she ached all over and her brain felt like cotton wool.

What am I going to do, she thought wearily? We can’t stay here and we can’t go home… we’ve no home to go to.

“It’s very kind of you both,” she said, “but I shall take the children to Kurt’s brother. I know he’ll take us in and… and,” her voice broke, “that’s where Kurt will come to find us.”

“We’ll think about it in the morning,” Leah said kindly. “What you need now is a good night’s rest. I’ve got some aspirin. You take two of those and try and get some sleep.”

Ruth took the proffered aspirin gratefully, but insisted on sleeping with the girls so that the Meyers could at least have the sofa to sleep on that night. “We can easily fit into that big bed,” she said, “and you need your sleep too.”

When at last she was settled beside the girls, Ruth thought about the deed box she and Laura had rescued that afternoon. It was hidden under the bed, but she couldn’t examine its contents because the box was securely padlocked, and she had no key. Kurt had the key hidden somewhere, but that somewhere was in the ruins of the shop and Ruth had no idea where. It had never occurred to Kurt that he would not be there when the box was needed.

There’s no alternative, Ruth decided. Tomorrow I’ll have to borrow some sort of tool from Leo and break the lock. Then we’ll go to Herbert.

With the decision taken, Ruth tried to get some sleep, but her brain would not rest. Endlessly it re-played the riot, the storm troopers, the raid on the shop, the fire, and as a soundtrack to it all the baying of the mob, terrifying in its savagery, thundered in her head. Did that sound really only emanate from human throats? Her physical aches were as nothing compared with her mental torment. Her only concern was to keep her children safe, and with Kurt arrested, it was now up to her.

Leo had reported back that the riots had been localised. “Just in our part of Kirnheim,” he’d said, “but they were carefully orchestrated… storm troopers whipping up the mob, encouraging the Hitler Youth to take part. Small riots, but breaking out everywhere!”

“Didn’t seem like a small riot to me!” remarked his wife.

It didn’t seem like a small riot to Ruth, either. It seemed to her that all Germany had gone mad; that persecution of Jews had become a national pastime. Going to Herbert seemed to be the only chance of safety. Herbert and Kurt were not close as brothers. Kurt had been happy to take over and run the family business, whereas Herbert had set out to better himself and worked as a clerk for a large legal practice in Munich. Ruth didn’t know him well, but surely Herbert would stand by his brother’s family in their time of need, it was just a question of getting to him.

Eventually, lulled by the regular breathing of her daughters, Ruth dozed off and slept fitfully until the fingers of dawn pierced the curtains and woke her once again to the stark reality of what had happened to them all.

2

As Frau Meyer sat the children down for some breakfast, Ruth presented Leo with the box.

“All our important papers are in here,” she told him. “Kurt has the key. Please can you break it open for me?”

Leo inspected the padlock and then went to his toolbox and produced a chisel and a hammer.

“I’ll have to break the hasp,” he said. “I’ve nothing strong enough to deal with the actual padlock. Hold the box steady.”

With Ruth holding the box firmly in her hands, Leo placed the end of the chisel and levered it against the hasp. With a resounding snap the hasp broke away from the box, allowing the lid to come free.

“There you are,” he said cheerfully, and turned away to replace the tools, leaving Ruth to open the box and inspect its contents unobserved.

Settling the box on her knees, Ruth lifted the lid. Inside were several documents; the family’s birth certificates, her and Kurt’s marriage certificate, the deeds to the shop, which the family had owned for more than thirty years. There was Kurt’s passport and her own, which she had used when she had taken the girls to Vienna for her nephew Paul’s bar mitzvah, and a small bundle of money, held together with an elastic band. In a small box was a gold brooch, a present from her mother, and in another was a pair of pearl earrings that Kurt’s mother had given her on their wedding day. Ruth stared down, dry-eyed, at the contents of the box, all that was left of their family fortune. She didn’t weep, she was already beyond tears.

“You’ve got to be strong,” she told herself, “so that we’re all safe when Kurt comes back.”

Kurt not coming back could not be contemplated, and in the meantime there was Herbert.

She told the Meyers of her decision as soon as the children had been fed.

“You mustn’t feel you have to go,” Leo said. “What are neighbours for if not to help in time of trouble?”

“You have helped, more than I could have dreamed of asking, but now it is time for us to move on,” replied Ruth. “I must take the children to their uncle. He will look after us until Kurt is released, and Kurt will know where to find us.”

“Well, if you are quite sure…” In spite of herself, Leah could not hide the note of relief that crept into her voice. Taking in a woman and four children had stretched her home to breaking point, not to mention the danger to which it exposed her and Leo. The Nazis were out looking for Jews, and if you were a Jew it was best to keep your head down and pray that they passed by without noticing you. She knew it, her husband knew it and Ruth knew it.

Ruth reached out and grasped her hands. “Quite sure,” she said, “we’ve burdened you enough.”

“No burden,” smiled Leo, but Ruth could see the relief in his eyes as well, and knew that her decision was the right one.

“How will you get there?” Leah, ever the practical one, asked.

“We’ll take the train into the city and then the bus. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Have you money?” asked Leah.

Ruth had counted the notes in the elastic band, and had been relieved at how much Kurt had hidden. She smiled at her neighbour and said, “Yes, enough to get us there, anyway, and to pay back what I owe you, dear Leah.”

The morning after the fire, Leah had looked at the children in their nightclothes and disappeared to the market. When she returned, each child had one set of clothes to wear, a pair of shoes and an extra set of underwear. Ruth had only the clothes she stood up in, but at least she had not been in bed when the riot started. The old lady had asked Ruth for nothing, but Ruth was relieved that she could now reimburse her for her outlay.

“You’ve been so kind to us,” Ruth said, “but we can’t stay with you any longer.”

“How will you contact your brother-in-law?” asked Leo.

“I won’t,” Ruth replied. “He has a telephone of course, but I think it is better that we arrive at his house, unannounced. Then he must take us in, for Kurt’s sake.”

“Do you think that he won’t?” asked Leah, surprised.

“To be honest, Leah, I really don’t know. We were never close; perhaps if I telephoned he would think of some reason why we should not come, but,” she shrugged philosophically, “if we are all standing on his doorstep with nowhere else to go, I doubt if he would actually turn his brother’s family away.”

“Surely that is not the only money you have?” asked Leo. “Did your husband not have a bank account?”

“We did, but when things began to get difficult for us, he was afraid the bank might not pay us our money if we asked for it. He withdrew it all.”

“And that’s what was in your strongbox?” Leo Meyer was incredulous.

“Some of it,” admitted Ruth, not keen to let even the Meyers know just how much she had found in the box. “The rest he put in different places…” Her voice trailed away as she remembered the extra cash that had been hidden in the apartment and was now almost certainly ashes. She smiled bravely at her neighbour. “Please don’t worry, Leo,” she said. “You’ve both been kindness itself. I can manage on what I’ve got until I get to Herbert.”

They insisted that she stay to rest her ankle and recover from her bruises for one more day, and Ruth allowed herself to be persuaded. She wasn’t looking forward to taking the four children into the city. As they left the following morning Ruth felt a rush of affection for the Meyers, and it was with tears in her eyes that she bid them goodbye.

“There are some tins on the floor in the shop,” she said. “Please take them. I can’t carry them, they’re too heavy. I don’t know what’s in them, the labels have all burned off, but if they’re still all right, please have them. A sort of thank you… for everything.”

The journey from Kirnheim wasn’t easy, but with Laura holding the hand of each twin and Inge clinging on to her mother, they took the train into Munich and then negotiated the two buses needed to reach Herbert’s suburb.

“You must be very good on the train,” she warned the children. “We may have to sit in special seats. If anyone speaks to you, just smile, but don’t answer. Even if they are unkind,” she reiterated to the two girls, “don’t answer.”

There had been some comments as they clambered aboard, but they were able to sit altogether in the corner of a carriage. The children, overawed by the strange journey, had behaved well, and the little family had been left alone. When they finally alighted in the district where Herbert lived, they were all tired. Laura carried Peter, Ruth carried Hans, and Inge walked between them, gripping her mother’s skirt firmly in her hand. Ten minutes later they were outside the building where Herbert had his apartment. Inside the porch, at the bottom of a stone staircase they were faced with a column of doorbells, each with a name beside it. Drawing a long breath, Ruth pressed the one marked Friedman. At first there was no response, then from above them a woman’s voice came echoing down the stairwell.

“Yes, who is it?”

Ruth looked up the stairs to see a face peering down at them. “It’s Ruth Friedman,” she called. “I’ve come to see Herr Herbert Friedman.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see Herr Friedman,” replied Ruth, wondering who the woman was.

“He isn’t here.” The face disappeared and Ruth heard a door close.

Ruth rang the bell again, but there was no further response.

“Come on,” she said to the waiting children. “We’ll go up.” Trailed by the children, she set off up the stone stairs, pausing at each landing to read the names beside the front doors. On the third of the four floors there were three apartments. Hartmann, Gruber and Friedman. She pressed the Friedman bell. Nothing happened. Inge began to pull urgently at her skirt.

“I need the bathroom, Mutti,” she whispered.

“Hold on, darling,” Ruth replied. “Won’t be long.” She placed her finger on the bell again and held it there. She could hear its insistent ring inside the apartment, but she did not remove her finger. Inge was dancing up and down beside her now, clutching at herself, and Ruth knew that the child wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. She put her mouth to the door and called, “If you don’t want a pool of urine on your doorstep, I suggest you open the door and let us in.” She continued her pressure on the bell, and at last the door opened a fraction and an elderly woman looked out at them, her face twisted with rage.

“Go away!” she bellowed. “Herr Friedman isn’t here.”

“Then we will wait until he is,” snapped Ruth. “In the meantime, my daughter needs the bathroom.”

“You can’t come in.”

Ruth was placatory. “Madam, I am Herr Friedman’s sister-in-law. These are his nephews and nieces. We have come with messages from his brother. Please let us in.”

The woman looked at the little family standing on the landing, the mother leaning heavily on a stick, one of the children hopping up and down, clutching at her knickers, and with a sigh, she stood aside, saying as she did so, “First door on the left.”

With a muttered thank-you, Ruth hurried Inge into the bathroom, leaving Laura to bring the twins inside. The woman closed the door behind them with a snap and then led the way down a short passage to the room at the end. Moments later Ruth joined them with a much-relieved Inge and returned to the bathroom with the twins.

Laura looked round her as she waited for her turn. The room was not large, but comfortably furnished, with a wide window that looked out over the street to a public garden beyond.

Uncle Herbert’s got a nice view, she thought, as she looked at the joyful colours of the late summer flowers in the garden below. Tall trees gave welcome shade to a corner where several nursemaids sat gossiping, their charges blissfully asleep in their perambulators, and older children played on the grass, their laughter drifting up to the open windows above.

Laura watched them enviously. How long was it since she had been to the park to play with her school friends? School friends. She had few of those now. Since Herr Hitler had become Chancellor, everything had changed. Her friends, or those Laura had thought were her friends, were no longer allowed to play with her. At school she and the other Jewish children had been made to sit at the back of the classroom. It was as if they had become invisible. Their teacher Fräulein Lederman, whom Laura had loved, had left and been replaced by another, Fräulein Karhausen. Fräulein Karhausen ignored them, leaving them in the back row to learn what they could without any further explanations. They were no longer allowed to play with the other children in the yard in break times, they had to eat their lunch in the classroom, listening to their erstwhile playmates running and shouting in the fresh air outside. Gradually the other children had changed from being the friends she had known much of her life into unkind strangers, at first simply avoiding or ignoring her and then actively hostile, calling after her in the street, “Dirty Jew!” Even Wanda, who had been her best friend ever since they had started school together.

Her mother had tried to explain that “things” had changed. Laws had changed. People were afraid to speak to Jews, afraid for their own families if they were seen to do so.

“They must put their families first,” Ruth had said when she had found Laura in tears one afternoon. “Wanda’s parents are afraid that someone will report them to the authorities if they are seen to be friendly with us.”

“But she didn’t have to shout ‘Dirty Jew’ at me,” cried Laura, and her mother could only agree.

Now it was the summer holidays, and there was no school. Laura played with the other Jewish children, but she missed her other friends. Until “things” had changed Laura had been almost unaware of her Jewishness. Her family went to synagogue on a Saturday morning. Wanda’s family went to church on a Sunday. It hadn’t mattered before. Laura watched the children playing in the gardens below and wondered if any of them were Jews.

“I’m sorry to intrude on you like this,” she heard her mother say as she came back into the room, “but I do have to see Herr Friedman.”

The old woman who had let them in was standing in the room as if to see that they didn’t steal anything.

“I told you, he isn’t here,” she said flatly.

“But he’ll be back,” Ruth said with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. “We’ll wait.” She looked across at the dour face of the older woman and said again, “I’m Ruth Friedman, Herr Friedman’s sister-in-law.” She held out a hand, but the woman ignored it, so she let it fall to her side and said, “And you are Frau—?”

The question hung in the air before, at last, the woman replied. “I’m Frau Schultz… I’m Herr Friedman’s housekeeper.”

“His housekeeper?” Ruth couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “We didn’t know… I mean… I see.”

“I come in most days,” Frau Schultz said. “I’ll be going home when I’ve finished preparing his supper.” She moved to the door. “He won’t be home till this evening. You going to wait that long?”

“Yes,” replied Ruth firmly, relieved that the woman was not a live-in servant. While the children had been using the bathroom, she had gained some idea of the size of the apartment, and although there were several doors opening off the main passage, it was a very small apartment to house an extra five people. “I’ve brought some food with me, I’ll prepare it for the children when you’ve finished in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know as I can leave you in the place on your own,” Frau Schultz said sourly. “How do I know that you’re who you say you are?”

Ruth had had enough of the woman’s obstruction. “You don’t,” she agreed crisply, “so perhaps you’d better stay until Herr Friedman comes home.” As she spoke she noticed the telephone standing on a small table in the passage. “You could always phone Herr Friedman at his office. Do you have the number? I’ll ring myself if you like.”

Still stony-faced, Frau Schultz opened the little drawer in the telephone table and pulling out a piece of paper, she thrust it at Ruth. “Help yourself,” she sniffed, and, turning away, opened one of the doors and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ruth turned back to the children who, except for Laura, who was still standing by the window, were seated in a neat row on a sofa.

“I’m just going to ring Uncle Herbert,” she said. “You sit still like good children, and then we’ll have something to eat. Laura, just keep an eye on the twins while I’m on the phone.”

Ruth picked up the phone and gave the operator the number on the piece of paper.

“Durst, Hartmann and Weber. Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Herr Herbert Friedman, please.”

“Herr Friedman. Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Ruth Friedman.”

“Hold the line, please.”

There was a long pause and then a man’s voice. “Herbert Friedman. May I help you?”

“Herbert? It’s Ruth.”

“Frau Friedman.” His voice was neutral; clearly Herbert was not going to acknowledge her on the telephone. Ruth decided she must be direct.

“I am at your apartment, with the children. Frau Schultz doesn’t want me to wait for you.”

There was a moment’s silence at the other end and then Herbert said, “That is quite in order, Frau Friedman. Thank you for calling. Good afternoon.” The line went dead.

Herbert arrived an hour later, his face red with the exertion of running up the stairs. He came into the apartment, and, shedding his hat and coat in the little hallway, walked into the sitting room to greet his sister-in-law.

“Ruth!” He extended a hand and placed a token peck on her cheek. He looked at the children ranged along his sofa, but immediately turned his attention back to their mother. “Where’s Kurt?”

Ruth, who had risen at his entrance, sank back into the armchair where she had been sitting. “Taken by the storm troopers.” Briefly she told him what had happened.

“Kurt told me to come to you,” she said at length, “so here we are. This is where he will look for us.”

“But my dear Ruth, you can’t stay here!”

“Where else can we go? Everything we had has gone, Herbert, I’ve almost no money and four children to look after. They have the clothes they stand up in, as do I. They’re your brother’s children, would you put them on the street?”

“Who knows you are here? Who else have you told about me?”

Ruth was puzzled. “What do you mean, who else knows about you? I haven’t told anyone about you. Kurt will know where to find us when he is released.”

“Thank God for that,” breathed Herbert. He looked again at the little family camped in his living room. “Well, you’ll have to stay for tonight, obviously, but tomorrow we must find you somewhere else to live.”

“We only need one room, Herbert, and you have one to spare.”

Herbert’s face turned a darker shade of red. “You have searched my apartment? How dare you, madam!”

“Of course I haven’t searched your apartment,” snapped Ruth. “I have, however, opened the doors and glanced into the rooms. You have two bedrooms. I assume you only sleep in one.” With an effort she softened her tone, it wouldn’t help to antagonise her brother-in-law. “I agree it’s not ideal, Herbert. If we were able to find somewhere else we would, but I have no money to pay any rent. If we stay here, I will ensure that the children don’t disturb you when you are at home. I will also keep house for you, if you wish.”

“I have Frau Schultz,” Herbert said, grasping at a straw.

“Indeed you have,” agreed Ruth. “I saw what she’d left for your supper. I have made you stew with dumplings. It is hot and waiting in the oven now.”

3

Ruth made the children as comfortable as she could in Herbert’s second bedroom. It was not large, but it had a double bed in it, and by moving this against the wall, she was able to make space for some pillows on the floor beside it. The twins and Inge she tucked into the big bed, and Laura she settled on the pillows.

“Where will you sleep, Mutti?” asked Laura anxiously.

“I’ll be on the sofa in the sitting room,” replied her mother, “just across the passage. If you need me in the night, you only have to call.”

Once the children were settled, Ruth returned to the living room. Herbert was sitting at the table, the remains of his meal in front of him.

“They seem well-behaved children,” he remarked. “Have they gone to sleep?”

“They will very shortly,” answered Ruth. “They’ve had a long day, and a very frightening few days before it. They can feel safe here.” She sat down at the table opposite him. “I’m sorry we had to come, Herbert. I know it’s inconvenient to you, but we had nowhere else to go. The dear people who took us in had no room for us either, and they had their own problems.”

“Don’t we all!” said Herbert testily. “You shouldn’t have rung me at the office, Ruth.”

Ruth was startled at his sudden vehemence. “I’m sorry, Herbert, I didn’t know what else to do. Frau Schultz refused to let us stay, and I preferred not to stand in the street with the children until you came home.”

Herbert shuddered. “No, that would have been worse. One can’t afford to have attention drawn to one these days.”

“Has there been trouble here, too?” asked Ruth.

“My dear Ruth, there has been trouble everywhere. Even those of us who are fully assimilated are being watched. I am lucky to keep my place at the office. It’s only because the senior partner is Jewish that I have not been replaced. That is why I cannot afford to draw attention to myself by receiving private phone calls in office hours.”

“I see. Well, I’m sorry, Herbert. I won’t phone again. I am sure Kurt will be home soon, and then we can move away and try and start again.”

Ruth was sure of no such thing, but she knew Herbert had to get used to the idea of housing his brother’s family indefinitely. He was a bachelor, set in his ways and she could quite understand how he shuddered at such an invasion. He had her sympathy, but it was not going to stop her doing what was best for her children.

“In the meantime,” she continued, “I can look after you as well. When does Frau Schultz come? I don’t want to get in her way.”

“She won’t come again until Friday,” Herbert replied. He got up from the table and picking up his newspaper, carried it to his chair. It was a firm indication that the conversation was over, and that he expected Ruth to clear away the meal.

The rest of the evening was passed in silence. Once the dishes were done, Ruth went into the bathroom and washed the children’s clothes. Tomorrow she would have to set about finding them some more. At last Herbert bid her goodnight and she was able to settle herself down on the sofa, trying to get comfortable with the pillow and the blanket he had found for her. Despite feeling exhausted by the events of the day, and with her shoulder and her ankle both aching abominably, it was a long time before she slept.

When Herbert had left for work the next day, Ruth set about the housekeeping. Frau Schultz had clearly been doing the minimum she could get away with, and the state of the kitchen left a lot to be desired. First, however, she had to occupy the children. Herbert had found them each a notepad, the sort he used in his office, and provided a pencil for each from his desk, so Ruth sat them round the table in the living room with some schoolwork. Laura and Inge each had a page of sums to do. The twins joined the dots she had drawn on the page to form letters.

When the front door opened and Frau Schultz made her appearance, every one of them was fully occupied.

“Good morning, Frau Schultz,” said Ruth, surprise in her voice. “I didn’t think you came to Herr Friedman today.”

The old woman ignored the remark and pushed her way into the kitchen, demanding, “What do you think you are doing in my kitchen?”

“Cleaning it,” replied Ruth succinctly. “It’s dirty.”

“Herr Friedman doesn’t complain.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” agreed Ruth, “but it doesn’t alter the fact that it needs a good clean.”

“In which case, I’ll leave you to clean it,” replied Frau Schultz. “You can tell Herr Friedman I’m not working for him while the place is a Jewish orphanage. If he wants me back, he can come and find me. And you can tell him he owes me a week’s wages, which I’ll come and collect on Saturday.” With that, she turned abruptly and left the apartment, slamming the front door behind her.

Ruth sighed. Now Herbert had lost his housekeeper, not that she deserved that name if the grime round the gas stove and the state of the floor were anything to go by; but Ruth could only hope that she could be persuaded back when she and the children had moved out.

There was little food in the larder, and just one plate of cold meat in the tiny refrigerator that stood in a corner of the kitchen. Certainly not enough to feed them all, so when the kitchen was clean, Ruth gathered up the children, and with a little of her carefully hoarded money in her purse set out to buy a few basic groceries. The children’s clothes would have to wait a little longer.

It was a glorious summer’s day, and as they emerged from the apartment building Ruth felt the sun on her face, and for the first time in days her spirits lifted. They were in an area where no one knew them; for a while they would have the luxury of not being branded Jews. Gathering the children round her, she made her way down the street to the shops she had seen when they arrived. There was no kosher butcher of course, but she soon found a grocer’s where she could buy bread and cheese, some eggs, potatoes, flour and butter. She had left the children outside the shop in charge of Laura.

She found herself in a shop very like her own, though it was clearly not Jewish, with a flitch of bacon hanging up behind the counter. Ruth averted her eyes, and gave her attention to the shopkeeper, a large, comfortable-looking woman with grey hair scraped back into a bun. Her eyes, a faded blue, peered at her customer from a wealth of wrinkles, and she smiled.

“Good morning,” she said, “isn’t it a beautiful one?”

“Good morning,” Ruth replied, returning the smile. “It is indeed.”

“What I can I get you?”

Ruth went through her list, and the woman placed the packages on the counter. As Ruth counted the money from her purse, the woman said casually, “I haven’t seen you round here before. Have you just moved in to the area?”

“No.” Ruth was immediately on her guard. “No, we are just visiting family. Only here for a few days, I’m afraid. Thank you.” She picked up her purchases and put them into the shopping bag she’d found in Herbert’s kitchen. “I think I’ll take the children to the gardens on our way home.”

The woman glanced out of the window to where the children were waiting patiently on the pavement. “They’ll enjoy that,” she said. “Lovely looking children, especially the little girl… such pretty blond hair.”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Ruth forced a smile and left the shop. As she did so she made way for another customer to enter, and saw with some dismay that it was Frau Schultz. The woman glared at her, pushed roughly past her into the shop, and said to the shopkeeper, “Well, Frau Schneider, I see you met the Jewish orphanage.”

The door swung closed on her malice, and Ruth hurried the children away, urging them along the road, back towards the apartment.

“Mutti, you said we could play in the gardens on our way home,” Inge said, looking longingly across the road at the open iron gates that gave onto the park.

“Not just now,” Ruth replied. “We have to go home and eat some lunch first, and the twins need their nap afterwards. Then perhaps we’ll go.”

“That’s not fair,” Inge wailed. “You said we could go.” She dragged her feet as her mother hurried her along the pavement. “You promised, Mutti, I want to play on the swings.”

“I didn’t promise,” snapped Ruth. “I said we might go, and we still might, but not if you make a fuss now. Come along, it’s time for lunch.”

The little group trailed back up the stairs to Herbert’s flat. Once inside, Ruth locked the door and put the bolt across. She didn’t want Frau Schultz to think she could walk in whenever she chose. Laura returned to her station by the window. She too was disappointed that they weren’t going to spend some time in the gardens. She had been looking forward to the freedom of playing in the sunshine. She didn’t know why her mother had changed her mind, but she knew that moaning like Inge wouldn’t make her change it back again, so she sat down with the boys and played pat-a-cake with them while her mother put some food on the table.Ruth had been dismayed as she heard Frau Schultz’s comment. Their anonymity had been lost; they were now marked as Jews in this area as well. Her instinct had been to get the children back to the safety of Herbert’s flat as soon as possible, but now as she gave them their lunch she looked at their pale faces and anger stirred again. Why shouldn’t her children play in the gardens, run among the trees, slide down the slide? Why should she hide them in this dreary apartment on a glorious summer’s day, when other children were outside with sun on their faces?

“When the boys have had a nap, we’ll go to the park,” she said as she cleared the plates away. “You should rest, too, Inge. Lie on the bed for half an hour, and then we’ll go out.”

*

Frau Schultz and Frau Schneider watched through the shop window as Ruth gathered up her children and led them back along the street.

“What did you mean… Jewish orphanage?” asked Frau Schneider as the little family disappeared from view.

“Turned up on Herr Friedman’s doorstep yesterday afternoon, didn’t they!” replied Frau Schultz. “Demanding to come in. Said she was his sister-in-law. Said she had nowhere else to go.”

Frau Schneider’s eyes were wide. “Did you let them in?”

“Had to, didn’t I? She rang him at his office, and he said they could stay. Had to, didn’t want a rabble like that standing on his doorstep, did he?”

“You wouldn’t know they were Jews,” Frau Schneider remarked. “The little girl, anyway, lovely fair hair and blue eyes.”

“Yes, that’s what’s so awful,” agreed Frau Schultz. “You could be fooled into thinking they were true Germans!”

“But you work for Herr Friedman,” pointed out her friend, “and he’s a Jew.”

“Not anymore I don’t,” snapped Frau Schultz. “Went in this morning to see if I could be of help, and found that woman cleaning my kitchen. Told me it was dirty! Dirty! That’s the word I’d use for them. Dirty Jews. I told her, I said if that’s what she thought she could tell Herr Friedman that I wasn’t working there anymore and I’d collect my money on Saturday.”

“But I suppose Herr Friedman isn’t a proper Jew,” Frau Schneider said thoughtfully. “I mean, he doesn’t go to the synagogue on Saturdays or anything. If you hadn’t said, I wouldn’t have known he was a Jew either.”

“A Jew is a Jew is a Jew,” said Frau Schultz judiciously. “I’ll be more choosy who I work for in the future, I can tell you.”

“You might not be able to find another job that easy,” pointed out her friend.

Frau Schultz knew that there was a lot of truth in that, and it was not comforting. “That’s what I mean,” she snarled. “Them Jews are keeping good honest Germans out of work. Taking all the jobs.”

“Will they be staying with him long?” wondered Frau Schneider, ignoring this tirade. “There can’t be much room for them all in that apartment.”

“More room than we’ve got,” Frau Schultz snapped. “I live in one room and share a bathroom. You have only two rooms above your shop for you and Herr Schneider. What does a single man need with all the space he has?”

“Well, he hasn’t much space now,” Frau Schneider laughed. “Poor man can’t know what’s hit him with those four kids descending on him! Now,” she smiled, “what can I get you today?”

Frau Schultz made her purchases and then walked back to the tiny room she rented above the tobacconist shop in the next street. As she passed the gardens she glanced in, but there was no sign of the Jewish children playing there. She smiled grimly. That woman must have read the notice that had been placed there only last week. Jüden Verboten! No Jews Allowed! More and more, Jews were being made to understand their place. Herr Hitler was right, they were at the root of all Germany’s problems. Get rid of the Jews and there would be plenty of jobs, plenty of houses, plenty of money for ordinary Germans like herself. The German people could reclaim their own country and make it strong again. Widows, like herself, wouldn’t have to struggle to make a living.

When she had first gone to work for Herr Friedman, Eva Schultz had not known that he was a Jew. He was a man who kept himself to himself; a quiet man who went nowhere but his office and hardly knew his neighbours. She was well pleased with the work, it was in no way arduous. She went in three days a week, to clean, to do the laundry and to prepare Herr Friedman’s evening meals. One meal she would leave in the oven for that night, and another, cold, on a plate in his refrigerator for the next day. Frau Schultz envied him that refrigerator. Fancy a man on his own having such a luxury. However, he paid well, and left money for her to do the shopping. That was a bonus. It was easy enough to buy some extra slices of meat, a few more eggs, another small piece of cheese, charging it up to him. He had little idea of the price of food and simply left her some money for the housekeeping each week. She was careful to leave him the change each week, amounts that varied slightly, so that he didn’t ask any awkward questions. Then she had discovered that he was Jewish. Snooping among his papers one day, she read a letter he’d received from his brother about the family going to Vienna for a bar mitzvah. Bar mitzvah! Herr Friedman was a Jew! She was working for a Jew. After that she stole from him more regularly and without compunction. She didn’t like the idea of working for a Jew, but it was worth putting in the minimal amount of time she gave to cleaning his apartment, to enable her to help herself to the extras to which she felt she was entitled. The arrival of his sister-in-law with her hordes had now put paid to that. It was clear that woman had already realised what she was up to, and no doubt she would tell Herr Friedman when he got home this evening… and her job really would be gone. Another example of Jews taking the bread from the mouths of a good, honest German.

Back in her room, Eva dumped her shopping onto the table. She filled the kettle from the single, cold-water tap over the basin in the corner and set it to boil on the gas ring that stood beside it. Kicking off her shoes, she flopped into the one easy chair that stood in front of the gas fire. Behind her was an alcove, curtained to conceal her bed. She looked round her, taking in again the dreariness of her accommodation. She had lived here for five years now, ever since her husband, Ernst, had been killed in an accident on the building site where he had worked as a labourer. The chain of a hoist, lifting a pallet of bricks to the first-floor scaffolding, had snapped and the bricks had fallen on Ernst, killing him instantly. An accident, a dreadful accident, the building firm had said. Very sad… their condolences to the grieving widow. Ernst had had no pension, they had had no savings, and despite the whip-round organised by his mates, Eva Shultz had found herself almost destitute. She had to move out of the small apartment they rented, and had found this dismal room only through the good offices of one of Ernst’s workmates, whose sister was married to the tobacconist in the shop below. The whip-round had provided her with the first month’s rent and then she had had to find some work to support herself, and find it quickly. It was a card in the tobacconist’s window that caught her eye. Housekeeper wanted for quiet, single gentleman. Eva applied, got the job and began working for Herbert Friedman.

As she drank the weak coffee she had made, Eva thought now about the family who had arrived so unexpectedly. Clearly they were in some sort of trouble, or they wouldn’t have descended on Herbert so suddenly. Where was the husband, she wondered, the one who was Herbert’s brother? Little had been said during the phone conversation she had overheard, but it was clear that they had nowhere else to go. The idea that they, too, had been turned out of their home gave Eva a certain satisfaction, and it was that and the conversation she’d had with Frau Schneider in the shop that had given her the glimmerings of an idea. As she sipped her coffee, she wondered if it might work, and then shivered at her own temerity. She would ponder it, she decided, look into how it could be done. The seed was sown, and as she got to her feet to put away her meagre provisions, the last she would buy with Herbert Friedman’s money, she thought about his refrigerator, and smiled.

*

Ruth was as good as her word, and when the twins awoke from their nap, she took the children down the stairs and across the road to the gardens opposite. The wrought-iron gates stood wide and welcoming, but the newly painted sign mounted on a pole just inside made her pause.

No Jews allowed!

Of the children, only Laura could read the words, and she glanced anxiously at her mother. Ruth gave her a reassuring smile, marched determinedly through the gate and took the path that led to the children’s playground. This was surrounded by a low fence, with another, more succinct sign on its gate. No Jews. Ignoring it, Ruth pushed open the gate and let the children run in. Inge headed straight for the slide, and the twins ran happily across to the sandpit where two small girls were digging a sand castle. Laura followed the boys, while Ruth called to Inge to hold tight as she climbed the steps to the top of the slide.

A nursemaid, with a pram beside her, was sitting on a bench, uninterestedly watching the little girls in the sandpit. She hardly noticed the twin boys and their elder sister who joined them. The boys had nothing to dig with except their hands, but they set to work piling sand into a heap for their castle, laughing and chatting to each other as they did so. Her charges watched for a moment, pausing in their own efforts.

“Would you like to help?” Laura asked the little girls. “Hansi and Peter would love you to help them.”

The elder of the two girls, aged about six, nodded shyly, and they both edged nearer to the twins.

“What’s your name?” Laura asked the older sister.

“Angela,” replied the girl. “Come on, Erna, come and help.”

The five children played together. The boys digging energetically with their hands, the girls filling their bucket, and Laura upending it carefully to make turrets for the castle.

Inge had moved from the slide to the swings, and Ruth, seeing that Laura was looking after the twins, went across and pushed Inge, so that she squealed with delight as she sailed up into the air. All the children were laughing and shouting with pleasure as they played together in the sunshine. The nursemaid was now dozing on her bench in the heat of the afternoon sun, and the baby lay waving its arms, batting the rattles that were strung across the pram. Having had her fill of swinging, Inge jumped off and ran across to the sandpit to see what the others were doing. Ruth followed her and together they admired the splendid castle that now stood in the middle, a turret on each corner and a feather as a flag.

“No Jews allowed!”

The harsh voice behind them made her jump and Ruth spun round to see a uniformed park keeper, accompanied by Frau Schultz.

“I beg your pardon?” Ruth replied.

“No Jews allowed. Can’t you read?”

“The notice is on both gates,” Frau Schultz put in sweetly. “I’d have thought you’d have seen it,” adding with venom, “or are you blind… as well?”

The nursemaid started up from the bench, one hand grasping the pram as if it might escape her, the other beckoning frantically to the two little girls in the sandpit.

“Angela, Erna, come away at once!” As the surprised girls moved towards her, she grabbed Erna by the hand, and called Angela again. “Come away, Angela. Come away from those dirty children. Whatever would your mother say?”

She pulled the children away, and, pushing the pram, hurried off down the path. As she went, Ruth heard the younger girl pipe, “Nanny, what’s a Jew?” If she gave one, the nursemaid’s answer was lost as she sped her charges away.

“Out!” The park keeper was pointing at the gate. “Out of here, out of the gardens, and don’t come back or I’ll call the law.”

“Come along, children,” Ruth said quietly. “We must go home now.” She took the twins by the hand, and, edging the girls in front of her, made her way to the gate.

“Trouble is,” she heard the park keeper saying, “you wouldn’t know they was Jews, would you? Not from the look of them.”

“That’s why you have to be so vigilant,” replied Frau Schultz. “But don’t worry, Herr Maus, I won’t report you… this time.”

“Vile woman,” murmured Ruth under her breath. “Vile and evil woman!”

“What did you say, Mutti?” asked Inge.

“Vile and evil woman! Vile and evil woman!” chanted the twins, delighted with the words.

Ruth jerked them to a halt, so roughly that they cried out. “Be quiet!” she admonished. “Be quiet and don’t speak again until we get home, or I’ll take a wooden spoon to you!”

As they crossed the road to the apartment block, Ruth risked a glance back over her shoulder. The park keeper had moved away, but Frau Schultz still stood by the sandpit, watching them leave. She was too far away to see the expression on her face, but the set of her head and shoulders shouted “triumph” as loudly as if she had actually called after them.

She must have heard me say that I’d take the children there, thought Ruth, as she hurried them up the stairs to Herbert’s apartment. She must have been watching, so that she could report us.

Herbert listened in horror to the events of the day when Ruth related them to him that evening.

“How could you have been so stupid?” he raged at her. “How could you have drawn such attention to yourselves? Can’t you read, you stupid woman? Didn’t you see the sign that says ‘No Jews’?”

“I saw it,” Ruth replied, trying to keep her own anger in check. “I saw it, but who was to know round here that we are Jews?”

“Frau Schultz!” Herbert almost shrieked. “As you discovered.”

“Well, we won’t go again,” sighed Ruth.

“You’d better not!” Herbert snapped. “You’ll be watched now,” he went on bitterly. “You’ll be watched, I’ll be watched, we’ll all be watched from now on. You should have gone to your mother, that’s where you should have gone. You should have gone to your mother, not come here with your brood.”

“I came here, because Kurt… your brother, Kurt… told me to,” hissed Ruth. “It is here he will come looking for us. Here he will come looking for his brood. They’re your brother’s children, Herbert. Your nieces and nephews. They’re family. I am his wife. We’re family.”

“Yes, yes,” Herbert replied testily, “but family is no protection these days.”

“You mean we’ve put you in danger, Herbert, by coming here. Is that what you mean?”

“No, no.” Herbert waved a placatory hand. “But all Jews are in some sort of danger these days, especially…” he paused, trying to choose the right words, “…especially practising Jews. They are noted. I haven’t been to the synagogue for years. I no longer follow the dietary requirements. I am not a Jew in any real sense. I’m German through and through, the fact that I had Jewish parents is beyond my control.”

“Beyond your control,” agreed Ruth, “but true none the less. As far as the authorities are concerned you’re a Jew. The new laws apply to you as they do to the rest of us.”

Ruth could see Herbert was about to argue, and she was too tired. “Never mind,” she sighed, “let’s not argue now. Come to the table, I’ve made dinner for you.”

Herbert was happy enough to do as he was bid. The food, though plain, was a great improvement on what Frau Schultz had been in the habit of leaving him, and he found himself looking forward to the meal that would be waiting for him when he got home.

Laura’s Diary

24th July 1937

We have come to stay with Uncle Herbert in Munich. He wasn’t very pleased to see us and I don’t like it here. We are all sleeping in one room, except for Mutti and she’s got to sleep on the sofa in the living room. I wish we could go home again, but I know we can’t. I wish Papa was here. Uncle Herbert is his brother, but he’s not like him. Papa is always kind, but Uncle Herbert is always cross. He has a cross voice and a cross face and it’s nice when he goes to his office.

Laura paused, chewing her pencil thoughtfully, and then wrote,

25th July 1937

We can’t go out like we did at home, there is nowhere to play. Mutti took us to the park. Hansi and Peter played in the sandpit. I helped them. We made a castle with two girls. A man came and told us to leave. He said Jews weren’t allowed to play in the park. The nasty lady who was here when we got here was with him. She was smiling, but she was horrible.

Laura stopped writing and looked at what she had written in the notebook Mutti had found for her. Mutti had suggested she write a story. Laura had always loved writing stories and had done so as long as she could remember. At school the teachers used to encourage her, especially Fräulein Lederman, but that was until everything changed, when Fräulein Lederman had to leave and Fräulein Karhausen took her place. From then on Laura was left out. Oh, not from the actual classroom, just from the activities that went on inside it. She and two other Jewish children, Olga and Elfriede, were made to sit at the back… where they were ignored. Fräulein Karhausen never asked them to provide answers in class, even when nobody else could; she never looked at the work they produced, never corrected it, no stars were given, indeed their names weren’t even on the star chart. But Laura had continued writing. She began to keep a diary, which she wrote every evening when she had finished her homework, homework that was required but never looked at. Papa had given her a beautiful notebook in which to write her diary, but that, like everything else she owned, had been destroyed in the fire. All her thoughts and ideas had vanished in the smoke that billowed from the window into the night sky.

Ruth had not suggested that Laura start her diary again, she thought it would be unhealthy to keep a record of the dreadful things that had happened. They were best forgotten as soon as possible, so that the slithering skein of life could be grasped once more, and some sort of normality could be re-established.

“Why don’t you write a story?” she suggested. “One you could read to the twins. They always love your stories.” It was true, Hansi and Peter did always love her stories, begging her for new ones, but today there were no stories in her head, only the events of the last few days, churning and bubbling like an over-boiling saucepan. The men coming to the apartment. Papa being arrested. The fire. Staying with the Meyers. Finding the box. Suddenly their lives had been turned upside down, and Laura felt that if she didn’t write it all down, set it in some sort of order in her mind, it would overwhelm her and she would sink under its weight. Mutti needed her help. She, Laura, was almost eleven, after all. She must be strong and help Mutti, especially with the twins. They had always been her beloved brothers. She loved Inge, of course she did, but Peter and Hansi… she would be strong for them. They were too young to understand what was happening.

“When’s Papa coming?” Hansi had suddenly asked as he was being got ready for bed.

“Will he be here soon?” Peter had chimed in, finishing as he so often did his twin’s thought.

“Soon,” his mother had soothed, but Laura knew that she had lied. She didn’t know when and was only trying to comfort the little boys.

I should start this diary from the night of the fire, Laura thought now, and crossing out what she had written, began again.

19th July 1937

They took Papa away and we haven’t seen him since…

On the first Friday evening after their arrival at Herbert’s, Ruth had set the table for the Sabbath evening meal, carefully ironing the only white linen tablecloth she could find, before washing and laying out the silver and china she had discovered packed away in the sideboard. She polished two rather tarnished candlesticks, which still had the remnants of candles stuck into them, and set them in the middle of the table. Murmuring the familiar prayers, she lit them, and waited for Herbert to come home. As the children waited for him, seated round the table, they too seemed to be soothed by the familiar ritual of Friday evening. The meal would start when the man of the house, normally Kurt, but in this case Herbert, came home, but this evening Herbert did not come home. Kurt would have been to the synagogue, but Ruth knew that was the last place Herbert would be. She knew there was a synagogue not that far away, for she had discussed it with her brother-in-law. But when she had suggested she might take the children there on Saturday morning he had been adamant.

“It would be madness to go,” Herbert had stated. “I forbid you to go! Do you want to draw even more attention to your children? I forbid you to go.”

No, wherever Herbert was, he would not be at the synagogue this evening. Eventually she said the prayers herself and served the meal.

When the children were safely in bed Ruth sat in the living room, the table uncleared, and waited. At last she heard Herbert’s key in the lock, and as she turned to greet him saw the shock at what he saw before him register on his face.

“What’s all this mess?” he demanded, looking at the remains of the meal on the table.

“It’s your supper, Herbert,” she replied quietly. “It’s the Sabbath.”

“Well, I don’t want it!” he snapped. “You can clear it away.” When she hesitated he rounded on her. “You may not work on the Sabbath in your own home, Ruth,” he growled, “but you do in mine. I have no intention of sitting looking at this stuff. Put it in the kitchen. I don’t want it. I’ve eaten.”

“If you’d said you were going out, I wouldn’t have cooked dinner for you.” Ruth forced herself to speak mildly, though she could feel the anger welling up inside her.

“Oh? So now I have to account to you for my movements, do I?”

“Of course not,” Ruth replied, “but it seems a pity to waste food when we have so little of it.”

Herbert suddenly seemed to sag, and dropping into his chair said, “Just put it in the kitchen, Ruth, you can leave the washing-up until tomorrow evening if you must.”

Accepting this compromise, Ruth got up. After all, with the changed state of things, there was no way she could do no work on the Sabbath. She cleared the table, stacking the dishes neatly beside the kitchen sink, which was where Frau Schultz saw them the next morning when she called to demand her money.

“And she had the audacity to call my kitchen dirty,” she said to Frau Schneider, as she recounted her visit. “Dirty crockery and cutlery, in heaps by the sink. Nasty Jewish food. Beginning to smell in this heat, I can tell you.” She sniffed as if the smell was still in her nostrils. “No German would live in a pigsty like that.”

“No, indeed.” Frau Schneider nodded judiciously, even as she thought of the squalid state of her own kitchen upstairs where no one had washed a plate for days. “Just the Jews.”

Over the next few days Ruth slipped into a routine of cooking and cleaning for Herbert, for Frau Schultz, true to her word, and much to Ruth’s relief, did not reappear. Ruth spent time with her children, making them do some lessons every day, before taking them out for some fresh air in the afternoon. Not to the gardens, though. She dared not venture there again. She knew she had been stupid to ignore the notice and take the children there in the first place. She had put them at risk, and she was determined not to do so again.

Nor did she return to Frau Schneider’s shop, but walked the children further afield, to shops where they were not known, buying her groceries in different places, so that they were not recognised as “locals”. Herbert had given her some money, and so she managed to buy them all another set of clothes, pinafores and blouses for the girls, shorts and shirts for the twins. There was no money for shoes. Once she thought she saw Frau Schultz walking along the street behind them, but when she looked back a second time there was no sign of the woman, and she decided she must have been mistaken. Surely not even Frau Schultz would bother to trail them round the area to warn the shopkeepers that they were dealing with Jews. Surely not.

4

The days turned to weeks, and still there was no news of Kurt. In many ways Ruth wished they had found some way to remain in Gerbergasse, where at least they would be surrounded by people they knew. There might be news of the men who had been taken the night of the riot; such news would spread swiftly through the neighbourhood. There might be news of Kurt.

Ruth had written to Frau Meyer to thank her for her kindness and to tell her that they had reached Herbert’s in safety She’d asked if anything had been heard of those arrested. The letter she received in reply did nothing to raise her spirits.

Dear Frau Friedman,

Thank you for your letter. I am glad you and the children are safe with your brother-in-law. You are certainly safer than you would be here. Terror stalks our streets now, and we walk in fear of our lives.

Herr Rosen came back the other day. He’s been held in some sort of camp. A place called Dachau. He says that all the men from here are being held there. The conditions there are very bad. He has been let out because he has agreed to leave Germany with his family and never return. He came to collect them, but they have had to leave everything behind. Everything except what they could put into one suitcase, and that was searched by the Gestapo to make sure they weren’t taking anything of value. They went three days ago, and already another family have moved into their apartment.

So far nothing has been done with your shop. Leo boarded up the door, but it remains a burnt-out shell.

If your husband comes here I will tell him where you are, but I shall not write to you again, and ask you not to write to me. Who can tell if the post is safe?

God bless you all,

L

There was no return address on the letter, nothing other than the single initial to identify the writer, but its content struck fear into Ruth’s heart. She had done the right thing moving the children out of the area; she could only pray that Kurt would soon be let out of this Dachau place, wherever it was, and be able to come for them. If it meant leaving Germany, Ruth wouldn’t mind. What was left for people like them here, after all? Encouraged by the government and orchestrated by the Gestapo, the persecution was getting worse, more frequent, the ways of degrading and humiliating Jews becoming more inventive, more brutal.

This isn’t how I want my children to live, Ruth thought as she read and re-read the letter. Better we leave now. But where, with no money, no possessions? America? England? Palestine? How can we go? What should we live on?

She would show the letter to Herbert when he got home that evening and see what he thought about it. Probably he would say that Leah Meyer was being alarmist. He still thought that Jews who kept their heads down were in no real danger. He had become less concerned about her and the children being in his home recently, now that she was so careful to do nothing more to draw attention to them. He even played with the children sometimes, in the evening when he came in. He genuinely had difficulty in telling the twins apart, and often called them by the wrong name, which sent them off into paroxysms of laughter, and once he discovered that he could make them laugh, he found that he enjoyed doing so. One day he had come home with a present for each of them; soft toy rabbits dressed in striped trousers for the twins, some crayons for Inge and a book for Laura. The delight on the children’s faces as they opened the parcels was mirrored in his own, and Ruth could see he was becoming genuinely fond of them.

This evening, however, he came home late, well after the children were in bed, and at once Ruth could see that something was wrong. He seemed to have aged ten years since the morning. He looked pale, his skin, the colour of parchment, seemed more tightly drawn over his cheekbones. His shoulders sagged and his whole body seemed to have shrunk. Only his eyes gleamed, and they gleamed not with life, but with fear, continually darting in all directions as if he expected an attack.

“Herbert? Are you all right? What’s happened?”

For answer he simply shook his head and sank down into his armchair, burying his head in his hands.

“Herbert?” Ruth waited, but it was some time before her brother-in-law looked up at her, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

“Herr Durst,” he said. “Herr Durst has left.”

Ruth knew that Herbert thought the light of day shone out of Herr Jacob Durst, the senior partner. She had often had to listen to Herbert extolling the abilities, the intellect, the steadfast character of Herr Durst, the mainstay of the firm.

“Left? Left the office?”

“They’ve thrown him out!”

“Thrown him out? Who’s thrown him out?”

“The other partners.”

“The other partners? Why? Why would they do that?”

“The firm was losing clients,” replied Herbert wearily. “Nobody wants a Jewish lawyer anymore. Just having his name on the letterheads has made the clients look elsewhere.”

“So, what’s going to happen?” asked Ruth.

“It’s already happened,” Herbert said. “They had a meeting today… without him, and after it they called him in and told him to leave… there and then. To leave everything in his desk and his files… everything. When he went back to the office for his coat, his desktop was clear… there was nothing on it, except the photograph of his wife and daughters stuffed into a brown paper bag.”

“And he just accepted this? It was his firm; you told me he founded the firm.” Ruth was incredulous. “And he let them simply throw him out?”

Herbert let out a shuddering sigh. “What else could he do? Wait to be manhandled out of the building? They were already changing the locks on the doors as I followed him out.”

“You followed him out?” repeated Ruth.

Herbert gave a mirthless laugh. “You don’t think they’d keep me on once he’d gone, do you? I was at my desk as he passed my door, and within two minutes Herr Hartmann was in the room, saying, ‘Out, Friedman! We don’t want your sort here either!’ I sat there staring at him, because I didn’t know then what had happened to Herr Durst.

“I must have looked very stupid, because he crossed over to the desk and put his face right down next to mine and spoke very slowly and distinctly as if I was an idiot. ‘Get out of this office, Friedman, and don’t come back.’”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t know what to say. He simply turned away saying, as he walked out of the door, ‘Collect your wage packet from Fräulein Weiss. You’re lucky to get it.’ I was still too shocked to move, I just stared at him and then he said, ‘And if you’re still here in five minutes’ time, you won’t be paid!’”

“Did you get it?” Ruth asked anxiously. “Did they pay you what they owed?” Her own money had dwindled to almost nothing, and would have run out long ago if Herbert hadn’t given her housekeeping money… the money he no longer paid Frau Schultz.

“Yes, they’ve paid me to the end of the week. It’s not much.”

“But if you left so early, where have you been since?” wondered Ruth.

“When I’d collected my money from Fräulein Weiss, I went after Herr Durst. He was outside in the street, looking up at the office building as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. We were hardly out of the door before we saw someone not only changing the locks on the front door, but replacing the brass plate beside it.”

“The brass plate?”

“With the name of the firm. As from today the firm has a new name. Hartmann and Weber.” Herbert shook his head sadly. “This must all have been planned for some time,” he went on. “How else would they have had the new nameplate ready? When I came out, Herr Durst looked across at me and said, ‘You too, Friedman? I’m sorry about that. No Jews allowed.’ ‘What will you do now, sir?’ I asked him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Perhaps set up on my own again, and deal only with Jewish clients. Let’s face it,’ he said, ‘there are plenty of Jews who need my help just now.’ ‘Will you have work for me?’ I asked him. ‘I need a job too.’ He said, ‘Come and have a drink and we’ll talk about it.’”

“So that’s where you’ve been.” Ruth sounded relieved.

“We went to a bar where Herr Durst is known, and they did serve us, but it was clear they overcharged us. When I said as much to Herr Durst, he said that it had been so for some time now, but that it meant he could still buy a drink there if he wanted to.”

“So, did he give you a job?”

“No. He gave me advice.” Herbert fell silent.

“What?” demanded Ruth at last. “What did he say?”

“He said I should get out while I could.”

“Get out?” echoed Ruth. “Get out of where?”

“Germany. He said I was single and that it would be easy for me to leave now, but he thought things were going to get much worse. That the time would come when it would be too late. Jews wouldn’t be allowed to leave.”

“And is he going to get out?” enquired Ruth.

“No,” answered Herbert, “but he has a family, it’s not so easy for him simply to up sticks and go.”

“Exactly! He has family! You’d think he would be trying to get them out as soon as he can.”

“He said he’d thought of it,” Herbert said, “but he’s not sure it’s necessary for a family like his.”

“A family like his?” Ruth spoke with the utmost scorn. “Does he really think he’s too well connected to be in any danger? Does he think the Nazis pay any attention to that? He’s a Jew. All Jews are at risk.” Ruth pulled Leah Meyer’s letter out of her pocket and handed it to Herbert. “Read that,” she said. “Jews are being rounded up and sent to this dreadful camp, well the men are anyway, and they are only being allowed out if they agree to leave Germany for good. Kurt is in this camp… at least I assume he is, as he was arrested the same night as Martin Rosen. God knows if he will be offered the same chance to leave, but in the meantime things are getting worse, you know they are. Look what she says here, ‘terror stalks the streets’, she means the Gestapo.”

“I know it, you know it. But there’s nothing we can do about it except keep out of the way.”

“That’s not going to work forever,” Ruth said. “Only today when I was out with the children we heard them marching towards us. There was nowhere to hide, and as they came towards us those dreadful boots they wear crashing on the road, they sounded like an enemy army. They took no notice of us this time, but I was terrified for the children.”

“You shouldn’t be taking them out,” Herbert said.

“I have to. They can’t stay prisoners in here all day and every day. Oh Herbert, I wish I knew what to do!”

Herbert nodded wearily. “So do I,” he said.

Ruth hardly slept that night, churning everything over in her mind, considering and discarding ideas as to what they might do. Herbert losing his job meant that his income had dried up, which meant that hers had too. What were they going to live on? How was she going to feed four hungry children, not to mention herself and Herbert? It wasn’t just money for food that she had to find. The winter was coming, they would need warm clothes. She could try and get work herself, but there were so few jobs, and almost none that might be given to a Jew. Ruth didn’t mind hard work, would welcome it if it meant that her children were warm and fed, but she knew there would be little on offer.

And even if I can get work, she wondered, who’ll look after the children? It’ll have to be Laura; though she’s only ten, she’ll have to look after them if I do manage to find something.

Herbert might be more lucky, she thought. He, unlike her with her dark hair and eyes, her slightly hooked nose and wide mouth, was not so obviously Jewish. He might find himself a job of some sort, even if not the kind of work he was used to. He won’t be able to be choosy about what he does, she thought. He’ll have to take anything that’s offered.

At last she drifted off into fitful sleep, from which she woke in the morning, un-refreshed, her eyes as heavy as her heart.

Herbert left at his usual time next morning, as if he were going to the office. Ruth was pleased he did, it prevented any awkward questions from Laura, who was quite old enough and bright enough to notice a change in routine. At the end of the week he gave Ruth her usual housekeeping money, but though he had been looking for work every day, he told her, “There’s no work for anyone. I did call on Herr Durst again, but he was not at home.”

“Not at home, or not at home to you?” asked Ruth.

Herbert shrugged. “It’s all one when it comes down to it,” he said. “He’s not going to be able to give me any work, even if he gets something set up for himself. He has two sons. They will keep anything like that in the family. It’s everyone for himself these days.”

Ruth could only agree with him. There had been unrest all over the country, though not, thank goodness, in their immediate locality. All Jews were constantly looking over their shoulders now. Frau Meyer’s words lived in her mind: “terror stalks our streets”. Ruth, like almost all Jews, had become more and more aware of the tramp of jackboots, and the casual cruelty of the Hitler Youth who haunted the Jewish districts, hunting in gangs. She seldom took the children far these days, just a short walk each day to give them some exercise and fresh air. They were virtually prisoners in the apartment, and although she tried to keep up a pretence of normality, they were changing from the cheerful, rosy-cheeked children she had brought from Gerbergasse, to restive, fractious children, pale-faced and hollow-eyed.

It was over a week later that Herbert finally dropped his bombshell.

“I’m going to Argentina,” he told Ruth when the children were safely in bed and they were alone in the living room. They were sitting across the dining table from each other, the remains of a frugal meal between them.

Ruth stared at him, aghast. “You’re what?”

“I’m going to Argentina,” he repeated, “I’ve booked my passage on a ship. I leave from Hamburg next week. There’s nothing to keep me here.”

Ruth continued to stare at him. “Nothing to keep you here,” she echoed flatly.

Herbert continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ve no family, and it’s no good me waiting to see if Herr Durst is going to set up another firm. I’m getting out while I still can.”

“Nothing to keep you here,” Ruth said again. “No family. What about Kurt’s children? Kurt’s family? Don’t you think we might need you?”

Herbert looked a little uncomfortable, but he spoke firmly. “I have thought about you and the children… of course I have. I would take you, but Kurt will be coming to look for you here. Otherwise I’d take you with me, of course I would… But you said yourself that this is where Kurt will come to find you.” His eyes showed a gleam of… what? Ruth wasn’t sure as she listened to him cap his lies with the argument she had used to get him to allow them to stay with him.

“Here,” she repeated. “But if you’ve gone…”

“My dear Ruth,” Herbert said soothingly, “you don’t think I am just going to walk away and leave you with nowhere to live, do you?”

It was exactly what Ruth was thinking, so she didn’t reply as she waited for him to continue. “Of course not.” He shook his head firmly. “It would be wrong to take you with me, but you can stay here. The rent on this flat is paid up until the end of the year. You can stay here, just as you are now until Kurt comes for you. If they’re letting them out of that camp, it won’t be long before he’s here with you again.”

“And you’ve actually booked your passage? Bought your ticket? You have your ticket in your hands?”

“Not yet, but I’ve paid for it. I collect it from the office of the shipping company tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope there is one for you,” snapped Ruth bitterly.

Once he had told her, Herbert’s demeanour began to change. He had made his decision some days ago, but now he had admitted it to Ruth there came a sense of relief, a sense of purpose. He still looked older than his years, but a little colour began to creep back into his cheeks. He got up from his chair and went to the sideboard where he poured himself a glass of schnapps. Turning back towards Ruth he saw her watching him, her eyes dull with worry.

“Would you like a drink, Ruth?” he asked awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I should have asked you.”

Ruth was about to refuse when she thought, “Why not?” She seldom drank alcohol, but suddenly she felt in need of… whatever it might supply. She nodded and Herbert poured another, smaller measure into a glass and handed it to her.

“Prosit!” he said.

Ruth took the glass and took a sip. The drink was fiery in her throat, and she coughed, before downing the rest in one draught, and coughing again.

“Steady,” Herbert said. “You’re not used to it.” He tilted his own glass and he, too, downed the contents in one, before pouring each of them another.

Later, as Ruth lay on the sofa, feeling a little woozy from the unaccustomed schnapps, she went over and over what Herbert had said.

“You can stay here in the flat. You’ll be fine.”

“And what do you suggest we live on?” she had demanded angrily. “Fresh air?”

“Of course not,” Herbert soothed. “I will give you some money. It’s the least I can do. I have some money saved. Most of it I must take with me, to start again in Argentina… but of course I will leave you enough to keep you going until Kurt gets here.”

“And supposing he doesn’t?” demanded Ruth, staring at him icily. “Supposing he doesn’t get here?”

Herbert had returned her stare. “Then you’ll be on your own, Ruth. I’ll have done everything I can for you, and it’ll be up to you.”

“Will they let you take your money with you?” she’d asked a little later. “I thought you weren’t allowed to take anything valuable with you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that,” Herbert replied. “I’m not taking it in actual cash. I’ve converted it into something more portable; something easier to hide. I’ll get it out all right.”

Ruth didn’t ask what, or where he would conceal it. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to know how much he was taking, or how. She simply asked, “When do you go?” She knew that whatever she said or did, Herbert would leave and she and the four children would be on their own.

“I collect my ticket tomorrow,” he replied, “and then take the train to Hamburg. The boat leaves next week.”

So this time tomorrow, Ruth thought, it’ll just be me and the children.

She fought to keep the rising panic at bay. She fought the tears of frustration and desperation that threatened to overwhelm her. This was no time to give way to tears. It was only her strength that was going to keep them alive.

Herbert had spent much of the night packing. Ruth could hear him moving round his bedroom, opening and closing drawers and the wardrobe. There was the occasional creak of bedsprings, and then as the grey of a false dawn lightened the sky, one final groan of the bed as Herbert lay down.

Ruth wondered if he had actually managed to go to sleep, or whether he, too, was lying in the dark, afraid of what the future might hold.

Next morning he ate his breakfast in silence, paying no attention to the chatter of the children, and they, picking up the strange atmosphere, gradually slipped into silence. As soon as they had finished eating, Ruth sent them to their bedroom, telling them to play in there until she called them to do their lessons.

Herbert looked at his sister-in-law across the table. “I’ll be off soon,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of notes and handed them across to her. “This should keep you going for a while,” he said. “As I told you, the rent is paid until the end of the year. You’ll have a roof over your heads until then at least.”

Ruth nodded, and reaching for the money put it into her pocket. “Thank you for that,” she said, getting to her feet. “I wish you the best of luck in your new life, Herbert.”

“As soon as I get settled there, I’ll be in touch. Kurt can bring you all over to join me… and,” Herbert paused as if not knowing quite how to phrase what he wanted to say next, before continuing awkwardly, “and, if he hasn’t come back by then, perhaps you should consider joining me anyway… to keep the children safe.”

“Yes, well…”

“Yes, well…” Herbert turned away and went into his bedroom. Ruth was still standing beside the breakfast table when he reappeared a few moments later, wearing his overcoat and a felt hat and carrying a large suitcase.

“Obviously I haven’t been able to take all my clothes with me,” he said. “Kurt can have them when he gets here.” For a moment he gave his sister-in-law a long look, then he put the case on the floor and reached out to take her hand. For a moment Ruth thought he was going to put his arms round her, but he simply shook her hand and said, “Goodbye, Ruth. I’ll be in touch.”

Ruth nodded. She knew that she should be thanking him properly for the money, for housing them all for so long, for making sure they weren’t hungry and homeless. She knew that he had done all he could for them, but the words wouldn’t come. She felt so bereft at his leaving, she could only let him shake her hand before he laid his keys on the table and, without another word, walked out of the apartment. As the door closed behind him, and she heard his feet on the stairs, Ruth looked at the keys, and finally accepted that Herbert wasn’t coming home again. No man who thinks he might come back leaves the keys to his home on the table. She moved to the window and looking down into the street watched him walk away, suitcase in hand, his head bent against the late October drizzle.

“Goodbye, Herbert,” she whispered. Then with a deep breath she turned back to the room and slowly and methodically began to clear the breakfast table. When it was done she called the children to come and do their lessons.

“Uncle Herbert’s gone away for a holiday,” she told them. “He says you girls can use his bedroom while he’s away. That’s kind of him, isn’t it?”

“Will he want it back when he comes home again?” asked Inge.

“Of course he will,” said Laura. “It’s his room.” She glanced across at her mother and added, “But it will be nice to sleep in there for now.”

When they had finished their lessons, while Ruth made up Herbert’s bed with clean sheets, the girls moved their few possessions into his bedroom. They moved the clothes he had left behind into one corner of the wardrobe and began to settle in.

Ruth made the other bedroom more comfortable for the twins, deciding that she would continue to sleep on the sofa in the living room. That way everyone had a little more space. She had counted the money Herbert had given her, and she had to admit he had done his best. If she were careful she could make it last for two or even three months. They would not eat well, but they would not starve either, as they waited for Kurt to come. She divided the notes up into several smaller bundles, which she hid in different places in the apartment. One crammed between the lavatory cistern and the wall, another buried in a tin of flour in the kitchen, a third under the mattress in the twins’ room, and a fourth, the largest, tucked into her own underwear. The rest she put into the cashbox with the passports and other personal documents that was locked in their suitcase. Ruth did not know why she felt compelled to do this. It was unlikely burglars would break into a third-floor apartment, but she remembered how important the cashbox buried in the garden had been, and although there was no garden in which to hide it here, she was determined not to have all her money in the same place. She told Laura where the money was hidden. It was Laura, after all, who had remembered the box buried in the garden.

“If anything should happen to me,” she said gently, “you’ll know where to find the money.”

Laura stared at her in horror. “You won’t leave us, will you, Mutti?” she whispered.

Ruth gathered her into her arms and said, “No, darling. I won’t leave you, but we have to look after the children now, you and I, and if there was an accident or something…” Ruth’s voice trailed off as Laura’s arms tightened round her and she buried her face in her mother’s neck. For a long moment they hugged each other close. “You are my strength, now, Laura,” Ruth said. “You must help me with the younger ones.”

After lunch, they all trailed down the stairs and out into the autumn wind. The earlier drizzle had stopped, but there was a distinct chill in the air, and Ruth realised that it wouldn’t be long before she had to find the children warmer clothes if they were going out of the apartment at all. Ruth led them briskly along the street, away from the gardens, towards the canal that carried sluggish brown water behind the apartment buildings. There was a path on either side, joined by two bridges that spanned the water giving pedestrian access to the neighbourhood beyond. The children loved to walk by the canal, running ahead of their mother to drop sticks from one bridge into the slow-moving water, and rushing to the other bridge to see them arrive there.

Ruth had been afraid to let the twins play this game at first, for fear that they might fall into the canal as they raced along the path, but, holding the hand of each, she too ran between the bridges, encouraging the sticks they had dropped. It was harmless fun, it gave the children some exercise, brought a little colour to their cheeks, and laughter to their lives. Nowhere was there a sign banning Jews from the towpath.

Today when they returned from this excursion, climbing the stairs to the apartment, it felt to Ruth, for the first time, as if they were coming home. She unlocked the door and the children tumbled inside, the girls rushing into their new bedroom, the twins stumping across to the window to watch the streetlamps come on in the quiet street below.

For the first time since they had arrived in Munich, that night Ruth lay down upon the sofa, and drifted off into an easy sleep. Things were still going to be difficult, she knew that, but as she said her prayers, praying as always for Kurt to come and find them soon, she thought that maybe God was listening to her after all, and she knew the glimmerings of hope. Herbert had left them, but they had a roof, some money and each other. As she had stood beside the children’s beds, the twins, curled up together in the bed like kittens in a basket, Inge flat on her face, one arm thrown over her head and Laura, almost invisible under the quilt, she felt a sudden and overwhelming flood of love for them. Whatever happened, it was her job to protect them.

The first crash on the door made it shudder. The second splintered the wood around the lock and the third made it swing open drunkenly on its hinges. The noise set the children screaming, and Ruth shot to her feet, her heart hammering. Two men burst into the room, shouting. “Out! Out! Out!”

At first they were huge, dark figures, bursting into the apartment, making the children scream with terror, but then they were revealed as long-coated, jackbooted storm troopers, carrying guns.

Behind them was Frau Schultz.

Ruth and the children had just finished their midday meal and were still round the table.

One of the men strode through the apartment, peering into each room while the other marched over to Ruth and grabbed her violently by the hair.

“You’ve got ten minutes to pack,” he growled, yanking at Ruth’s hair so that she gasped in pain. “This place is too good for Jews. Out! The lot of you! Out! Out now!”

“Where? Where shall we go?” faltered Ruth, leaning towards her captor to try and ease the tearing at her scalp. Her words were almost drowned by the screams of the children, and the other man suddenly backhanded a slap across Inge’s face.

“Shut up!”

Inge’s hysterical screams stopped abruptly, and were replaced by a soft whimper. A white-faced Laura gathered the boys into her arms, doing her best to soothe their terrified cries, while struggling to stop her own.

“You’re terrifying the children,” Ruth stammered. “Please leave them alone. We’ll go if we must, but let me collect their things together.”

“Ten minutes.” The man released her hair. “And you can only take what you can carry.”

Frau Schultz walked across to the sofa and sat down, her back erect, her handbag on her knees, watching. Her eyes gleamed with triumph as she said, “And don’t take anything that belongs to me!”

“To you?” Ruth couldn’t help herself. “Belongs to you?”

“All this belongs to me now. I’ve earned it!”

Earned it? Somehow Frau Schultz was taking over Herbert’s apartment. How had she earned it? Ruth’s mind was in a spin, but there was no time for further exchange, let alone explanation, the ten minutes were ticking away, and the two Gestapo were standing waiting, waiting for an excuse to strike again.

Released from the man’s grasp, Ruth hurried into the boys’ bedroom, and pulled the suitcase from the wardrobe. The old deed box was still inside it. Hurriedly she threw the boys’ clothes into the case, covering the box, but with the man watching from the door, she didn’t dare retrieve the money she’d hidden under the mattress.

“Laura,” she called, putting her own clothes in on top of the boys’, “get your things. Bring them here.” The man glanced over his shoulder into the living room, but there was still no time to reach under the mattress for the money.

Laura came into the room, her arms draped with the few clothes she and Inge had between them, her precious diary tucked in among them. The man watched as Ruth piled them into the case and closed the lid.

“Good girl.” With force of will, Ruth managed to keep her voice calm though fear was coursing through her and she was shaking. Suppose the men decided to search the case? She looked across at the younger children. Inge was sitting on the floor, whimpering like a whipped puppy. Hans and Peter stood together, wide-eyed, no longer crying, but staring, almost rigid with fear, at the men in uniform who towered over them. “Now, take the boys to the bathroom while I finish packing our things.”

Laura stared at her for a moment and then nodded. Grasping a twin with each hand she dragged them into the bathroom and began to help them with their trousers. Hoping to distract the watching Gestapo from what Laura was doing, Ruth went into the kitchen, picked up her shopping basket and began to pack food into it.

“What are you taking?” demanded Frau Schultz, leaping to her feet and peering round the kitchen door. “What are you stealing? All the food in that fridge is mine.”

“Just a little flour, and some rice,” replied Ruth shakily. “Some bread and a few apples. I must have something to feed the children. I beg you.”

One of the Gestapo gave a cruel laugh. “Yes, dirty Jew! Beg! On your knees! Go on! On your knees. Beg!”

Gripping the precious basket tightly, Ruth forced herself onto her knees. “Please, Frau Schultz, let me take this basket of food for my children.”

Frau Schultz shrugged, and turned away, and Ruth made as if to get up, but the trooper kicked out, sending her sprawling.

“You haven’t begged me, yet,” he jeered. “Beg me, on your knees!”

Ruth begged.

The second man came to the door and yet again she had to beg, but at last, tiring of the game, they let her get up and carry her basket to the door. As she passed the Gestapo man, he took hold of the basket, and reaching into it selected an apple, biting into it with sharp white teeth before he let go of the handle again, and allowed Ruth to hand the basket to a white-faced Laura.

“You carry this, Laura,” she said. “I’ll get the suitcase.” She went back into the bedroom and picked up the case that now held everything that they had left in the world. She didn’t know if Laura had remembered the money hidden in the bathroom, and could only pray that she had, and had managed to retrieve it. The cash under the mattress would have to remain there. No doubt Frau Schultz would find it soon enough.

She gathered the children together and was helping them put on their coats, when Hans suddenly looked at Peter and saw he was clutching Flop-Ear, the rabbit Herbert had given him. Hans let out a wail, “Where’s Bunnkin? I want Bunnkin.” Pulling free of Laura’s restraining hand, he darted back to his bedroom to find his own rabbit. Diving among the tumbled bedcovers, he retrieved the rabbit, still dressed in his striped trousers and hugged it to him.

“Wait a minute!” One of the Gestapo grabbed Hans by the scruff of the neck and lifted him clean off his feet, snatching the rabbit from him as he did so. “Better make sure you’ve nothing hidden in this.” He dropped Hans unceremoniously to the floor and ripped the head off the rabbit. Pulling out the stuffing, he peered into its insides before tossing it aside. Hans, grabbing the remains of his rabbit, began to scream, and immediately Peter joined in.

“Get them out of here! Out! Out!” The Gestapo man pointed at Laura. “You, take them out.”

Terrified, Laura grabbed at the boys, and still clutching the basket of food dragged them out of the apartment. Inge, moaning softly, clung to her mother, her face buried in Ruth’s skirt.

“You’re lucky,” remarked one of the Gestapo. “You’re free to go. Your brother-in-law has been arrested.”

Ruth stared at him. “Arrested?” she echoed faintly. “Herbert? Why?”

“He was caught,” replied the man. “Smuggling diamonds out of the country.”

“Diamonds? Herbert?”

“Yes!” smirked Frau Schultz, “and now he’s been caught… and it’s all thanks to me! I’ve been watching you,” she went on gleefully. “I’ve been watching all of you. I saw him sneaking round, going to different jewellers, buying precious stones. I saw him getting ready to run. I saw him buying his ticket… and I reported him. They took him yesterday when he went to collect his ticket… and he had diamonds in the heels of his shoes!”

One of the Gestapo gave a scornful laugh. “In his shoes! It’s the first place we look!”

“And now I have my reward for being a good German,” crowed Frau Schultz. “I have a new home and you are back where you belong… in the gutter!”

“And if I see you anywhere round here again,” the Gestapo man said grimly, “you’ll find yourself in prison and your children in an orphanage. Now get out.”

Ruth picked up the suitcase in one hand, and pulling Inge along with the other, walked out of the flat, down the stairs, to where Laura and the twins were waiting for her in the street.

5

The night he had been arrested, Kurt had been frog-marched along the street to a waiting tarpaulin-covered lorry. There, along with several other men, he had been forced into the lorry, already so full of crushed humanity that it seemed impossible to cram in any more. Kurt stood, his arms pinned to his sides, with his face pressed against shoemaker Martin Rosen’s back. Manfred Schmied, the tailor from along the street, leaned heavily against him, and Rudy Stein, who had once been a teacher at the local school, was actually standing on Kurt’s feet. More and more were pushed into the lorry at gunpoint, until finally even the Gestapo could see there was no room for more. The engine roared into life and with a sudden jolt the lorry pulled away. In the back men cried out as the movement tipped and twisted them, crushing them violently against their fellows. Someone’s bladder failed and there was a strong smell of urine close to where Kurt stood. Someone began to sob quietly to himself, and the noise of general lamentation filled the lorry.

Kurt lost track of time as the lorry rumbled and bounced its way out of the town. He could no longer feel his feet. He could hardly breathe, for the smell of sweat, urine and faeces that had filled the covered lorry was almost tangible. Others had been overcome by it and the stench of vomit was added to the mix. When they finally stopped, Kurt had no idea of how long they had been travelling in the nightmare vehicle. The stop was only for a moment or two. Outside they could hear shouted orders and then the lorry jerked forward again, bumping across an unpaved surface, before it came to a halt once more, and at last the canvas flaps were thrown up, letting the warm night air flood in. They were still unable to move, but gradually those at the back either fell or were hauled out, and the crush began to lessen.

“Out! Out! All out!” The guards prodded them with rifles, jabbing ribs with the barrels, or smashing the butts across heads if anyone moved too slowly.

“My God! What a stink!” cried one of the guards as he climbed up on the tailgate. “You can tell this lot are Jews! The truck stinks to high heaven!”

Kurt heaved himself awkwardly off the lorry, and at the prod of a rifle followed Martin and Rudy into the line of men that had formed up outside. Manfred was soon beside them, and they stood and waited as the last of the men were unloaded. Some were unable to stand, their cramped legs giving way under them, but kicks from the SS guards and the lash of a whip soon had them crawling over to the column of men and hauling themselves upright.

An SS man barked an order, and the column shuffled through a set of heavy gates, above which were inscribed the words “Work Makes You Free”.

“We’ve been brought to a work camp,” Kurt thought, and an icy-cold fear crept through him. There had been rumours of such camps, but they were for Communists, criminals, enemies of the state. Why had he and the others been arrested? He knew, of course, knew that it was because they were Jews. Jews with businesses. Jews who had no business to make money out of honest Germans. Jews who recently had come together to form a local committee to try and protect themselves from the ever-increasing persecution. Jews who were making a nuisance of themselves. Jews.

Someone further up the line fell over, and was almost trampled as the column continued past him, stepping over him, before coming to a halt in front of a squat, square building. With Rudy Stein on one side of him and Manfred Schmied on the other, Kurt waited. The sun came up behind the building, and out of the corner of his eye he could see other buildings away in the distance, surrounded by barbed wire.

And so they waited, and waited, as the sun rose higher, its heat pounding their unprotected heads. Some, unable to withstand the heat, keeled over, collapsing in a heap on the ground. No one made a move to help them, no one dared move as the SS guards stalked the lines, whips in hand, pistols in their belts, looking for signs of rebellion. The sun rose to its zenith, and still they stood there until at last an SS officer appeared from inside the building. He strode out in front of the drooping column of men, and raising his voice began to harangue them.

“I am Oberführer Hans Loritz, commandant of this camp,” he announced, adding ominously, “and you will get to know me.” He pointed his finger, drawing it along the line of men. “You are the dregs of humanity. You are enemies of the Reich, and now you have been brought here you will work for the good of the German people. You will stay here until you have, through hard work and re-education, understood the error of your ways and can be returned to society in safety. You will stay here for as long as is takes.” His voice had risen as he spoke and now it was almost a screech. “In the meantime you will work. You will be obedient to the guards. No disobedience or weakness will be tolerated. My guards have been well trained and they will be watching you. If you fail to obey an order, you will be punished. If you are slow to obey an order, you will be punished. If you break camp regulations, you will be punished. If you incite other prisoners to rebel, you will be punished. If you don’t work hard, you will be punished. If you show lack of respect to your guards, you will be punished. You are here because you are not fit to live among decent Germans. You will stay here until you are fit to return… however long that takes.” He walked over to one of the men who had collapsed in the heat, and kicked him in the ribs. “While you are on parade you will remain at attention at all times… or you will be punished.” His eyes roved the phalanx of men standing before him, as if searching out resistance, recalcitrance. The prisoners remained rigid, unmoving, as the guards continued to stalk between the lines.

“Registration will now begin!” With this order Hans Loritz turned on his heel and strode back to the building.

When he had disappeared the guards marched the first rank of prisoners to the door, where again they waited in line. The rest continued to stand in the sun. No one spoke. No one moved. The commandant’s words echoed in their heads and the roving SS guards ensured that there was no break in the ranks.

At last their turn came and their line moved forward. Kurt stood in front of a desk and gave his name, address and date of birth. The SS sergeant wrote it down meticulously in his ledger. He then looked up at Kurt.

“Why have you been arrested?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Kurt replied. As the words left his mouth he was struck a powerful blow in the back. He staggered forward, only just maintaining his feet.

“Stand to attention, scum!” screamed a voice behind him, and Kurt caught himself from turning and managed to draw himself upright again.

“You are here because you are an agitator, a dirty Jew stirring up other Jews,” said the sergeant, continuing in a bored drawl, without looking up. “Based on article one of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of People and State of 28th February 1933, you are taken into protective custody in the interest of public security and order. Reason: suspicion of activities inimical to the state… or as I said,” and now he did look up again, his eyes narrowing, “you’re a dirty Jew stirring up other Jews, and until you’ve learnt better, you’ll stay here… and work!”

Work Kurt did. Work they all did, from first light, throughout the day, until they dragged themselves back to their huts to sleep. The prisoners’ compound was surrounded by coils of barbed wire, overlooked by five watchtowers, where ever-vigilant sentries manned machine guns. The sleeping quarters were housed in bare concrete buildings that had once been an explosives factory. Within a wall and surrounded by a high electric fence, they stood in ranks on either side of a track that led to the parade ground. Kurt, Rudy, Martin and Manfred were assigned to the same hut.

Once their details had been taken, they were photographed, had their heads shaved, were stripped of their clothes and given prison garb, little more than ill-fitting white overalls. Any personal possessions they had, including money, had been logged in another ledger and taken from them.

“There is a canteen where you can buy what you need,” said the corporal who listed their effects. “The cost will be deducted from your money.”

“What happens when it runs out?” Manfred had dared to ask.

“Then you can buy nothing more,” snapped the man. “What do you think this is? A charity home?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Your family can send you more money. That is how it works.”

“But they don’t know where I am!” Manfred had not yet learned to keep his mouth shut. A sudden lash from behind made him stagger, crying out and clasping his neck where a dark red weal sprang to life.

Kurt, Rudy and Martin, waiting in line, kept their eyes rigidly ahead. The guard with the whip had turned his attention to them. He walked along the waiting line, flicking his whip at the unmoving prisoners, enjoying the fear in their staring eyes. The SS, indeed well trained for such work, had begun their work of dehumanising their prisoners.

Once their “registration” was completed, their group was lined up again, and clutching the few possessions they had been given, a few items of clothing, a bowl, mug, knife, fork and spoon, they were marched into the prisoners’ compound to the huts they’d been assigned.

As new prisoners they had to find bunk space among the already occupied bunks. Shuffling into the hut, they were confronted by a tall prisoner with an aggressive face, and few teeth.

“I’m Horst Kleiber,” he told them. “I’m the sergeant of this hut. I’m in charge of everything in here. You do what I tell you, at the double, and we’ll rub along. You don’t, you’ll be in dead trouble because then we’re all in the shit. Got it?” They got it, but it was almost impossible to comply with all the regulations. The first morning, Kurt was struggling to make his bed. His was a top bunk, and as he wrestled with the bed sheet his feet disturbed the bed of the man below him.

“Watch your sodding feet!” roared the man. “They’ll be here in two minutes!”

In less than that time, two SS guards came into the hut and checked the beds and the cupboards. Manfred’s cupboard was deemed to be untidy, though he had only the socks and the mess tins handed out to him the previous day. One of the guards upended the cupboard onto the floor and then beat him with steady blows of his whip until the contents were replaced. Everyone else in the hut stood to attention in silence as this punishment was inflicted, each praying that his bed, his cupboard, would pass muster.

Life in the camp was sheer hell. Every morning they got up at first light, and once the hut had been passed as tidy by the guards, which seldom happened at first inspection, Kleiber led the section out to parade as a platoon for roll call. Then it was labour. Hard labour. The camp was to be rebuilt, extended, to accommodate more prisoners, with improved quarters for the SS guards and their families. All the old buildings had to be torn down and replaced. Everything was done at the double, and any man seen flagging was kicked or beaten.

Kurt and Manfred were on the same work detail and spent much of their day as human draft horses, pulling huge wagons laden with stone from place to place. Always at the double, always at the mercy of the whips and rifle butts. Rudy, who was older and smaller, was on a similar work detail, but he struggled to keep up. He needed glasses, but even though it meant he had difficulty in seeing where he was going, he seldom wore them.

“Take ’em off, mate,” advised Horst Kleiber. “They always pick on blokes with specs, think you’re intellectuals!”

He was right. After two such encounters with the SS guards, Rudy took his glasses off.

Horst had been arrested several years before because he was a Communist. As an old hand, he knew how best to work the system to make life fractionally easier. He was a fierce hut sergeant, roaring at anyone who risked getting the whole hut punished, but he was also scrupulously fair when it came to division of food, his Communist principles allowing every man equal shares. Kurt, Manfred, Martin and Rudy were the only Jews in the hut, but though Horst would probably have had no truck with them outside, here he ensured that they received their fair share. He was responsible for discipline in the hut, and that affected everyone alike. As the four friends settled in, other inmates taught them tricks that helped them escape the attentions of the guards. No one in the hut wanted to draw the attention of the SS.

As the weeks progressed there was an awful inevitability about their lives. They had each been allowed to send one postcard to their family at home, to say where they were, and to ask for money.

“They make a nice little profit on their canteen,” Horst pointed out when Kurt expressed surprise that they were allowed to communicate with the outside world. “They need you to have money to spend so that they can insist on your spending it!”

The canteen provided some of the necessities of camp life. It was possible to buy, at a price, a little extra food, and although this was often almost inedible, they ate it anyway; anything to stave off the ever-present gnawing hunger. Clothes had to be repaired, and precious funds had to be used to buy needles and thread. Clothes in disrepair were the excuse for further beatings at the hands of the guards.

Rudy grew steadily weaker. The others helped him whenever they could, but on work detail it was every man for himself. Helping a struggling comrade almost certainly earned you the lash of a whip or the kick of a jackboot and did the comrade no good at all.

“I’m going to die in this place,” Rudy said dismally one evening when they had collapsed on their bunks after an extended evening roll call. “I can’t go on like this.”

“You can and you must!” insisted Kurt. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” He looked across at his old friend, and took in his emaciated state. They had all lost weight, the meagre diet and hard physical work had ensured that, but he saw now that Rudy was in a worse state than the rest of them. The flesh had fallen away from his face, so that his skull seemed to strain through the parchment of his skin. His arms and legs, poking from under his camp overalls, looked skeletal in the harsh light of the lamp. But it was his eyes that told Kurt that Rudy was right. There was nothing in his eyes, sunk into the hollows of his face, but a blank stare; the life had gone out of his eyes.

“It’s all right for you,” Rudy said. “Most of the time I can’t even see where I’m going. They shout ‘Tempo! Tempo! Los! Los!’ and I don’t know which way to run.”

The next day he was detailed to break up the concrete blocks from one of the demolished buildings. Swinging the heavy hammer was beyond him, and one of the guards, a sadistic bully called Schuller, grabbed the sledgehammer from Rudy’s grasp and swung it himself, smashing it down onto Rudy’s legs. With an agonised scream, Rudy collapsed, his legs useless beneath him. Blood streamed, soaking through his grubby white overalls, as he writhed on the ground with pain.

Schuller looked down at him dispassionately and said, “That is how you swing a sledgehammer.” He looked round the rest of the crew. “Why aren’t you working?” he bawled. “Does anyone else want a demonstration?” The rest of the detail turned away from Rudy, trying to close their ears to his agonised cries. Schuller looked down at him with contempt and then pointed to the man nearest to him. “You! You take him back to his hut. On the double! You’ve five minutes to be back here!”

It was Kleiber whom he’d chosen. Kleiber dropped his hammer and bent to Rudy. There was no way he could carry him without subjecting him to further agony, so he simply picked him up and hoisted him over his shoulder, his smashed legs dangling behind, his blood pouring onto the gravel. Kleiber took him back towards the ranks of huts with Schuller’s bellow of “Tempo! Tempo!” echoing in his ears. When he reached the hut he laid Rudy on his bunk. He was no longer screaming, he had passed out with the pain. Kleiber tried to straighten the damaged legs, but he could see that Rudy would never walk again.

“Poor bugger! Better off unconscious,” Kleiber muttered as he looked down at the motionless body. “Better off dead, now.”

When they returned to the hut at the end of the day, they found Rudy was indeed dead. His bed was soaked in blood, his pale face a mask of agony.

Kleiber told them what had happened. “Nothing we could have done for him, poor bugger,” he said. “He was a goner as soon as that bastard Schuller raised the sledge.”

Kurt looked down at the man whom he’d known all his life. Rudy, the teacher that all the children had loved, lying in a pool of blood with his legs smashed.

“What happens to him now?” he asked Kleiber.

“We take him out to roll call,” replied Kleiber. “Now!”

“We what?” Kurt was incredulous.

“He’s not reported dead yet, is he?” Kleiber sounded weary. “If he’s not on parade the numbers won’t tally and we’ll all be out there all night. Remember last week?”

How could they forget it? For some reason the numbers at evening roll call had been out and the entire camp had stood there for six hours under the glare of the searchlights before being allowed to crawl back to their huts for a couple of hours’ sleep before reveille.

“He’s your mate, you can carry him,” ordered Kleiber, and Kurt and Martin lifted the now stiffening body of Rudy Stein and solemnly carried him out onto the parade ground to be counted. By the next evening Rudy’s body had been disposed of, and his bunk, scrubbed for an hour by Manfred to remove the blood, had been taken by a new prisoner.

That night Kurt lay on his bunk and thought of home, aching for his beloved Ruth and his children. It was at night that he was at his most wretched. Despite the need for sleep, he found that he lay awake, in dread of what the following day would bring. Would he even survive it, or would he, like Rudy, be murdered by one of the guards? How long would he be in this hellish place? He had been called to the administration office, and a list of his “crimes” had been read out to him. Joining his local Jewish committee made him a troublemaker. Until it was clear that he had atoned for this, had renounced such action again, he would not be set free. He was sent back to his work detail with the SS officer’s words ringing in his ears.

“We’re watching you, Friedman. You’re an agitator. We’re watching you!”

It was a week later that Martin Rosen disappeared. In the morning he was at roll call, at the end of the day he was not. As the men paraded ready for roll, Kleiber was shouting at them. “Where the fuck is he? Someone must know!” But no one did, and as they lined up for roll, they knew that it would be their hut’s fault that the numbers didn’t tally. The wrath of the SS would come down on them. Pale-faced and rigid with fear, Kleiber’s platoon took their place on the parade ground.

Then a miracle happened. Roll was called but Martin Rosen’s name wasn’t. Incredulous, they were dismissed, and within minutes of returning to the hut, a new prisoner came through the door. Kleiber allotted him Martin Rosen’s bed.

“Where can he be?” Kurt muttered to Manfred as they ate their meagre evening meal. “What’s happened to him?”

“Daren’t even think about it, after what happened to poor Rudy,” Manfred said, scraping his bowl with his fingers to scoop up the last drop of the slop that had been in it.

Klaus Herman, another in their hut, looked across from where he sat. “He was in our work party this morning,” he said. “He was called to Nero’s office. Haven’t seen him since.”

Kurt gave an involuntary shudder. Nero was the prisoners’ name for the commandant. A call to his office usually meant some great punishment was about to be administered, usually in front of the full complement of prisoners. It was Oberführer Loritz’s way of reminding them all that they were at his mercy… and that he never showed any. What could Martin have done, he wondered? Was he even now being tortured in the punishment block?

“Whatever’s happened to him, he’s not coming back here,” Kleiber told them. “They’ve filled his bunk!”

What had happened to Martin Rosen remained a mystery, and that mystery was only revealed to Kurt when he too was called to the commandant’s office a few weeks later. He was working in a detail that was digging foundations for the new huts. It was backbreaking work, and was carried on with little respite, though the winter weather had made the ground rock-hard. They had stopped for the half-hour allowed for their midday meal when Kurt had received the summons. He stood up shakily. His legs felt like jelly, but he managed to walk across to the gate which led from the compound to the administrative block. He was taken to a cell, and told to stand to attention while he waited to be called. He stood, stiff and still for over an hour, wondering why he had been called. Trying to remember anything that he had done… or not done… that might have earned him a stint in the punishment block, but he could think of nothing. Not that that mattered to the SS. There didn’t have to be a reason for them to punish you, they simply did it because they felt like it, because they enjoyed it. These thoughts were no comfort to Kurt as he stood, still to attention, waiting.

At last the door swung open and at a barked order from an SS corporal he marched out and followed the man along a corridor, through a door into another part of the building, and was finally brought into an office. Here seated behind a large desk sat Oberführer Loritz. He paid no attention to Kurt at all. Simply went on writing something in a large book before him. Kurt waited rigidly to attention, as did his escort, until finally the commandant looked up.

“Who is this?” he demanded and the corporal snapped out a “Heil Hitler” before replying. “Kurt Friedman, sir. Jew.”

“Thank you, Corporal, you may leave us.”

The corporal snapped his heels and saluted again, before leaving the room.

For a long moment the commandant stared at Kurt, and Kurt, terrified of making eye contact, stared at a spot above the Oberführer’s head.

“Friedman,” the commandant said at last. “A Jew. Do you know what we want to do with all Jews, Friedman?”

Kurt hesitated for a moment. Which was the right answer? Yes or no? Which did the commandant want to hear?

“We want to get rid of the lot of you,” Oberführer Loritz answered his own question. “One way or another we want to get rid of the lot of you. Do you understand, Friedman?”

“Yes, sir.” Kurt’s voice was hardly more than a croak.

“Yes, sir,” mimicked the commandant. “I doubt it, Friedman. I doubt it. But you,” he pointed at Kurt with a pudgy finger, “you are lucky. You are going to be given the chance to leave here.”

Kurt’s head began to spin.

“To leave here provided you promise to take you family and leave Germany.” Loritz paused a moment and then went on. “Are you prepared to give that undertaking?”

Kurt gulped for air, enough air to allow him to speak. “Yes, sir.”

“And where would you go? Do you have relations abroad?”

Kurt’s mind continued to spin. He had no relations abroad, his family had lived in Kirnheim all his life, had run the grocery in Gerbergasse for most of it. No, he had no relations outside Germany.

“A cousin in America, sir,” he said, without actually deciding to say it.

Oberführer Loritz sniffed. “America is full of Jews,” he remarked. “It will be their downfall.” His eyes drilled into Kurt. “And this cousin, will he vouch for you?”

“I’m sure he will, sir.”

“And then there is the question of your property here. You own property, I understand.”

“A shop, sir,” replied Kurt, adding when this elicited no comment, “with an apartment above it.”

“Your property would be forfeit of course. You will have no need of it and it can be sold to a good honest German family.” His eyes bored into Kurt. ”And the money will, of course, revert to the state.”

Kurt swallowed. “Of course, sir.” The money might revert to the state, but much more likely to Nero’s bank account.

How would they live if the money paid for his property didn’t come to him? How would he live if he didn’t get out of this hellhole camp? There was only one way to get out of here, one way to get back to his family and try and get them to safety somewhere, and that was to agree to whatever this man said. If Kurt said anything but ‘Yes, sir’ he would be back in the prisoners’ compound and he might never see his family again.

Oberführer Loritz pulled a paper from under the book in which he had been writing, and pushed it across to Kurt. “You will sign this to say you and your family will be out of the country in three weeks, that your property will revert to the state, and that you will never return to Germany again.” He looked up at Kurt. “Do you have title deeds to this shop?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They must be lodged with the Emigration Office in Munich. Within the three weeks.” The commandant held out a pen. “Sign!”

Kurt grasped the proffered pen and signed. He had no chance to read the document he had signed. He had no idea whether he had agreed to any other conditions not stipulated by the commandant, but he knew it was his only chance of freedom, so he took it… and signed.

“One more thing, Friedman,” snapped the Oberführer. “I want to hear no slander about how this camp is run. Prisoners here work hard, but they are well fed, and rewarded for their work.” He paused and his eyes held Kurt’s. “Is that understood, Friedman?”

“Yes, sir, quite understood.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Oberführer Loritz’s voice was ice-cold. “If you are found to be spreading malicious lies about the camp and its staff, you will be arrested and returned here immediately. Immediately! Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Kurt, ready to agree to anything. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

Things moved very quickly after that. He was taken back to the Jourhaus, the building where they had all been registered on the first day, and was given his own clothes back. He changed into them, but they no longer fitted him, hanging off him like a big brother’s cast-offs.

“You look like a scarecrow,” scoffed the SS soldier who oversaw his departure. He picked up Kurt’s wallet and peered into it before handing it back to him. It was exceedingly light. Kurt doubted if he even had the bus fare home, but he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to slip out through those fearsome gates and run for his life.

The gates clanged shut, but Kurt didn’t dare run; he walked away from the camp without a backward glance. He knew if he looked back one of the guards would shout at him, drag him back inside, and close those awful gates behind him. He had been allowed to leave, but even as he hurried away, he dreaded hearing his name called. It would be a game to them.

“Halt, Friedman! Where do you think you’re going?” And if he didn’t stop he would be shot in the back. Shot while trying to escape. He’d seen it happen.

Fear crawled over him as he continued to walk away. Surely this hope of release would be withdrawn; surely this was yet another cruel punishment. Let him think he was free and then, as he actually, actually began to believe it, bring him back, back into the nightmare that was Dachau.

Despite his determination to keep walking, Kurt’s panic overtook him and he began to run. Running was easy. Running was what he’d been doing for the past four months, running in the camp had kept him alive, but even as his feet pounded on the road that led to the town of Dachau, he expected the guard dogs to be unleashed, to hear them give tongue, to feel their teeth tear into him. When, daring at last to glance over his shoulder, he realised he was no longer within sight of the camp, and there was no pursuit, he allowed his pace to ease a little, caught his breath and then settled down to a steady jog.

When he got off the bus in Kirnheim, Kurt walked from the bus station, along the familiar streets of his childhood, and turned into Gerbergasse. It was late Monday afternoon, a time when people would normally still be out and about their business, but the street, though not quite deserted, seemed to Kurt abnormally quiet. Then he realised what the difference was. There were no children to be seen. No children playing in the street; no sound of little girls chanting as the skipping rope slapped the pavement, no excited shouts from boys playing football or scuffling in the dust. There was not a child in sight.

He walked on, past the synagogue, which, he noticed, had new doors, not the ornately carved ones he had always loved and admired, but plain, untreated timber on utilitarian black hinges. His step hastened as he passed familiar shops, some with boarded-up windows, to the corner where his own shop was… had been. He stared in horror at what he saw. It, too, was boarded up, but not just the window, the door as well, a haphazard criss-cross of planks nailed into a blackened doorframe. Dark swathes of soot streaked the walls, and the blackened frames of the upstairs windows gaped to the open air. For a long, disbelieving moment, Kurt stood quite still, staring at the ruin of his home. Terror clutched his heart, a physical pain. Ruth! Where’s Ruth? The children? Were they there when the fire broke out? Are they safe? Did this happen the night of his arrest, or later on? Where are they now?

Turning his back on the burnt-out blackened shell of his home, he rushed into the Meyers’ bakery on the other side of the street. Leah Meyer was behind the counter as he crashed through the door. She looked up, fear leaping in her eyes, to see who had burst in so violently. The fear turned to astonishment and then pleasure as despite his scarecrow appearance, hollow cheeks and shaved head, she recognised him.

“Herr Friedman!” she cried. “You’re back! God be praised! You’re home.” She hurried round from behind the counter to clasp his hand and pump it up and down.

“Where’s my family?” demanded Kurt. “Are they safe? What happened?”

“Yes, yes,” she assured him. “Don’t worry! They’re safe. They escaped the fire. Your wife took them to your brother. They are living with him.”

Kurt sank onto the chair beside the counter, suddenly exhausted. “Thank God!” he murmured. “Thank God for that.” He gave Frau Meyer a weak smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. What happened? What happened to the shop? How did it catch fire?”

At that moment Leo Meyer came into the shop from the bakery behind. When he saw Kurt sitting by the counter he rushed over to him, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve come back, Kurt. Thank God you’re safe.” He turned to his wife.

“Put up the shutters, Leah. Let’s close up.” He turned back to Kurt. “We don’t stay open after dark anymore, it isn’t safe. It’s bad enough in the daytime. You’ll stay with us for the night, eh? Before you go to Munich to find them?”

He helped his wife put sturdy wooden shutters in place across the window. “Protects the glass from stray bricks,” he explained as he slid the metal bar into its socket and snapped the padlock closed. “Wouldn’t stop anyone determined to break in, but it slows them down.”

Once the shop was secured, the Meyers led the way up the stairs, to the apartment above.

“I expect you’re hungry,” Frau Meyer said, and without waiting for Kurt to admit it, went into the kitchen to prepare some food. She had taken in his emaciated face and the way his clothes hung off his body.

“Tell me what happened,” Kurt said to her husband as he sat down. Leo took out a cigarette case and passed it over to Kurt, before taking a cigarette himself and lighting both.

“It was the night of the riot, the night you were arrested,” he said. “You saw the mob, the frenzy they were in.” Leo shuddered at the recollection of that night. “We were lucky that night, we only had our windows broken. We locked ourselves into the bakery, or they would probably have arrested me too.” Leo inhaled deeply on his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs. “Well, when the SS took you away, the mob set fire to your shop. They’d already tried to burn the synagogue, and they got the taste for fire. They weren’t people anymore, not people, just one huge howling beast. Your shop was there, it belonged to a Jew and so they set it on fire.”

“But Ruth? The children? You said they were all right. They weren’t hurt? They got out in time?”

“Thanks to the courage of your wife,” Leo replied, “they all got out. But it was close. She managed to lower them down from the upstairs window. She had to jump herself. She sprained her ankle, but amazingly that was all.” Leo drew hard on his cigarette. “She is a brave woman, your Ruth.”

Over the meal that Leah had prepared, the Meyers told Kurt how Ruth had found the deed box; how she’d been attacked by the Hitler Youth; how she’d refused to burden the Meyers any longer.

“She was determined to take them to your brother,” said Leah. “She wouldn’t stay with us any longer. She did write though, just once to say they’d arrived.”

“It’s where I told her to go if necessary,” Kurt said, “but I didn’t really think she’d have to.” He looked across the table at his neighbours, a couple he had known for years, but with whom he had never been close. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Thank you for all you did.”

Leah raised her hands. “Who would not?”

“She was right to go,” Leo told him. “No one’s safe round here. Oh, we try and get on with our daily lives, but it is more and more difficult. Our shops are continual targets for the Hitler Youth and as soon as we make repairs they come by again. Several of the local children have been beaten up by these gangs, and there’s no redress, no justice. Parents are keeping them indoors now. Since the new laws, we have no status.”

“For the first time in my life, I’m glad we weren’t blessed with children,” Leah said. “All my married life I prayed for children, begged God to give me just one child, but now I see the wisdom of His refusal. We won’t have to watch as our children are bullied, humiliated, injured, maybe even killed.”

The silence that followed the bitterness of these words lengthened as all three of them contemplated the dark void of the future.

“You’ll stay with us tonight,” Leo said at last. It wasn’t a question and Kurt felt another wave of gratitude for this couple’s generosity.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will. Then in the morning I’ll go to Munich.”

“Did you see the others, the others who were arrested the same night?” asked Leah tentatively. “Martin Rosen came home, just for a few days, and then he took his whole family and left. He didn’t say much.”

Kurt wasn’t surprised, Martin would certainly have been warned as he had. “Yes, Martin was there,” he said. “He got out before me. So, he’s gone?”

Leo nodded. “Yes, he’s gone.”

“But he had to leave everything behind,” said Leah. “All the tools in his workshop, all the furniture in his house. The Gestapo watched him pack up. They wouldn’t let him take anything that the family couldn’t carry between them as they walked out of the door.”

“One day they were there, the next they were gone.” Leo shook his head in disbelief. “There’s another family living in there now. Not Jews of course, but some official who works on the railway.” He looked across at Kurt. “Reckon someone would have moved into your place if it hadn’t been so badly damaged. No one can afford to repair it.” Leo passed Kurt another cigarette, and Kurt drew on it gratefully. He had no intention of telling the Meyers, or anyone else, that he had agreed that the state should take over his property.

“I shall go and have a look at it tomorrow before I go,” he said. “Just in case there is anything else I can salvage.” His mind flicked to the money he had hidden in the unused bread oven beside the stove in the living room. Was there any possibility it would still be there?

“Were Rudy Stein, or Manfred Schmied with you?” Leah was asking. “Do you know anything about them?”

Kurt forced his mind back to her question. “We were all together in one hut,” he said, “Rudy… died. He found the camp regime difficult and… and he wasn’t strong enough. I think Mannie is still there.” He drew deeply on his cigarette. “He may be released. I was let out because I agreed to collect my family and leave the country. I’ve got three weeks to prove to the authorities that we are emigrating… somewhere, otherwise I shall be sent back to Dachau, and the children will be put in an orphanage.” His face was bleak as he explained, “And God knows what will happen to Ruth.” He shook his head in despair. “I told them I had a cousin in America.”

“And have you?”

Kurt shook his head. “No, but unless I could convince them I had somewhere to go, they wouldn’t have let me out. This way at least we have a chance.”

Kurt spent the night in the bedroom his children had shared weeks earlier, and as he lay on the hard little bed he thought about them all. Ruth, his Ruth, so brave, so resourceful, saving the children from the fire. Finding the box, taking them all to Munich. Thank God they had got there safely. At least Herbert was there to look after them all until he, Kurt, could get there. Kurt thought of his children. Laura, only ten, but far older than her years, made to grow up too fast by what her life had become in the last few years. Inge, beautiful, spoilt, only six, but used to getting her own way. She seemed almost unaware of the animosity that surrounded them all. And then the twins, just three, prattling happily together as they played, so wrapped up in each other that they only seemed to be complete when both were there. His beloved family. Somehow he had to get them away, out of this benighted country, his family’s home for generations, which no longer accepted them as citizens, regarded them as subhuman.

He thought of his father, Amos, wounded fighting in the trenches for the Kaiser and the Fatherland. It hadn’t mattered then that he was a Jew, when the army was haemorrhaging men and every soldier was needed at the front. He’d been good enough to be a German then. And when he came home, limping from the shrapnel still lodged in his leg, Amos had slipped back into life as a shopkeeper, and brought his sons up to be both good Jews and good Germans.

Kurt had lied to them in Dachau and he knew it was a risk. He had no cousin in America, something the SS could discover easily enough if they bothered. He knew they had little chance of going to America, but they had to get out somewhere, and he had such a short time to make the arrangements. Thank God Ruth had found the deed box. She would have all the family documents safely with her, but, most important now, the deeds for the shop, which he must deliver to the Emigration Office in Munich. She had their passports, too, except for the twins’. Although Kurt didn’t expect the authorities to make it easy, they would probably allow him to put them on his, simply to get rid of them all.

But where they were going to go, and where the money was going to come from, he didn’t know. He had his watch and Ruth had her wedding ring, and he thought he remembered there were a brooch and some earrings in the box, which might fetch something. Otherwise they had no money. Any cash there might have been would, he realised, have been spent long ago.

Eventually, sleep overtook him, but it was a sleep beset with dreams; dreams of Dachau, dreams of the lorry that had taken him there, of the children calling his name, and the nightmare that finally startled him awake, Ruth on fire. She was running towards him, flames devouring her clothes, crackling through her hair, Ruth screaming, screaming to him for help, and he rooted to the spot unable to move as the fire engulfed her.

Kurt sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding, cold sweat running down his back, staring into the darkness. He could still hear her screams echoing in his head, and see the agony on her face.

There was no going back to sleep. Indeed Kurt didn’t dare, the nightmare had been so vivid, so real, he knew if he closed his eyes it would return. He switched on the light, and sitting with his eyes wide open waited for his racing heart to slow. He spent the rest of the night planning what he would do.

As soon as it was light, before much of the street was awake, he crossed the road again, and, with a claw hammer borrowed from Leo, levered the planks from the door and went into his shop. It was cold, dark and dank. Rain had blown in through the gaps in the planking, and the smell of damp soot was strong and acrid.

The shop had been gutted by the fire. There was nothing left but a smoke-blackened shell. The staircase was gone, and parts of the ceiling had collapsed, leaving the charred rafters exposed above.

Kurt looked up at the rafters, and then went back across the road to the bakery.

“Have you got a ladder I can borrow?” he asked Leo. “I need to try and get into the apartment, and the stairs have gone.”

“I have,” Leo said, leading him out to the back, “but be very careful, the whole building must be very unsafe.”

“I will,” promised Kurt, hefting the ladder over his shoulder.

“And don’t be long,” warned Leo. “If you’re seen, someone will report you for looting.”

“Hardly looting, it’s my own property!”

“Since when did that make any difference to the Gestapo?” replied Leo.

Kurt took the ladder over to the shop and set it up where the stairs should have been. Cautiously he climbed, not even sure if the beam supporting the ladder would take his weight. It appeared to do so and he scrambled up onto one of the more solid-looking rafters. The floor had burned away, but the old timbers of the house were thick and strong, and although they were scorched and blackened, most of them seemed to have survived the fire. Carefully Kurt edged his way along the landing till he reached the doorway of his bedroom. There was little left to see, all the furnishings and furniture were ash. He crossed the landing and looked into the girls’ room. Here it was the same, with only the remains of the old iron bedstead, a twisted misshapen mess, melted against the window. Water had been poured in to quench the fire, and with windows open to the rain the room was cold and dank. Reluctantly Kurt looked into all the rooms. The boys’ room had fared little better, and the comfortable kitchen living room, which had been the centre of their family life, was a blackened mess. Here, however, the damage had been caused more by smoke and water than by fire. Kurt edged his way into the room, fighting back tears as he saw what was left of their home. Then something caught his eye, stuffed into the corner of a chair. He reached out and pulled it clear.

“Bella!” he cried aloud, and hugged the doll, Inge’s favourite toy, convulsively to his chest. “Bella!”

Then, at last, he turned his attention to the old bread oven. Crossing the floor gingerly, he opened the heavy oven door and looked inside. There, kept safe from the smoke and the flames by the cast iron of the oven walls, lay the envelope into which he had put some of the money he’d taken from the bank. A wave of relief washed over him. He had what he’d come for. Now perhaps they had a chance. Hurriedly Kurt stuffed the envelope into one pocket of his jacket, and catching up Bella stuffed her into the other. Then he made his way back through the apartment, to the top of the ladder. As he passed the broken window that overlooked the street, he suddenly heard the tramp of marching feet. He didn’t have to look out of the window to know who was approaching. He was trapped in his own apartment, with his own money hidden in his coat, and the SS were coming down the street.

Kurt thought of Leo’s warning about looting. He reached the ladder, but realised that if he went down now, he would be caught coming out of the shop. He had no proof that it was his, and even if he had, it would probably make no difference. As the tramping feet drew closer, he made a grab for the top of the ladder, and heaved, pulling it upwards, out of sight. The weight of it made him stagger backwards, and he sat down hard on a beam, but his foot pushed through the remains of the burnt-out ceiling, protruding into the shop. Frantically he struggled, trying to pull free so that he could finish pulling the ladder out of sight from below. Outside the sound of marching feet grew louder, and then, at a barked order, they stopped. As Kurt finally extricated his foot from the ceiling, and heaved the ladder upwards, he heard a raised voice from the street.

“Someone has broken in here. Weissen! Müller! See what’s going on here!”

There was the sound of feet, and a crack of timber as more of the planks were ripped away from the front door.

“No one here, sir,” called a voice.

“What about upstairs?”

“There aren’t any stairs, sir. Place is burnt out.”

“Any sign of looters?”

“Nothing worth looting here, sir.”

“Clearly someone’s broken in, Weissen. You’re to stay here. Guard the door until we can come back and investigate properly.”

“Yes, sir.” Weissen sounded resigned to his duty. Outside another order was given and the tramping feet resumed, as the rest of the troop marched away.

Kurt found he had been holding his breath. Now he let it out, and as silently as he could eased himself out from under the ladder. For a long moment he listened. Weissen was still in the shop, but when Kurt heard the scratch of a match and the smell of cigarette smoke, he knew that the soldier below wasn’t taking his guard duty very seriously. He didn’t think there was anyone there, and he wasn’t expecting anyone to challenge him from the street.

But Kurt was still trapped, and they were coming back. He felt the panic rise within him, as he listened to the movements of the man below. He had to get out, but there was no escape that way.

Get a grip on yourself, Kurt thought fiercely. Get a grip on yourself and think!

He edged back along the landing until he reached his bedroom. Here the window overlooked the small yard below. Treading softly on the remaining rafters, Kurt crossed to the window and looked down. It was quite a drop, for the yard was lower than the level of the shop floor.

It’s the only way out, he thought, and I have to try. He considered bringing the ladder along the landing, but realised straightaway that this was almost impossible. The ladder was heavy and unwieldy and would almost certainly make a noise that would alert the guard below. Reluctantly he dismissed the ladder and looked down again into the yard. The buildings next door overlooked it as well, but there was nothing he could do about that. He would have to risk being seen, it was a lesser risk than staying where he was, waiting to be discovered… with the money in his pocket.

It was impossible to open the window as the metal frame had been distorted by the heat, but that same heat had shattered the glass. A few shards were still embedded in the frame, but the gap was wide enough for Kurt to slide through if he were careful. With one final glance behind him, he reached through and grasped the top of the frame outside. Sitting on the sill, his legs still inside the room, he edged himself through the gap until he was crouching on the broad outer windowsill. Once he glanced below and shuddered. It seemed a long way down. Shutting his eyes for a moment he calmed himself, and then began to ease himself over the edge of the sill. Grasping the bottom of the window frame, he lowered himself until he was hanging, arms extended, down the side of the building. There was no going back, and no hanging on for much longer either. He gave a quick glance downward and then, steeling himself to let go, dropped the final twelve feet onto the paved yard. The drop jarred his ankles, but he flexed his knees to absorb some of the jolt as he landed and rolled over on the stones. His hands were bleeding from where they had caught on the embedded glass, but otherwise he had no real injury, and he was quickly on his feet again. He scrambled over the wall at the end of the yard into the alley beyond, and made his way along its narrow length towards the street. Before he emerged he blotted the blood from the cuts on his hands on the tail of his shirt, and, praying he wouldn’t meet the Gestapo, walked as slowly as he dared back towards the bakery, entering it as just another customer.

Leo looked at him in horror and murmured, “You must go, now.” His eyes flicked to the door, and Kurt, following his look, saw the SS soldier standing outside his own burnt-out shop.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt said, “if I have put you in danger.”

Leo thrust a newly baked loaf into his hands and said, “Go and find your family, Kurt. Go now. We can’t do anything more for you here.” He turned away from the window, and Kurt, with the loaf in his hands, left the shop, walking away along Gerbergasse for the last time, without a backward glance.

He didn’t reach Herbert’s apartment block until late in the afternoon. He had never been to his brother’s home before, and he was relieved to find it was in a respectable suburban area. It was clearly not a Jewish enclave, as Gerbergasse was. The shop windows, displaying their various goods, were unbroken; there was no red paint daubed on their doors. Indeed some had notices proclaiming “No Jews served here”. If Herbert lived and worked in such a place, then he must be completely accepted by his neighbours, and Ruth and the children would be safe.

Suddenly Kurt ached to see them, to hold them in his arms once more. He went into the apartment building and peered at the names beside the column of bell pushes in the hallway.

None of them was Friedman. He ran his eye over them again to be sure he hadn’t missed it. No Friedman. He went back into the street to check the number displayed on the building itself, wondering if he had walked into the wrong block. No, on the outside wall, clear for all to see was the number 15. Elbestrasse 15 Apartment 3c. That was definitely Herbert’s address. Kurt went back inside and looked at the number on the door of one of the ground-floor flats. 1a. The others were 1b and 1c. 3c must be on the third floor. He climbed the stairs and stopped outside the door of 3c. The name beside it was Schultz. Kurt rang the bell.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said to the old woman who opened the door a crack and peered out at him, “but I am looking for Herr Friedman.”

The woman scowled. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“But he did? You said ‘anymore’. I’m his brother.”

“Another Jew,” remarked the woman with distaste. “Well he’s gone. I live here now!” She began to shut the door, but frantic for news of Ruth and the children, Kurt stuck his foot in the doorway.

“I’m looking for my wife… my children,” he began.

“Oh!” the woman gave an unpleasant smile. “The Jewish orphanage! They’ve gone too.”

“But… gone where?”

The woman shrugged. “How should I know?”

“But where did Herbert take them?” As he spoke Kurt took a step back and the woman immediately slammed the door.

“Nowhere,” she cackled from inside the flat. “He didn’t take them anywhere. The Gestapo took him! He’s been arrested.”

6

Where are we going, Mutti?” Laura asked as she trudged along the street behind her mother, still carrying the food basket in one hand and gripping Hansi tightly with the other. Ruth didn’t answer. She didn’t have an answer. All she knew was that they had to get away from the apartment building and out of sight before the Gestapo decided to come down after them.

“Just follow me,” she said. “Inge, hold Peter’s hand.” Carrying the suitcase, she led the little procession along the street, turning off along the first side road that presented itself.

Once they were off the main road they continued along the smaller streets towards the canal. On the far side of the bridge there was a bench overlooking the water. Here Ruth paused and setting the suitcase down took the basket from Laura. It was quite heavy, and Laura had been struggling with it, but in it was the precious flour bag with a small roll of banknotes concealed inside.

“I’m tired, Mutti!” Inge this time, her voice a wail of despair. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” replied Ruth, but Inge’s despair echoed in her own heart. Where were they going? She had no idea.

The chilly dampness that had been in the air over the last few days had again turned into a steady drizzle. The children were getting cold and wet, and she had nowhere to take them.

There must be somewhere we can go, Ruth thought. We have to find some shelter, and soon.

Then she thought of the synagogue she had found when she first arrived. At Herbert’s insistence she had kept well away from it, but now it seemed to her that it was their only hope. Surely the rabbi would help them. It wasn’t that far. That’s where they’d go.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s not far. I’ll take the basket and the case. Laura, you and Inge look after the twins.”

It wasn’t very far, but although Ruth knew the general direction, they took a couple of wrong turns and by the time they finally reached it, the children were all soaking wet and exhausted. Ruth opened the unlocked door and led them inside.

“Wait here,” she said, “while I find the rabbi. Laura, do you understand? You are not to move from here.”

Rabbi Rahmer was a small man with a greying beard and a balding head. When his wife, who was considerably larger, led Ruth into his study, he got to his feet to greet her, peering at her with sharp black eyes, over a pair of half-moon spectacles.

“How can I help you, Gnädige Frau?” he asked courteously. He indicated that she should take a seat beside his desk, before returning to his own place behind it.

Ruth introduced herself and explained how she had brought the children to Herbert’s home after they had been burnt out of their own.

“Now he’s been arrested,” she went on, “and we’ve been turned out onto the street. I’ll have to try and find us somewhere to live, but we’ve nowhere to go while I look. Do you know anyone who would take us in, just for a few days?” She looked at the rabbi hopefully. “I can pay… a little… but I know a hotel won’t take us, and anyway it would be too expensive.”

Rabbi Rahmer stroked his beard and looked thoughtful. “It’s not easy,” he said. “Life is difficult for us all. Haven’t you any other family you can go to?”

“There is my mother,” Ruth said, “but it would take time to arrange. She is an old lady, and she lives miles away.”

Rabbi Rahmer looked relieved. “But she would want to see her grandchildren safe, I’m sure,” he said. “I think you should try and go there. Surely that is where your husband will look for you when he is set free.”

“He’ll look for me here,” Ruth said. “He’ll come to Herbert’s apartment.”

“But he won’t find you,” pointed out the rabbi. “Surely, then, he’ll go to your mother’s. He’ll guess that’s where you’d turn for help.”

“Even if that is the best thing and I do take the children to her,” Ruth said wretchedly, “I can’t go today. I have to find out how to get there from here, which trains and when they run. We must have somewhere to stay for at least one night, possibly two. Is there nowhere you can suggest?” Her eyes held his, beseeching him to help her. “I’m desperate,” she said quietly. “They are standing, soaking wet, in your synagogue. I must get them somewhere warm and dry. Please, I’m begging you to help us.”

“We’d better go and fetch them.” The rabbi sighed, and, getting to his feet, once again led Ruth out of his study, calling to his wife. “I’m just going across to the synagogue to see these children. We’ll have to get them dried off over here. Can you find some towels?”

That night the family slept in the meeting room at the back of the synagogue. Frau Rahmer gave them bread and some thick broth in her kitchen and when they were warm, dry and fed, she found blankets and pillows and took them over to the meeting room. Using these, Ruth contrived a bed for them on the floor. When at last exhaustion had taken over and they were all asleep on the makeshift bed, Ruth sat on one of the chairs and went through their meagre belongings, considering their options.

When she had taken the twins to the bathroom, Laura had managed to retrieve the money Ruth had hidden there; and there was the flour-bag money. With what Ruth had on her person and the last few Reichmarks in the deed box, they had enough for a while, but she knew she would have to eke it out very carefully. Ruth grimaced as she thought of the money Frau Schultz would find when she stripped the bed in the boys’ room. But then, she thought, perhaps Frau Schultz won’t find it. Perhaps as Jews had slept in it she’ll consign the whole bed and bedding to be burned. Somehow Ruth doubted it. No, Frau Schultz would find it and then begin scouring the apartment for any other hidden money. Tipping out drawers, upending Herbert’s bed, tearing the cushions from the sofa, and realising that there must have been money hidden in the basket of food she’d so casually allowed Ruth to carry with her. Frau Shultz’s imagined rage at being duped by a Jew gave Ruth a brief moment of triumph, but it was only momentary. She thought of how the woman had spied on them all, watching as they went about their lives, noting where they went and what they did, and then going to the Gestapo and informing on them. Did she really hate Jews that much, or had she simply seen it as a way to steal Herbert’s apartment from them? For a moment, Ruth felt an overpowering fury at the injustice of it all, but even as it flooded through her, she knew that she had to forget the malicious and vengeful Frau Schultz and find a way to protect her children from others, equally malicious and vengeful.

She knew she couldn’t stay here in Munich; here she knew no one, and had no friends. It was pointless to return to Kirnheim; there was nothing left for them there. There were only two other possibilities. To go to her mother, an elderly widow, or to go to her sister, who’d married an Austrian doctor and now lived in Vienna. Her mother lived in Vohldorf, a village not far from Stuttgart, in the house where Ruth and her sister Edith had been born. Edith lived in a large apartment in Vienna, with her husband, who was an orthopaedic surgeon, and their three children. Edith had, as her mother said, ‘married above her’, and Ruth knew she would not welcome a homeless sister, with four dependent children.

Ruth had heard from neither her mother nor her sister since she had come to Munich, though she had written to both to tell them what had happened and where she was. She wasn’t particularly surprised that Edith hadn’t bothered to reply, but she was surprised that she had heard nothing from her mother.

It would be easier to get to Mother’s, she thought now. It’s an easier journey and we shan’t need passports. From here we simply take the train to Stuttgart and then go by bus to Vohldorf. In the morning I’ll go to the railway station and find out the times of the Stuttgart trains.

With this decision made, she lay down beside the children and fell into an uneasy sleep. Next morning she gave the children an apple each and the last of the bread in the basket. The bags of flour and rice she took over to the rabbi’s wife.

“I am going to the station to find out about trains to Stuttgart,” she told her. “If we can travel there today, we will, but we can’t carry these with us when we go.” She passed over the two bags. “I’m sure you can make use of them.”

Frau Rahmer thanked her gravely. “Where are the children now?” she asked.

“Laura’s looking after them in the meeting room,” replied Ruth. “I hope I shan’t be very long.”

The journey to the station was easy enough. Travelling alone, Ruth attracted little attention, and she had soon discovered they had missed the morning train, but there was another later that afternoon. It would mean that they arrived in Stuttgart after it was dark, but she felt certain that they could reach her mother’s house that evening. Last night’s decision confirmed, she bought five tickets.

When she reached the meeting room again, it was to find it empty. No children, no luggage. Her heart almost stopped at the sight of the empty room. Had the Gestapo come for them there? Then more rational thought returned and she hurried across to the rabbi’s house. Frau Rahmer was in her kitchen, the children round her, the suitcase and the basket tidily in the corner.

“I thought it would be better if they were here with me,” Frau Rahmer said.

“I said we should stay, Mutti,” burst out Laura. “But she took the twins.”

“She gave us gingerbread,” reported Peter.

“And honey,” added Hans.

“But I brought everything with us,” went on Laura, pointing to the luggage.

“It’s all right, Laura,” her mother reassured her. “You did the right thing.” She turned back to Frau Rahmer. “Thank you for looking after them for me,” she said. “I’ve got our tickets. We leave almost at once.”

“I’ve put some bread and cheese in your basket,” Frau Rahmer said, “to eat on the journey. You’ll all be hungry before you get there.”

Ruth smiled at her with true gratitude. “You’ve been very kind,” she said.

Frau Rahmer shrugged. “We’ve done what we can,” she said, and Ruth saw what she had seen in the Meyers’ eyes when they had left there, relief that they were moving on. And she understood it. Life was difficult enough and dangerous enough without taking on other people’s problems.

“If by any chance my husband comes looking for us,” Ruth said as they said goodbye, “please tell him where to find us.”

“Of course,” promised Rabbi Rahmer. “May God protect you.”

They reached Stuttgart without a problem, and Ruth led them to the bus station. She knew where she was now, Stuttgart was where her parents had brought her and Edith for treats when they were children. They were in time to catch the last bus to Vohldorf, and it was with great relief that Ruth settled them all in seats at the back. They were on the final leg of their journey.

She had been so concerned at getting them out of Munich, away from the danger that lurked there, that she had given little thought as to how they might be received in the village of her childhood. Here there would be people who had known her as a child; friends and neighbours who would recognise her, or, if not actually recognise her after the years she’d been away, would know who she was when they moved in with her mother.

How will they react when they find out I’ve come back, she wondered? Will old childhood friendships stand, or will I find, as Laura has with her school friends, that they’ll all turn against me, all our shared happiness forgotten?

As the bus trundled through the dank, winter countryside, Ruth found herself longing for the comfort of her mother’s arms. She needed to be a child again herself. She’d been brave for her own children, but the nearer she came to her childhood home, the more she ached to see her mother, and just for one moment slough off the responsibility of being a parent.

At last the bus dropped them in the market square and rumbled off into the night. Several other people had got off as well, hurrying away to the warmth of their own homes, leaving Ruth and her children standing alone in the familiar square. It was bathed in peaceful moonlight, the silence broken only by the soft splash of a fountain at its centre, the fountain where Ruth and Edith had sat and chatted with their friends as they dawdled their way home from school. At the far end the church tower reached up into the night, moonlight gleaming on its clock face and the hands which showed ten minutes past nine.

We’ll be home by half past nine, thought Ruth. “Nearly there now,” she said cheerfully. “It’s not far to Oma’s house. We can walk it easily from here. There’s enough moon to see where we’re going.” She picked up the case and the depleted basket. “Come on, Laura, don’t lose the boys in the dark. Inge, you can help me carry the basket.”

It was cold and she set off at a brisk pace, leading the children along the lane that led away from the centre of the village, passing the small cottages crouching on either side of the road, the larger homes set back behind gates, and past the tall gateposts of the Great House. All were bathed in peaceful moonlight, and the quiet serenity of the night as she took the familiar road lifted Ruth’s spirits. Yes, she thought, we’re nearly there, now.

Her mother lived on the edge of the village, in a row of houses that wound up the hill to fields and woodland beyond. As children, Ruth, Edith and their friends had played in those woods, picnicking under the trees, gathering wild flowers, playing hide and seek. Such a carefree childhood. Perhaps here, in this quiet village, her own children would be able to reclaim something of their childhood; be able to play in the woods and fields as she had done, with no shadow of fear haunting their play.

When they reached the house Ruth was surprised to find the gate closed. There’d always been a gate, but she’d never seen it shut before. Pushing it open, she led the children up the path to the front door. Lights shone welcomingly from the windows, and a trail of smoke from the chimney filled the night air with the scent of apple wood. Mother would have finished her evening meal, but Ruth had no doubt she would be able to find something warm and filling for them all. Food might be getting scarce in the towns, but here in the country there would be plenty, and Mother had always been a wonderful cook.

Ruth rang the bell, and as she heard the bolts being pulled back from the door, prepared herself for the astonishment in her mother’s eyes as she found her daughter and grandchildren standing on her doorstep… astonishment and delight.

The door creaked open, and there standing in the familiar hallway was a woman whom Ruth had never seen before.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was looking…” Ruth began, “I mean… is Frau Heber at home?”

“Frau Heber? Frau Heber doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Doesn’t live here?” echoed Ruth. “Why? I mean when, when did she move? Where’s she gone?”

“Oh, she’s still in the village,” replied the woman airily. “Who are you?”

“I’m her daughter. Where is she?”

“Her daughter? Well, you’ll find her in Kreuzstrasse.”

“Kreuzstrasse!” Ruth was aghast.

“Yes. Kreuzstrasse. That’s where she lives now.” And with that the woman closed the door.

“Was that Oma?” asked Hans, who had only met his grandmother once and had no recollection of her. “I don’t like her!”

“No,” agreed Peter stoutly. “I don’t like her.”

“I want to go home,” wailed Inge. “Mutti, I don’t like it here.”

“If Oma isn’t here,” Laura said in a tremulous voice, “where shall we go?”

“She is here,” Ruth said firmly. “It’s just that she’s moved house. I know where Kreuzstrasse is, so we’ll go and find her.”

Tiredly, with the children dragging their feet, they trailed back to the village, from where Ruth led them through an alley that ran behind the shops fronting the square. As they walked, Ruth’s mind was whirling. Kreuzstrasse! She knew Kreuzstrasse all right, it was the poorest part of the village, where old houses crouched together, their roofs patched, their grimy windows small, their rooms dark and poky, with a shared tap at the front and a shared outhouse at the back. How could her mother be living in one of these dilapidated houses? Why had she moved out of her own home? Even as these questions raced through her mind, Ruth knew the answers. Her mother had been turned out of her home too, and the place she had moved to was one of the hovels in Kreuzstrasse. There would be little room for five extra people.

There were three houses in Kreuzstrasse. Ruth chose the middle one and knocked on the door.

From inside came a soft voice that Ruth recognised at once. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

“Mother! It’s me, Ruth. Open the door, Mother. Open the door.”

There was the sound of a bolt and a key turning before the door eased open, and Ruth saw her mother, Helga Heber, peering out through the crack. Then it was just as Ruth had imagined. She stared at her daughter in astonishment, before her face broke into the delighted smile. She flung the door wide and gathered her Ruth into her arms.

“Oh, Ruth, my darling girl!” and for a moment Ruth was a child again, sheltered in her mother’s embrace.

“Now let me have a look at you all,” Helga cried, reaching out to the exhausted children. “Come inside and let Oma have a look at you.”

Later, when the children were once again settled down on a makeshift bed in one of the two tiny bedrooms, Ruth sat in the kitchen with her mother and told her everything that had happened.

“I wrote and told you when we moved in with Herbert,” she said, “but I suppose you didn’t get the letter.”

“No, I didn’t. And I wrote to you to tell you I’d had to move, but of course I sent that to Gerbergasse.”

“And I didn’t get it. Mother, what happened here? Who made you leave your home?”

“I knew I had to leave. There’s an SS unit stationed outside the village. All the Jewish families were being moved. There was no way that I was going to be allowed to stay there. The Müllers, who live there now, used to live just off the square, but they’d always liked our house, so they offered to buy it from me.”

“To buy it?”

“Yes. I was lucky. They didn’t offer much for it of course, but if I’d refused to sell, I’d have been put out anyway and had nothing to show for it. They said as much.”

“Then why did they bother paying you anything?” asked Ruth bitterly.

Helga shrugged. “Guilt?” she suggested. “Your father and I used to play cards with them every week.”

“They were your friends and they stole your house,” Ruth said flatly.

“Darling, be realistic! If they hadn’t had it, someone else would have. At least I still have somewhere to live and a little money to live on. Jews were being turned out all over the village. The bakery’s closed, the butcher’s closed. You remember Moises’ grocers?”

“Of course.”

“Well, they’ve gone. Their shop’s taken over by a family from Stuttgart, called Wessel. Not Jews of course.”

“I shall always remember the wonderful smell in Moises’,” Ruth mused, “a mixture of all my favourite food smells combining into one glorious aroma. And Frau Moise behind the counter watching us children like a hawk with those beady eyes.”

“Well, they’ve gone and the Wessels are here. Anyway,” Helga went on, “the Müllers paid me for the house and I moved in here.”

“You’re very philosophical about it, Mother,” Ruth said.

“It’s the only way to be if you’re going to keep your sanity,” replied her mother. “Otherwise fear and anger take over your life.”

“They’ve certainly taken over mine,” said Ruth sharply. “And that’s how I keep my sanity. My anger at the injustice of it all keeps me sane… that and protecting the children are what keep me going. But,” her shoulders sagged with weariness, “what am I going to do now? I thought we could come and live with you for a while, I thought you’d have plenty of room for us.”

“Well, you can stay here with me for as long as you like,” said Helga. “You know that, but it will certainly be close quarters!”

“Oh, I wish Kurt was here!” Ruth’s cry exploded from her. “I don’t know where he is, or even if he’s still alive!”

Helga reached out and took her hands. “My darling, you’ve been so brave. Never doubt that Kurt will find you. He’ll follow you to Herbert’s, and when you’re not there he’ll come here. That is what we have to hold on to. He will come. And,” she went on, “you’re not on your own now. You’ve got me. Between us we’ll keep the children safe. We’ll keep them safe until Kurt finds you.”

Ruth looked across at her mother, a diminutive, grey-haired old lady, but one who had never lacked determination or courage. Through her own tears she could see the tears on her mother’s face, and in that moment she knew, indeed, that she was no longer alone. She might not have Kurt beside her, but she had the next best person. She returned her mother’s grasp and whispered, “Yes, we will.”

Neither woman voiced the possibility that Kurt wasn’t coming back, his release was a hope that they would cling to, but each felt in her heart that as they had heard nothing for nearly four months, it was becoming less and less likely.

Next day they set to work to re-organise the house to accommodate them all. The only room of any size was the kitchen, and it was here that they spent the better part of their time. Ruth tried to keep some structure to the children’s day with lessons in the morning, and play in the afternoon… but seldom out of doors. No chance of the carefree play in the woods Ruth had hoped for.

“Certainly not the woods,” Helga had said. “There’s an SS training camp there now. It’s not really safe to let them play outside at all. It won’t be long before it’s round the village that you’ve come home. Everyone knows we’re Jews and though some people aren’t actively hostile, there is no sign of friendship either.”

“But I can’t keep them indoors all day,” protested Ruth.

“But you can’t let them play outside either,” answered her mother. “Adults probably won’t pay any attention to them, it’ll be the other children. It’s what they’re taught at school now, that Jews are inferior, not really human. They can torment them in any way they like, and no one will tell them to stop.”

20th October 1936

We were turned out of Uncle Herbert’s apartment, so we have come to stay with Oma. She doesn’t live in her old house anymore, where Mutti used to live, but in a much smaller one. We have to go to an outhouse in the yard when we want to be excused. I don’t like it. It’s very smelly and very cold.

I am cold all the time now. It’s winter and we haven’t got any warm clothes. Mutti says she will try and get us some, but I know she hasn’t got any money. Oma gave us girls each one of her cardigans the other day when we said we were cold. We haven’t taken them off since. They are far too big for us, and we do look funny, but we are a bit warmer. We sit in the kitchen with Oma most of the time. It is the only warm room in the house. There is a stove, which burns wood, but there isn’t much wood left, so soon it will go out. The twins talk to each other all the time, but not to the rest of us. They don’t speak German much at all, just some funny language of their own. I don’t like it here, but we haven’t got anywhere else to go. I like Oma. She tells us stories about when Mutti was a little girl.

Laura wrote her diary every day. “It’s to show Papa when he comes back,” she explained to Oma. “He’ll want to know what happened to us while he was away.”

As the days passed they gradually fell into a routine, and apart from when Helga went out to buy food, they didn’t leave the safety of the house. The grocery store in the village displayed the required notice in the window, No Jews, but the Wessels saw the serving of the few Jewish customers who were left in the village as a business opportunity. For extortionate prices, they sold Helga goods that they couldn’t sell to anyone else. She had to pay a far higher price than Aryan customers for even the most basic food; pay it or starve. The family remained fed, but the money was fast dwindling.

As November came and went, they faced another, potentially more difficult, problem. There was almost no wood left for the stove, their only source of heat. Helga tried to buy logs from the woodcutter, Franz Beider, whom she met in the market square. He had always supplied her with logs at her old house, but now he refused to sell her any.

“I haven’t enough to be wasting them on Jews,” he snapped, when she asked. “Need them for the rest of the village.”

“It’s not for myself, Herr Beider, as much as for my grandchildren,” she explained. “We’ve no wood for the stove. It’s very cold this winter, we shall freeze.” But Franz Beider simply walked away, saying loudly to Frau Wessel from the grocery store, “She’s got a nerve!”

That night, however, there was a tap on the door, and when Ruth opened it a crack, Franz Beider stood outside. He pushed at the door, and she was so surprised that she allowed him to step past her and come into the house. He walked into the tiny kitchen, where the whole family was huddled round the stove.

“Got some logs for you outside,” he said in a half-whisper, as if he could be overheard. “Get ’em indoors quick, before someone sees.”

They put the light out before they opened the door again, and he hastily manoeuvred a wheelbarrow into the room. Tipping it up, the logs cascaded onto the floor.

“We ain’t all Nazis,” he said to Helga. “You was good to me in the old days. I’ll try and bring you a barrowful now and then. Can’t promise… if someone informed…” He nodded to Ruth, whom he had known as a child, “I’ll do me best.”

“How much?” began Ruth, but the man shook his head.

“Better days will come,” he said. “You can pay me then. In the meantime, keep the little uns indoors, eh?” Then he opened the door once more and slipped out into the night.

Ruth and Helga stared at each other. They both found they had tears in their eyes, it had been so long since one of their neighbours had treated them with anything but abuse, let alone generosity. They stacked the logs neatly beside the stove; if they were careful, thanks to Franz Beider, there was another week’s warmth there.

“Only potatoes and cabbage,” Helga said, one afternoon a week later as she put the shopping basket on the table. “And it’s definitely round the village that you’re here.”

“Mother! You’re bleeding.” Ruth rushed over to Helga and, pulling the hair away from her forehead, inspected the cut above her eyebrow that was oozing blood. “What happened?”

“Hitler Youth,” replied her mother, allowing Ruth to dab at the cut with cold water. “Hitler Youth in the square. They saw me coming out of the shop and began their usual chanting, then one of them marched over to me and said, ‘There’s Jewish spawn in your house. All you dirty Jews crammed in together. We don’t want any more Jews here. Get rid of them!’ Then another joined in. ‘Yeah,’ he said ‘Get rid of them… or we will!’”

Ruth stared at her mother in horror. “What did you say?” she whispered.

“Say? I didn’t say anything. You don’t answer those boys back, Ruth. You know that. No, I just turned away, and that’s when they started throwing stones. One hit me on my head.”

“And anywhere else? Did they hit you anywhere else?” asked Ruth anxiously.

“Only bruises… no more blood.”

That night, as they finished the vegetable broth that had been their supper, there was a loud crash against the front door. Memory of the Gestapo raid on Herbert’s flat sent Inge off into hysterical screams. The twins began to whimper and Laura stared white-faced at her mother and grandmother. There was another bang on the door, as if someone had hit it with a hammer, and then the chanting began. “Jews out! Jews out! Jews out!” followed by shouts of laughter and a brick that smashed the kitchen window, showering the floor with glass. The children huddled together, all of them crying now.

“Let’s move the children upstairs,” Helga hissed, as she cradled against her.

Ruth shook her head. “No,” she said vehemently. “Never upstairs again.” However, she went upstairs herself and peered down into the alley. There was a small group of boys outside, happily chanting and firing stones and bricks at the house, but none of them seemed to come nearer than the lane, and after a while they gave one final shout and raced off, back towards the square.

“I don’t think we can stay here,” Helga said to Ruth when they had finally settled the frightened children. “The children aren’t safe here.”

“They aren’t safe anywhere,” pointed out Ruth. “And anyway, where else can we go? It’s the same everywhere. At least here we know the people. They may taunt and torment us, but surely they wouldn’t do us any physical harm.”

“It isn’t just people from the village, though, is it?” replied Helga. “New people have moved in, people who only know us as the Jews that are left. They’d like to get rid of us.”

“No one would want to live in this house,” said Ruth bitterly.

“Probably not,” Helga agreed, “but they don’t want us to live in it either. No, I seriously think we should consider moving away.”

“But where?” Ruth tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was all very well for Mother to say they should move on, but they had very little money and no obvious place to go. At least here they still had a roof over their heads. “Where do you suggest we go, Mother?”

“To Edith, of course.”

“But Edith’s in Vienna.”

Helga shrugged. “So, we go to Vienna.”

“Mother, I don’t think we can. They may not let us out of Germany. They caught Herbert trying to leave.”

“He was trying to take money with him,” said Helga. “Didn’t you say he hid diamonds in his shoes?”

“And the twins aren’t on my passport.”

“So, we’ll get them put on.” Helga was not to be deterred. “They want us to leave, Ruth. So, we’ll leave. We may end up with just the clothes we stand up in, but we shall be out of Germany and safe. When we get to Vienna, Edith will take us in, just until we find somewhere. Things are different in Austria. We’ll find somewhere to live, you can get a job of some sort, the girls can go back to school and I’ll look after the twins and keep house.”

“That all sounds very fine, Mother,” said Ruth, “but it’s not going to be easy. I’m sure we’ll have to get permits to leave.”

“Then we’ll get them,” snapped her mother. “Come on, Ruth! This isn’t like you. We can’t stay here waiting for someone to give us up to the Gestapo. Do you want the children to be put into an orphanage?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Well, that will happen if we stay here. I thought we might be allowed just to live here quietly, but now the Youth have found us it won’t be long before the Gestapo do. Better to move away, and keep moving.”

“And what do you suggest we live on?” demanded Ruth. “I have very little of Herbert’s money left. We can’t live on fresh air, you know!”

“I know,” answered her mother soothingly. “But I still have some money, remember, from my house. Enough to get us to Vienna.”

Ruth sank her head into her hands. “Oh Mother, I don’t know what to do!”

“Tomorrow you go into Stuttgart and you go to the government offices and find out what permits you need. You have your passport, with the girls already on it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you take that and get the boys put on as well. Take mine too. We’ll all need permits if they are going to let us go… and if they aren’t…”

“Suppose they seize the passports?”

“That’s a risk we have to take, Ruth. Otherwise we sit here and wait for the Gestapo to come and find us.”

Ruth looked across at her mother, so small and upright. “You’re very strong, Mother,” she said.

“So are you, darling,” replied Helga. “Look how far you’ve already brought the children on your own! Now we have each other, and so we’re doubly strong.”

They agreed that Ruth should take with her all the documents in the deed box.

“You don’t know what information and proof of identity they’re going to ask for,” Helga said when Ruth wondered if it was wise to have everything with her. “If you have your birth and marriage certificates, they can register the numbers if they need to. Let’s face it, you don’t want to be sent home for more documentation, do you? We need to get all this organised as soon as possible.”

“Oh God, I hope we’ve made the right decision,” murmured Ruth.

“It’s the only decision,” replied her mother firmly. “Apart from everything else, if Franz doesn’t manage to bring us some more fuel, we’re going to freeze to death in this house!”

7

Next morning Ruth left the children with Helga and set out to catch the morning bus to Stuttgart. When it pulled up in the market square, she took her place at the back of the group waiting to board. She stepped up inside and paused to pay the driver.

“You! Jew! Out!” shouted a voice from inside the bus.

She ignored the shout and handed the driver her cash, who took it from her, putting it into the money satchel beside him, but instead of handing her a ticket, said, “No Jews on this bus!”

“But I’ve just bought a ticket,” cried Ruth in dismay.

“No you haven’t,” grinned the driver. “If you’d just bought a ticket, you would have it in your hand, wouldn’t you? Now get off! You’re holding up my bus.” He gave her a shove and she almost fell back out of the door. There was a cheer from inside, and then the driver revved the engine and pulled away, leaving Ruth standing, in a cloud of exhaust, at the side of the road.

She stared after it, and then gritting her teeth set off along the road towards Stuttgart. It was fifteen kilometres to the edge of the city, but Ruth hoped that she wouldn’t have to walk the whole way. There were other villages along the way where she was not known, and she hoped to be able to get on a bus in one of these. With her shopping basket, in which she had the deed box, covered with a cloth, she looked like any countrywoman on her way into the city.

It took her four hours, two buses and a five-kilometre walk to reach the city, and when she did she was exhausted. Her clothes were dusty from the road, and her arm ached from the weight of the shopping basket, but she had made it. Now she had to discover how she could get the boys put on her passport so they could all leave for Vienna.

She went first to the city hall where she made enquiries about the twins. She was sent to one office after another, and each place she had to wait until there was someone to deal with her enquiry.

“Can you prove these children are yours?”

Ruth produced their birth certificates.

“Are you married to the father?”

Ruth produced her marriage certificate.

“Where is their father? They should be registered on his passport, not yours.”

Ruth explained that she didn’t know where Kurt was, finally admitting that he had been arrested.

“You are Jews. Your husband is a Jewish agitator.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. I mean yes, we are Jews, but my husband isn’t an agitator.”

Wrong answer. “If he wasn’t an agitator, he wouldn’t have been arrested! Wait over there.”

She waited and was sent to another office.

“Why do you wish to leave Germany?”

“We want to visit my sister who lives in Vienna.”

“You have no passports for your sons.”

“That is why I have come. To ask you to register my sons on my passport.”

“Are they legitimate?”

“Of course they are.”

“Let me see your marriage certificate.”

Ruth produced her marriage certificate.

“Let me see their birth certificates.”

Ruth produced their birth certificates.

“We cannot deal with this! You are Jews. You must go to the Office of Jewish Affairs.”

Another office building, another wait in another draughty corridor, but eventually Ruth was sent into a small office where an elderly man with grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses sat behind a desk. He wore civilian clothes, though there was a silver swastika pinned to his lapel, but he had the upright bearing of a military man.

“What can I do for you, Gnädige Frau?” he asked with a smile.

Ruth was so surprised at the politeness of his tone that she didn’t reply at once. The man waved her to a chair in front of his desk.

“Please sit down.”

Still more astonished, Ruth sat. At all the interviews so far she had been left standing while the official remained seated.

“I need…” she began and then hesitated.

“Yes?” The man was encouraging.

“I need to have my sons’ names added to my passport,” she said, the words all coming out in a rush. “We are hoping to visit my sister in Vienna and…”

“You have the passport there?”

Ruth opened the deed box, and withdrawing her passport put it into the man’s outstretched hand. He opened it, glancing at the photograph, and then looked across at her. “I’m sure I can arrange this for you, Frau Friedman,” he said smoothly, “for a consideration.”

“A consideration?” Ruth was uncertain. Was he asking for money? Presumably he was, but how much? Had she got enough? The questions flew through her mind before he replied, “These things normally take a great deal of time.” He looked at her slyly and added, “And I don’t think you have much of that particular commodity… do you?” His smile, which had appeared friendly at the outset, now took on a sinister quality, and Ruth dropped her eyes. “No,” he went on, “I don’t think so. But I can speed the process up… if we can come to some agreement.”

“What sort of agreement?” whispered Ruth. “How much do you want?”

“How much have you got?” The eyes glittered behind the glasses.

“Not much,” Ruth said. “Almost nothing.”

“What else is hidden in that deed box, I wonder?” He raised an interrogatory eyebrow. “What other treasures do you have tucked away in there?” He placed the passport on the desk and held out his hand.

Ruth’s grip tightened on the precious box. “Our birth and marriage certificates,” she said.

His hand was still extended. “And?”

“Some earrings my mother-in-law gave me as a wedding present.”

“I’d like to see those,” he remarked conversationally, as if she had wanted to show her present off.

Ruth opened the deed box, and taking the earrings out reached over and dropped them into his hand.

The man looked at them consideringly, holding them up to the light to view them better.

“Pretty baubles,” he said, “but not worth much. What else?”

“Just a brooch of my mother’s.” Ruth knew that there would be nothing she could do if this man, at first more sympathetic than any she had seen, and now so greedy, decided to take any of her jewellery. Again he held out his hand, and she passed the brooch over. He looked at it for a moment and then turned his attention back to Ruth.

“This is like drawing teeth,” he said. “I think the best thing you can do is to hand the box over to me and I’ll have a look myself.” He got to his feet, and walking round the desk towered over her. Without another word he simply reached down, and scooping the box from her hands tipped its contents out onto the desk.

“This looks more like it,” he said, and picked up the title deed to the Friedmans’ shop. “I think this would work.” He studied the document for several minutes before glancing back at Ruth, who sat white-faced on the chair.

“Now,” he said, “here’s the deal. I add your sons’ names to your passport. For that you pay me one pair of pearl earrings and one gold brooch. I also get you five exit permits, which allow you and your family to travel to Vienna. For that you pay me one set of title deeds.” He smiled broadly. “Sounds fair to me.”

It’s robbery! Ruth wanted to shriek. Bare-faced robbery! She bit the words back, almost gulping them down into her throat before she said, “The title deeds aren’t mine to give. They belong to my husband.”

“Indeed they do,” agreed the man affably. “But he’s not here, is he? You have the deeds, and it is you who are asking me for a favour.” His voice took on an edge of steel. “Don’t you think he would want you to use them to save your children? Or don’t dirty Jews feel the same way about their children as normal human beings do?”

Of course we do, Ruth wanted to scream at him, that’s why scum like you can use them as a lever to get what you want. It’s because we love our children so much that we do anything, anything we can to protect them from monsters like you.

But of course she said none of this. She just sat shaking on the chair in front of him.

“Well?” he snapped. “I’m losing patience with you, Gnädige Frau.” This time the salutation was imbued with vitriol. “You have this one chance.” He picked up the passport and the jewellery and slipped them into a drawer of his desk, then he folded the title deeds. “What is it to be?”

Ruth raised her head with as much dignity as she could muster and said, “It’s a deal.”

“Good.” The man tucked the folded deeds into an inside pocket and stood up. “Back here, eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

Ruth stood as well. “Will you give me the permits then, sir?”

The man beamed at her. “You’ll find out tomorrow at eight, won’t you?” He rang a bell on his desk and a young SS man came in.

“This woman is leaving, Schwarz,” he said. “Make sure she does.”

“Who do I ask for?” Ruth realised in panic that she had never learned the man’s name. “In the morning? Who do I ask for?”

“Standartenführer Unger. Standartenführer Paul Unger of the SS.”

That night Ruth hid in a wooden shelter in a park. She had nowhere to go, and as she had been told to present herself at eight o’clock the next morning at the Gestapo headquarters, there was no way she could get back to Vohldorf for the night and be back in time. She knew that her mother would be worried sick when she did not come home, but there was nothing she could do about that. She found the shelter, little more than a summer arbour in a quiet part of a public garden and curled up in the corner trying to keep out of the wintry wind. As always there was a No Jews notice on the iron gates, but then she wasn’t allowed to be out on the streets either, and there was no question of finding a room, so she was at risk whatever she did.

She had hardly slept at all. Standartenführer Unger had taken everything of value that she had, and there was no guarantee that he would keep his side of the bargain. What a fool she’d been, to have left the deeds in the box when she had come into the city. She should have taken those out and left them safely with her mother. The fear that consumed her now made her feel physically sick. Tears of despair coursed down her face, streaking her cheeks with dark rivulets. He had taken everything and given her nothing. For all his smiles, he was more sinister than the men who had come and arrested Kurt. And what was Kurt going to say when he found out she’d given away the shop? Of course he would understand. Of course he wouldn’t mind if it saved his beloved family, but suppose she’d been tricked by this evil man? They would have lost everything and gained nothing. Oh God, she prayed, let the colonel keep his side of the bargain.

As dawn broke she slipped out of the park gates. She was stiff with cold, and exhausted, and she needed the lavatory. She had found a public convenience the night before, and she returned there now, hoping it would be open this early. She was in luck, the attendant was just unlocking the metal gates.

The woman eyed Ruth suspiciously, taking in her crumpled clothes and dishevelled hair. “You’re about early,” she said.

Ruth managed a smile and replied, “Yes, I have to get to the market.” Once locked into a cubicle she used the lavatory and dragged a comb through her hair. When she came out again, the attendant was nowhere to be seen, so Ruth hastily washed her hands and face and hurried out into the cold morning air. As she turned a corner in search of a café, she caught sight of the attendant returning to the lavatory block, followed by a man in uniform. Ruth didn’t wait to see which uniform it was, she fled down the street, turning into smaller side streets until she was lost, and, she hoped, they were too.

She emerged into a small square where she found a café serving breakfast to early risers. She needed food, she’d had nothing since the morning before, and she felt hollow inside and a little light-headed. She went into the café, and sitting at a small table at the back ordered herself a plate of bread and cheese and a cup of hot, black liquid which was advertised as coffee. The waitress brought her food, after which no one paid her any attention at all. The bread was fresh, and the cheese tasty. Ruth could have eaten several such plates, but had no money for such extravagance, and forced herself to eat slowly. She sipped the bitter coffee, grateful for its warmth if not for its flavour, and considered what to do.

She would go to the Jewish Affairs Office at eight o’clock, and ask to see Standartenführer Unger. Then she could only pray that he would indeed have the updated passport and the exit permits. If he didn’t… well, then she’d have to decide what she was going to do.

At exactly eight o’clock she presented herself at the desk in the reception area, and was told to wait. She waited for five hours. Officials walked past her as she stood in the passage. No one spoke to her, or even acknowledged her existence, and still she waited. The young officer, Schwartz, who had seen her off the premises, came by several times, and at last she plucked up courage to speak to him.

“Please, sir,” she said. “I was here at eight o’clock as the Herr Standartenführer told me to be. Is he here?”

“He’s busy,” snapped Schwartz. “You’ll have to wait.”

Ruth continued to wait, but was becoming increasingly aware that she needed the lavatory again. She tried not to think about it, but as time passed she knew that unless she was to disgrace herself here in the corridor she had to find a toilet. She returned to the front desk and asked. The woman seated at the desk looked outraged.

“You certainly can’t use one in this building,” she said. “The lavatories here are not for Jews. You’ll have to go and find one somewhere else.” She returned to her typewriter and Ruth knew there was no point in asking again. She hurried out into the street, and within three or four hundred metres found a public lavatory.

Ten minutes later she was back at the front desk of the Jewish Affairs Office. The woman at the desk looked up as she came back in.

“You Friedman?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Ruth, “Yes, I’m Ruth Friedman.”

“The Herr Standartenführer sent for you, but I told him you’d left.”

Ruth stared at her in absolute horror. “You told him what?” she whispered.

“I told him you were here, but you’d left.”

“Did you tell him why I left?” demanded Ruth angrily. “Did you explain why?”

The woman sniffed. “As if the Herr Standartenführer would be interested in your incontinence!”

It took all Ruth’s self-control not to reach over the desk and shake the smug young woman until her teeth rattled. Hardly incontinence, she wanted to shout. I’ve been here more than five hours, in which time you’ve been to the ladies’ room twice. She bit back the words, knowing they would only make matters worse.

“Please,” she forced herself to speak politely, “please would you be so good as to tell the Herr Standartenführer that I am back now.”

“Oh, he’s gone now,” said the girl airily. “He said that if you did bother to show up again that you should come back again tomorrow at the same time.”

Ruth left the building, her emotions running the gamut from rage through humiliation to despair. There was nothing she could do except turn up again the next morning and hope that he would see her and give her the precious passes he had promised. She spent another very cold and uncomfortable night in the open, in a different park this time, trying to get some sort of rest. She thought of her mother and the children. They must be going out of their minds with worry now that she’d spent two nights away. Her mother would think she’d been arrested, and the children would be terrified that she had suddenly disappeared like their father.

Next morning she drank no coffee and having spruced herself up at the public conveniences that she’d found near the Jewish Affairs Office she presented herself once more at exactly eight o’clock. This time the wait was nearly six hours, standing in the same draughty corridor, ignored by all that used it as they went about their duties. This time she spoke to no one and at last she was summoned to Standartenführer Unger’s office.

“I hear you left the building yesterday,” he said by way of opening. “That was extremely foolish of you.”

“I’m sorry, I needed the lavatory and…”

“I imagine you’d have thought of that before you came.” Standartenführer Unger raised a supercilious eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Ruth “I’m very sorry.”

“So you should be. It inconvenienced me greatly. Now—” he reached down and slid open the drawer of his desk “—here are your passports and the permits to travel to Vienna. They are valid for one week. Make sure you use them by then… and make sure you don’t come back.” He pushed the passport and the permits across the table and Ruth, unable to believe that they were actually there, snatched them up and stuffed them into the basket. “It’s feckless families like yours that bring our great country down,” he went on. “Now get out.”

Ruth muttered, “Thank you, Herr Standartenführer,” and left the room, before he could change his mind. Once safely outside the fearsome building, Ruth found a quiet street and looked at the papers she had been given, terrified that even now he had tricked her and that they were worthless. She held them up in the fading light and saw that they were made out in the right names and were dated and stamped with an SS stamp.

This time she had no problems with the bus driver, and seated quietly at the back of the bus drew no attention to herself. The other passengers ignored her, and she was able to stay on the bus until it dropped her in the Vohldorf market square. Keeping her head down and clutching her basket, she hurried along the narrow alley to Kreuzstrasse.

Helga opened the door, and burst into tears as she gathered her daughter into her arms.

“It’s all right, Mutti, it’s all right,” she soothed, not even noticing she had reverted to the childhood name, as she tried to console her. “I’ve got everything we need. We leave for Vienna tomorrow.”

8

Kurt stood for a moment, dumbfounded, outside the slammed door and then walked slowly back down the stairs to the street below. His mind began racing. Where were Ruth and the children? Where could they have gone now? And what had happened to Herbert? Why had he been arrested? Was it simply because he, too, was a Jew? Or was there something more? Was he even now learning how to survive in Dachau, or some other such camp? Where were Ruth and the children? Where were Ruth and the children?

Kurt stepped out onto the pavement and for a moment looked up at the building. Which was Herbert’s flat? Third floor. And then he knew exactly which one it was, as the old woman stood there by the window, staring down into the street. When she saw him looking up she gave him a triumphant Heil Hitler and then drew the curtains across, as if to shut him out.

What a vile woman, Kurt thought furiously! How had she come to be living in Herbert’s apartment? She had referred to Kurt’s family as “the Jewish orphanage”. Clearly they had been made homeless yet again, so where had they gone?

It was dusk now, and Kurt knew he needed somewhere to stay. He doubted if he would be able to pick up the trail tonight, even if there was one. People were more than reluctant to open their doors to a strange man after dark. He set off down the street at a brisk pace, looking for a small hotel or guesthouse where he might stay for the night. He was loath to spend the money, but although there was no official curfew that he knew about, it would be foolhardy to be out alone after dark. For a while he wandered the streets, looking for somewhere suitable, and finally saw a card in a window. Room to let.

He knocked on the door and waited. At length it was opened by a young woman in an apron. She peered at him as he stood in the dim light in her hallway. She clearly was not impressed with what she saw.

“Yes?”

“Good evening,” Kurt said. “I’m looking for a room, and I saw the card in your window.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously. “How long for?”

“One night, maybe two.”

“Only let by the week,” she replied and began to shut the door.

“I may stay a week?” asked Kurt hurriedly. “How much would it be?”

The woman paused and then told him the price. “Week in advance! No meals! Take it or leave it.”

Kurt took it. He realised that she knew he was a Jew and the price she had asked reflected that, but he had to have somewhere to stay, and he didn’t know how long it was going to take him to track down his family.

The room she showed him was small and poky, furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror and a washstand on which stood a bowl and a ewer of water. The bathroom was down the landing. However, Kurt was grateful to be off the street. He knew that with the way he looked and no luggage, nowhere more salubrious was going to take him. When he looked in the mirror and saw the hollow-cheeked, stubble-faced, pallid ghost that returned his stare, he was amazed that the woman had agreed to let him have the room at any price. Clearly she, too, was facing hard times and couldn’t be too choosy about her guests.

Longing to see his family, Kurt had travelled straight to Munich with little thought given to his appearance. He had only the clothes he’d been arrested in, and they were grubby, hanging off his emaciated frame. His hair had begun to grow again, but sprouted in tufts over his head, where the rough strokes of the camp barber’s razor had shaved him unevenly. His reflection told him that he must change his appearance, and fast. Looking like a convict was as dangerous as looking like a Jew, and he looked like both. First thing in the morning he must do something about it.

As he lay in the narrow bed that night, he considered how to set about finding his family. Where would Ruth have taken them? If it had been him, where would he have gone? His parents were both dead, and Herbert was his only sibling. He had no other family, so there was no lead there. Ruth’s father was dead, but her mother lived in the old family house in Vohldorf. Perhaps Ruth might have taken the children there. Or there was her sister, Edith, who lived in Vienna. Could she have gone there? They’d be safer there, but it was a long way to travel with four small children, and there was the problem of crossing into Austria without passports for the twins. No, he decided, it was more likely that she had gone to her mother’s… if she’d been able to go anywhere. What money had she? If she were destitute where would she go for help? She knew no one else in Munich. To the synagogue, that was the obvious place. But which synagogue? Where were the synagogues here? There was no question of asking. In the morning he would have to wander round and find them for himself.

At last he closed his eyes, and managed to sleep several hours before the nightmares began to crowd his dreams and he woke, as he did so often now, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking.

As soon as it was daylight Kurt left the house and went in search of food. He’d eaten nothing since the previous morning and he was very hungry. He found a workman’s café where he ate some breakfast, after which he felt better and went in search of a street market. He had to conserve the money he had found in the bread oven, but new clothes and some toiletries were a must, and he reckoned that street traders would pay less attention to him, and be cheaper than trying to buy from shops, many of which wouldn’t even let him cross the threshold. He found what he was looking for in a small square, flanked by tall medieval houses, where market traders’ stalls of all sorts were set up round a central fountain. He bought himself a change of clothes from a second-hand clothes stall, a razor and some soap and a small case to carry them in, and hurried back to his room. Once he had washed and shaved and changed into his new clothes, he felt infinitely better. Now he could set out to search for his family without looking like a scarecrow. He pulled his new hat down over his ears so that his peculiar haircut was less visible, buttoned his overcoat against the chill of the wind and headed back out onto the street.

He spent the day looking for synagogues. Once he had found the first one, though the rabbi knew nothing about Ruth, it was easier. Each rabbi he spoke to pointed him in the direction of someone else. Rabbi Rahmer was the fourth that he visited.

“Yes,” said the rabbi. “Your wife was here. She and the children stayed a night in our meeting room and then went to stay with her mother. Somewhere near Stuttgart, I think she said.”

“Vohldorf,” said Kurt.

“Yes, that’s right. Well, she asked us to tell you where she’d gone if you ever came looking for her.” The rabbi gave a sad smile. “I didn’t really think you would.”

“How long ago was she here?”

“Four… five weeks?” The rabbi was vague.

Next morning Kurt took the early train to Stuttgart, and reached Vohldorf by mid-afternoon. It was a cold wet day, but he didn’t mind. The thought of seeing his family, of holding them all in his arms again, buoyed him up, and when he got off the bus in the market square his heart was racing. He had been to his parents-in-law’s house only twice, but he thought he remembered where it was, and set out at a brisk pace. With only one wrong turn, he reached it and saw welcoming light flooding from a window into the damp dusk. The gates were shut, to stop the twins from straying, Kurt supposed, as he opened them and then closed them carefully behind him. For a brief moment he stood outside the front door, then he drew a deep breath and rang the bell.

“What do you want? We’ll have no vagrants here!” The man who had come to the door stared at Kurt belligerently. He was tall and broad, a much larger man than Kurt, and he thrust his head aggressively forward as he spoke.

Kurt took an involuntary step back. “I’m… I’m looking for my wife…” he began.

“Well, she’s not here! Be off, before I set the dogs on you.”

“Frau Heber…” Kurt tried again, though he didn’t like the sound of the dogs he could hear barking inside the house.

“No one called Heber in this house,” snapped the man. “Get lost.” He turned inside and called, “Lotte… let the dogs out!”

Kurt beat a hasty retreat.

“And don’t come back, Jew. We don’t want your sort in this village.”

Kurt hurried away from the house, the sound of the dogs loud on the evening air. He had always liked dogs, until he went to Dachau. There the guard dogs were terrifying, and Kurt knew he would never look at a dog in the same way again.

Once he was out of sight he slowed his pace. There were tears in his eyes as he realised he had lost them all again, and this time he had no trail to follow. Helga Heber had lost her home, and he had no idea where she had gone, nor if Ruth and the children were with her.

“Think!” he admonished himself. “There must be some way I can pick up the trail again. Just take time and think.”

With leaden feet he walked back into the market square. The dusk had deepened to darkness now, but there were still lights in the shops that edged the square, and Kurt decided to ask in those. He chose the grocer’s, and pushed open the door. A large woman in an enveloping white apron was standing behind the counter, chatting to a customer. They both turned as Kurt came in and looked at him with interest. A stranger. Not someone from the village.

“Good evening,” said the shopkeeper pleasantly. “Can I help you?”

“Good evening,” Kurt replied with a smile. “Yes, I am looking for Frau Heber, Frau Helga Heber.”

The shopkeeper’s face hardened. “Are you, indeed?

“Yes,” Kurt kept his smile fixed to his face. “She’s my mother-in-law.”

“Is she now?” The woman waved her hand about the shop. “Well,” she said, “she’s not in here, is she?”

“No. It’s just that she’s moved and I wondered if you could tell me where she is living now. Is she still in the village?”

“No.”

“No. Do you know where she went?”

“No. Now if you aren’t going to buy anything, you can get out. I’ve got work to do.”

Kurt left the shop and stood outside in the square. He saw, now, the sign in the window, which he hadn’t noticed before: No Jews. As soon as he’d mentioned Helga Heber’s name, the woman had realised he must also be a Jew. He looked in through the window of the shop next door, a small general store. Inside a man was unpacking some boxes. There was no sign on this window and Kurt was about to go in when someone bumped into him from behind. He spun round to see the customer from the grocer’s.

“Kreuzstrasse,” she murmured. “She’s in Kreuzstrasse.” But before Kurt could answer, the woman had hurried away across the square without a backward glance and disappeared into the darkness.

Kreuzstrasse. Had he heard her right, and if so where was Kreuzstrasse? It was clear that she didn’t want to be seen talking to him, so he did not try to follow her. She had done what she could. He would have to try and find the place himself. Feeling the eyes of the grocer’s wife upon him, he moved out of the light and walked across the square towards the church. As he reached it, the door opened and the priest came hurrying out. When he saw Kurt, he hesitated and then turned away.

The hesitation was enough. Kurt called across to him, “Excuse me.”

The priest stopped and turned back, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Kreuzstrasse,” Kurt said. “Please can you tell me where it is?”

For a moment the priest said nothing, and Kurt was about to ask again when he pointed down a lane that ran off the square. “Down there,” he said. “There’s an alley at the end of the lane, that’s Kreuzstrasse.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said fervently, “thank you very much.”

The priest seemed about to say something else, but thought better of it, and with a brief nod, he, too, turned and hurried away.

Kurt followed the directions he’d been given, and found himself in the alley. There were three tiny houses there, each clothed in darkness. Surely this couldn’t be where his mother-in-law was living. He stood outside in the silent street, wondering which house she lived in. There was no sign of life in any of them, no smoke from the chimneys, no chink of light from the dark windows. Was everybody out? Surely someone would be at home on such a cold and miserable evening. Kurt walked up to the front of the middle house. In the faint light of a streetlamp at the end of the alley, he could see that the front window had been broken and had been patched with cardboard. Despite the dampness in the air, the cardboard was still relatively dry; it couldn’t have been there for very long. Someone must be living here. He knocked on the door. The sound of the knock seemed swallowed by the darkness, so he knocked again, more loudly, but there was no reply. He pressed his ear to the door in the hope of hearing movement inside, but there was nothing. He was about to turn away and try one of the other houses, when, on impulse, he tried the handle. To his astonishment the door opened. He pushed it wide and then stepping just inside, called out.

“Is there anyone there?” His words hung in the silence, but there was no reply. Cautiously he went inside and found himself in a kitchen, the only room downstairs. He felt for a light switch, but when he pressed it nothing happened. Feeling his way across the room he found the stove. It was cold. The last fire had been some time ago. As he felt round the top of the stove his fingers found a stub of candle on a saucer and a box of matches. Kurt struck a match and lit the candle. Shadows jumped around him as he held it high to look at the room.

There was a wooden table, two old chairs, some plates on a shelf, and a tin basin on a stand. He looked at the window. It had been carefully patched, but when he looked on the floor he found several tiny shards of glass. Kurt went up the narrow staircase to the two tiny rooms above. Here there was no furniture at all, but in each room an old mattress lay on the floor. The rooms were freezing cold, but the mattresses were not damp. They had been used fairly recently, Kurt thought. He went downstairs again. Had Ruth and the children really all been living here with her mother, or had they been in one of the other houses? Shielding the flickering candle with his hand he went back out into the alley and looked at the other two houses. He tried the one on the left, and when there was no reply to his knock he tried the door. It opened reluctantly, squeaking on its hinges. This house was the same as the other, except that it was clear no one had lived here for months. Cobwebs festooned the ceiling, there was no furniture at all, and the stale smell of damp pervaded the room. Holding the candle high, Kurt saw that there were a few sticks heaped beside the stove, but otherwise the room was empty. He did not bother to go upstairs. No one lived here, it must have been deserted for years. Carefully he closed the front door and turned to the third house. The door to this one did not open, and there was no reply when he knocked. He pressed his face against the filthy window that gave onto the kitchen, holding the candle against the glass, but the flame reflected back at him, and he could see nothing.

Then it dawned on him; the middle house, despite being sparsely furnished and cold, was clean. There were no cobwebs hanging in the corners, or trailing down to tickle his face. The floor had been swept, the stacked plates were clean, the surface of the table, though old, had been scrubbed. If Helga had lived in Kreuzstrasse, then it was in this house, and if Helga had lived here so had Ruth and the children. Kurt stood in the kitchen once more and drew in deep breaths, trying to sense the presence of his family. It was cold here, but it had been a roof over their heads, so why had they left?

He could go no further tonight, and so decided to sleep in the house and try and find out where they had gone in the morning. It was bitterly cold, so he crept back to the house next door and scooping up the pile of sticks carried it back and lit the stove. The leaping flames made the grim little kitchen more cheerful. He had nothing to eat, but at least he had a roof over his head. He heated some water on the stove and drank it, grateful for the warmth it brought. He dragged one of the mattresses down the stairs. Wrapped in his overcoat, Kurt lay down in front of the stove; and with Bella, Inge’s doll, held tightly against his cheek, he tried to sleep. But despair crept up on him once more as he realised that he had missed them again, and as he lay in the flickering light cast by the flames, he began to weep. The trail had gone cold, and he was no nearer to finding Ruth and the children.

Finally Kurt slept, and when he awoke the fire had gone out and he was stiff and cold. The grey of dawn was lightening the sky and he was able to see his surroundings properly for the first time. From the window at the back he could see an outhouse in an overgrown yard. Had his family really been reduced to this? A tap outside the front door and a privy in the garden? Again he searched the rest of the house, and it was upstairs in one of the bedrooms that he made his discovery. Beneath the old mattress he found a piece of paper, and on it was written, An Elephant Story for the Twins. Once upon a time there was an elephant and he lived in the jungle with his mummy and daddy. They hid among the trees where no one could find them… Kurt stared at the paper and the writing, Laura’s writing. Laura writing a story for her little brothers as she so often did. They had been here. Now he knew for sure. They had been here living in this house; but why on earth had they moved? Had they been forced to move? Turned out, even from this hovel of a home? He would have to try and find out.

If I knew why they’d gone, he thought, I might be able to work out where they’ve gone.

It was hunger that drove Kurt back to the market square. He had to get something to eat, as he’d had nothing since he’d got on the bus for Vohldorf yesterday. He looked round the shops that fronted the old cobbled square. He was determined not to go back into the grocer’s unless he absolutely had to. On the opposite side, beyond the fountain, he saw a bakery, and he decided to try his luck there. As well as selling bread and pastries, the little shop offered a couple of white-clothed tables, and Kurt was served hot coffee, a pancake and a large slice of apple tart. He also bought fresh bread and another apple tart to take back to the house. Feeling much refreshed, he left the bakery and walked back towards Kreuzstrasse. The grocer’s wife was standing outside her shop talking to a man with a pony cart. When she saw Kurt leaving the bakery, she pointed at him and the man turned round to look. She was gesticulating, and Kurt could imagine her tirade about Jews. He paid no attention, just kept on walking as if he hadn’t seen her, but as he turned into the lane beside the church he heard her shout, “Dirty Jew! We don’t want your sort in our village! Dirty Jew!”

Kurt gave no indication that he’d heard her, simply walked round the corner and into the lane. He let himself back into the house, put his purchases onto the table and sat down to consider what to do next. The girl in the bakery hadn’t realised that he was a Jew, she had served him quite happily, and thinking back to the night before, it was only after he had mentioned Helga Heber by name that the woman in the grocer’s had become hostile. With his dark hair, dark eyes and a high-bridged nose, Kurt knew he had a Semitic cast to his features, but his face did not shriek “Jew” and he could pass unnoticed if he was careful. He had never worn a beard, as many of his friends and neighbours had, but now he was going to be extra careful about shaving, keeping his face smooth and unremarkable. He filled the tin basin from the tap outside the house and got out his razor. As he lathered a little of his precious soap onto his face, there was a knock at the door. Kurt turned, but before he could go to the door it opened and a man slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. It was the man who had been talking with the grocer’s wife.

Kurt stood, razor in hand, face half-covered in soap. “What the – ?” he began.

“No time to talk,” hissed the man. “You’re Frau Heber’s son-in-law?”

“Yes, but…”

“My name’s Franz Beider. I’ve known Frau Heber for many years. You have to get away from here, now, at once.”

“But…”

“Don’t hesitate, man, there’s no time. The woman at the grocer’s, Frau Wessel, is going to the Gestapo to report you for moving in here. You have to leave now. They will be here within half an hour to arrest you.”

Kurt turned pale. He wiped the soap from his cheeks and said shakily, “But where shall I go? They’ll soon pick me up in this tiny place.”

“Get your stuff and go out the back. I’ll bring my cart along that lane and pick you up. Hurry, man, they’ll be here any time.” Franz Beider went to the front window and looked out into the alley. “I’ll be there in five minutes. If you aren’t, I shan’t wait.”

“But why?” began Kurt, his mind racing. Could he trust this man who only moments ago had been talking to a strongly anti-Semitic woman? Why would he offer help? Was it a trap? Then a mental picture of the parade ground at Dachau flashed into his mind and the decision was made. “Thank you,” was all he could say.

“We’re not all Nazi scum round here,” Franz Beider said. “Now, get a move on. If you aren’t there,” he repeated, “I shan’t wait.” With another anxious look into the street, he opened the door and disappeared.

For a moment Kurt stood frozen to the spot, then he grabbed his few possessions and the food he had just bought at the bakery, and crammed them into his case. It was clear someone had passed the night in the house, but he could do nothing about that. Frau Wessel would have told them that already, so it hardly mattered. He locked the front door, though he knew that wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, then he opened the small door that led out into the backyard. It was overlooked by the other two houses, but no other buildings. He hurried past the rickety outhouse, and tossing the case over ahead of him, clambered over the back wall into the lane beyond. There was nowhere to hide, and as he waited for Franz Beider to appear, Kurt was terrified that someone else might come into the lane and see him waiting. After what seemed an age, he heard the unhurried clip-clop of a horse’s hoofs, and then the pony cart came round the corner, with Franz sitting up on the driver’s seat. As soon as he drew level with Kurt, he jumped down from the cart.

“Into the back,” he said. “Hurry! Under the logs.”

Kurt scrambled up onto the cart and Franz pushed the little suitcase in with him before covering him with a tarpaulin. Then he began piling logs on top of him. They were heavy and sharp, and pressed painfully into his body, but Kurt lay still as the weight increased, and the log load covered the shape of his body under the tarpaulin.

“For God’s sake don’t move,” Franz instructed him. “Whatever happens don’t move until I let you out. Both our lives are at stake here.”

With the breath all but crushed out of him, Kurt could do little more than grunt in reply. He felt the cart tilt as Franz climbed back up onto the box, and then the rocking movement as the cart turned and began to trundle back along the lane. Kurt had no idea where they were going, he simply lay as still as he could in the bumping cart and prayed that they wouldn’t be stopped.

The journey became even more uncomfortable as the cart entered the market square, jolting its way across the cobbles. Some of the logs shifted and dug into new and different parts of his body, but Kurt didn’t dare ease himself underneath them for fear of them moving even more and revealing him underneath. As they rumbled slowly across the square he heard a shout, and the sound of marching feet. The cart slowed to a halt as the feet tramped past. Frau Wessel had clearly made good her threat and had been to the Gestapo; SS troops had been summoned from the training camp. Then he heard her voice.

“You see, Herr Beider?” she called. “I was right. The Gestapo did want to hear that another dirty Jew had moved in.”

“Indeed, Frau Wessel,” Kurt heard his driver reply. “You were quite right. No doubt they’ll find him hiding in his hole.”

The woman laughed. “We’ll get rid of them all in the end, Herr Beider. We’ll get rid of them all in the end.”

“And good riddance,” agreed Herr Beider. Then he clicked his tongue and the horse moved on again.

Once they had left the cobbled square the road was smoother and the horse and cart picked up a little more speed, but it was another half hour before it creaked to a halt. Kurt could hear the sound of someone chopping wood. He stayed absolutely still under the logs, hardly daring to breathe.

“Dieter!” Kurt heard Franz call. “Dieter!”

The chopping stopped and a voice called back, “Yes, Herr Beider?”

Footsteps approached the cart and a young man’s voice said, “You want me to unload the cart?”

“No, not now. You can take that barrow-load of logs I promised your mother, and eat with her. Back here in an hour though, all right?”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! Ma’ll be very grateful for the logs.”

“Take the big barrow and load it up, then,” ordered his boss.

Kurt heard Dieter tossing logs into a metal barrow, and then the rattle of it being wheeled away.

“Back in an hour, sir,” called Dieter, “and thanks again for the logs.”

Kurt tried to ease the pain in his legs, but as he moved he heard Franz Beider hiss, “Stay still!” He froze.

It seemed an age before Franz Beider began unloading the logs from the cart. When he finally emerged from under the tarpaulin, Kurt was grubby, bruised and ached all over. Franz helped him down, steadying him as he tried to stand on stiff and painful legs. They were in a yard beside an old stone house. All round the yard were piles of logs, stacked neatly under sheltering roofs to keep them dry. An axe lay on the ground beside a pile of split logs. On the far side of the yard there was a stable and a barn, with a hayloft above; clearly where Franz kept his horse and cart.

“Go into the barn and climb up into the hayloft,” instructed Franz. “I doubt anyone will come looking for you here, but I don’t want you found in the house.”

“Of course,” Kurt agreed. “If I am found here, you’ll know nothing about it.” He held out his hand to the woodman, who took it. “Thank you, Herr Beider, for getting me away, for risking your own life.”

Franz Beider nodded, and then said, “Up to the hayloft then. I’ll bring you some food and water in a little while.” He gave Kurt a brief smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I live alone and Dieter only comes in during the day. You should be safe here for a while, till we can get you right away.”

Kurt settled himself in the hay, and with the winter sun shining in through the skylight in the roof, warm and comfortable for the first time in days, fell into a deep sleep. He didn’t hear the horse and cart leave the yard again, nor did he hear it return. When he woke it was to find dusk was falling. Franz stood over him with a basket in his hand.

“You’ve slept well,” Franz said, putting the basket down in the hay. “Here, eat something.” He handed him some bread and cheese, and as Kurt ate it he told him what was going on in the village.

“I went back with the cart and made my usual deliveries,” he said. “The SS had been to the house and found you’d gone, so they’ve been searching for you. They asked me if I’d seen anyone on the road, and I told them I hadn’t. Frau Wessel is having her day, telling everyone how she flushed you out. They’re searching the surrounding area, but I doubt if they’ll worry too much about finding you. All they want to be sure of is that you’ve gone.”

Kurt drank thirstily from the bottle of water that was in the basket and then asked the question that had been consuming him ever since he had climbed into the cart.

“Did the same thing happen to my family? Did the Gestapo come for them too?”

“No, they left in time. Frau Heber had to move from her old house some time ago, but no one took much notice of her once she was living in Kreuzstrasse… not until Ruth turned up with the children.”

“You know Ruth?” breathed Kurt.

Franz smiled. “Known her since she was a child. Bit of a surprise to find she had four kiddies, though.”

“So, tell me what’s happened to them,” begged Kurt. “I’ve been trying to find them.”

“They left a few days ago,” replied Franz. “Things were getting very difficult for them. The house was far too small for so many, the Wessels were charging them exorbitant prices for food, and when winter came on they could have died of cold in that house. I did get some logs to them, but I couldn’t do it regular, like. And then the Hitler Youth began to take an interest in them.”

“So, where have they gone?”

Franz shook his head. “I don’t know. They took the bus to Stuttgart, but where they were going from there I wouldn’t know. Didn’t know they were actually leaving until I saw them in the square that morning, getting on the bus.” He thought for a moment and then added, “The driver wasn’t keen to take them, but they showed him some paper or other, and he let them get on.”

Kurt stayed in Franz Beider’s hayloft for two more days. Dieter arrived every morning and spent the day working in the yard, sawing up waiting tree trunks, chopping and stacking logs. While he was there, Kurt stayed silently in the hay, listening to the work going on below. He offered to chop logs himself when Dieter had gone, but Franz refused his offer.

“Can’t risk you being surprised in the yard,” he said. “They’re still out looking for you.”

Two days later, when Dieter had finished his day’s work, Franz climbed up into the loft. “It’s time to move you out,” he said as Kurt ate the food he had brought. “Tomorrow I’ll hide you in the cart again and take you over to Dost. It’s a small town, on the main line to Stuttgart, you’ll be able to catch a train from there.” He cut short Kurt’s thanks. “It won’t be a comfortable journey,” he warned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to travel under the logs again. We pass within a mile or two of the SS camp.” He gave Kurt one of his rare smiles and said, “I’d better bring you some water to shave! You really do look like an undesirable vagrant, now.”

Early next morning, while it was still dark, Kurt was once again hidden under the tarpaulin, weighed down with logs. As daylight crept into the sky, Franz put the horse in the shafts and they set out. They trundled along the country lanes, and occasionally there would be a shouted greeting, which Franz answered cheerfully, but the cart never stopped.

Kurt lost track of time. The weight of the logs seemed to increase as they travelled, until he felt that he was being crushed into one huge bruise. He had no idea how long they had been on the road, but at last he heard Franz say, “We’re coming to the outskirts of Dost now. I’m going to let you out here.”

The cart finally halted, and moments later Franz was hauling Kurt out from under the woodpile. As before, Kurt was so stiff and sore he could hardly stand, but he slipped over the back of the cart and staggered to his feet. As soon as he was clear, Franz started reloading the logs. They were in a small clearing at the edge of a wood, partially concealed from the road by the trees and underbrush.

“We can’t stay here long,” he said. “Get yourself dusted down, or you really will cause comment when you get to the town.”

Obediently Kurt brushed at his trousers and coat, which were both covered in sawdust. He combed the dust from his hair, and spitting on his hands wiped the dirt from his face as best he could. The only good thing about the tarpaulin and the logs was that they had kept him comparatively warm. Now even standing in the shelter of the little wood, Kurt realised how cold it had become. He shivered, and blew on his fingers.

“Could snow later,” Franz said as he tossed the last of the logs back onto the cart. “You should try and catch a train today. Go anywhere. Just don’t stay in Dost, or you may attract unwanted attention to yourself.” He looked across at Kurt. “This is as far as I can take you,” he said. “There is nowhere nearer the town to let you get off unseen.” He reached into the cart and handed Kurt a packet of bread and cheese. “Something to keep you going,” he said.

Kurt took the parcel and slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t know how to thank you…” he began, but Franz Beider waved the words away.

“One day this madness will end,” he said, “then come back and thank me. I’ll be pleased to see you. Good luck and God speed.” He swung himself up onto the cart once more, and gathering the reins, clicked his tongue to his horse and was off, back the way they had come.

Kurt watched him from the cover of the trees until he was out of sight, then he picked up his suitcase and began to walk into the town in search of the railway station.

9

What did you expect me to do with them?” Edith demanded,facing her husband, David, across the bedroom. “Put them out into the street?” She seldom raised her voice to David, but his annoyance at returning home to find his mother-in-law, his sister-in-law and her four children all camped out in his house, had made her angrily defensive.

“No, of course not,” snapped David, as he began to get undressed. “But you know perfectly well we haven’t got room for them. They’ll have to find somewhere else to stay as soon as they can.”

Ruth was saying exactly the same thing to her mother in the spare room they were sharing with the twins at the other end of the landing. They lay in the darkness, listening to the snuffling sleep of the two little boys, safe at last after the nightmare of the past few weeks.

“Mother, we can’t stay here for long. We must find a place of our own. It’s very clear that David doesn’t want us here, and Edith never stands up to him, you know.”

Helga sighed. “I know,” she said, “but they’ll have to put up with us for a few days, we’re flesh and blood after all.”

“The fewer the better,” said Ruth darkly. “We haven’t survived everything so far simply to be regarded as poor relations by my own sister.” She lapsed into silence as she thought of their escape… from the fire, from Munich, from Vohldorf, from Germany.

The journey from Stuttgart had been slow and cold, the train chugging steadily through the winter countryside, towards the Austrian border. After four hours in the chill of an unheated compartment, Ruth, Helga and the children had had to change trains at Munich. They waited two hours for their connection, but at least that gave them a chance to buy some more food for the journey. The waiting room had a large notice, No Jews, and, not wanting to draw any attention to themselves, they hadn’t tried to go in. Ruth sat them all down on a bench on the platform, their two precious suitcases close beside them, and gave them the bread, cheese and apples Helga had bought from a station stall.

When the train to Vienna finally steamed out of the station, it was full; all the compartments crowded with people going home after their day’s work in the city. Ruth and her family stood in the corridor, the twins sitting on the cases, their heads hanging uncomfortably in exhausted sleep.

Laura looked out of the window, watching the cold countryside race by. As it became dusk, lamps were switched on in the houses, warm beacons of light to welcome fathers home at the end of the day.

Who lives in those houses, Laura wondered? Who are the children waiting eagerly for their papa to come home? She felt a sudden ache of longing for her own papa. Where was he? Would she ever see him again? Tears filled her eyes and coursed silently down her cheeks. Determined that her mother shouldn’t see them, Laura turned her face resolutely to the window again, seeing the passing landscape through the blur of her tears.

A pale moon had risen, occasionally breaking free from the scudding cloud, to bathe the country in cold, silver light. Scattered villages emerged from the night, bright clusters of warm light, only to vanish as the train passed on. They steamed through small towns where the streetlamps marked the pattern of the roads, and the buildings crowded together in an untidy sprawl. Sometimes the train stopped, and there was the noise and bustle of a station, people climbing on and off the train; guards and porters shouting, the shriek of the engine letting off steam. Then with the shrill of the guard’s whistle, the train would chuff away again, gathering speed as it left the station behind to race onwards through the night.

Gradually the train emptied a little, and when at last they were able to find space in a compartment, they tried to get comfortable for the rest of the journey.

We’ve still got a long way to go, thought Ruth, as she settled the children as comfortably as she could. The train will stop several times before we reach the border, but at least we don’t have to change trains again.

She was still worried about the border crossing. Suppose they weren’t allowed across into Austria? Suppose the SS colonel had tricked them and their papers weren’t in order? A wave of panic flooded through her, but she forced it down. No point in worrying about it until it happened, she tried to make herself believe. It would be all right. It had to be all right.

The morning after Ruth had returned with the travel permits, the little family had left Vohldorf on the morning bus to Stuttgart. She and Helga had spent all night packing up ready to travel. They had the travel permits in their hands and neither of them dared waste a day in setting out in case those permits were rescinded.

They had just two suitcases, and into these they packed as many of their belongings as they could. Ruth and the children had few enough clothes, and Helga selected hers from the small number she had been able to bring from her old house. Helga picked up the worn leather photo frame she always carried with her. For a long moment she stared down at her beloved husband, Hans-Peter, after whom the twins were named, so young and so handsome on his wedding day. His eyes were alight with joy, his arm protectively round her as she stood beside him, smiling shyly into the camera.

“Oh my darling,” Helga murmured. “I’m so glad you didn’t live to see this dreadful day, with your grandchildren hounded out of the country.”

In the other half of the folding frame, Ruth and Edith, one dark, the other fair, hair plaited and tied with ribbons, sat side by side on a sofa, beaming into the camera; her lovely daughters; how had their family come to this?

With a sigh Helga tucked the photograph in among her clothes and turned to help the girls with their packing. Laura’s diary and the single pencil she had to write it with, went into the other case, along with the twins’ rabbits. Bunnkin had survived his encounter with the Gestapo officer, and carefully repaired by Helga he was Hansi’s constant comfort. It was with extreme reluctance that he allowed Ruth to pack the rabbit in the case.

“But darling,” she reasoned, “he’ll be much safer in there. Suppose you dropped him on the bus!”

“I’d pick him up again,” replied Hans. “He won’t like being in the case, Mutti. He won’t be able to breathe.”

“But Flop-Ear will be lonely without him,” Ruth pointed out as she put the two toys into the top of the case, “and when we get to Aunt Edith’s house you can get them both out to play with.”

Inge had no toys, but she had developed an attachment to an old silk scarf of her grandmother’s, winding it round her neck or, thumb in mouth, rubbing its luxurious softness against her cheek. This, too, was carefully packed into one of the cases.

A diary with a stub of pencil, an old silk scarf and two battered rabbits were the sum total of the children’s private possessions, and Ruth was determined that they should not lose them.

It’s no good worrying about the border, Ruth thought as the train rattled onwards. We must all try and get some sleep.

It was some time later that a ticket inspector came along the train. He looked at the family crammed into the compartment. Ruth and Helga each had a twin fast asleep on her knee, Inge was cuddled up against her grandmother, and Laura was crushed between the two other occupants of the carriage, two large elderly ladies.

“Tickets please!”

Ruth fumbled in her bag and produced the tickets. The inspector wore a swastika armband on the sleeve of his uniform, and he spoke in the peremptory tones of a small man with a modicum of power. He studied the tickets and then looked up.

“You’re going all the way to Vienna?” he said, suspiciously. “Have you got passports?”

Ruth tried to sound unconcerned. “Yes, of course. Do you want to see them?”

She knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out of her mouth. The man nodded and held out his hand. With an inward sigh she passed them over and watched his face as he read the names.

“Friedman,” he said. “Jews.” He looked up at Ruth with a sneer of disgust. “You shouldn’t be sitting in this compartment with these good German ladies,” he said, “squashing them into a corner with your dirty children. Indeed you probably shouldn’t be on the train.”

“We have permits to travel.” Ruth faced him down bravely. “Issued by Herr Standartenführer Unger of the SS, in Stuttgart.”

“Have you indeed? Let me see them!”

“They’re here.” Ruth held them out for him to see, but she didn’t let go of them herself. She didn’t trust the man not to tear them up, or throw them out of the window. The inspector glanced at the signature and the stamp and hurriedly passed them back. Even he was not prepared to question the authority of an SS colonel.

He took refuge in more bluster. “Well you can’t sit in here with these ladies, you can just move your lot out into the corridor.”

Helga spoke for the first time. “Excuse me, Herr Inspector, but have you looked at these children? They are exhausted. They are doing no harm sitting in here. I am happy to move into the corridor if that’s what you wish, but let the children stay asleep in here.”

The inspector was about to reply when one of the other women in the compartment stood up and said with a look of distaste, “I will certainly move to another carriage. The Jews can stay in here. They’d be a great inconvenience to everyone else on the train, Herr Inspector, if they were standing about in the corridor.” She walked to the door, before turning to the other woman. “Won’t you come with me,” she asked, “to a more salubrious carriage?”

“I think I will.” The second woman got up and crossed to the door, kicking Laura sharply on the ankle as she passed. Laura smothered her cry of pain with a sharp intake of breath, but the woman affected not to notice what she had done and stalked out of the compartment, followed by the ticket inspector, who slid the door closed with a resounding crash. For a moment the first woman looked back through the glass, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes, then she disappeared down the corridor to find another seat.

Helga began to settle the children again, while Ruth stuffed the passports, tickets and permits back into the depths of her bag. She found she was shaking. How close had they come to being put off the train? Or at least stuck in the corridor? She thought with gratitude of the woman who had come to their aid, while appearing to disparage them. Few people could risk being labelled as a Jew-lover, but there were still good people who were ashamed of how so many of their countrymen treated the Jews.

When at last they reached the border the train came to a halt. German officials swarmed onto the train, demanding papers. When they reached the Friedmans’ carriage Ruth prepared herself for more trouble, but the passports seemed to be in order. All the official asked was which child was which. As he was leaving the compartment he looked across at Ruth.

“I shouldn’t come back if I were you,” he said, and moved on down the corridor.

There were shouts from outside, and, peering out of the window again, Laura could see the officials climbing down off the train onto the platform. Then after further whistles, shouts and arm-waving, the train chugged forwards, only to stop again with a loud shriek of steam at the Austrian checkpoint a hundred metres down the track. Here their papers were given no more than a cursory glance, and they were safely out of Germany and into Austria. Ruth could have wept with relief, and Helga, who was nearly as exhausted as the children, was suddenly on the verge of tears.

“We made it, Mother,” Ruth whispered, adding as she fought back her own tears of relief and sorrow, “if only Kurt was with us.”

There was still a distance to go, with stops at Salzburg and Linz and other smaller stations along the way, but passengers who boarded at these places could see that the compartment where Ruth and her family were sitting was already full, and no one made any attempt to climb in. When at last the train steamed into the Westbahnhof, it was daylight, and a weak sun was forcing its way through the layer of cloud that covered the city. Tired and stiff, they all clambered down onto the platform, Helga gathering the children round her, while Ruth managed the luggage. The station was huge and busy with people. The hiss of steam, the shrill of whistles and the clatter of trains arriving and departing added to the cacophony that surrounded them; but it was Austrian noise. They were safely out of Germany.

“Come on, Mother, let’s get out of here.” Ruth led the way resolutely along the platform while the children trailed after her, Helga shepherding them from behind. Once they were away from the platform and they could hear themselves speak, they paused and decided what to do.

“We take a taxi,” Helga said. “We don’t know the way to Edith’s from here. David met us when we came for Paul’s bar mitzvah.”

“We haven’t money for a taxi, Mother!” protested Ruth.

“Edith will have. Come on.”

They found a waiting taxi and all piled in while the driver stowed their cases. Helga gave him the address and they were off through the streets of Vienna. When they reached Edith’s house the door was opened by a uniformed parlour maid.

“Good morning, Anna,” Ruth said briskly, pleased that a quick search of her memory had produced the maid’s name. “Please would you tell Frau Bernstein that her mother and sister are here.”

Anna eyed the invasion of children with disfavour, said she would see if Madam was at home, and, leaving them standing in the hall, with an anxious taxi driver hovering on the front step, she disappeared up the stairs.

“Ruth! Mother! Why on earth didn’t you warn me you were coming?” cried Edith as she hurried down the stairs to greet them. She stared at them all, ranged in her front hall, where Anna had left them. “Come in! Come in here and sit down.” She moved towards the door on her right, but Ruth laid her hand on her sister’s arm.

“Sorry, Edith, but we need some money for the taxi. I’m afraid we haven’t any schillings.”

Edith stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, so that Helga had to say, “Edith, dear, please pay the taxi driver so that we can all come into the warm.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Mother. I’ll get my bag.” She ran back up the stairs and returned moments later with money in her hand. She paid the relieved-looking taxi driver and closed the front door behind him. Anna, watching all this wide-eyed, was hovering beside the door leading to the kitchen. Edith turned to her.

“We’ll be in the morning room,” she said. “Please bring some coffee, Anna, and some milk for the children.”

The maid disappeared to the kitchen and Edith opened the door off the hallway. “Now then, all of you, come in here and sit down.” She turned to the children who had trailed into the room behind their mother. “You’d like a drink of milk, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m hungry,” whined Inge. No one told her to be quiet and not to be rude. Inge spoke for all of them; they were all hungry.

“I’m sure you are, pet,” cooed her Aunt Edith. “Anna shall bring you a biscuit.”

“I’m afraid she needs more than a biscuit, Edith,” Ruth said quietly. “She hasn’t eaten since yesterday. None of us has!”

“What!” cried Edith. “You poor things, you must be starving!” She went back out into the hall and called the maid back again. “Anna, please ask Cook to prepare a meal for my sister and her family, and have it laid out in the dining room… straightaway.”

Anna murmured, “Very good, madam,” but it was clear that she didn’t welcome the intrusion of so many people.

“Now,” Edith said brightly, “sit down, all of you, and tell me why you’re here.”

Before Ruth could reply, Helga spoke. “We’re here, Edith dear, because Kurt has been arrested, Ruth’s home has been burnt down round her ears, and I have been turned out of mine.” Her tone was terse. She was angry at her elder daughter’s lack of thought.

Edith gasped. “Kurt arrested? How awful! What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything,” snapped her mother. “He’s a Jew! No further reason is needed.”

“Well, thank goodness it isn’t like that here!” exclaimed Edith. She turned to Ruth. “What happened to the shop? How awful for you! How did it catch fire?”

“It didn’t just ‘catch fire’, Edith,” said Ruth. “It was set on fire. There was a riot one night in Kirnheim. A mob rampaged through the town, Kurt was taken away by the storm troopers, and the shop was set on fire. The children and I only just escaped with our lives.” She gave her sister a hard stare. “I did write and tell you what had happened and that we’d had to go to Munich and stay with Herbert, Kurt’s brother.”

“Did you?” Edith’s eyes flickered. “I never got your letter… or I’d have answered, of course. Offered you a home with us.”

“Well, that’s all right, then,” Helga said. “Because that’s why we’ve come to you now. We’ve nowhere else to go, and we need somewhere to stay.”

Ruth saw the dismay flash in Edith’s eyes before she said, “Of course, Mother. You’re all very welcome.”

“Don’t worry,” Ruth said. “We just need a place for a few days, until we can find somewhere of our own.”

“That’s fine!” Edith said cheerfully. “We can always squeeze you in for a few days.”

At that moment the door burst open and Paul, Edith’s son, came bounding into the room. He was a good-looking boy, tall for his fifteen years, with deep-set dark eyes, and a mop of dark curls, cropped short in a vain attempt to keep them in order.

“Oma!” he cried, hugging his grandmother. “Anna told me you were here! How lovely to see you! And Aunt Ruth… have you come to stay? Are these my cousins? Laura, Inge, all grown up.” He gave each girl a hug before crouching down to look at the twins. “Well,” he said, “I haven’t met you two before. Peter and Hans, isn’t it? Which one of you is which? How will I ever tell?”

The twins gurgled with laughter. “I’m Peter,” said Hans.

“And I’m Hansi,” said Peter.

“Other way round,” said Ruth, smiling for the first time since they had come into her sister’s house. “It’s their new game, to pretend to be each other. Peter has a small mole on his cheek. That’s how you tell until you know!”

“Well, I shall call you both Hans-Peter,” Paul told them cheerfully, “then I can’t ever be wrong, can I?” He turned to Ruth. “Is Uncle Kurt with you, Aunt Ruth? Where’s he?”

“I’m afraid not,” began Ruth, but Edith cut in smoothly.

“Your uncle can’t come this time,” she said. “Now, go and find Naomi and wash your hands. We’re having an early lunch. Your cousins have come a long way and they are hungry.”

“OK, Mother,” said Paul cheerfully, heading for the door in search of his sister.

“And don’t say OK, Paul,” reprimanded his mother. “It’s common.”

Paul gave her a grin, “OK,” he said, and left the room.

“He’s growing into such a good-looking boy,” Helga said, “and so welcoming!”

Edith glanced sharply in her mother’s direction to see if the comment was directed at her, but Helga was smiling fondly after Paul. “It’s lovely to see him again. I can’t wait to see Naomi.”

“Well,” Edith said, “while we’re waiting for Cook to prepare lunch, I’d better show you your rooms. It will be a bit of a crush, I’m afraid, we don’t have a big house, you know, but I’m sure you won’t mind that.” She turned to the four children who were still standing silently round their mother. “Come along, children, and then we can all have some lunch.” She led the way upstairs, and along a landing to a room at the end. Pushing open the door, she stood aside to let her mother and her sister enter.

Edith had said it would be a squeeze, and Ruth realised she was probably right, though the house was far bigger than any she, Ruth, had ever lived in. She, Helga and the twins were sleeping in the one big spare room and the two girls had folding beds in what was little more than a box room, down the landing from the other children, on the floor above. Anna had put the two suitcases into the spare room, and once the twins were reunited with their rabbits, and Inge with her silk scarf, they were happy to go back downstairs to the dining room. Laura had not taken her diary from the case, she simply checked that it was still there and then tucked it back among the clothes.

By the time they had got back downstairs, Paul had reappeared with his sister, Naomi. Naomi, aged nine, was as fair as her mother had been as a child. Her long, blond hair was neatly braided, with pale blue ribbons at the end of each plait. Wide-set blue eyes looked out on the world through the palest of lashes, and her skin was almost translucent. Although she was less than one year younger than Laura, looking at them the difference could have been two or three. She recognised her grandmother, but hung back shyly behind her brother at the sight of so many other people that she didn’t know.

“Come along, Naomi,” her mother said briskly. “Give Oma a kiss, then we can all sit down to lunch.”

Helga held out a hand, and Naomi edged forward to take it. Helga smiled at her. “Hallo, Naomi darling. It’s so lovely to see you again.” She made no move to hug or kiss the child; Naomi hadn’t seen her for two years, and needed time to get to know her again.

“Now then, everybody,” Edith called, “let’s sit down at the table.”

The lunch was served, and Ruth certainly couldn’t fault her sister’s cook. A meal had been produced that was both plentiful and filling. None of the Friedmans had seen so much food since they had left Kirnheim, and all of them ate hungrily, while their cousins ate with polite delicacy, and Edith picked at the food on her plate and pushed it away with most of it uneaten.

What a waste, thought Ruth as she remembered the times they had all gone hungry recently. She caught her mother’s eye and knew that she was having the same thought.

When they had all finished Edith said, “Now then, Paul, Naomi, I want you to look after your cousins while I talk to Oma and Aunt Ruth. You can play in the playroom, or you can take them in the garden if you like, but make sure you all have your coats on, it’s very cold today.”

“Now,” Edith said as she poured them each a strong black coffee, “let’s take this into the drawing room, so Anna can clear, and you must tell me everything.”

When they were settled in the drawing room, Ruth began her story. When she had finished, Edith was staring at her in horror, her coffee stone-cold in the cup beside her.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “You poor, poor things. Mother, how did you cope? It must have been terrifying with those Hitler youths throwing things at you.” She took her mother’s hand and squeezed it gently. “But at least you’re safe now. David will be home from the hospital soon,” she went on. “He’ll know what to do for the best.”

Even after all I’ve told her, she has absolutely no concept of what we’ve all been through, Ruth thought, looking across at the concern on her sister’s face. Edith had aged well. At almost forty her face was largely unlined. Her blond hair was thick, cut into a fashionable bob, with no trace of the grey hairs now liberally threaded through Ruth’s dark hair. Her clothes were well cut and clearly expensive. She had changed from being Ruth Heber’s big sister, with whom Ruth had romped and played, into the perfect wife for David Bernstein, eminent orthopaedic surgeon.

When David came home from the hospital later that day, it was to find his wife’s family installed in his house. He greeted his mother-in-law civilly enough, kissed his sister-in-law on the cheek and said he was delighted that they had been able to come on a visit. Then he went upstairs to change for dinner.

“David wants us out as soon as possible,” Ruth whispered to her mother that night in the darkness. “I shall start looking for somewhere tomorrow. Will you be all right looking after the children? I’ll have to find them a school as well. They need to get back to some sort of normality. And I’ll need a job, too. I refuse to be beholden to David.” She sighed. “Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day.”

“You can’t do everything in one day,” said Helga. “David will have to put up with us until we are ready to move out. After all, we shan’t be in his way… he’s out all day.”

Ruth lay in the warm comfort of the bed, but, despite her exhaustion, sleep still would not come. She listened to the regular breathing of the boys. When she had kissed them goodnight she had sat in the room with them until, each clutching his rabbit, they had dropped into exhausted slumber. Listening to them now, peacefully asleep in bed, she prayed that it would not be long before the last few nightmare weeks slid from their minds as she tried to provide them with a normal life. They were so young, surely the memories would recede and fade away as new, everyday experiences replaced them. Ruth was not so sure about the girls. Inge had become extremely clinging, needing her mother’s attention, or that of her grandmother, all the time. She had always been a rather volatile child, but had now begun to throw temper tantrums, as if she were a two-year-old again; that or withdrawn silences when she sat, thumb in mouth, silk scarf against her cheek.

Then there was Laura. She had become Ruth’s rock. Old way beyond her years, Laura knew what had been happening to them. She had learned to recognise the disdain in people’s eyes; she had learned to keep a low profile, not to draw attention to herself. She was ten years old, but the look in her eyes was that of someone five times that age. She asked for nothing, expected nothing, except derision and contempt from the people she encountered. It would take a very long time for her to learn to trust again.

“Ruth, have you still got Kurt’s passport?” Helga’s whisper broke in on her thoughts.

“Yes, of course.” Ruth was surprised at the question. “Why?”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Do with it?”

“Yes. If you’ve got it, Kurt can’t use it to get out of Germany, can he?”

“No, of course not. But I don’t know where he is, do I?” Ruth sounded exasperated. “I can’t send it to him, can I?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that,” replied Helga, ignoring her daughter’s irritable tone. “If you were Kurt, and you came home to find the family gone, what would you do?”

“I’d go to Munich, to Herbert, but…”

“Hold on a minute, darling, let’s really think this through. Suppose he does come home and then follows the trail, in the end he’s going to draw a blank. You and the children will have vanished. He will work out that you must have come to Vienna to Edith’s. Right?”

“Probably.”

“Almost certainly. Where else would you go?”

“All right,” conceded Ruth and waited for her mother to go on.

“If he knows you have the deed box, then he knows you have his passport. He’ll hope you have left it for him somewhere… or sent it to him somewhere.”

“But where?” Ruth’s voice took on a tone of despair. “Where can I send it that he might think to look?”

“To those friends who took you in after the fire.”

“The Meyers?”

“Yes, the Meyers. Think about it. If he goes home and finds the shop burnt out he will ask around to find out what happened. He will ask the Meyers. If you sent the passport there, addressed to him, they would give it to him when he asked.”

“Leah Meyer asked me not to contact them again,” Ruth said. “She’s afraid the mail will be intercepted.”

“I think you have to risk it.”

“But suppose Kurt’s been there already. It’ll be too late!”

“I know,” soothed Helga, “but surely it’s worth a try. If the Meyers have the passport and he goes to them, they’ll give it to him. If he doesn’t, then we are no worse off than if you have it. If he contacts us here…”

“He won’t,” Ruth interrupted bleakly. “He won’t remember Edith’s address, and he certainly won’t know the phone number…”

“He might. And if he did you’d be able to tell him where to go to collect his passport.” Helga sat up in the darkness. “Come on, Ruth, this isn’t like you! You’ve been so brave and done everything you could for the children. Now you must try and do this for Kurt. Let’s face it, darling, his passport is no good to him in Austria if he’s in Germany.”

“All right, Mother,” agreed Ruth wearily, “I’ll send it tomorrow.”

“Good!” said Helga with satisfaction. “Now then, stop brooding and try and get some sleep, or you’ll be no good to anyone in the morning.”

Ruth gave a shaky laugh. “Yes, Mutti!” she said.

Friday 10th December

We moved out of Uncle David and Aunt Edith’s yesterday. Mutti has found us a home of our own. It is not very big, just three small rooms and a toilet in the passage. Oma, Inge and I sleep in one room, Mutti and the twins in another, and we live in the last. It has a stove, so it’s quite warm, and there is a table and some chairs and a cupboard to keep things in, but we haven’t got many things to keep. There is no room for anything else because the room is so small. I’m glad we have left Aunt Edith’s house. Everyone was very strict and seemed to be cross with us all the time. I’m scared of Uncle David. I think my cousin Naomi is too, but she loves her Opa. Everyone else is frightened of him, but Naomi isn’t. My other cousin, Paul, is nice, but he’s much older than we are. He’s at the gymnasium. He’s very clever and says he is going to be a doctor like his papa when he leaves school.

Our apartment is near a big fairground. Mutti says we might be able to go there one day soon. I hope so, I want to go on the big wheel, but we haven’t got much money for fairgrounds.

Mutti has found a school for me and Inge to go to. It is not very big, but my teacher is nice. She is called Fräulein Lowenstein. Inge is in the baby class, her teacher is called Fräulein Munt. We do arithmetic and write stories, and on Wednesdays we have art. I’m not very good at drawing, but Fräulein Lowenstein says it doesn’t matter as different people are good at different things. I like Fräulein Lowenstein.

Oma looks after the twins as they are too little to go to school, and Mutti has got a job in a shop.

All the shops are decorated for Christmas. We don’t have Christmas, but I do like the decorations.

Ruth had been determined they should move out of Edith’s house as soon as possible, and she’d set about finding them somewhere to live the very next day. It took several more days, but eventually she had managed to find a three-roomed flat in a tall tenement, in the Leopoldstadt district. A twisting lane led off the street and halfway down there was an old brick archway leading into a courtyard, around three sides of which stood crumbling apartment blocks. From the courtyard, flights of outside steps led up to the flats above. Ruth and her family had moved into one on the first floor.

Edith was horrified that they should live in such an area. “It’s all low Jews and working class,” she cried, “not for families like ours.”

“It is for a family like mine,” Ruth retorted, “one that has no money and nowhere else to stay.”

Edith looked slightly abashed, but she didn’t suggest that they stay longer with her, and it was David who paid a month’s rent in advance to secure them the apartment. Ruth was sure that this was more from the wish to get them out of his home than from true generosity, but she didn’t care. They had a roof over their heads. Many of their neighbours were Jewish and as they settled in there was the faintest comforting echo of Gerbergasse in the community around them. They were living very much hand-to-mouth, but they were in a place of their own. Helga was there to look after the children, so Ruth set out in search of a job.

For several days she trod the streets looking for work, and because the shops were busy just before Christmas, she managed to get a job in a small haberdashery. The pay was poor and the hours were long, but Ruth, running her own shop for most of her married life, wasn’t afraid of hard work, and it meant she could provide food for the table, and save enough for each week’s rent. She enjoyed working in the little shop; it was interesting as always she enjoyed meeting the customers and helping them to find what they needed. Frau Merkle, the proprietor, soon realised that Ruth was an excellent sales assistant, and that the customers liked her. So, after the Christmas season was over, she decided to keep her on and offered her a full-time job. The rise in pay made all the difference, and before long the children each had a new set of warm clothes. Ruth treated herself to a new coat and skirt, even though it meant the repayment of a loan from Edith had to be delayed.

The girls had settled well into a small Jewish school not far from the flat, and Helga took on the care of the twins and the running of the household. Everything gradually returned to a sort of normality. All they needed now was for Kurt to join them and life would be tolerable.

10

Kurt got off the train in Munich. When Franz Beider had dropped him outside Dost, Kurt followed his advice and made straight for the railway station. He would get on the first train that came along, he decided, wherever it was going. It was going to Munich, so that was where he went.

When he arrived, Kurt left the station quickly, moving out onto the street amid the crowd of disembarking passengers, and headed back to the house where he had rented the room before. Walking quietly up to the front door, he knocked. No one came to the door, but there was a slight movement at the window beside him. He turned to see who was there, but the curtains were still and there was no sign of anybody. Yet Kurt was sure that he hadn’t imagined it; there had definitely been someone peeping from the window to see who was outside.

And now they know, Kurt thought ruefully, they aren’t going to open the door. He would have to find somewhere else to stay. He could, he supposed, go back to the station, but it was the kind of place the Gestapo made regular sweeps, picking up undesirables… like him.

He found a small café and bought himself a plate of stew. He had long since given up worrying about the dietary rules he had followed all his life. There was no question of kosher food in Dachau. You ate whatever you could get hold of, and were grateful.

Feeling better for the hot food, Kurt considered what he should do next. Get out of Munich, he decided. Time was running out, he had only another four days in which to produce the deeds to his home at the Jewish Emigration Office, and to get his family out of the country… or he would be back in Dachau. He broke out into a cold sweat at the thought of the camp. Whatever happened, he was not going back there.

If I can’t find Ruth and the children in the next couple of days, then I have to disappear myself, he thought. I’ve nowhere to hide, so I’ll have to keep moving. Try and keep one step ahead of the SS who will be looking for me.

He had no doubt that if he did not turn up with the documents as arranged, Oberführer Loritz would have his hounds out on the trail to bring him back. Defying an SS officer was an extremely dangerous thing to do, and although Kurt had no alternative unless he found Ruth and the title deeds, there would be no explaining that to Oberführer Loritz… and he would take delight in exacting his revenge.

There’s only one thing to do, Kurt thought as he drained the last of his coffee, I must try and get out of the country myself. I’ll never find them while I’m on the run in Germany.

The waitress was beginning to eye him suspiciously, and not wishing to draw further attention to himself, Kurt got to his feet, paid his bill with some of his fast dwindling cash and went out into the street. It was bitterly cold and he drew his thin overcoat around him, but the biting wind drilled through its fabric as if it wasn’t there. He set off at a brisk pace, not because he was in any hurry, but simply to try and keep warm. Also important, he thought, to look purposeful, as if I’ve got somewhere to go, something pressing to do.

As he strode along the street he continued to consider his options. Ruth and Helga must have taken the children to Edith, he thought. That’s the obvious place for them all to go. Franz said that Helga Heber was with them now. Surely they would head for the only safe place where they had family. Vienna.

He knew Ruth had her passport, with the girls on it. Had she managed to get the twins put on as well? She also had his passport, or he assumed she did, as it, too, had been hidden in the deed box. But much good did that do him. He tried once again to put himself in Ruth’s shoes. He knew she had left nothing with the Meyers when she’d left Gerbergasse, but then she had thought she was going to safety with Herbert in Munich. If she’d had to leave the country she’d know he couldn’t follow unless he had his passport.

If only I could get in touch with her somehow, he thought, and cursed himself that he did not know the address or telephone number of his sister-in-law, and had no way of discovering it. Even if David Bernstein’s number was listed in the Vienna telephone book, where was Kurt going to find one? He knew David was a surgeon, but he had no idea in which hospital he worked. Kurt didn’t know the names of any hospitals in Vienna. There was no way at the present time that Kurt could get in touch with Ruth or her sister.

She must have my passport, Kurt decided. What would she do with it? What would I do with it if it were me? I’d try and get it to her; try and think of somewhere where she might think to look for it. “There’s only one place,” he said aloud, “and that’s the Meyers’. So I must go back to Kirnheim.”

Once that decision was made Kurt felt better. He now had a purpose, but before he could put it into action, he had another problem to solve… where to sleep the night. It was far too cold… and far too dangerous… to spend the night out on the streets. He had to find somewhere to stay and quickly. It was already beginning to get dark and he could feel the first spatter of rain on the wind.

Who would help a Jew? Other Jews… maybe. Almost certainly no one else. Kurt remembered the rabbi who had helped Ruth and the children, and had passed on the message to him when he traced them there. Rabbi Rahmer.

He let the family sleep in the meeting room behind the synagogue, Kurt thought, perhaps he’ll let me do the same.

Grasping his small suitcase firmly, he set off in the direction of the synagogue. He had only a vague recollection of exactly where it was and the rain was turning to sleet before he finally presented himself at the door of the rabbi’s house. Frau Rahmer opened the door, and confronted by a strange man in a soaking wet overcoat with water streaming off his hat, began to close the door again.

“Frau Rahmer?” Kurt placed an involuntary hand on the door to stop it closing. “Is the rabbi at home?”

Frau Rahmer did not open the door again, but neither did she continue to close it. She regarded the stranger through the gap and said, “Who wants him?”

“My name is Kurt Friedman, you were kind enough to give my wife and children shelter some weeks ago.”

Frau Rahmer peered at Kurt more closely, opening the door a little more to do so. It was against her nature to turn away anyone who was in need of help, but in these increasingly difficult and dangerous times one had to be unusually careful. Still she didn’t want him to be seen standing on her doorstep either; reported in the wrong quarter, that too could be dangerous.

“You’d better come in,” she said, pulling the door wider to let him enter, and closing it swiftly behind him. “Wait there. I’ll call my husband.”

Kurt waited, dripping on the hall mat, as she moved away and called down a passageway behind her, “Manny, there’s someone to see you.”

A door opened and the rabbi whom Kurt had met the previous week emerged. Rabbi Rahmer took one look at him and said, “You’d better come into my study.” Turning to his wife he said, “I think our friend would welcome a hot drink, Ruth.”

Frau Rahmer nodded and disappeared through another door. The rabbi led Kurt into his study.

“Ruth is my wife’s name, too,” Kurt said as he followed the rabbi into the room.

“I know,” the rabbi replied. He waved Kurt to a chair. “Please take off your wet coat.” And as Kurt did as he was bid he went on, “So you didn’t find her.”

“No,” Kurt replied. “She… they had to move on. And now I am in trouble, it’s a long story…”

The rabbi raised his hand and said abruptly, “Stop! I don’t want to hear of your trouble. We all have enough of our own. So, no long story, just tell me why you have come here, now.”

“Simply to ask if I may sleep in the meeting room at the back of your synagogue… just for one night.”

“You ask a good deal from someone you don’t know,” the rabbi said sharply.

“I ask you as a pastor who looks after his congregation,” replied Kurt. “I have nowhere else to turn. If I sleep out tonight, I shall die of cold. If I am picked up, I will be arrested. All I ask of you is a safe haven for one night. Tomorrow I leave Munich, and you’ll never see me again.”

“You ask me something that may bring danger to my family and to my congregation,” the rabbi pointed out, “if you are a wanted man.”

“I’m not a wanted man,” Kurt replied firmly. “Not for another four days,” he added silently. “I am still searching for my wife and children. All I need is a place to stay for tonight before I move on after them.”

There was a tap on the door and Frau Rahmer appeared carrying a tray. On it were two cups of coffee. She put it on the rabbi’s desk and disappeared again without a word.

Rabbi Rahmer gestured to the cups. “Take one,” he said, “it’s all I can offer you.” He reached for a cup himself, and Kurt took the other.

“Please, Rabbi, in the name of charity, let me sleep in the meeting room.”

“The synagogue is already locked for the night. I’m afraid I have to lock up as soon as it gets dark these days,” said the rabbi. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I think, when you’ve drunk your coffee, you should leave.”

Kurt downed the coffee, almost scalding his mouth as he did so. It wasn’t coffee at all, just hot brown liquid, but at least it was hot.

He got to his feet and pulled the damp coat round his shoulders. “Thank you, Rabbi,” he said. “I quite understand your reluctance. You have to protect your own.”

The rabbi stood as well, and calling to his wife said, “Herr Friedman is leaving now, Ruth. Please see him out.” He didn’t extend his hand, merely nodded to Kurt and sat back down behind his desk. Kurt was dismissed, and Rabbi Rahmer gave his attention to the papers in front of him.

Kurt turned and left the room, following Frau Rahmer to the front door. As she opened it she said softly, “The meeting room has a broken window. Smashed by the Hitler Youth. If my husband doesn’t get it mended soon, anyone will be able to get in.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Herr Friedman, I hope you find your family soon.”

The door closed behind him and Kurt found himself back in the biting March wind. He walked away from the house and on up the street without so much as a glance at the synagogue opposite, not slowing his pace until he had rounded the corner and was out of sight of the rabbi’s house. Then he drew into the shadow of an alleyway and considered what to do.

Had he understood Frau Rahmer’s words aright? Was she telling him how to get into the back of the meeting room? Suggesting that he might rest there for the night after all? But would the rabbi think of that, too? Would he come out and check that his visitor hadn’t tried to break in? Kurt decided that he had to take the risk. Better to be caught by an angry rabbi when camping in his meeting room than by a Gestapo patrol out in the street at night. He would wait for a quarter of an hour and then he would try and get into the meeting room through the window. He walked back a little way until, from the shadow of a tree, he could see the rabbi’s front door. The minutes ticked by and it remained shut. There was no sign of the rabbi or his wife.

Kurt was chilled to the bone now, the wind knifing through his wet overcoat as he stood and waited. Frost was forming on the road and on the trunk of the tree that sheltered him. The sky was beginning to clear, and a half-moon sailed into the sky, lightening the street and deepening the shadows. At last Kurt thought it must be safe to try his luck. He looked at the outside of the synagogue and realised that the meeting room could not be seen from where he was. The alley he’d sheltered in earlier must run round the back of the building, so he would not be visible to any casual passer-by.

Stiff with cold, his teeth beginning to chatter, Kurt made his way back to the alley, and felt his way along it. It was almost pitch dark in here as there were no streetlamps and the moonlight did not penetrate between the high walls that enclosed it. The building on the opposite side had no windows, but halfway along there was a gate in the wall, which Kurt assumed led directly into someone’s garden. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Kurt found that he could see more than he’d at first thought. Running his hands along the brickwork, he found a window, and sure enough the glass had been smashed, leaving jagged shards jutting from the frame. Pulling his hand up inside his coat sleeve, Kurt carefully pushed his arm through the frame and reached inside. The window was a casement, and it was not long before he had found the catch to release it. The catch was stiff, but, by shaking it up and down, he gradually loosened it until he was at last able to open the window. The rusty hinges screeched in protest as he pulled it open and he froze. Had anyone heard? The people who lived in the next house? Again Kurt waited, poised for flight if there should be a shout, a light, or the sound of investigating footsteps. But the night remained silent around him and he eased the window again. The hinges creaked again, but this time he was ready for the sound and it didn’t seem quite so loud. It was enough, the gap was now wide enough for him to slide inside. One of the shards caught his coat and tore the sleeve, but apart from that he found himself inside, undamaged. Very gently he eased the window almost closed again. He didn’t want anyone passing down the alley to notice that it had been opened.

He had no torch, and wouldn’t have used it if he had, but a shaft of moonlight pierced the darkness through a window on the opposite side of the room, so he had enough light to make out his surroundings. The room was quite large, with chairs and tables stacked round the walls, ready for use. Several old armchairs stood in a group in front of a large iron stove at one end, and there were two large cupboards at the other end. The stove was quite cold, all the previous ashes swept away. No fuel was piled beside it, and Kurt could see nothing with which he could light a fire even if he dared. He had no idea who would be able to see lights in these windows. It was nearly as cold as the street outside, except there was no wind, and Kurt wondered, if he allowed himself to go to sleep, whether he would ever wake up again.

Still, he thought, at least I am off the streets. I should be safe here until the morning. He took off his wet coat and hung it over a chair in the vain hope that it might dry a little by the morning. Then he investigated the cupboards at the end of the room. They were locked, and unwilling to damage anything that might reveal he had been there, he didn’t try and force them open. He was still shivering and so he began to do physical jerks. He thought back to his days at primary school when they had been made to do exercises before class every day. He swung his arms, raised his feet high, running on the spot, jumped, feet together, hopped round the room first on one leg and then on the other. As the blood began to flow more quickly through his veins, he began to feel a little warmer. He opened his suitcase and got out the few clothes that were inside it. He pulled them all on over what he was already wearing in an effort to retain the heat he had just generated.

I must try and get some sleep, he thought, and make an early start in the morning. He pulled two of the old armchairs together to make him a short bed. It was not long enough for him to lie straight, but if he curled himself into the foetal position, he could just about fit, and the sheltering arms of the chairs gave an illusion of warmth.

Kurt awoke several hours later, cold and stiff. His neck ached and one of his arms had gone to sleep. It was still dark outside, but it was, Kurt decided, a lightening darkness. It must be almost morning. He got out of the makeshift bed and stretched before going through the routine of physical jerks he had done the night before. Gradually warmth began to creep back into his body, but his stomach rumbled for lack of food. Kurt took out his money and counted it. He had enough for a cheap meal or a ticket back to Kirnheim… not both.

Time was not on his side, Kurt knew, so he would have to go hungry. He needed to get to Kirnheim, to the Meyers, before the last three days of his deadline ran out. As soon as the sky lightened to grey daylight, Kurt checked that there was no sign that he had used the room, put on his still-damp overcoat and picked up his now empty suitcase. He would still carry it, he thought, it gave him an air of respectability. He dropped the case out of the window and then climbed out into the alley. When he emerged at the far end he turned in the opposite direction from the rabbi’s house. No point in risking being seen again now. He walked briskly back to the centre of the city, and when he reached the early bustle of the station bought himself a ticket to Kirnheim.

It was mid-morning before Kurt found himself at the end of Gerbergasse. The shops were all open and people were going about their business. Further down the street he could see the Meyers’ bakery, and beyond it on the opposite side the ruined shell of his own grocery. At least that is what he thought he saw until, as he walked slowly down the street, he realised that things had changed. Work on restoring the building had begun. A new, sturdy door stood open, with workmen going in and out from a van parked in the street outside.

Kurt felt a shudder of fear. Who had instigated this work? He had passed the deeds to no one yet. Who would spend money rebuilding the place if it didn’t belong to him? Kurt turned away and walked back up the street, out of sight, to consider this development and to decide what to do next. Oberführer Loritz must have decided not to wait for the deed before he seized the property.

If I had turned up at the Jewish Affairs Office in Munich with the deeds, Kurt thought with a stab of panic, he would probably have taken them and arrested me again anyway.

The more he thought about this, the more certain Kurt was that he was right. The Oberführer had had no intention of letting Kurt and his family leave Germany, he had simply used that as a way of appropriating a piece of property. Once he’d got his hands on the deeds, Kurt would have been back in Dachau. The icy chill of terror ran through him at the thought of his narrow escape. Thank God he hadn’t had the deeds, thank God he hadn’t taken them and handed them in. Now he had absolutely nothing in the world, no home, no money and nothing to bargain with.

But I’m still alive and I’m still free, Kurt thought with a surge of adrenaline. They haven’t won yet! But as quickly as the rush went through him it drained away again, leaving him standing two hundred yards from his home, cold and frightened, trying to think what to do next.

Had Ruth thought of sending his passport to the Meyers? When he had left them last time, they were terrified. The arrival of the SS patrol and his own narrow escape from them had put the Meyers in danger. Even if Ruth had sent the passport, would they have held on to it? Wouldn’t they simply have destroyed it, afraid to hold something belonging to another Jew, a Jew on the run? He could understand that they might. He might, too, in the same situation, if it put any of his family at risk. But without a passport, Kurt was going to find it almost impossible to escape. It must be worth the risk just to go and ask them. He wouldn’t stay in the shop a moment longer than necessary. All he had to ask was, “Has a parcel arrived for me?”

Kurt knew that if he were going to do it, he had to do it now, before his own nerve broke. He retraced his steps to the top of Gerbergasse and walked briskly down to the bakery. The door was closed, but the bread and pastries were laid out in the window. Without looking across at the building opposite, Kurt pushed open the door and went in.

Leo Meyer was behind the counter, serving a customer. When he saw who had walked into the shop, the colour drained from his face, and the words he had been saying dried on his lips. At this reaction the woman being served turned round, and Kurt saw that it was Rudy Stein’s wife. She stared at him for a moment, as if she’d seen a ghost, and then with a cry she pushed past him and fled from the shop.

“Kurt!” Leo’s voice was a croak. “I thought you were long gone. What brings you back here?”

“I’m still looking for my family,” Kurt replied. “And I wondered, Leo, if by any chance Ruth had sent anything to me, here, to your address.”

Leo walked across the shop and flipped the open sign to closed, drawing the bolt across, turning the key in the lock and then pocketing it. “Something did come for you not long ago,” he said. “I put it in my bureau upstairs for safekeeping. If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and fetch it for you.” Without pausing for a reply, Leo went through the back of the shop and up the stairs to the apartment above. Kurt waited a moment and then followed him. He thought he heard a voice, and paused on the stairs; Leah must be up here. He knocked on the door and went in; Leo was standing by his bureau, but there was no one else in the room.

“I thought Leah was here,” Kurt said, looking round. “I thought I heard a voice.”

“No, she’s away,” Leo said. “I talk to myself… it’s a sign of old age. Look, here’s the packet that came for you. It was posted in Vienna. If it’s from Ruth that must mean they’re safe, mustn’t it? You’ll be able to go and find them there.”

Leo thrust the package into Kurt’s hand. “Go ahead and open it,” he said. “I can guess how much you are longing for news of them.”

Kurt was about to rip the brown paper from the parcel when he saw that it already had a tear across the top. He looked up sharply. “Did you open it, Leo?”

Leo gave a nervous laugh, “No, of course not. It arrived like that. I’m afraid the post is very badly handled these days.” Leo’s face was grey with fear and his eyes flicked from the desk, to the window, to the clock on the mantelpiece, back to the window. It was then that Kurt saw the telephone, remembered the voice he had heard as he’d mounted the stairs and in that moment he knew what Leo Meyer had done. With one despairing look at Leo, Kurt spun on his heel and pelted down the stairs. As he ran he heard Leo wailing, “What else could I do, Kurt? They’ve taken my Leah! They’ve taken my Leah!”

Kurt knew the front door was already locked, so he ripped open the side door and ran across the yard to the back gate. How long had he got? How long before the Gestapo arrived to grab him, to drag him back to Dachau? They would have people surrounding the place, covering the back alley as well as the front entrance. He drew back the bolts on the gate and flung it open. The alley was empty, each end out of sight as it curved away behind the houses. Both ends opened on to a main road, but unless he reached one before it was covered by the Gestapo, he would walk straight into a trap. How long had he got?

His answer came immediately. There was the crash of glass and splintering of wood as a jackboot broke down the shop door. No time to run. Kurt looked wildly round the yard for somewhere to hide. A small tool shed stood against the side wall. No good hiding inside… but the roof? It was his only chance. He jumped up and grasping its rough stone parapet, scrabbling with his feet, he managed to heave himself onto the top of the wall. With heart pounding, he scrambled onto the roof of the shed, but realised at once there was no hiding there. He slid back onto the wall, to lie, shaking, partially concealed by the jut of the shed roof. At that moment the back door of the bakery burst open and two men catapulted into the yard.

There was a roar from one, “He’s gone through the back gate! You go that way, I’ll take the other! We’ve got him!”

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of heavy boots pounding along the alley echoed back to him. Kurt raised his head a fraction. What to do now? It wouldn’t be long before they realised that he had not tried to make his escape along the alley. They would be back to search the bakery and its neighbours properly. Two men. How many had come in answer to Leo’s call? There were certainly more in Leo’s apartment, he could hear shouting. No escape that way then. He would have to move on. He glanced down into the yard on the other side of the wall, and the back entrance of the tobacconist, next door to the bakery. Could he escape that way? There was nowhere else.

As softly as he could, Kurt slithered round and dropped into the yard. He edged his way to the back door, keeping close under the wall so that he should not be seen from one of Leo’s windows. He tried the back door of the shop, but it was locked. If he wanted to get into the building, he would have to bang on the door. No point in that. He was about to try his luck at climbing the next wall and moving into the next yard, when he noticed the sash window beside the door. It had been left open an inch or so for ventilation. Kurt slipped his fingers under the frame and pushed upward as hard as he could. The window was well greased and slid up easily. It was a moment’s work to slide in through the gap and roll the window down again, this time completely. For the moment Kurt was out of sight, but he knew that the whole area would soon be flooded with men looking for him; and if Leo saw him, that would be that. Leo would do anything to try and save his beloved Leah.

The room in which Kurt found himself was used as a laundry. There was a large sink with a tap, a copper for boiling water, a scrubbed wooden table covered with an ironing cloth, and on a wooden airer, slung from the ceiling, clothes had been hung up to dry. Kurt saw a dark blue boiler suit, and shedding his old overcoat he grabbed it down and pulled it on over his clothes, buttoning it high to the neck. There was a workman’s cap on the back of the door, and Kurt crammed it onto his head, pulling it well down to shade his face. He checked that he had the precious packet in his pocket, and he was ready to move. As he was about to open the door, he saw a toolbox tucked under the table. It was Frau Hirsch who ran the tobacconist’s, he remembered, and her husband was a plumber. Kurt’s suitcase was somewhere in Leo’s shop, but there was nothing in it anyway. Kurt picked up the toolbox. He was now a plumber.

He eased the door open and found himself in a narrow corridor. A flight of stairs ran up to his right, and further along another door to the right led into the tobacconist’s shop. At the far end of the passage was a door onto the street, allowing entry to the apartment without having to pass through the shop.

For a moment Kurt tried to visualise the inside of the tobacconist’s shop. The door from the back of the house came in behind the counter, he remembered. It was glazed, but if Frau Hirsch was serving a customer, she probably wouldn’t see him slip past. It was a risk, but one he had to take. His only chance of escape was to get away from here as fast as possible.

Kurt drew a deep breath and walked swiftly and silently down the passage to the street door. It opened to his touch and he stepped out into the street. There was a large black car parked outside Meyer’s bakery, and another across the road outside his own home. The street was almost deserted. At the sign of Gestapo interest in the neighbourhood, everyone headed for cover, hoping that they had come for someone else. Still clutching the toolbox, Kurt walked purposefully up the road, away from the parked cars. He passed several entrances to back alleys, but decided he was safer walking along the main roads as if he had nothing to hide. When he reached the corner, he turned left, away from the end of the alley that ran behind the Meyers’. There were a few more people around here, but even so Kurt was anxious to find somewhere busier where he could melt into the crowd.

It won’t be very long before they know what I’m wearing, Kurt thought as he strode along, toolbox in hand. How long before they find my coat in Frau Hirsch’s laundry? How long before she tells them I’ve stolen her husband’s boiler suit and his toolbox? Not long, if they are thorough as they usually are. No one will try and protect me; no one will dare and who can blame them?

“This man is a thief!” the Gestapo will say to justify my arrest. “This man has stolen the tools of another man’s trade, leaving him unable to earn his living and support his family!”

Kurt still had no idea as to where to go. They would surely be watching both the railway and the bus stations, and if he stayed on the streets it was only a matter of time before they picked him up. He was definitely a man on the run now, a man on the run with no money. The few coins that he had in his trouser pocket were the last he owned in the world. The only things he had of any value now were his watch and Herr Hirsch’s toolbox. He would have to sell them… if he could find anyone willing to buy.

It was then he remembered Paul Schiller. He had been a good friend of Kurt’s father, a jeweller who had a shop just a few streets away. Paul Schiller would probably give Kurt a fair price for the watch… if he were still in business.

Kurt set off to find the shop. As he waited to cross the road, a sleek black car swept round the corner, its wheels throwing up filthy spray from a puddle in the road. Kurt was not the only one to turn away as the car sped past, but even as he did so, he saw the pale despairing face of Leo Meyer, crushed between two Gestapo, in the back. Leo had betrayed Kurt to try and save his own wife, but it would seem that the Gestapo had not kept their side of the bargain. Perhaps, thought Kurt, because they didn’t catch me, or perhaps simply because they are the Gestapo and they don’t have to. Like Oberführer Loritz, who had taken possession of Kurt’s property when there were still two days to run. Well, if they’ve taken Leo in for questioning, it won’t be long before they know exactly where I’m going.

The sight of Leo in the back of the car made Kurt feel sick. The reputation of the Gestapo was well established, and no one who fell into their clutches was safe. Kurt quickened his pace and before long he reached the street where Paul Schiller had had his shop. Hardly daring to look, Kurt walked to the corner where the shop had been, and miracle of miracles, was still. He pushed open the door and went inside, if nothing else, pleased to get off the street for a while.

Paul Schiller was an elderly man, with snow-white hair standing in a halo around his head, half-moon glasses perched on his nose and piercing blue eyes. He was behind the counter when Kurt opened the door and he looked up as the bell jingled to announce the arrival of a customer. He had an eyeglass screwed into one eye and he squinted at Kurt, not recognising him.

“Good day to you,” he said mildly. “How can I help you?”

“I have a watch I’d like valued,” Kurt said. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the watch he had removed from his wrist before entering the shop. He held it out to the jeweller who took it and looked at it for a long moment. Then he looked up again.

“Where did you get this watch?” he asked.

“It was my father’s. Now it’s mine.”

“Kurt Friedman? Is it you? Heinrich’s boy?”

Kurt smiled and held out his hand. “Yes, Herr Schiller. It’s me, Heinrich’s boy.”

The jeweller took Kurt’s outstretched hand and shook it. “I heard your shop had burned down… and that you were arrested. Is that true?”

Kurt nodded. “It happened the night of the riot. Back in July.”

“And you’ve been released? Where are you living now?”

“Nowhere,” replied Kurt. “I am looking for my family. I’ll be honest with you, Herr Schiller, I don’t just want the watch valued, I want to sell it.”

Paul Schiller looked at the watch in his hand and said, “Your mother bought that watch from me as an anniversary present for your father over thirty years ago. Swiss. A beautiful movement.” He handed the watch back to Kurt. “It would be a pity to part with it.”

“I don’t want to part with it,” Kurt admitted, “but I’ve nothing else of value to sell, indeed nothing else in the world, and I need money to eat and to find my wife and children. My father would think it was being put to good use.”

“I see.” The old man came round the end of the counter and pulled down the blinds on the windows. “Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk about this,” he said, locking the door. “I often close in the afternoons these days, there’s very little business. Come on through.” He led the way to a room at the back of the shop. It was furnished as a small sitting room with armchairs and a sofa. A closed stove sent a steady heat into the room so that it was comfortably warm, and it was only as the warmth hit him that Kurt realised how cold he was.

Paul Schiller set the kettle to boil and then said, “Are you hungry?”

Kurt admitted he was. “It was food or a train ticket this morning,” he said. “The train ticket won.”

The jeweller went to a cupboard and drew out a large loaf of bread and some cheese. “I always keep some food here, to have for lunch,” he said, and cutting a thick slice from the loaf, put it, with a large hunk of cheese, onto a plate and passed it across to Kurt. “You eat that while I brew the coffee.”

Kurt fell on the food, and his father’s old friend, watching him, realised what dire straits he was in.

When the coffee was made, he prepared another plate of bread and cheese, which he also handed to Kurt, and then he sat back nursing his coffee cup and said, “Now then, I think you’d better tell me everything from the start, don’t you?”

Kurt looked across at him. “I’m not sure that is a good idea at all,” he said. “It could well put you in danger.”

“We’re all in danger while the Nazis are in power,” replied Paul. “I’ve only myself to think about. If I am prepared to take the risk, it is my decision, and you don’t bear the burden of it.” As Kurt still looked uncertain the old man said, “There are few enough able to stand up against this tyranny, even in small ways. They have families to protect, they have private scores to settle, they are just plain scared. For whatever reason they can’t or won’t say enough is enough. Now, tell me what’s happened to you, what you are trying to do and what I can do to help you.”

The grey afternoon faded to dusk, and still they sat in the warm room behind the shop, Kurt relating all that had happened to him and what he knew of what had happened to Ruth and the children. Paul listened almost without interruption, just occasionally asking a question to clarify something, and when at last Kurt finished he made no comment for several minutes. Silence lapsed round them, and neither man felt the need to break it. At last, Paul said, “Have you opened the packet from Ruth? Is it your passport?”

Kurt looked at him in surprise. “You know, I haven’t had an opportunity.” He reached into his pocket and produced the packet. He was about to slit it open when Paul stopped him.

“May I have a look at this first?” he asked.

“Of course.” Kurt handed over the package.

Paul held it carefully between finger and thumb, looking at the flap, still sealed, and the tear across the top. “This has been opened and re-sealed,” he said. “Look, you can see where there is extra glue at the edge of the flap… beside the tear.”

“I thought it had simply got torn in the post,” Kurt said.

“That is possible,” Paul conceded, “but unlikely. I’ve had several packets and parcels arrive here in this condition. They intercept parcels like this addressed to Jewish firms and businesses. They are looking for the transfer of funds. In the current climate Jews are keen to get their money out, or at least spread it round so that they don’t lose it all at once. The post is no longer inviolable. Anything suspicious, any regular post going to Jews, is opened, read and either disappears, or is re-sealed and sent on. The Gestapo know who is receiving what, and why. Take your package, for instance – ” Paul held up the unopened packet. “It was addressed to someone who didn’t live at that address. That was suspicious straightaway. It was addressed to someone already known to them… a definite reason for interest. Finally, it came from abroad. Post from other countries addressed to Jews can be worrying to the Nazis. They are still trying to protect an international reputation. They aren’t quite ready for war yet.”

“War?”

“Oh yes,” Paul nodded his head as if in confirmation, “there will be one, mark my words. Eventually the world will realise what Hitler is up to, but, until they do, the Nazis try to keep the lid on what is actually happening in Germany.”

“So you think the Gestapo opened this parcel before it reached the Meyers?”

“Almost certainly. And when they saw what it contained they decided to set a trap.”

“They took Leah,” Kurt said slowly, “and told Leo that he must tell them immediately if I turned up.”

“It would seem that way.”

“But what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up?” wondered Kurt.

Paul shrugged. “They would probably have held on to her and used Leo as a spy in other ways.”

“Leo said she was away when I asked,” mused Kurt. “That must be the line he’s had to use.”

“He would be no use to the Gestapo if everyone knew that they were holding her hostage. Leo has to have credibility or people won’t tell him anything he can pass on. I doubt if you are the only one he has betrayed.”

“I’d probably do the same if they were holding Ruth,” admitted Kurt.

“Would you? Well, one never knows until one is in that position, so it’s not fair to judge. However, I am in the happy, or unhappy position, of having no one they can hold hostage. If they come for me it’s only I who will suffer.”

Kurt tore the brown paper wrapping from the packet and saw that it did indeed contain his passport… and to his delight a letter written in Ruth’s strong, upright hand.

“Leave it till I’ve gone,” said Paul. “You’ll want to read that when you’re alone. Now, I suggest you stay here for the night. You should be safe and warm. I’ll go home as usual, and come back in the morning with some more food and some different clothes for you. You’re quite right, they will know about the boiler suit now.” The old man got up and checked the curtains were covering the windows and no crack of light would shine through. “Keep the stove alight,” he said, “there’s plenty of wood. I’ll be back to open the shop in the morning.” He showed Kurt the lavatory, with basin and toilet, and then putting on his overcoat went to the door.

“I’ll lock you in,” he said. “Try and get some sleep.”

As soon as he was alone, Kurt ripped off the last of the brown paper and took out the letter from Ruth. It was written on thick, stiff notepaper, her sister’s address and telephone number printed in heavy dark type in the top right-hand corner:

My darling Kurt,

I don’t know if you will ever get this letter. I have hesitated to send it to the Meyers as I know Leah was very worried that the post was no longer private and asked me not to write to her again. However, I’ve had to take the risk. You need the enclosed. We are all safely at Edith’s now, Mother included. I won’t go into all that has happened to us, but should tell you that the price of our being allowed to leave Germany was the title deeds to the shop and apartment. Perhaps I shouldn’t have handed them over, as they were not mine, but it seemed a small price to pay for our children’s safety… their lives even. Things had been making life impossible both in Munich and Vohldorf, and so I did what I thought necessary.

Dearest Kurt, I have no idea where you are. Maybe you’re still in prison somewhere, but if you do get this letter please come to us. The enclosed should make it easier for you to leave Germany and join us here.

Obviously we cannot stay with Edith and David indefinitely, so we shall find a home of our own in the next few days, for Mother, me and the children. They are all well, you’ll be glad to hear, and constantly ask when you are coming back. I tell them soon. I just hope and pray that I am right.

Whatever happens, my dearest love, I shall be listening for your step, watching for your face at the window. Go with G-d.

Your Ruth

Kurt brought the letter up to his lips, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath in an effort to conjure Ruth from the paper on which she had written. Tears of relief slipped down his cheeks. They were safe! They’d had to leave Germany, but they were safe in Vienna, a city where the Nazi writ did not run. He kissed her name at the bottom of the page and then read the letter through again. His wonderful Ruth had not only saved the children, but had found a way of getting his passport to him, so that he could try and reach them.

Then he thought of the Meyers. They had taken his family in when their home had burned down, they had done their best to help, as good neighbours should, and now, because Ruth had written to him at their address, they were in the hands of the Gestapo. Kurt’s euphoria at having received Ruth’s letter evaporated as he thought of the price that had been paid for him to be free. The letter had explained so much; why the shop and apartment were already being restored. She had given the deeds away already. Oberführer Loritz would never get his hands on the property now, which made Kurt’s own position even more perilous. The Oberführer would find someone else in possession of the property he had thought would be his, and his fury at being tricked would know no bounds. He would hunt Kurt like a fox, and when he found him he would slam him back into the hell of Dachau and throw away the key. Kurt would be worked until he dropped dead like poor Rudy Stein. In the meantime, with no property and no money, he had nothing else to bargain with should the need arise, and Kurt thought, it probably will!

Leo and Leah Meyer had lost their freedom, but, as a result, he, Kurt, was still free. He must escape; he must ensure that their unwilling sacrifice had not been for nothing. He had a fleeting vision of Leo sitting in the back of the Gestapo car, pale and terrified. Where had they taken him? To Dachau? And Leah? Where had they taken her? Where did they take women prisoners? Kurt didn’t want to imagine, but he knew the thought of the elderly couple who had lost everything, including each other, because they had been good neighbours, would haunt him forever.

He picked up the letter again and looked at the address so boldly inscribed at the top. At least he knew how to contact Ruth now, he thought, as he memorised both the address and the telephone number. He could telephone Edith’s house and ask for her, and he would hear her voice. Paul Schiller had a telephone in his shop, perhaps he could ring from there. Kurt pictured Ruth’s face when she heard his voice on the phone at last, and it was all he could do to stop himself from creeping back into the shop to find the telephone tucked away under the counter and place the call… now, that very minute. He fought the temptation. In the morning, he would ask Paul if he might use it.

Kurt folded the letter carefully and put it into his pocket, then he stoked up the stove and made himself as comfortable as he could on the sofa and settled down for the night. Certainly warmer than last night, he thought. And despite the perils and fears of the day, he soon drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, not stirring until the winter sun had risen to cast its light on the grey streets beyond the window.

Paul Schiller arrived early to open the shop. He carried a small case and a paper bag with him, and these he handed to Kurt. “Breakfast,” he said, nodding at the paper bag, “and clothes in there,” he indicated the case. “They should fit you all right… my son Günter’s. He was about your size.” He turned away abruptly, saying as he left the room, “Get changed, and then stay in the back here. I’ll come back at midday. I must be in my shop all morning, or it will be noticed.”

Kurt vaguely remembered Günter, a boy of about his own age, studious and solitary, and interested in different things. They had never been close at school. Where was he now, Kurt wondered? Paul had said ‘was’. Was he dead then?

Kurt opened the suitcase and pulled out winter underclothes, a shirt, jacket and trousers. There was a pair of woollen socks and a sturdy pair of boots. He quickly removed the boiler suit and the clothes he’d been wearing for the last week and went into the lavatory. The water was cold, but Kurt didn’t care. Standing naked beside the little basin, he scrubbed himself from head to foot, the cold of the water making him gasp as he plunged his head to wash his hair. At last he felt clean and he towelled himself vigorously to restore his circulation. He dressed quickly in the clothes Paul had brought, enjoying the clean cloth against his skin, and then turned his attention to the paper bag. There was some bread and an apple. Kurt set the kettle to boil and made himself a cup of coffee to drink with his breakfast.

At midday Paul Schiller closed the shop and came through to the back room. He nodded approvingly at the sight of Kurt, sitting warmly dressed on the sofa.

“You look very respectable,” he said with a faint smile. “Not at all like a man on the run. Now,” he went on, waving away Kurt’s thanks, “I have to go out. I’ll go to the station and buy you a ticket for tonight’s train to Hamburg…”

“Hamburg!” exclaimed Kurt, “I don’t want to go to Hamburg…”

“No one said you had to,” Paul said calmly, “but if there is someone keeping an eye out for you, they may not see you get on the Hamburg train. You do have to leave this town as soon as you can. Anyone might recognise you and report you to the Gestapo. And you can be sure they will be watching the trains to Vienna.”

“Why…?” began Kurt.

“My dear boy! Don’t forget, they’ve read your wife’s letter. They know where she is. You have her address now, but so does the Gestapo. They will be watching for you to board the Vienna train.”

Kurt hadn’t thought about the Gestapo reading the letter, only about them finding the passport. He felt a chill run through him; now they knew where Ruth and the children were.

Kurt asked Paul if he might use the telephone in the shop to phone Ruth, but the little jeweller shook his head, horrified.

“Definitely not!” he said. “Who knows who is listening in at the exchange? The call could well be reported and immediately traced back here. You must wait until you can get to a public telephone, and then keep your call extremely short.”

Kurt thought guiltily of how close he had come to using the telephone last night. Even though he knew Paul was right, Kurt longed to ring Edith’s number, to hear Ruth’s voice just once, to tell her that he was on his way.

Kurt dozed by the stove as the afternoon dragged by, but at last the early evening darkness fell, Paul Schiller closed the shop for the day and came through to the back room.

“There’s a lot of activity out in the streets,” he told Kurt as he made them more coffee. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited here for another few days.”

“No!” Kurt was adamant. “Every moment I’m here in your shop puts you in greater danger. Enough people have suffered because of me and my family. I’ll go tonight. I’ll take the train to Hamburg as you suggest, and then somewhere along the way, I’ll get off and head for the Austrian border.”

“Are you sure that is the best thing for you to do?” Paul asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Going to find them in Austria. Is that really the best thing to do?”

Kurt stared at him. “What else should I do?” he demanded. “I’ve got to get to my family. They need me.”

“Kurt, I understand that’s what you want to do,” Paul said, “but just think for a moment or two, is it what you ought to do?”

“Why ever not?”

“Well,” Paul said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about this all day, and it seems to me that the most help you can be to your family is to get right out of the country…”

“But that’s what I’m planning to do,” Kurt broke in. “Get out of the country, into Austria.”

Paul waved his hand in acknowledgement. “I know, I know, but you have to look at the overall situation. Have you considered that if Hitler has his way, Austria very soon won’t be ‘out of the country’?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Paul patiently, “that Hitler is set on annexing Austria. He has the power to do it and he will. Sometime in the next couple of months, maybe much sooner, Austria will become a province of Germany. The Nazis will rule and German laws will prevail. If you’re in Austria with your family, you’ll be just as badly off as you were before. You’ll have jumped out of the frying pan into the fire… and it will be some fire, believe me.”

“Then I should be with Ruth and the children,” returned Kurt. “If what you say is going to happen does happen, then I should be there, with them.”

“Where you will be arrested again, and of no use to them at all.”

“But I can’t just save myself and leave them there!” Kurt was almost shouting now. “I can’t just walk away! I have to be there to help them, to be with them.”

“I think,” began Paul and held up his hand to cut off Kurt’s interruption, “I think that you could do far more for them if you were safely in England, or Holland or France. In those countries you could arrange to get them out of Austria.”

“How?” Kurt snapped. “How could I do that?”

“I’ve heard there are Jewish societies and groups in London and other places who are helping Jews to escape from the Nazis. Sending money, arranging sponsors, finding jobs. Remember, you were going to be allowed to leave once the Nazi colonel had his hands on your property. Jews are being allowed to leave, at a price. You have nothing to offer here anymore, so, now you should go to England and ask for help.”

“Why would the English help me?”

“Why wouldn’t they? There are English Jews who are doing their best to bring their fellow Jews out of Germany, and I think I am right when I say that soon it will be out of Austria too.” Paul reached over and placed a hand on Kurt’s arm. “If you go to Austria now, you will be trapped, too. You can do more for your family as a free man… in a free country.”

Kurt stared blankly at the stove, his mind in turmoil. How could he possibly save himself and leave the rest of them to their fate?

“Kurt, it is your decision. Yours and yours alone.” Paul spoke gently: “Whatever you decide, I will do all I can to help you. All I am asking you to do is to consider your options, and to remember that if the Gestapo are looking for you anywhere, it will be trying to cross into Austria. They, too, know that’s where you want to go.” Paul sighed. “They call us Jews subhuman, but they recognise the very humanity in us that makes us love our families above all else and they use that knowledge to their advantage and our destruction. Threaten a man’s son, and you have the man.”

Kurt looked across at him and said softly, “Paul, I don’t know what to do, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you have done for me. I will consider what you say, but whatever I finally decide, I must leave here now.” He got to his feet, and taking off his watch again, tried to hand it to Paul, but the little jeweller waved it away.

“Keep it, Kurt. It was your father’s, and it may yet provide for you if necessary.”

“But I must have some money,” protested Kurt. “And that’s all I have to sell.”

“Then keep it to sell another day,” replied Paul, and, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a brown envelope and passed it to Kurt.

Kurt looked at it uncertainly. “What’s this?”

Paul shrugged. “You said you need money. It’s money.”

Kurt looked into the envelope and his eyes widened. “But I can’t take all this!” he exclaimed dropping the envelope on the table.

“Of course you can,” replied Paul. “Your father and I were friends, Kurt… and I have no one else who needs that money now. My Günter died in the ’flu epidemic last year. There’s no one to have my money when I die… except the Nazis, and I’d rather they didn’t.” He gave a bleak smile. “I have something else for you,” he said, and reaching again into his inside pocket, he produced a document, which he handed to Kurt. “Günter used to travel for me quite a lot. He often went to Amsterdam or London to buy stones for our business. This is his passport, I thought it might prove useful.”

Kurt took the passport and opened it, staring at the photograph inside. “It doesn’t look much like me,” he said doubtfully. “He had a beard for a start!”

Paul smiled. “So he did,” he agreed. “But beards can be shaved off… or re-grown. You have the same dark hair, and are roughly the same age. I just thought there might come a time when it would be useful to have some papers in another name.” As Kurt continued to stare at the picture, Paul went on, “It’s still valid. No ordinary border guard will know that he’s dead. It might get you through… wherever you decide to go. Take this, too. Learn the names and addresses and then destroy it.” He handed Kurt a slip of paper. Kurt looked at it and saw two names and addresses written on it in Paul’s neat script; one in Hamburg, the other in London.

“Two men I do business with,” Paul said. “They both knew Günter, they may be able to help you.” He sighed. “Who can tell in these dreadful times?”

“Come with me!” Kurt said suddenly. “Come with me, we could travel together.”

The jeweller shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m too old to start running; too old to start another life somewhere else. I’ll be all right here. They can see there’s no harm in me… I’m too old for one of their labour camps.” He picked up the envelope and thrust it at Kurt again. “Take it, Kurt, and use it to save yourself and your family. Go to America if you can, we shan’t see the end of these Nazis in Europe for a long time to come. Take the money, Kurt, and the passport, so that I can meet my maker knowing that I did something that made a difference.”

Kurt looked at the old man for a long moment and then reached forward and took the envelope, and tucking the addresses into it, put it, with Günter’s passport, into his pocket.

“And now you must go,” Paul Schiller said. “I’ve brought you an overcoat, scarf and a hat.” He passed them over to Kurt who put them on. “And here’s your ticket. It will take you all the way to Hamburg if you decide to go that far. Somewhere along the way you will find a telephone.” He clasped Kurt’s hands in his. “Leave by the back door,” he said. “I’ll go out through the front, locking the shop up as I always do. Good luck, my boy.”

“I don’t know how to…” began Kurt.

“Then don’t. Just survive.”

11

Kurt slipped out through the back door of the shop and made his way to the station. Carrying the suitcase Paul had brought, he looked like any travelling salesman. That is, he thought ruefully, until they open it and find nothing but a few crumpled clothes and some toiletries. Not the boiler suit or the tools. They had been left for Paul Schiller to dispose of. The precious passport was tucked safely into the inside pocket of Kurt’s jacket, worn beneath his new overcoat. Darkness had fallen and it was very cold, but for the first time in days Kurt felt warm as he strode along the streets to the station.

The train for Hamburg would pass through Kirnheim in less than ten minutes if it were on time, and that, thanks to Hitler, was something that could be relied on these days. Kurt had timed his arrival so that he would have the minimum time to spend standing on the platform waiting. As he showed his ticket at the barrier, he fought the urge to look round, giving the ticket collector a faint smile and then looking resolutely ahead of him, as if he had no reason in the world to wonder who was watching. The arrivals board told him that the train for Vienna was due about twenty minutes after his Hamburg train had left. Kurt could only pray that those who were hunting him would be concentrating their attention on that platform. Like many another, his scarf was wrapped high around his neck and his hat pulled low over his ears to keep out the cold, and there was very little of his face visible. If he were lucky he would be onto the train and away entirely unnoticed.

The Hamburg train arrived in a cloud of smoke and steam, rattling its way into the station and screeching to a halt beside the platform. Doors opened, people were disgorged onto the platform, and in the bustle of passengers coming and going, Kurt got into the train, found a seat, and opening the newspaper he’d bought outside the station, buried his head behind its pages. As the train drew out of the station, he allowed himself a glance through the window, and his heart froze. A dark-haired man, much of Kurt’s own height and build, was being hustled, protesting, along a parallel platform by two men in dark overcoats.

“Oh God,” Kurt prayed, “let him be able to prove he isn’t me!”

The train gathered speed, and for the time being there was nothing Kurt could do but sit back and go where it took him. He had no intention of going all the way to Hamburg, but he knew he had to stay on the train long enough to escape those looking for him.

It was late when they reached Nuremberg. Kurt had spent the journey considering all his options, but mostly thinking about what Paul Schiller had suggested he do. Make for Holland or England, not for Austria. He went over and over what Paul had said. Hitler will annex Austria. Austria will become part of Germany. It will be run by the Nazis. Laws which now subjugate the Jews in Germany will become law in Austria. “If you go to Austria, you will be trapped there,” Paul had said. Looking at everything unemotionally, there was a great deal of truth in what Paul had said, but Kurt could not look at everything unemotionally. He couldn’t just turn away from his family and run for safety; everything within him shrieked against it. How could he escape to Holland or England and leave them behind to be swallowed up into the new German Empire? Paul’s foreboding about Hitler’s intentions with regard to Austria made it all the more important that Kurt get to Vienna, and sooner rather than later. He had very little faith in English Jewish societies rescuing Jews from Austria, and certainly not Jews of his background. Those societies, no doubt very well intentioned, would work to bring out eminent Jews, educated and highly skilled Jews, not humble shopkeepers like him. Part of Kurt’s brain knew that Paul was right, it would help no one if he went to Vienna and was caught there. The other part urged him to get to Ruth as soon as he could. He didn’t know if Hitler really would try and annex Austria, but it would not surprise him; then Ruth and the children would be trapped again. Would they be of less interest to the Nazis if he were not with them? Maybe. Who could tell?

As the train chugged north, Kurt’s brain churned, his thoughts in turmoil as the plans he had made the night before now had to be completely reconsidered, and by the time he reached Nuremberg the only definite decision he had made was to get off the train and try and speak to Ruth.

He walked away from the station, and found a small hotel in a side street nearby. It had two bow windows that spilled yellow light out into the street, and the rooms beyond looked warm and inviting. Thanks to Paul Schiller he had plenty of money for now, and he thought that a public telephone in a hotel would be safe enough. To speak to his beloved Ruth, Kurt was prepared to take the risk.

He paused and looked around him. The narrow street was empty, though he could hear the traffic on the main road. No one was watching, no one was there to see him, so he took the plunge, walked up the steps to the front door and pushed it open. The lobby of the hotel was small, scarcely more than a passageway with a desk set into an alcove. A young woman sitting behind the desk looked up with a smile.

“Good evening, sir,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kurt responded with an answering smile. “I’d like a room for the night.”

“Certainly, sir. Just the one night?”

“Yes, thank you, I have a train to catch in the morning.”

“If you’d just fill in the registration card, please.” The girl handed him a card. It asked for his details, and Kurt knew a moment’s panic. Which name should he use? Best to use his own. He would also be asked for his identity card, and it had his true name and address on it… so he would have to risk putting those on the form; he had only a passport in Günter’s name.

When he had registered, the receptionist said, “Room 4 on the first floor.” Kurt thanked her, picked up his suitcase and asked, “Is there a public telephone I can use?”

“Certainly, sir. Just down the corridor.” She pointed along the narrow passage that led into the depths of the hotel. “There’s a booth there.”

Kurt thanked her and went up to his room. It was nothing special, but compared with the places in which he had been sleeping the last few days it looked like heaven. There was a basin in one corner, a radiator under the window, but best of all was a wide, iron bedstead, covered with a folded featherbed. Kurt took off his coat and sorted through his pocket to find money for the phone. Then he locked his door behind him and went back downstairs in search of the telephone. When he reached the hall the receptionist looked up and smiled at him.

“If you just give me the number, sir, I’ll place the call and put it through to the phone booth.”

“Surely,” stammered Kurt, “I can place it myself?”

“Sorry, sir, but all calls have to be routed through our switchboard. It’s no trouble.”

“It’s an international call,” began Kurt. She had caught him completely off balance; unused to hotels, it had never occurred to him that the public phone would not be connected directly to the exchange.

“That’s no problem, sir,” replied the woman smoothly. “Just give me the number and wait in the booth.” She picked up a pencil, poised to write down the number she required. Kurt had to make an instant decision; give her the number and risk her listening in to his conversation with Ruth, or not give her the number, and say he’d changed his mind, at the risk of arousing her suspicions. The longing to hear Ruth’s voice was overwhelming. He gave the number and the woman wrote it down.

“Now if you wait in the booth, sir,” she said, “I’ll place the call, and when the phone rings in there, you’ll be connected.”

Kurt thanked her and went along the passage to find the phone. The phone booth was a small, glass-fronted cubby hole under the stairs, but it had a light, a stool to sit on and seemed to be completely private. As he waited for the call, Kurt was assailed by fears and doubts. He should have gone to the station or somewhere completely anonymous. He should have found a reason for changing his mind. Had there been a flicker of interest in the woman’s eyes when he’d said he wanted to make an international call? He had to assume that she would be listening in, so he must make it clear to Ruth that they were being overheard without actually saying so. Would Ruth understand his warning? Be cautious in what she said? He could only pray that she would.

The phone jangled in his ear and he snatched up the receiver.

“You’re through, caller,” the operator told him. “You have three minutes.”

Then another voice said, “Good evening. Herr Doktor Bernstein’s residence.”

“Please may I speak to Frau Ruth Friedman?” Kurt’s breath caught in his throat, he could hardly get the words out.

“I’m sorry, but there is no Frau Friedman here.”

“Frau Edith Bernstein, then. Please hurry, this is an international call.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?” asked the voice, unhurried.

“Kurt Friedman, her brother-in-law. Please hurry.”

“Please hold the line,” said the voice, and then there was silence.

“Come on, come on,” muttered Kurt as the seconds of his precious three minutes ticked away.

After what seemed like ages he heard another voice. “Hallo. Edith Bernstein speaking.”

“Edith, it’s Kurt.”

“Kurt! How are you? Where are you?”

“Edith, never mind that, I’m running out of time. Is Ruth there?”

“No, I’m afraid not, she…”

“Where is she? How can I contact her? Has she got a phone?”

“No, she hasn’t. Look, can I take a message for her?”

Kurt tried to keep his voice steady. “Please ask her to be at your house this time tomorrow. I will phone again.”

“But Kurt…” Edith began

“Please, Edith, this time tomorrow,” Kurt managed to say before the operator said, “Time’s up, caller,” and the line went dead.

Kurt slumped down onto the stool, his head in his hands. He could have wept with frustration and disappointment. Ruth wasn’t there. He had so longed to hear her voice and she wasn’t there. She had said in her letter that she was going to move the family out to a place of their own, and she must have done so.

“For goodness’ sake,” he admonished himself, “you’ve only got to wait one more day. Edith will surely have her there tomorrow.”

With a sigh, Kurt got to his feet and went out into the hall. With the exception of one light at the foot of the stairs, all had been switched off, and the hallway was in semi-darkness. The reception desk was empty.

Kurt paused for a moment, looking at the empty desk. Where had the receptionist gone, he wondered, cold fear flooding through him – had she been listening in to his conversation? Was she even now reporting that he had phoned Austria to the authorities? Had she passed on his registration card? Was someone, somewhere checking his name against a list? His heart was pounding as fear tightened its grip. Should he leave the hotel, now, before they came for him? Where would he go? He glanced over the front of the desk and saw his registration card on the top of a pile of similar cards. It was still there, the young woman hadn’t passed it on. The panic subsided a little. Why should she, he argued with himself as he crept back up the stairs – what suspicions could he have aroused? Surely his name and identity could not have been circulated this far yet. He reached his room, and closing the door firmly behind him turned the key in the lock.

There could be any number of reasons why she wasn’t at the desk, he told himself. A call of nature, duty somewhere else in the hotel. Perhaps she’d gone home. It was unlikely such a small hotel would keep a receptionist on duty throughout the night. Surely he was as safe here as anywhere else, and a lot safer than in most places. He would leave first thing in the morning. But he was only half-convinced and the fear did not leave him; despite the wonderful warmth and softness of the bed, he slept little, dozing and waking until it was daylight.

In the morning he shaved carefully with the razor Paul had provided, packed his few belongings into the case and got ready to leave. He knew that he must keep moving. To stay in one place for too long was to invite discovery, and he felt that he had stayed too long here already. Picking up his suitcase he went downstairs. A different woman sat at the reception desk.

“I’d like to pay my bill,” Kurt said, taking money from his coat pocket. “Room 4.”

The woman wrote out his bill and as she handed it to him she pointed to an added figure just above the total and said, “That last amount is for the international phone call you made to a number in Vienna last night.” Written beside the amount was Edith’s phone number.

Kurt looked at it and said quickly, “Yes, yes, that’s quite right. Thank you.” He proffered the money for the bill, but the woman did not take it straightaway.

“If you need breakfast,” she said, “we can serve you in the dining room.”

“Thank you, no.” Kurt replied, “I have to catch the Hamburg train.”

At this the woman finally took the notes he held out, tucking them into a cashbox with the carbon copy of the bill. Kurt bid her good morning and picking up his suitcase went out into the street.

During his wakeful night, Kurt had decided what he should do next. He still intended to go to Vienna, but he knew he was going to have to take a circuitous route. He found a small bookshop, bought himself a train timetable, and took it to a café he had seen, where he studied it over his breakfast. He would keep well away from Munich while still heading east. He was determined to get into Austria, and decided that he would try and cross the border at Passau. He would take the train to Regensburg and spend the night there. From there he could phone Ruth again, to tell her of his plans and then the next day he would use Günter Schiller’s passport and try and cross into Austria. Once he was over the border, he could get another train to Vienna. It was Thursday 10th March; with luck he should be in Vienna with his family by Sunday the 12th at the latest. It would be exactly eight months since the night of the riot.

Kurt finished his breakfast and walked back to the station. It was busy and he hoped that one more man wearing a nondescript hat and coat would pass unnoticed among the crowds. He knew from his timetable that there was a train for Regensburg in half an hour, so he bought himself a ticket and a newspaper and sat on a bench reading until it was time to board the train. There were some uniformed men around the station, but most were the civil police, who seemed to be on normal duty. As the departure time approached, Kurt got to his feet and walked purposefully across to the platform where the Regensburg train stood, its engine blowing smoke and steam as it prepared to leave. He showed his ticket to the collector at the platform entrance and was passed through without a second glance. With his heart still pumping, Kurt walked along the train until he came to the third-class carriages. Choosing one that already had an elderly couple sitting in it, he opened the door and got in.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked politely, indicating one of the empty corner seats.

“Please,” the old man said, and waved his hand towards it.

“Thank you.” Kurt placed his case on the rack above his head, carefully laid his hat on top of it and sat down. The couple were watching him, so he smiled politely and opened his paper.

No one else came into the carriage and within minutes the whistle blew and the train drew slowly out of the station. It was not an express train, and it had no corridor. He and the elderly couple were on their own until they reached the first station. It stopped at several small stations as it headed south towards Regensburg, but that suited Kurt very well. He thought that the Gestapo or SS might take less interest in a slow, local train than an express. At each station he was alert to what was going on outside, trying to look at ease while being ready to leap from the train if there was any sign of police or storm troopers. He watched the country slide past the window, but all the time he was aware of the couple in the compartment with him. They didn’t speak to each other, or to him, and something told him they were as nervous of him as he was of them.

When the train eventually reached Regensburg he got out. He had half a day to kill before he could make his second call to Ruth, but he felt safer here, in a different place. If the hotel had reported his call, if they were indeed looking for him, the receptionist would report he’d said he was going to Hamburg. If his fears were unfounded, then he was still as safe here as anywhere. He would phone Ruth from here at the appointed time and just pray that Edith had given her the message.

Eight months since his arrest! The thought of speaking to her after so long made his heart pound in his chest. He walked out of the station into the city and wandered the nearby streets in search of another small hotel. He found one, ten minutes’ walk from the station, and arranged to take a room. As of the previous evening he had to fill in a registration card, giving his name and address.

The receptionist looked at the card. “What brings you to Regensburg, Herr Friedman?” she asked.

Kurt managed a smile. “Just some business… for my mother.” It was all he could think of as he realised that his papers named him as a grocer, not a travelling salesman.

The girl handed him a key. “Room 3 at the top of the stairs.”

Kurt took the key, thanked her and made his way upstairs. The girl watched him disappear round the turn in the stairs, then picked up the registration card and looked at it again. She glanced at the stairs again before lifting the receiver of the telephone on her desk and making a call.

Kurt left his case in the room, and went out to find something to eat. He’d had nothing since his early breakfast, and he was feeling hungry. He found a small café and ate a plate of cold meat for his lunch, and then decided to spend the afternoon in the anonymity of a cinema. When the film was over, there was still some time before he could ring Ruth, so he strolled through the town until he came to one of the canals that linked with the River Danube. As he walked along the towpath he watched a string of barges being towed out from the canal into the main waterway, heading east. He wondered where they were going and what they were carrying. He crossed a bridge and watched as the barges slipped away beneath him, like so many ducklings strung out behind their mother. He found a bench and sitting on it watched the barges disappear slowly into the dusk. He looked at his watch. Nearly time to make his call, to talk to Ruth. He must find a public phone, somewhere where he was sure he couldn’t be overheard. He walked back past the station. There, in the ticket hall, were three telephone booths.

I’ll ring from there, he thought, and turned into the entrance.

At exactly the time he had arranged with Edith, Kurt went into one of the telephone boxes and placed his call. He was lucky and the operator was able to put him straight through. His heart was thumping as he heard it ringing at the other end.

“Good evening. Herr Doktor Bernstein’s residence.” As before the maid answered the call.

“Please may I speak to Frau Ruth Friedman.”

“One moment, please.”

Then he heard her voice, breathless, shaky. “Kurt? Is that you?”

“Ruth, my darling Ruth!” He had planned exactly what he was going to say in the precious three minutes allotted to him, but when he heard her voice everything flew out of his head and he could only say her name.

“Kurt! Where are you?”

“Ruth? It’s really you!”

“Kurt! Yes, yes, I’m here! Kurt, are you all right? Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that. I’m so glad you’ve got the children safely to Edith’s. Are they well? Are they all right? Are you all right?” Now Kurt’s questions came tumbling out.

“We’re all fine,” Ruth assured him. “Did you get,” she paused before saying, “what I sent you?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I can use it. They’re looking for me.”

“Oh God!” Ruth cried. “Can’t you come?”

“Darling Ruth, I will if I possibly can, but it’ll be dangerous.”

“Then don’t!” Ruth spoke sharply “Don’t come. We’re fine. We’re all fine.”

“I want to be there with you all.”

“Please, Kurt, don’t come if it is too dangerous. I’d rather you were free, and alive and somewhere else.” Ruth’s voice shook as she added, “You should go and visit Berta.”

“Berta?” For a moment Kurt was bemused. Who on earth was Berta?

“You know Berta, Edith’s daughter. Listen, Kurt, write to me,” Ruth said, “our new address is…”

“No,” Kurt interrupted, “don’t say it! I’ll write care of Edith.”

“All right. Oh Kurt, I do miss you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, darling.” There was a break in Kurt’s voice as he went on, “Always and ever, whatever happens, remember I love you!”

“If you can’t come, Kurt, don’t! Stay safe. We’re safe. Just try and keep in touch somehow!”

“I’ll ring again… same time next week.”

“Time’s up, caller.” The line went dead.

Kurt stood with the silent telephone receiver in his hand for a long minute. Had Ruth heard his last promise, to ring again next week? Who else had heard it? Who else had heard the whole conversation? Had the operator listened in? Was someone even now reporting a strange conversation to the authorities? One of the Nazis’ triumphs was to make informers of everyone.

Time to get off the streets, he decided, and take shelter in his hotel, ready to move on again in the morning. He replaced the receiver in its cradle and walked quickly away from the station. Once out on the busy pavements, he slowed his pace and headed back towards the hotel, just one more nondescript man in a crowd returning home from work. As he approached the corner of his street, a car swept past him and turned down towards the hotel. Kurt had seen cars like that before, and a chill ran down his spine. When he reached the corner he paused, looking along the road towards the hotel. The car had passed it and pulled up a hundred yards further along, but he saw that the hotel door was closing behind someone. Someone had just gone into the hotel. Kurt waited in the shelter of a shop doorway and watched. After a few moments a man came back out of the hotel, looked both ways along the empty street and then hurried to the parked car. He spoke to someone in the car and a second man got out. Both hurried back into the hotel, and the car eased off down the road and disappeared round a bend. Men like these were all too familiar. Despite his warm clothes Kurt felt suddenly cold. If he hadn’t stopped to make the call from the station, he would have been at the hotel when they arrived. Even if they had not been looking specifically for him, he would have been discovered. He stepped out of the doorway and walked briskly back the way he had come. Whether the men in dark coats were looking for him or not, he would not go back to the hotel. There was little there he needed, everything of importance was with him; his money was hidden about his person and both passports were in the inner pockets of his coat. He had his watch on his wrist and Ruth’s letter in the inside pocket of his jacket. Shaving kit, vital to keeping himself looking respectable, he could replace.

He headed back to the station, but the crowds returning home were thinning out now, and he walked past. He glanced in through the main entrance, and what he saw made him want to break into a run. It took all his willpower to keep walking at a steady pace as if he had somewhere special to go. Standing at the ticket office was a man in the uniform of an SS trooper. Two more were standing at the entrance to the platforms, stopping everyone going through to the trains. They were looking for someone, and although Kurt had no idea if it was him, he was taking no risks.

Fighting the instinct to run, he continued to walk away from the station. How had they caught up with him so quickly? One of the receptionists must have suspected something and handed his registration card to the police. How had the police known that he was on the run? Someone very important must be determined to find him, someone who was powerful enough to have his details wired to main police stations, Gestapo offices… and, he thought, to all border crossings. Wherever he went they might have his passport details, be on the lookout for him. Was it because Loritz had been tricked out of his property, or simply because he refused to allow a Jew to get the better of him? Once he was away from Kirnheim, he had thought he would be safe enough, he had never truly thought that the net would be cast this wide. By pure chance he had escaped that net just now, but he knew he was not safely away yet. He had to get out of the town, disappear again, and not risk moving about openly.

He walked purposefully along Bahnhofstrasse and then cut up through the maze of smaller streets that led back towards the river. Here the streets were darker and there were few people around. Kurt tried to keep to the shadows; and more than once he reached a dead end and had to turn back, but at length he crossed the river. Somehow putting the river between himself and the railway station made him feel a little safer. He continued, more slowly now, with no particular direction in mind. He was looking for somewhere to spend the night, before he headed for Passau and the Austrian border in the morning. Tall buildings loomed on either side of the streets, warehouses, their windows dark, their gates locked, but Kurt continued to walk, searching for a doorway, or sheltered alleyway where he might take refuge for the night. He turned into another lane, twisting its way between blank-faced warehouses, but he found it ended in high metal gates, secured by a strong padlock and chain.

He was about to turn back when he noticed there was a smaller, Judas gate in the main gates and it was slightly ajar, allowing access into the yard beyond. Cautiously he looked around him. The lane behind him was in shadow, but the yard on the other side of the gate was lit by a lamp fixed high on the corner of a large building, some sort of warehouse, Kurt assumed. Another lamp, atop a tall stanchion, spilled light across the rest of the yard, glinting on the dark water of the canal beyond. All along one wall of the warehouse were large crates, stacked neatly as if ready to be loaded onto something, and beyond stood several machines of some sort, still and silent, waiting for morning.

All was quiet; no sign of guards or a watchman. Perhaps there was somewhere here he could spend the night. Kurt eased the small gate open. It moved surprisingly smoothly, with no hint of a squeak or rasp, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Stepping through he moved quickly into the shadow of the warehouse. Still no sound. Taking care to stay in the patches of shadow, he edged his way along its wall, hands outstretched against the brickwork. He was looking for a door or window that might let him into the warehouse. As he moved he strained his ears for any sound that would warn him someone else was there, but there was nothing. He reached the front of the warehouse, and found that it had huge wide doors, which would slide open along a track in the ground. These were tightly closed and well lit by the overhead lights, and he shrank back into the sheltering darkness.

Then he heard them, soft voices behind him. He pressed himself flat against the warehouse wall, hoping that he would be invisible in the shadows if he stayed completely still. Looking back across the yard, he saw two men had come in through the small gate, one leading the other to where the canal boats were tied up to the wharf. There were three barges waiting there, and the man leading went straight to the last. He jumped down onto the broad flat deck, and then beckoned the second man to follow. This he did, though with far less agility than the first. Indeed he almost fell, and it was only the first man grabbing him by the arm that stopped him from falling headlong into the water. Again there was the murmur of talk, but Kurt couldn’t hear what was being said. Then the first man leaned down and twisted something before heaving open a hatch. He lowered the cover quietly to the deck and then both men disappeared below. Clearly, Kurt thought, they don’t want to be heard, which means they shouldn’t be here. In a matter of minutes, the first man reappeared on deck, quietly closing the hatch behind him. For a moment he paused, looking across at the warehouse, and Kurt thought with a jolt of fear that he’d been seen, but after another moment the man climbed up onto the wharf again and left the yard as silently as he had come, pausing only to lock the small gate with a large padlock. Within a minute he had disappeared into the darkness of the lane, leaving Kurt locked inside the boatyard.

For a long moment Kurt stared at the locked gate, and then ran swiftly over to it, wondering if he could climb over; but the main gate, he saw now, was topped with barbed wire. The yard was bounded by the warehouse on one side and walls too high to scale on the others. The only other way out was the canal. Kurt moved back into the shadows again. He didn’t want to be caught there if the first man came back. For a long while he leaned against the warehouse wall considering what he should do. It was very cold, and he shivered. A thin mist was rising from the water. There was no escape that way. He would have to wait until morning and try and slip out of the gates when they were opened by the men coming to work in the yard. In the meantime, perhaps he could find shelter on one of the moored barges… and that was when the idea struck him.

Barges from here travelled east, down the canals and the Danube, he’d seen them earlier in the day. They would pass through Passau, through Austria and beyond… and through Vienna. His mind teemed with questions as he considered the idea. Was it possible that he could stow away on one of these and travel safely down the river until he reached Vienna? How long did barges take to go from Regensburg to Vienna? Certainly days, but how many? Maybe he could stow away just until they had crossed the Austrian border. Surely he could remain hidden until then, Passau wasn’t that far away, was it? What about food? What about water? What about calls of nature?

He edged his way round the yard, keeping to the shadows, until he came to the wharf on the far side. Here the lamps were brighter, shedding light onto three heavy barges that waited to make their journey east. They were long and low, and lay silent in the still waters of the canal. Although there was living accommodation aboard there were no lights showing from below. He looked at the one the men had entered, the last in the string. There was no light from that one either, though he knew that one man, at least, was inside. Perhaps that man was an illicit passenger as well. Perhaps he was trying to get out of Germany… another Jew on the run? Kurt moved to the next barge and stepped silently down onto her deck. He found a similar hatch, and, grasping the wheel as he had seen the man do, tried to open it, but the wheel wouldn’t budge, and the hatch remained locked. Kurt moved softly aft along the deck, and came to the wheelhouse door, but that too was locked, as was the aft hatch. There was no way of getting inside this barge. He moved to the third one, but had no better luck there. The only barge that might carry him along the river was the one that already had a man hidden aboard.

Kurt thought of the soldiers at the station, of the Gestapo at the hotel, and of his desperate need to get to Ruth and the children, and made his decision. If the man in the last barge was on the run, then he was hardly likely to question the arrival of another fugitive. If he was hidden somewhere below decks, Kurt was determined to hide there too. He didn’t know if the bargee would be aware that he had passengers hiding on one of his barges, but, even if he did, it was unlikely he would check on the man before taking his string of barges out onto the river. If he did, Kurt would try offering the man money to allow him to stay on board. If he regularly smuggled men across the border, he would almost certainly take the bribe… but whether he would betray him when he got there was another matter.

Kurt stepped quietly onto the deck of the last barge and crept towards the hatch. He hoped that if the man below had heard him he would think it was his friend coming back. He twisted the wheel, which turned easily, and pulled the hatch open. Darkness and silence greeted him, but he didn’t wait, simply slid over the edge and dropped down into the space below pulling the hatch closed over his head. At first the darkness was complete, but as his eyes grew accustomed to it, he realised that faint light was coming in through two grimy portholes. He stood quite still, straining his ears for sounds of the man already hidden, but there were none. He had no idea where the man was, all he knew was that he was somewhere down here. As he gradually began to make out more of his surroundings, Kurt edged away from the hatch and ran his hands along the curved sides of the barge. He was in a cabin. It was very small, fitted out as living accommodation for crewmen. His fingers felt a folding table with a bench seat on each side. These had padded tops and clearly doubled as bunks. Above each was some sort of locker or cupboard, but there was little else and no sign of the man he had seen climb down earlier.

Kurt sat down on one of the benches and considered his position. He was out of sight, and he was out of the cold. What would happen when the crewman came and found him there he didn’t know, but for now he could do no more, so he wrapped his coat more firmly around him and lay down on the bench bunk to wait for morning. He was almost asleep when he felt the bunk shaking beneath him, for a moment or two he lay between sleep and wakefulness, wondering what had woken him. Then he felt it again, the bunk was shaking. Kurt got up quickly, and as he did so the bunk was heaved up and from underneath it a man’s voice spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Heinz, is that you? Heinz?”

Kurt didn’t answer. He moved silently away from the bunk, so that he was standing below the hatch. The voice came again. “Heinz? Who’s there?”

“Me,” replied Kurt. “Who are you?”

“Did Heinz bring you?” A man’s head appeared from below the bunk, which had opened like a window seat. “Who are you? Heinz didn’t say there’d be anyone else.” The voice was quavering now, uncertain and afraid.

“Didn’t he?” Kurt was thinking fast. Clearly Heinz must be the other man, the one who had brought this man to the barge, and Heinz must be smuggling men across the border. “Well, he didn’t tell me about you either.”

The man hauled himself up from the bunk and peered in Kurt’s direction. “He told me to hide in the bunk if I heard anyone coming,” he said.

“He told me that, too,” Kurt replied.

“It’s my hiding place,” the man snapped.

“I expect there’s space under the other bunk,” Kurt said and pulled up the padded seat to look. It was dark inside and he could see nothing, but he leaned forward and groped round with his hands. The space was empty. “There you are,” he said reasonably. “A place for each of us.” He kept his voice even, afraid that if he antagonised this man he would betray him to Heinz… whoever he was. “Just as long as…” He broke off suddenly as the sound of voices came from outside.

“Someone coming,” hissed the man, and slipped back inside the bunk, pulling the top down over his head.

Kurt slithered into the space below the other bunk and just had time to close it before the hatch above opened and someone dropped down into the little cabin. Kurt heard a soft tap on the other bunk and an answering tap from the man inside, then the scrambling of feet as whoever it was clambered back up on deck, and the thud of the hatch cover coming down.

There was more shouting from outside, and then Kurt felt the barge lurch forward as the towline tightened and they began to move along the canal. It was smooth enough at first as they moved slowly along the canal, but the motion changed abruptly as they joined the surge of the river, and the barge began swinging and rolling in the swirl of the Danube, before settling to a more even motion.

It was impossible to remain crammed into the tiny space below the bunk, and as soon as he realised that they were underway, Kurt heaved himself upward, lifting the bunk and hauling himself out. He sat on the edge, with the top still raised so that he could dive for cover again if they heard footsteps approaching on the deck. It was still dark outside, but occasional lights from the shore illuminated the cabin briefly, and he took stock of his surroundings. He took off his coat, and, rolling it carefully, stowed it deep in the hiding place under the bunk. It was bulky and might hinder him getting in and out swiftly if the need arose.

The other man also pulled himself out, and as a light caught his face, Kurt knew he had guessed correctly. His companion peered across at him and demanded, “Who are you?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Kurt replied, but he already knew. “Are you just going across the border, or all the way to Vienna?”

“What’s that to you?” snapped the man.

“Nothing, but once we’re out of Germany, we may not have to hide.”

“You’re a Jew!” stated the man, defiantly.

“So are you,” answered Kurt. “So we both need to get out. If one of us is caught, we both shall be.”

The man did not reply. He stared across at Kurt, trying to see his face in the passing lights. “Heinz said to stay hidden till he came for me,” he said, “but I hate it in there.”

“We should hear them coming in time,” Kurt said. “I’m not staying in there all the time either. Just keep away from the portholes and listen out for footsteps.”

As daylight crept into the sky, they sat in silence, each deep in his own thoughts. When he could see properly, Kurt inspected the space under the bunk. It was about six feet long and two feet deep, and was clearly storage space for the crew who lived aboard the barge. Surely only two men could live on each barge, simply there to keep the boat in line with the others in the string as they were towed down the Danube, a river busy with steamers, boats and barges.

It was full daylight before they heard the footsteps approaching the hatch again. Both men were under the bunks in a trice, the tops lowered, holding their breath. Kurt could hear his heart pounding and wondered if the person who had slipped down into the cabin could hear it too. Then he heard what he’d been dreading. Whoever it was had opened the other bunk and was speaking to the man inside.

Within moments the top of the bunk was jerked open and Kurt was staring up into the furious face of the bargee.

“Ho yes!” growled the man. “And what have we ’ere then? Who the ’ell are you? And what are you doing ’ere?”

“He said you told him to come here, Heinz!” squeaked the other man.

“Shut up, Max,” snapped Heinz.

Kurt started to get out of the hiding place but a knife appeared from nowhere in the man’s hand. He was gripping it tightly, caressing the wicked blade with his thumb and pointing it straight at Kurt’s throat.

“No, no,” he said, “you stay put where you are, mate. I think you’re a Gestapo spy.”

Kurt gave a bitter laugh. “Gestapo! You couldn’t be more wrong! Ask your friend Max.”

“Max doesn’t know who you are!”

“No, he doesn’t know who I am, but he knows what I am!”

“Another dirty Jew,” said Max flatly. “You’ve got two for the price of one.”

Heinz leered at them. “No I bloody ’aven’t,” he said. “I’ve two for the price of two… maybe.” He gave a chuckle. “Or none for the price of two. Depends if you’ve got any money, don’t it?” He nodded meaningfully at Kurt.

“How much do you want?” asked Kurt, his brain racing.

“All you’ve got,” answered Heinz cheerfully. “And if it’s not enough, well, our tug captain don’t like Jews much. If I tell ’im I found you two stowed away on my barge, well I reckon he’ll ’and you over at Passau. We’ll be there late this evening. There’s Gestapo there.”

Max gave a wail. “But I’ve paid you, Heinz, you can’t betray me now!”

Heinz did not reply, simply gave a wolfish grin and turned his attention to Kurt. “So ’ow much can you pay for a safe passage into Austria?”

“Let me up and I’ll give you the money,” Kurt said. “I can pay.”

“First of all, mate, tell me what made you get on this barge, eh? Who told you where to come?”

“No one told me,” answered Kurt. “I saw you. I was in the boatyard, and I saw you bring him,” he jerked a thumb at Max, “and leave him on board.”

“And what was you doin’ in the yard, then?” demanded Heinz suspiciously.

“Looking for somewhere to sleep the night. The gate was open, I thought maybe the warehouse was too.”

Heinz looked at him, considering his answer, then he gave a curt nod, accepting it. “Let’s see the colour of your money then.”

The knife, which up till now hadn’t wavered, was withdrawn but not sheathed, and Kurt was able to scramble out of the hiding place.

“Right, let’s see what you’ve got,” said Heinz. “Slow, now!” he added as Kurt reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small roll of marks. Heinz snatched the money and counted it quickly. Kurt watched him, praying Heinz would think it enough. He glanced across at Max, who sat white-knuckled, watching. Surely the man would decide that it was enough, and not turn them in. Now he’d been amply paid for both.

“So, across the border, then. No further,” said Heinz, pocketing the roll of notes. “There’s food and water in that locker,” he pointed at the locker above Kurt’s head. “You’ll have to share. Heads in there.” He opened a small door that Kurt had assumed was another locker to reveal a tiny space with a lavatory bowl. “Now,” he went on, closing the door again. “Stay below and leave these drawn.” He pulled some flimsy curtains across the portholes. “Stay away from the portholes, specially when we’re going through a lock. You should be safe enough down here until we get to Passau, but if I bang on the hatch, get straight into them bunks and stay there until I say you can come out again. You’ll have to get into them later anyway… for the border, but I’ll warn you if there’s any danger before that… and if you’re caught I don’t know nothing about you, right?”

The rest of the day they moved slowly along the waterway, the barge obediently following the tug. There was no bang on the hatch cover and they were able to sit at the cabin table. They shared a meal of very stale bread and some hard yellow cheese, but otherwise Max and Kurt spoke little. They had been thrown together by circumstance, but neither wanted to know more about the other. Knowledge could be dangerous, and each had withdrawn into his own thoughts. They simply sat in the stuffy cabin, the hatch closed, and waited.

It was early evening when Heinz opened the hatch and dropped down into the cabin. “We’ll be at Passau soon, and then it will be on over the border. Usually they don’t bother much with us, but in case they decide to come aboard this time, you get in them lockers.”

“What? Already?” Max sounded panicky.

“Now.”

“But how long for?” asked Max, his voice shaking.

“Till I come and tell you you can come out again,” snapped Heinz. “Now, get in there, the both of you.”

Kurt slithered into the hiding place, and to his horror heard Heinz slide the catch closed. He was locked into the space under the bunk, and there was no escape. He heard a cry from Max as he realised what Heinz was doing.

“Shut up!” growled Heinz. “I’ll be back to let you out when it’s safe and not before.” Kurt heard him clambering up through the hatch and then the thud of the cover dropping back into place. He could hear Max whimpering, and fought to keep his own panic at bay. The space was tiny, and although he soon realised that air holes had been drilled in the corners, he still felt as if he were suffocating. He drew deep, slow breaths, forcing himself to believe that air was coming in from the outside. As he gradually became calmer, it struck him that Heinz must regularly smuggle people out of Germany like this. The hiding place was prepared, with air holes drilled; the food, though dry and unappetising, was stashed in the locker, the lavatory provided. Others must have escaped this way before without being caught. Heinz must have a way of getting them off the barge once they were over the border. They’d had to trust him… because continuing to trust him was their only option.

“Be quiet, Max!” Kurt hissed, as Max continued to whimper. “Someone will hear you. There’s air, just breathe.”

“It’s all right for you,” moaned Max, “but I’m claustrophobic.”

Anyone would be, thought Kurt, crammed into this wooden box, it’s like a coffin, and at that thought he had to begin his own deep breathing again to calm his taut nerves.

Gradually Max’s whimpers subsided and the cabin was quiet. Kurt strained his ears to see if he could hear what was going on outside. He could hear the water slapping against the hull of the barge, and felt a change of motion as the river took hold of the barge on the end of its towline. Something was happening, but it was impossible to tell what. From outside came the sound of a horn, and loud voices shouting, and then the barge jolted sideways.

“What do you think is happening?” whispered Max. “Are we stopping?”

“I don’t know,” Kurt answered softly. “Maybe.”

“I want to get out of here.” Max’s voice held a note of hysteria. “We’re trapped, and we don’t know what’s going on!”

Kurt felt the same panic welling up in him. Turning awkwardly in the confined space, he managed to press upward on the roof of his prison. It did not move. He tensed his muscles and pushed harder, but to no avail. The top would not budge.

“What are you doing?” cried Max from the other bunk. “Can you get out?”

“No, at least not yet. Can you? Try and push up the lid.”

While he continued to struggle against the top of his own prison, Kurt could hear Max doing the same with his.

“It’s no good,” Max cried. “He locked it. I can’t shift it.”

“Nor can I,” said Kurt.

He heard Max begin to mutter, and, straining his ears, Kurt realised that he was speaking in Hebrew; a continuous murmur in Hebrew. He was praying, repeating over and over again, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” Kurt, giving up on his efforts to force his way out of the bunk, lay still, listening to the words; but even as he did so, he found himself wondering if there was any point. He had prayed to his God every day of his life, even in Dachau and while he was on the run, but it seemed to him that God was no longer listening… if he was there at all. How could God ignore the prayers and pleas of his people and allow the persecution that was their lot now? How could God allow his children to be hounded from place to place, little children who had done nothing wrong? Kurt wanted to shout at God… to make him listen. But now, he continued to pray in a repetitive mantra: “Lord, keep my family safe.”

The hatch opened with a crash and there was a thud as Heinz dropped down into the cabin. Suddenly the bunks were opened and the two men inside stared up in terror.

“We’re being pulled over,” growled Heinz. “The place is alive with soldiers. Out with you! You’re on your own.”

“What!” shrieked Max.

“Shut up!” roared Heinz. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Place is crawling with soldiers. Now get out, or I’ll say I found you stowaways and hand you over.”

Kurt clambered out of the bunk, pulling his coat on.

“We’ll be moored alongside another barge train in a minute,” said Heinz. “Then, over the side with you and across to the quay. It’s dark, you should make it.”

He hustled the two men up onto the deck. Night had fallen, but the lights along the shore showed them another barge train already lying alongside the wharf. There was no sign of the bargees, but dim lights showed through some of the cabin portholes.

“When I tell you, you jump,” ordered Heinz. “If you’re quick you’ll be across the next barge before they know you’re there, then up onto the dock.”

“But how?” began Kurt.

“There’s ladders along the wall. Up one of those. Ready?”

They were closing in slowly on the moored barge train, and as they drifted alongside Kurt could see down onto the deck of the last one. It was slightly lower than the barge he was on, and the only way to reach it was to jump. The two barges bumped gently together.

“Now!” hissed Heinz.

Not allowing himself time to think, Kurt launched himself onto the deck of the other barge, hearing as he did so Max wailing, “I can’t! I can’t jump that far.” Kurt landed awkwardly, and felt pain in his ankle, but he scrambled to his feet and moved softly across the deck, the barge rocking gently beneath him. He strained his eyes looking for one of the iron ladders clamped to the stone wall of the wharf, reaching to the quayside above. There was one several yards to his left, but as he crept along the deck, the moored barge rocked, bumping against the harbour wall, as it was once again nudged by the incoming barge. Behind him there was a sudden shrill scream and then a splash. Kurt spun round and saw the burly shape of Heinz peering over the barge’s rail, before he turned and disappeared into the darkness. The barges bumped together yet again, and Kurt realised, with sudden horror, what Heinz had done. Max had not jumped when told to, so Heinz had pushed him. He had fallen between the two great barges and was either struggling in the water below their hulls, or had been crushed between them. Either way Heinz had left him to die. Kurt took a step back the way he’d come, but froze as a hatch opened and a man stuck his head out.

“Hey!” he called. “What’s going on?”

There was no reply to his question, and he climbed up onto the deck as if to investigate further. The two barges continued to bump gently as they settled together in the water, and the man went across to look at the newly arrived barge beside his own. Kurt turned and crept away towards the ladder he had seen in the light from the quay. He reached it and grasped its lower rungs. He was just beginning to climb up when he heard a cry from the deck. “Hey! There’s a man in the water here. Get a boat hook. Quick!”

Kurt didn’t wait to hear more, but scrambled up the ladder onto the dock. There were people around, but no one paid any attention to a bargee climbing up from a moored barge, and Kurt was able to move away unchallenged. He walked quickly from the quayside towards the dock gates. They were open, but standing outside them in a pool of light cast from an overhead lamp was a uniformed guard. Kurt ducked back into the shadows while he considered what to do. Would he be challenged leaving the docks or was the guard only interested in people coming into the dockyard? Boldness was his best option, he decided, and he was about to stride purposefully forward when there was a shout from the moored barges below. The guard moved inside the gate, pausing to listen, and the shout came again.

“Hey, anybody up there? Hey, we need help!”

The guard hurried to the edge of the dock and peered down to see what was going on.

“There’s a dead man down here!” called the voice. “We need help to get him up on the quay.”

“Who is it?” called the guard, leaning over the wall to get a better look.

“How should I know?” called the man below. “We found him in the water. Are you going to help or not?”

Kurt didn’t wait to hear the answer, but slipped silently out of the unguarded gate into the street beyond.

Once in the town, he found to his horror that Heinz had been right. Even at this hour, there were soldiers marching down the streets. There was the roar of motorised transports, lorries filled with troops, staff cars flying swastika pennants and the rumble of tanks. Townspeople were standing at the side of the road watching in awe as regiments of the German army passed by, heading for the Austrian border. There were some cheers from above him, and Kurt, who had joined the bystanders, looked up to see people in their windows waving to the troops.

“Its the Anschluss,” said someone behind him. “Hitler has done it! He’s really done it! We shall all be united with our German brothers across the border!”

“Will they fight?” asked a nervous voice.

“Why would they fight?” demanded the first voice scornfully. “Austria will welcome them. We shall all be part of the great German Empire! Heil Hitler!”

“Are you sure that’s what’s happening?” asked a third voice.

“Quite sure,” asserted the first voice. “I heard it from my sister-in-law’s husband. The troops are going to cross the border during the night.”

“You mean they’re invading Austria?”

“It’s not an invasion,” said the first man, “they are simply going in to help the Austrians deal, once and for all, with the Communists and the Jews that have been causing all the trouble.”

“How does your sister-in-law’s husband know all this?” asked someone else.

“Because, he was home on leave, but has been recalled to his regiment for duty.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re going to invade Austria,” pointed out a doubter.

“Well, it does,” insisted the man. “They were told to be ready to cross the border during the night.”

“Pretty poor security if people like you know all about it,” remarked another man.

“We don’t need security,” replied the first man. “There won’t be any resistance. Why would there be? The Austrians will welcome our troops… and the Führer when he goes to Vienna.”

Kurt slipped away from the group before he was noticed, but his heart was pounding. Hitler was going to invade Austria, tonight, and even if the Austrians put up some resistance, they wouldn’t have a hope against the might of the German army. Paul Schiller had been right, overnight Austria was going to become a vassal state to Germany, and Kurt’s beloved family would be trapped in Vienna. Despair flooded through him. Even if he were able to slip across the border into Austria, which would be almost impossible in the circumstances, then he would be trapped as well. Paul had been right; right about the Anschluss and right in telling Kurt he would be far better able to help his family as a free agent in a free country.

He thought of the two names Paul had given him, Hans Dietrich in Hamburg and James Daniel in London. Perhaps he would have to call on them after all.

As the night lengthened, Kurt sat quietly in the porch of a church, huddled in a corner, his mind warring with his heart, but as day broke and streaked the eastern sky with golden fire, he made his way into the town to look for the station… and to buy another ticket to Hamburg.

12

Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” The hundred thousand voices swelled to a roaring chorus, echoing round the vastness of the square, rebounding from the ancient buildings that surrounded it. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

The crowds were packed into the Heldenplatz, crushed together, an amorphous mass of humanity, yet moving with a single purpose. Everyday people wearing everyday clothes, workmen in overalls, men in smart suits, women in overcoats pulled close about them against the chill in the spring air, people in hats of all descriptions pulled down over ears or perched jauntily on heads; gloved hands, ungloved hands, cracked, work-reddened hands, raised as one in their devotion to their new leader. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” Flags and banners on long poles waved above the crowd, each with its swastika, stark black within its white circle, emblazoned on a red ground. Uniforms everywhere, soldiers, drawn up in ranks before the Hofburg, police, their swastika armbands mirroring the floating banners.

Ruth looked down on the sea of faces from her perch on the plinth of the Prince Eugen statue. All were raised to salute the man in uniform on the balcony of the Hofburg, eyes aglow with the fervour of their welcome. Unwillingly she raised her own eyes to the small man who stood above billowing Nazi banners, addressing the crowd packed into the square below him. As he began to speak a hush fell over the huge square, heads craned forward to see him, hands shading eyes against the morning sunshine, but as his voice began to rise, so the excitement began to build within the crowd until, as he reached a crescendo, it burst forth. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” So great was his charisma that for a split second Ruth almost raised her own arm, her own voice, and almost fell from her place on the great statue.

“Careful, love,” admonished a voice beside her, and a hand grasped her arm to stop her falling.

“Thank you!” she gasped, and looked up into the face of the young man balanced precariously on the plinth beside her. She regained her hold on one of the bronze carved wreaths beside her, clutching it firmly in both hands, afraid she might truly fall and be crushed in the crowd.

The young man smiled and said something else, but his words were drowned in the rising crescendo of Sieg Heils. She smiled back awkwardly at him and then appeared to turn her attention back to the Führer, whose voice now boomed out over the crowd, which fell silent once more, listening to him with rapt attention.

What am I doing here? Ruth thought. What is a Jew doing at a Hitler rally? What would that young man have thought if he’d realised I’m a Jew? Perhaps he’s a Jew, too.

She stole another glance at him. His attention was on Hitler, his eyes filled with fervent delight. No, he was no Jew! No Jew would welcome Hitler to his city like that… unless he didn’t want to be recognised. Like I don’t want to be recognised. Arms were once more raised in salute, but Ruth continued to cling on to the wreath with both hands. No salute from her, but it was clear to anyone who might wonder why she could not. Who was to wonder? Everyone round her was carried away on a tide of euphoria, which had been building ever since the declaration of the Anschluss two days earlier. If Ruth had realised how the arrival of Hitler would take the city she would never have left home that morning, never ventured out into streets crammed with people ecstatic in their welcome for their new leader.

“I’m going to leave very early, this morning,” Ruth had told her mother. “I think there’ll be a lot of people out and about in the city today.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go at all,” said Helga. “It could be dangerous.”

“I’ll be all right.” Ruth tried to sound reassuring, though she, too, wished she didn’t have to go. “You know I can’t afford to lose this job, Mother.” She gave her mother a quick hug. “Don’t let the children out, though. No school for the girls today. You can give them some homework here, and then we’ll see how things are later in the week.”

She closed the front door of the flat and hurried down the flight of stairs that led to the courtyard below. Although it was still early, there were plenty of people about, and as Ruth made her way through the streets more and more flooded out of their homes to join the crowds. Ruth found herself being gathered into the stream of people, a surging floodtide, all heading the same way. At first Ruth allowed herself to be carried along, it was her direction too; but when she wanted to turn off and cut through the back streets to the shop where she worked, she found she couldn’t. She was being swept along by an unrelenting tide of people, all excited, shouting, chanting, laughing. Overnight, banners had appeared, hanging from windows, draped down the fronts of buildings, jagged black swastikas proclaiming a welcome… .a welcome for Adolf Hitler himself. Rumour had it that he was already in Vienna. He had travelled from Linz and was now staying, it was said, at the Imperial Hotel. Many of the people carried banners too, homemade flags to welcome the Germans to Vienna.

The excited tide of people continued to grow, and Ruth could not escape from it. She was pushed and shoved from every side, swept along inexorably. Once she stumbled, and someone grabbed her arm crying out, “Steady!” and then was gone again, swirled away in the crowd. Ruth allowed herself to be carried along too; there was no alternative, and after a while she found herself part of a seething mass of people, standing, swaying, pushing, surging to and fro, all packed into the Heldenplatz, all focussed on the Hofburg at the far end. More and more people poured into the square, crushing those already there, pushing them forwards, shoving them sideways, and all the time the excitement continued to grow, mounting to fever pitch when at last the Führer appeared on the balustraded balcony of the Hofburg. Immediately the crowd surged forward again, and Ruth found herself crushed against the plinth of the statue of heroic Prince Eugen.

“Here, lady, up here!”

Ruth looked up and saw that several people had already scrambled clear of the swarming crowd and were perched on the statue, some standing on the plinth, others, having climbed higher, actually clinging to the huge horse. A hand reached down to her and, grasping it, Ruth found herself hauled up from the crowd and onto a narrow ledge that ran round the base of the huge statue.

“Hold on tight!” ordered the young man who had pulled her up. “If you fall off here you’ll be trampled to death.” Ruth looked down fearfully and saw that he was right. She grabbed hold of a piece of the moulded edge above her, gripping it with both hands.

The young man grinned. “Good view from up here,” he called. “Look at all those people!”

Ruth had looked and was astonished at the ocean of humanity that surrounded her. She looked at it again now, and wondered if she would ever get away from such a crowd. Men and women cheering, children hoisted on shoulders, old men waving walking sticks in the air, young men tossing their hats for joy… and all for Adolf Hitler, whose armies had marched, unopposed, into Austria, and who now stood, addressing a euphoric crowd, from the seat of the ancient Hapsburg Empire.

How has it all come to this? Ruth thought wildly. How can Hitler simply arrive and take over the country and proclaim it as the homecoming of Austria into the German Reich? How can all these people, Austrians not Germans, be here, cheering him? Saluting him? “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

Ruth had heard the announcement of the Anschluss three days earlier. She had been invited to join Edith, her family and parents-in-law for the family Shabbes dinner, and afterwards they had gathered round the Bernsteins’ wireless to listen to Kurt Schuschnigg’s final broadcast as Chancellor. They listened in complete silence, aghast, unable to believe what they were hearing.

“So I take leave of the Austrian people with a German word of farewell uttered from the depth of my heart: God protect Austria!”

The sonorous voice boomed from the wireless that stood on a table in the corner of the room, but it was a voice edged with emotion. Kurt Schuschnigg, the Austrian chancellor, had done all he could to keep the Germans at bay, but, in spite of a brave rearguard action, he had only put off the time when Hitler would put his claim to Austria to the test. Now Schuschnigg had made his final speech, his farewell to an independent Austria, ending with the fervent prayer: “God protect Austria”.

“Well, if God doesn’t, no one else will!” David Bernstein said bitterly. He leaned over and switched the wireless off with a snap. “Schuschnigg has sold out to the Nazis.”

For a moment there was silence as the family who had been listening tried to take in what they had heard, then Grandfather Friedrich shook his head, and sighed.

“That’s it,” he said. “We must thank God that at least Berta is safely out of the country.”

“Hush, Friedrich,” said his wife Marta, laying a finger to her lips and tilting her head towards the children who were sitting round the supper table. Don’t frighten the children, her expression said, but her grandson, Paul, who had just turned fifteen, looked across at her and he saw the fear in her eyes as well.

“What’s going to happen?” asked Naomi. “What was Herr Schuschnigg saying? Mutti, what was he saying?”

Edith, her mother, shushed her gently. She hardly ever spoke when in the presence of her parents-in-law unless directly addressed. She was in awe of her mother-in-law, so capable and strong, and she was just plain terrified of her father-in-law. “Nothing, darling,” she murmured. “He was just talking to the grown-ups.” But although she was only nine, Naomi sensed the atmosphere in the room, and, slipping down from her chair, went over to her mother and tried to climb up on her knee.

Her father got to his feet and paced the room. “He’s given in,” he said, bitterly. “He’s given in to Hitler. Now there’ll be no plebiscite on Monday. The Germans will be here by then, and Hitler will have won.”

“Time you were in bed, young lady,” Naomi’s grandmother said, determined that there should be no more of such talk in front of the little girl. She reached for the hand bell on the table at her side and rang it loudly. Almost at once, Maria, the maid, came into the room. She responded so quickly that Paul wondered if she had been listening to the wireless broadcast through the door. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. He’d noticed before that these days Maria always seemed to be close by, listening.

However, his grandmother didn’t seem to notice. All she said as Maria came into the room was, “Ah, Maria, please take Miss Naomi up to bed,” adding as she saw that Naomi was about to protest, “your mother will come up to tuck you in, in a little while. Say goodnight to Opa and Papa and then off you go with Maria, like a good girl.”

Naomi did as she was told, saying goodnight to each of them in turn. When she reached her grandfather she reached up and hugged his neck, whispering in his ear as she did so, “Opa, what’s a pleb… pleb thing?”

Friedrich Bernstein, who had been completely captivated by his granddaughter from the moment he had first held her, hugged her to him and smiled down. “Nothing for you to worry your head about, dumpling. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

Naomi reluctantly allowed Maria to lead her away, and as the door closed behind her, Oma spoke quite sharply. “There was no need to frighten the child, David,” she said.

“She’ll know what’s happening soon enough,” replied her son. “We’re all going to have to face up to what this Anschluss means. Austria has become a German province, that’s what it means. We’re now part of Germany, and we all know what is happening to the Jews in Germany.”

“Poor Ruth!” cried Edith, her hand flying to her mouth in alarm. “What will you do now?”

“The same as before!” Ruth replied curtly. “Keep my head down and pray… the same as you’ll have to.”

“Us?” Edith sounded surprised.

“Perhaps our own people won’t behave towards us as the Germans have been doing to their Jews,” suggested her mother-in-law. “I mean, we don’t know things are going to change here too.”

“Yes, we do,” David said quietly. “Hitler will come here and when he does, everyone will be falling over themselves to show him how dedicated they are to the Nazi line.”

“But the Nazis were banned!” protested Edith. “Only in January. Why has the chancellor given in?”

“You really should try and keep up to date, Edith,” said her husband sharply. “They were reinstated weeks ago.”

“Well, I don’t understand politics,” wailed Edith. “Why did the chancellor do that?”

“I imagine he had no choice,” replied David, wearily. “How does anyone stand up to a man like Hitler?”

“He’s not a man, he’s an animal,” asserted Marta.

“Maybe,” David agreed, “but now he’s got his hands on Austria he’ll be even more difficult to stop.”

“But what about the plebiscite on Monday?” asked Edith.

“There won’t be one!” answered David. He was pacing the room now, unable to still his nervous energy. “What is the point of asking people if they want to be part of the German Empire, when the Germans are already here?”

“But they aren’t here… not yet.”

“They will be… in a few hours.”

“Hours?” Friedrich stared at him. “Surely it will take them longer than that.”

“Father, this has been very carefully orchestrated. Hitler had to move before the plebiscite, in case Austria rejected him on Monday. I’ll bet his troops are already across the border, and he’ll be here himself in the next few hours.

“Is there going to be a war?”

His parents and grandparents looked at Paul in surprise. They had almost forgotten he was in the room.

“That depends on how the rest of the world reacts, and the English in particular,” replied his father. “They don’t want a war, not after the last one. Hitler knows that. He’ll promise not to go any further, and they’ll probably let him get way with it.”

“And will he go any further?” asked Paul.

“Almost certainly. He’s power crazy.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” remarked Marta, rising from her chair. “We should go up and say goodnight to Naomi, Edith.”

Ruth also got to her feet. “I must go home, too,” she said. “And tell Mother what has happened. She won’t have heard yet.”

Edith, ever obedient to her mother-in-law’s wishes, stood up. “I’ll see you out, Ruth, and then I think I’ll read in bed, David. Goodnight, Opa.” Edith had always addressed her parents-in-law as Herr and Frau Bernstein until the children had arrived, and then she, too, had begun to use “Oma” and “Opa”. It had made them seem a little less frightening.

“You should go up, too, Paul,” she added, and shepherded her son out of the room.

At the front door, when Ruth kissed her sister on the cheek, Edith said, “Will everything change very much, do you think?”

Ruth sighed at Edith’s naivety. “I think it will,” she replied. “I think you should be prepared.”

But even Ruth hadn’t been prepared for the thousands and thousands of people flocking to the Heldenplatz to welcome Adolf Hitler. She had had no illusions either. When she’d got home that evening, she told Helga about the chancellor’s broadcast, repeating the solemn pronouncement, “God protect Austria.” She looked across at her mother and said, “It’s going to happen again, isn’t it, Mother? Just when we thought we were safe.”

Helga sat, pale-faced, in her chair. “The Anschluss may have been agreed,” she said wearily, “but it’s unlikely that anything will happen for a while. We’ll just have to keep going as we have been and hope for the best.”

When Vienna awoke the next morning, it was to the news that German troops had crossed the border and were already on their way to the city. A new chancellor, Dr Arthur Seyss-Inquart, an ally of the Nazis, had, on Schuschnigg’s resignation, immediately assumed office, announcing, “Any opposition to the German army, should it enter Austria, is completely out of the question.” He lost no time in being sworn in, and in naming his ministers… all of whom were Nazis.

As the day wore on, everyone listened to the wireless, to hear the latest news of what was happening. Ruth went to work as usual, and as she crossed the city, walking along the now-familiar streets, she could feel the difference in the atmosphere. Posters advertising the abandoned plebiscite for Monday, exhorting people to vote yes to an independent Austria, were still on walls and billboards, but many had been defaced. Austria’s chance to say no to Hitler had been lost. The streets were busy. People had come out of their homes, full of the news. There was an air of suppressed excitement as they gathered on street corners, talking, passing on news. Ruth heard snippets of their excited chatter as she hurried by. One tall man, holding forth to his friends just outside the haberdashery, was saying:

“General Himmler, you know of the SS? Well, he landed here, in Vienna this morning. Now we’ll get some action!”

Ruth froze. Could it be true? Could the monster, Himmler, architect of the terrifying SS, really be here already? She wanted to ask the man how he knew. If he was certain. But the smile of delight on his face as he passed on his piece of news made her move on, before he noticed her standing and listening to him. He was clearly a man who welcomed the Germans. He was not the only one. His words were greeted with a cheer. Ruth kept her head down and went into the shop.

Not the only one! Ruth thought now as she clung to the statue above the seething crowd. Was there an Austrian who was not here, crammed into the Heldenplatz, roaring his support? “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

Eventually the harangue from the balcony came to an end and, when the band played “Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles”, the words were taken up by 200,000 voices. Tanks and armoured cars rolled past the square, squadrons of cavalry clattered by, pennants and standards flapping in the breeze; columns of soldiers goose-stepped their way past the teeming crowd who stood, some madly cheering, others with arms raised in the rigid Nazi salute. The Germans had arrived and were here to stay, and let no one doubt the might of their armies. High above in the clear blue of the March sky, Luftwaffe planes flew past in close formation; Germany was master of the Austrian skies. Germany would be the master of Europe.

Ruth watched from her perch on the statue, unable to get down, unable to escape and slip away to the safety of her home. Trapped in the middle of the mass rally, she had to remain where she was until the parades were over and the crowd began to disperse. The young man who had hauled her up now made a space beside him, so that although she still clung on to the statue she was able to lean against its base.

“I think we’ll be here for some time,” he said, “so we may as well try and get more comfortable.”

Ruth smiled and thanked him. He held out his hand and said, “My name is Peter Walder.”

“Peter,” she repeated. “My son’s name.”

Peter grinned at her. “Good choice!” he said. “And you are?”

“Helga,” Ruth said after a moment’s hesitation, “Helga Heber.” In that split second of hesitation, she decided not to use her own, Jewish-sounding name. Her mother’s more Aryan name was safer. They shook hands, each of them hanging on to the statue with the other hand.

“Isn’t he amazing?” Peter demanded, his eyes still glowing with the excitement of the past hour. “Isn’t he just amazing?”

“Unbelievable,” Ruth agreed truthfully.

“What a leader! What a man to follow! And an Austrian! Can you believe it? An Austrian is the most powerful man in Europe?”

“Unbelievable,” Ruth murmured again.

“With the Führer leading us, we Germans from all over Europe will be united!” Peter asserted. “Won’t that be wonderful? All Germans equal citizens!”

“That would be a dream come true,” Ruth said carefully.

“Your Peter will grow up in a brand-new world,” Peter enthused. “He will be able to take his rightful place in the world! And we were here to see the start of it, you and I! Imagine! If I’d gone to my lecture at the university today as I should have done, I’d have missed all this!”

“What are you studying?” asked Ruth, anxious to turn the conversation away from the scene before her.

“Law,” he replied. “I’m nearly qualified as a lawyer.”

The parades continued around the square, the people continued to cheer, but gradually Ruth could make out a thinning in the ranks, and said, “I must try and get home. My… Peter will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

“You should have brought him with you,” Peter said. “This is an historic day! What did the Führer say? ‘Before the face of history…’ Today is the day in Austrian history that will never be forgotten.”

Ruth managed a smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Peter. Never forgotten.”

He helped her to slip down from the statue, and she eased her way quickly into the crowds, anxious to get away from the Heldenplatz as fast as she possibly could. Once she glanced back. She could see Peter Walder still standing on the statue. He had climbed higher and now stood, one arm round the horse’s leg, the other waving, shouting in furious joy as the mob saluted their beloved Führer yet again.

“Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

God help us, Ruth thought as she threaded her way through the masses round her, God help us if all the young Austrians think as he does… and he’s going to be a lawyer!

Once she was clear of the square and the surrounding streets, Ruth almost ran back to the apartment. What she had seen this day had made her realise just what she and all the other Jews in Vienna were up against, and it absolutely terrified her.

She thought of Kurt. It had been so wonderful to hear his voice on the phone. New hope had surged through her. She’d walked back to the flat after his call, her feet scarcely touching the ground. He was coming to her, to be with her and the children again, a proper family. She didn’t tell the children, or even Helga, she simply hugged the secret of his return to herself. She could almost feel his body against hers. For that one night, Ruth had been overflowing with happiness, her eyes alight with the joy of her secret. The next evening all her hopes had been dashed. Germany had grabbed Austria, dragging it into the new and ever-expanding German Empire. The Nazis had arrived, joining with those already carefully placed in the Austrian government. The Nazis had swept into power, backed by the German army that had marched across the border. Ruth and her family were no safer now than they had been in Kirnheim or Munich.

13

The evening of the rally in the Heldenplatz, David went to see his father. His parents were surprised to see him, but when he had drunk a cup of coffee with his mother, he said that he needed a word with his father, if she would excuse them.

Marta Bernstein, who was quite used to the men retiring to Friedrich’s study for a brandy, agreed readily enough and returned to her embroidery.

“Well, David? What’s this all about?” Friedrich dropped into his favourite chair in front of the fire. His study was his refuge, the place where he was never allowed to be disturbed by the rest of the household, and the fire was always made up and the room warm.

David poured them each a generous brandy and carried one of the glasses over to his father. Taking the other to a chair across the fire from him, he raised his glass, looking at the flames through the amber spirit.

“I’ll tell you what it’s about,” he said. “After what has happened today…”

“What has happened today?”

“This welcoming rally for Hitler in the Heldenplatz… I think we should seriously consider leaving.”

“Leaving?” Friedrich looked up in surprise. “Leaving Vienna?”

“Not leaving Vienna,” David said patiently. “I mean leaving Austria. You said yourself that it was a good thing Berta wasn’t here, that she was safely in England. Perhaps we should be getting the other children out, too.” He took a sip of his brandy, and then went on, “Ruth came to see me earlier this evening.”

“Ruth? And what has she to say to anything?”

“She was in the Heldenplatz this morning and…”

“More fool her!”

“Father, will you listen, please! I know you don’t think much of Edith’s family, but over the last few weeks I’ve grown to have a great deal of respect for Ruth.”

He thought again of the conversation he had had with his sister-in-law earlier in the evening. She had arrived at the house, and asked Anna if David was in. He had said he would call Edith, but Ruth had stopped him.

“No, David, don’t call Edith yet. It’s you I need to talk to.”

“I see. Well, I suppose you’d better come into my study then.” He had led her into the comfortable room off the hall where he, like his father, found refuge from his family. Despite the fact that spring was definitely in the air, there was a fire burning brightly in the grate, and Ruth went eagerly to warm her hands.

David closed the door behind them. She’s going to ask me for another loan, he thought sourly. He gave her a tight smile and said, “Well now, Ruth, what can I do for you?”

“Do for me?” Ruth echoed. “Nothing, David. I’ve not come to ask you for a favour, I’ve come to tell you what I saw today and to warn you…”

“Warn me? Warn me about what?” David waved her to a chair. “You’d better sit down and tell me what this is all about.”

Ruth sat, and still holding her hands out to the warmth of the fire, told him what had happened to her that morning.

“What I’ve come to tell you, David, is that you and Edith and the children should get out while you can. Your parents, too. You’ve got enough money to go anywhere in the world. You should leave Austria while you still can.”

“I see. Well, thank you for that bit of advice, Ruth,” David replied coolly. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Look, David,” Ruth didn’t trouble to hide her irritation at his tone, “I know you aren’t particularly fond of any of Edith’s family, but like it or not we are here. We’ve escaped from the Nazis once, we’ve lived through what they do to Jews. What I saw today terrified me. All Austria was welcoming Hitler, and what the Nazis have been doing in Germany is going to happen here. I tell you this, David, if I could afford to get my family away from Vienna, out of Austria, I would do it. I would do it tomorrow.” She got to her feet then, and walked to the door. “Life is going to change out of all recognition from now. You’re in a position to do something, if you act fast. That’s all I came to say. Good afternoon.”

She had left the room closing the door softly behind her, leaving David staring after her. He heard voices in the hall, Edith greeting Ruth with surprise, not knowing she was in the house, and then there was the sound of the front door closing. David moved to the window and saw Ruth striding off down the street, her coat held closely about her against the chill in the wind. He had to admit she had earned his respect the way she had brought her children out of Germany to the safety of Vienna, and how she had set herself to provide for her family since they had arrived. She had hardly called on his generosity at all, and the loans Edith had made her were all being paid back. Partly that irritated him, women in his circles did not take jobs in a haberdashery, but loath as he was to admit it, even to himself, it impressed him. He wished Edith showed as much spirit sometimes.

He sat down by the fire again and considered what she had told him. He realised things were not going to be easy from now, but as a well-established figure in Viennese society, he didn’t think he or his family were in danger… not in any real sense. And yet… Ruth had been serious about her warning, and she spoke from bitter experience.

“She’s a strong and determined woman,” David said to his father now.

“More than can be said for your wife,” Friedrich snorted.

“Father! For God’s sake let’s not go into all that again. Listen to what I am telling you now. Let’s face it, Father, we’ve seen the way things have been going these last few weeks. We shouldn’t have been surprised by Friday’s announcement. Schuschnigg had been gradually giving in to Nazi demands for the past two months. He was never strong enough to take on Hitler… or our own Nazis, for that matter.” David shook his head. “No, Father, it could well be time to get the children out, and fast.”

“You’d all have to go,” stated his father. “You could hardly send the children somewhere else on their own! Would you leave your home, your work, the rest of your family, just like that?”

“You and Mother could come as well. We’d all go.”

“Just desert Austria, you mean? I never took you for a coward before, David!”

David sighed. “Father, I’m not a coward, I’m simply being realistic. Look at what happened to Ruth and her family. They were turned out of their home more than once, and they finally had to buy their way out of Germany. She’s now living in three rooms in a tenement block, hoping Kurt can escape and find her.”

“She was married to a shopkeeper,” grumbled Friedrich, “a nobody. They aren’t going to do the same to the likes of you, a well-known orthopaedic surgeon.”

“We don’t know that,” David replied. “Yes, Kurt was arrested, so what happens if they arrest me… or you? How would Mother, or Edith manage?”

“Why would they arrest me?” demanded Friedrich.

“Because, Father, you’re a Jew.” David looked across at his father. Sitting upright in his chair, he stared back at David out of deep-set dark eyes, his nose prominent above a mouth hidden by his luxuriant white beard. His hair was combed back from his high forehead, and he wore his koppel on the back of his head. He looked as he had always looked to David, but now viewing him through the eyes of an Austrian, rather than a son, David could see that he was the archetypal Jew, the Jew of the caricatures and cartoons that had been filling the German newspapers for four years or more.

“It’s just something we ought to think about,” David said at last. “We have to try and protect our own. After all it’s quite possible that I won’t have my job at the hospital for very long.”

“Why ever not? They’ll still need doctors.”

“I know, but Jewish doctors in Germany are only allowed to treat Jewish patients now. The same thing could happen here.”

“Well, we don’t have to rush into anything. We’ve plenty of time to think about it,” Friedrich announced, getting to his feet. “Now, I must have my quiet time.”

David stood up, too. “I’ve got to get back,” he said. “But do think about what I’ve said, and we’ll discuss it again soon.” He left his father, already turning to his books, and quietly let himself out of the apartment. He didn’t go in to say goodnight to his mother, she would have quizzed him on the reason for his visit, and he wasn’t ready to discuss the idea with her yet. Friedrich, he knew, would spend the rest of the evening studying his books.

David had long since given up study of the scriptures. He considered himself Austrian first and Jew second, only attending the synagogue near Liechtenstein Park with his family on special occasions, but he had seen what had been going on in Germany, and had heard firsthand from Ruth what was happening to the Jews there. What she had told him today simply reinforced what she had said before. He had no illusions, things were about to change, but how much and in what way he was far less certain, and taking the family out of Austria was a huge decision, not one to be taken lightly.

It was two weeks later that he received a telephone call at the hospital. Edith was on the line, sobbing so hard as she spoke that he couldn’t make out what she was saying. All he could hear were the words “Come home! You must come home, now!”

He went at once, for there was a note of hysteria in her voice that he’d never heard before. When he reached the house he found his mother there, looking extremely pale, her eyes wide with fear. She held a cup and saucer in her hands, but they were shaking so much that the cup rattled against the saucer and the tea slurped over the rim of the cup onto the front of her skirt. She appeared not to notice, simply sat, shaking, as David greeted Edith and asked what on earth was going on.

“It’s the Nazis, they’ve taken your father and…”

“Taken my father? Where? Where have they taken him?”

Edith wrung her hands. “We don’t know! They simply took him away when he started to argue…”

“Argue about what? Edith, for goodness’ sake pull yourself together and tell me exactly what has happened.”

“The Nazis want Oma and Opa’s apartment.” David hadn’t realised that Paul was in the room, but he turned to him now. His son was standing in a corner by the window, watching the street below. His face was pale, but he seemed calm enough.

“All right, Paul. You tell me.”

“There are some top-brass Nazis who’ve arrived in Vienna and need places to live. They’re simply taking them. They’ve found out where rich Jews live and they are just turning them out and moving in. When Opa said they couldn’t have the apartment, they sent some soldiers. The soldiers pushed Oma out into the street and marched Opa away. Maria was still in the apartment, and she came out with Oma’s coat and bag. The soldiers told Maria that she could pack one suitcase for Oma, and then she was to go back into the apartment and get it ready for its new owners.” Paul fell silent as he came to the end of his story.

“What are we going to do?” cried Edith. “What are we going to do?”

“First you’re going take Mother upstairs to her room and make her comfortable. Then ask Cook to make her some nice hot soup.” He looked at his panic-stricken wife. “Come on, Edith, you’ve got to be strong. Dissolving into tears isn’t going to help anyone.” He turned to his son. “You stay here with your mother,” he said, then on a sudden thought asked, “Where’s Naomi?”

“She’s having tea at Hilda’s.”

“Right, well I want her home straightaway.” David went to the door to call Anna, and found her on the point of coming in. “Ah, Anna. I want you to go round to Frau Schweiz’s. Collect Miss Naomi and bring her home at once. If necessary you can say there is an illness in the family, but she must come home at once.”

Anna glanced at the old lady sitting, still shaking in the chair, and gave a half-smile. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” she said, and left the room.

“What about your father?” Edith had slumped into an armchair beside her mother-in-law. She looked up at David now, her eyes huge and staring in the whiteness of her face.

“I’ll try and find out where they’ve taken him and see if I can get him released. I’m sure they’ll let him go again now that they’ve made their point.” David sounded far more assured than he felt. He had no idea how to find his father, or whether they, whoever they were, might release him. All he could do was go first to the police and work from there.

His car and driver, Jacob, were still waiting for him outside and he had himself driven straight to the local police station. Although it wasn’t in the same area as his parents’ apartment, he went there because he knew the local police chief.

“Wait here,” he told Jacob, and went inside in search of Superintendent Müller.

When he asked for the superintendent, the desk officer looked him up and down and said, “Who shall I say wants him?”

“Dr David Bernstein.”

“Wait here.”

The officer disappeared and was gone some time. David waited in the front office. There was nowhere to sit down, so he stood, reading the posters up on the walls. One or two were quite old dealing with reported crime from several months ago; another explained how to register for the plebiscite that had been planned for Monday 13th March, but most of them were new, and mostly related to restrictions for Jews. Jews were not allowed to attend Austrian schools. Jews were to register as Jews on pain of deportation. Jews were not allowed to shop in Austrian shops. Jews were allowed to ride only in certain parts of public transport. David read them all and then read them again. He knew of many of the directives, but had not really understood the number of them, nor the heavy restrictions. Jews no longer had any rights as citizens, because they were no longer citizens.

The desk officer returned to his place, but did not speak to David, simply began writing notes in a ledger.

David approached the desk again. “Is Superintendent Müller there?” he asked.

The man looked up, as if surprised to be addressed while he was working. “He is in his office. He will see you when he has time.”

David felt his temper rising at the young man’s impudence. “I’d like to see him now, please,” he said.

“He will see you when he has time,” repeated the man, and returned to making his notes.

David waited another ten minutes, during which several people came into the police station, and were dealt with swiftly, efficiently and politely by the desk officer.

David looked at the door that led into the inner part of the police station. He knew the way to Superintendent Müller’s office, he had been there several times when he had helped the police with some medical matters. Normally he would have been shown straight upstairs, given coffee, asked what he wanted. Today he faced the blank expression of a young desk officer and a closed door.

He was about to walk through the door and run up the stairs before the young man could stop him, when a bell rang and the desk officer looked up.

“The superintendent will see you now. Follow me.”

“It’s all right,” David said mildly, “I know my way.”

The young man stopped in the doorway, and turned to face him. “We do not allow Jews to wander round the police station,” he said. “Follow me.”

David followed him. They reached the superintendent’s office and the young officer knocked on the door. When called to enter, he stepped inside and said, “The Jew is here to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Lombay.”

Lombay moved out of the way and allowed David to go through the door, then he stood behind him as if to prevent his escape.

“Thank you, Lombay,” repeated the superintendent. “Go back to your duties on the desk.” Lombay looked disappointed, but he closed the door and David heard his feet on the wooden stairs.

Superintendent Helmut Müller was sitting behind his desk. Once the door was closed he got to his feet, but he didn’t extend his hand to David as he would once have done, and David was immediately aware of a difference in his attitude.

“Herr Doktor,” Müller said, politely enough, “what can I do for you?” He did not offer David a seat, though he sat back down himself, leaving David to stand in front of him, making David feel like a schoolboy called up before the headmaster. He fought to quell a rising anger; he needed this man’s help.

“I’ve come for your help,” he replied. “My father has been arrested, and I don’t know where they’ve taken him.”

“And you think this has something to do with me?”

“No, I’m sure it hasn’t,” responded David quickly, “but I thought you might know where he would have been taken.”

“So, who arrested him?” The superintendent sounded a little more relaxed.

“My mother says it was some soldiers. They came to move my parents out of their apartment so that some German officers could live there, and my father argued with them.”

“That was very stupid of him,” remarked the superintendent.

“Superintendent Müller, my father is an old man. He has lived in that apartment for the last twenty-five years. What would you have done?”

“If I were confronted by the SS and I were a Jew, I’d have left without a fuss, and thanked God that I had not been arrested,” replied the superintendent. “Look, Herr Doktor, we have worked together occasionally over the years and I’ve nothing against you… or most Jews actually, but you are going to have to realise our political masters have changed. I cannot afford to be seen as a friend of Jews. I cannot afford to be seen taking a sympathetic line. I am in as much peril from my own men informing on me to the authorities as you are. The laws of Austria with regard to Jews are now the same as those of Germany.”

“I understand,” David replied quietly, “but I have to find my father and try to get him released.”

Superintendent Müller sighed. “You know the Hotel Metropol in Morzinplatz?”

David nodded, the colour draining from his face. He did indeed know of the Hotel Metropol, who did not after these last few weeks?

“He will probably have been taken there. It’s become the Gestapo headquarters… there are cellars…” His voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you any further, Herr Doktor, except to say, if I were a Jew, I would go nowhere near the place. Heil Hitler!”

“Thank you, Herr Superintendent,” replied David quietly. “Good day,” and he left the room.

Jacob drove slowly along Franz-Josef-Kai until he was within two hundred yards of the Hotel Metropol, when David said abruptly, “Stop here and let me out. Keep driving round and pick me up again here.” He opened the back door of the car as Jacob drew to a halt and was out before his driver could open his own door. David stepped onto the pavement and mingled with the throng going about their business there. He walked towards Morzinplatz where the Hotel Metropol stood in all its elegance and style. Four storeys high, its main entrance dignified with tall columns, its windows tall and wide, it was an imposing building. A beautiful building, once the preserve of the rich and famous, and now, draped with swastika banners, a house of terror. The Nazis had been in Vienna for only three weeks, but already the rumours were circulating about the horrors of what went on within. People disappeared inside, not through the graceful portico at the front, but through a small, back entrance that, it was said, led straight to the cellars where prisoners were kept and tortured.

David stood across the square from the hotel and looked at it in despair. How could he discover if his father was in there? There were SS guards outside the front door, and, even as he watched, a long, black sedan drew up at the front. The two sentries snapped to attention, while the driver of the car leaped out to open the door for his passenger. All three men saluted the man who strode inside, returning their salutes with a casual “Heil Hitler”. David had seen pictures of that man in the papers, and seeing him in the flesh now he shuddered; Heinrich Himmler was an extremely powerful man, and every Jew with any sense of self-preservation was in mortal fear of him. David shrank back into a doorway, and watched as the black car glided away again, disappearing round the back of the hotel. He knew his nerve had failed; he knew he dare not approach the hotel. Keeping his head down, he crossed the street and walked beside the canal until he reached the Salztor Bridge. Standing on the end of the bridge, David looked along Salztorgasse towards the back of the hotel, but although he could see the building, he could not see the infamous door leading to the cellar. Could his father really be in the hands of the Gestapo? How could he find out? Müller’s advice was good advice. No Jew should go within a mile of the Hotel Metropol. If his father was in there, there was nothing he, David, could do, certainly not immediately, certainly not without careful thought.

Shaken and frightened, and ashamed of his fear, David retraced his footsteps along the canal to the corner where Jacob had dropped him, and as his car slid up beside him, he wrenched open the back door and scrambled in.

“Home,” he said.

“There is nothing we can do if he has been taken to the Metropol,” he said to Edith when he reached home again, and armed with a stiff drink told her what he had discovered.

Edith stifled a cry. “What will you tell your mother?” she asked. “What shall we tell the children?”

“We tell the children nothing more than they know already. That he has been arrested, but will be home again soon. As for Mother, we’ll see how she is. Today she was in shock. Tomorrow she’ll be stronger. In the meantime I will consider what, if anything, we can do.”

“Can you really not go into the hotel and ask?” Edith looked at him with wide blue eyes. “He’s your father. They must tell you if he’s there. If it were one of my family…”

David turned away, his shame at his own fear making him harsh. “Your family! When your sister wrote to you and told you she’d been burned out of her home by the Nazis, you didn’t even answer the letter,” he snarled. “Don’t talk to me about family duty.”

It was Paul who found his grandfather. Coming home from school the next day, he saw a crowd gathered on a street corner. They were shouting and jeering, their laughter ringing out across the street. Paul walked over to see what all the fun was, only to stare in horror at what he saw. A group of people were on their knees and armed only with a scrubbing brush and bucket of water, were being made to clean the street. Two SS men stood over them, ready to deal with any trouble. Even as he watched, one of the guards kicked an old man in the ribs shouting at him to scrub harder, and as the old man’s face jerked upward, Paul found himself staring down at his grandfather. The jeering crowd applauded the soldier’s action, with shouts of, “That’s right! Make the dirty Jew clean up properly! Come on, Granddad, get scrubbing. Time you did an honest day’s work!” There were some small children in the crowd; one, high on his father’s shoulders, chanted merrily, “Dirty Jew! Dirty Jew! Dirty Jew!”

Paul stood petrified, his face a mask of horror. His grandfather, looking up, saw him. Paul took a step forward and the old man hurled the scrubbing brush at him, screeching shrilly, “Seen enough, have you? Come for a good laugh? Here to see the Jews getting what’s coming to them?” His shrieks were cut off by another boot in the ribs, and another roar of laughter from the assembled crowd as he crumpled forward on the ground. Paul turned away sickened, his legs like jelly as walked away. Once round the corner and out of sight he began to run, and although the breath was screaming in his lungs, he didn’t stop until he was home. David was already there, and came out of his study to see what was the matter as Paul crashed through the door and collapsed sobbing on the floor.

“Paul? Paul! What on earth…?”

“Opa! It’s Opa!” was all he could say.

Gradually they calmed him down, and he managed to tell them what he’d seen. Opa, scrubbing the streets. Opa on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush and bucket, the jeering crowd, the little boy chanting… and the soldiers with guns… kicking, kicking Opa in the ribs.

“Where, Paul? Where was this?” asked his father.

Paul still looked dazed but he knew where. He passed that street corner every day on the way to school.

“Antonstrasse,” he said. “By the pharmacy.”

David turned to Edith who, wide-eyed with fear for her son, was sitting beside Paul on the sofa, clutching his hand. “Edith, you must go and see what’s happening,” David said. “Go and find out where they are keeping him?”

“Me!” Edith shrieked. “How can I go? I have to stay here and look after Paul.”

“Paul’s fine,” David said, trying to stay calm himself. “It has to be you, Edith. If I go anyone there will recognise me as a Jew. You look as Aryan as the best of them. No one will notice you in the crowd and maybe you can follow and find out where he’s being held.”

Edith stared at him in horror. “David, I couldn’t,” she stammered. “I really couldn’t.”

“Edith, my father earned himself a kicking so that your son, our Paul, wasn’t recognised as a Jew by the crowd. You have to go.”

“I’ll go back, Papa,” Paul said. He sat on the sofa beside his mother, white-faced, but determined. “I’ll go back and see what’s going on.”

“No!” Edith was on her feet. “I’ll go.” Without another word she walked out of the room and they heard the front door slamming behind her.

Paul stared up at his father. “Will she be all right?” he asked. “You should have gone.”

“No,” replied David, “I would have made things worse, and might have been arrested as well, which would have helped no one. Your mother can pass as just a bystander, just another in the crowd. Now we’ll just have to wait.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Less than ten minutes later Edith was back at the front door, calling David to fetch the car.

“They’ve moved on,” she said, “and they’ve left your father in the gutter. Come on, David. Get the car, we can pick him up.”

Within moments, they were in the car and on their way. They reached the street corner and saw what looked like a heap of old rags at the side of the road. As the car came to a halt, the three of them leaped out and ran to the old man. He was unconscious, his head bleeding, his arm twisted at an alarming angle, but he was breathing, his breath coming in painful rasps.

“Gently,” David said as he ran exploratory hands over his father’s body. “He’s dislocated his shoulder, we must move him very carefully and get him onto the back seat of the car.” Awkwardly the three of them lifted the old man and carried him to the car. He was a dead weight in their arms, and it was difficult to manoeuvre him through the car door, but at last they managed it.

“You’ll have to walk home, Paul,” said his father. “There’s no room for you. Off you go, quickly. We’ll see you at home.” Paul set off at a trot, and, having made the old man as comfortable as they could, David and Edith got back into the car. As they pulled away and turned the car for home, there was a thud on Edith’s door and she spun round to see a woman reaching for another stone to hurl at them, shouting as she did so, “Dirty Jews!” David accelerated away and the second stone fell short.

They got Friedrich upstairs and into bed, and, while he was still unconscious, David managed to ease his father’s shoulder back into its socket. Then he bathed the cut on his head and gave him a thorough examination.

“He’s very bruised,” he told his mother as she waited anxiously by her husband’s bed. “His ribs are probably cracked and will be very painful when he wakes up, but as far as I can tell they aren’t broken. The head wound looks worse than it is. They always bleed a lot.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s lucky. It could have been a lot worse. He needs rest, but it won’t be long before he’s feeling much better.”

“And when he is,” David said to Edith much later when they were alone, “we’ll have to decide what we’re all going to do.”

“What can we do?” Edith said bleakly. “Things are going to get worse.”

“Yes,” agreed David. “The time has come to leave. I spoke to my father about it before. Now we must give it serious consideration.”

14

So we are to leave Vienna,” wailed Edith, “and go to Shanghai!”

“Shanghai!” echoed Ruth, staring at her sister.

“David says we have to go. After what happened to his father, he says it’s too dangerous to stay here and we must get the children away to safety.”

“But why Shanghai?” asked Ruth.

The two sisters were sitting in Edith’s drawing room, coffee cups in their hands and a plate of pastries, such as Ruth never saw these days, on the table between them. Edith had sent Jacob with a message that she needed to see Ruth, and, tired as she was from a day’s work in the shop, Ruth had trailed across the town to the house in Liechtensteinstrasse, when the haberdashery closed.

“He says Jews have been moving there for several years. There’s a big Jewish community. We shan’t be alone.”

“But, China! Surely there are other, better places you could go, America, England, France?”

“Those countries won’t take any more Jews,” Edith moaned. “They have quotas or something. David says if we go to Shanghai we don’t need visas to get in. We can just get on a boat and go.”

“If the Germans let you,” pointed out Ruth.

“Oh, they will. They want to get rid of us, we just have to leave everything behind,” Edith’s voice broke as she looked round her elegant drawing room. She said with a sob, “We’re allowed to take thirty marks and a suitcase each.”

“Thirty marks!” Ruth reached out and took her sister’s hand. “How on earth will you live?” she asked gently.

“David says…” sobbed Edith, “David says there are several hospitals there, so he will be able to work.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose, before saying a little more steadily, “He says, and I know he’s right, that the important thing is to get the children to safety; and his parents, too.”

“How is your father-in-law?” Ruth asked. “Has he recovered?”

Edith sighed. “He’s recovered physically, though his ribs are still painful where he was kicked, but he’s a changed man. He’s morose and silent. He stays upstairs most of the time and we have to send his meals up on a tray. He’s afraid to go out.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Ruth. “It was a terrible ordeal. What happened to him when he was arrested? Did he say?”

“We’re not sure,” sighed Edith. “He says he was taken to a prison and thrown into some sort of cell with lots of other people, but we don’t know where it was. It was so crowded that they could only just sit on the floor, there was no room to lie down, and they were given nothing to eat. Then the next morning they were taken out onto the streets and told to clean them up. He had to scrub walls first, to get rid of the last of the posters about the plebiscite. Then he was set to scrubbing slogans off the street. That’s when Paul saw him.”

“Thank goodness he did. You might never have found him again otherwise.”

“They left him for dead in the gutter,” Edith said bleakly. “An old man. No one went to help him.”

“No one dares,” said Ruth, gently.

“No one wants to,” snapped Edith. “They all hate us. Look at what’s happening to all the Jewish families. David’s parents have lost their home and it will probably only be a matter of time before we’re turned out, too. Paul’s not allowed to go to the gymnasium anymore, none of the Jewish boys are. It’s not fair.” Edith’s voice was a childish wail: “It’s not fair, he was doing so well.”

Fair? Ruth stared at Edith in disbelief at her naivety. What did “fair” have to do with anything anymore?

“No,” Edith was continuing, “no, Ruth, we have to go, David’s right. The sooner we get the children out, the better, and of course we must take his parents with us too.”

“Do his parents want to go?” enquired Ruth. “It will be an enormous wrench for them to leave Vienna. They’ve lived here all their lives.”

“They don’t have much choice,” said Edith. “David’s made up his mind. We’re going, and his parents are going to come too.”

“I see,” Ruth said, adding, her voice deceptively calm, “and your parent?”

Edith stared at her. “My parent? You mean Mother?”

“Have you another?” asked Ruth tersely.

“Well, Mother’s with you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is,” agreed Ruth, “but it doesn’t mean she’s safe. None of us is safe, Edith. We’d all like to go, but we can’t.”

“So you think that just because you can’t go, we shouldn’t? Is that it?” Edith’s eyes flashed with anger. “Is that what you think, Ruth?”

“No, not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. If you ask David, you’ll find that I told him you should all go sometime ago, well before anything happened to your father-in-law. But I just think you might have given Mother a thought.”

“She wouldn’t want to come,” Edith said defensively. “She’d want to stay with you and the children until Kurt gets here.”

“Kurt won’t come here now,” sighed Ruth. “It would be madness. Things are worse here than they were in Germany. I told him not to try, it’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Edith interrupted suddenly, “what with Shanghai and everything, there’s a letter for you. It came yesterday morning.”

“A letter!” Ruth almost dropped her coffee cup. “Why didn’t you tell me? Where is it? Give it to me!”

“I am telling you,” Edith replied plaintively. “That’s why I asked you to come, so I could give you the letter.” She got to her feet and went to the bureau in the corner of the room. “I’ve got it in here. It’s quite safe.” She opened a drawer and drew out the letter. “Here you are. The postmark’s Hamburg, so he must be there, mustn’t he?”

Ruth snatched the envelope from her sister’s hand, and after a quick glance at handwriting and postmark stuffed it into her bag.

Edith looked surprised. “Aren’t you going to open it? I thought you’d want to read it right away.”

“So that’s why you kept it for a whole day?” fumed Ruth inside her head, but all she said was, “You could have sent it with Jacob when he came yesterday.”

“But I wanted to give it to you myself,” bleated Edith. “And I wanted to tell you about Shanghai.”

“Are you going to come and tell Mother, yourself, that you’re going to Shanghai?” Ruth asked, rising to her feet and preparing to go home, “or do you expect me to tell her?”

“Couldn’t you bring her here?” wheedled Edith. “I’m sure she’ll want to see the children before we go.”

Ruth compressed her lips into a tight line, biting back the flood of anger that threatened to stream from her mouth. She was furious with Edith and her self-centredness, but she knew in her heart that Edith was right in this at least, her mother would want to see her grandchildren before they left.

“We’ll try and come at the weekend,” she said. “Do you want me to break it to her about Shanghai?”

“Would you?” The relief in Edith’s voice was heartfelt. “Tell her I’ll explain it all to her when I see her.”

Ruth couldn’t wait to get out of the house, and once she was safely back on the street she almost ran to catch the bus home. Several times on the way she slipped her hand inside her bag, to make sure the precious letter was still there. Hamburg! What was Kurt doing in Hamburg? She had heard nothing since their brief phone call nearly four weeks ago. He had not phoned again as he’d said he would and her fears for his safety had increased with every passing day.

At last she reached their courtyard, and climbing the stairs to the apartment was greeted with cries of delight from the younger children, and huge, relieved smiles from Laura and her mother. They knew how dangerous the streets were becoming for Jews, and her safe return every day was awaited with anxiety. Ruth no longer allowed the girls to walk to school through the streets on their own, where they were now prey to attack, both verbal and physical, from Austrian children, but insisted that Helga went with them, even though it meant that the twins had to trail all the way there and back again, too. Their small Jewish enclave lived under a canopy of fear. New laws and directives were published almost every day, and they all lived with the dread of being arrested for breaking one of these without even knowing it existed.

“So what did Edith want?” asked Helga once the welcome was over and she had sat down at the table.

“Oh, nothing much,” Ruth said, her eyes flicking to the children. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” Even now she couldn’t read the letter from Kurt. She needed privacy to do so. She had no idea what he was going to say, but clearly he wasn’t coming to Vienna and she needed to be alone as she read the words that explained why. She washed her hands and face at the sink, and then, picking up her bag, went to the room she shared with the twins. When she had heard their prayers, she settled them into bed and read to them; waiting, watching over them as they fell asleep, top to tail in the single bed, each clutching a battered rabbit. Sitting on the mattress that was her own bed, she finally got out her letter. With trembling fingers she ripped open the envelope and withdrew the single sheet inside.

My darling Ruth, she read,

I wish I were with you now, but though I tried to reach you recently it was not possible with the recent change of affairs. At present I am in Hamburg where I am working in a shop. You can write to me here and let me know how you all are. I am working on the plan for a visit to Berta, as you suggested, and hope to leave in the next few weeks if I can get time off from work. Perhaps you and the children will be able to come and see Berta too before very long.

Write to me, my darling, and tell me how you and the children are doing. Is your mother still with you? Please remember me to her.

I have to go to work now, but I will write again soon with my news. Forgive the brevity of this letter but you know the circumstances.

Remember how much I love you, my darling girl, more than life itself.

Kiss the children from me and tell them I am longing to see them again.

All my love,

Kurt

Ruth read the short letter through several times, wondering at the strange and stilted language. Kurt must have thought the letter might be intercepted, and was giving as little away as he could. She looked again at the envelope, but as she had torn it open she had destroyed any sign that it might have been opened before.

She read the letter again, trying to work out the subtext to what he had written. By recent change of affairs he must mean the Anschluss. The visit to Berta was the code she herself had used in their telephone call, so he was trying to get to England, and from there he was going to try and get them out as well. Was that possible? She wondered. Forgive the brevity of this letter, but you know the circumstances. Yes, that’s what he meant, Ruth thought. He was afraid that the letter might fall into the wrong hands.

She looked at the address at the top of the page. It was a shop in Hamburg. He must think it safe for her to write there, or at least that the risk was small. She clutched the letter to her. Thank God it had arrived in time. If it had come to Edith’s house in another week or so, when the Bernstein family had left for Shanghai, she would never have received it. Kurt did not know where she lived now, and they would have lost all contact. She shivered with fear at the dreadful thought. He wouldn’t have known where she was in Vienna, and she wouldn’t have known where he was at all. She found that tears were running down her cheeks, and for a few blessed moments she allowed herself the luxury of a good cry, before she scrubbed her cheeks with her handkerchief. No need for tears, she admonished herself. Kurt was alive. He was safe. He wasn’t trapped in a daily-more-terrifying Austria, and he seemed to think he could get to England and send for them when he got there. She put the letter back in her bag and got to her feet. Gently she straightened the coverlet over the twins, kissed each one on his forehead twice, once for herself and once for Kurt, and then went back into the kitchen where the girls were sitting at the table, Inge drawing on a scrap of paper, and Laura writing in her diary:

When Oma took us to school today we saw some poor people scrubbing the road, trying to get some paint off the stones. They had only toothbrushes and bucket of water and two soldiers with guns were watching them. Two horrid boys came by and tipped a bucket of horse muck on them, and they had to clean that up as well. Oma told us not to look, just to walk by and take no notice, but one of the people was an old lady, and she was crying. Why aren’t there proper sweeping men like before? When I asked Fräulein Lowenstein she told me not to talk about it. She was quite cross, but I think she is scared like all the grown-ups. Horrible things are happening to Jews like us, and everyone is afraid.

Helga looked across at Ruth as she came in, raising an interrogatory eyebrow. Ruth smiled. “They’re sound asleep,” she said, and turning her attention to the girls she said, “Now then, what would you two like to do before you go to bed? How about writing a letter to Papa?”

When at last they had the kitchen to themselves, Ruth told Helga about her visit to Edith. “Shanghai? In China? Why on earth is David taking them there?”

“Edith says there’s already a large Jewish community there, but I think it’s mainly because they don’t need any sort of visa to go there. America has a quota system and other countries are taking fewer and fewer Jews. They could wait forever to be allowed to go there. Anyway, they’re going and as soon as it can be arranged.”

“What about David’s parents? Surely they aren’t leaving them behind? Specially not after what happened to poor Herr Bernstein.” Helga broke off for a moment and then said bleakly, “We saw the same thing happening again today, as I took the girls to school. A group of Jews being made to clean the road on their hands and knees.” She sighed. “David’s right to get them out, of course, but Shanghai?”

“Edith says that his parents are going, too.”

“To Shanghai? But they’ll hate leaving Vienna.”

“That’s what I said,” agreed Ruth. “But she says David’s made up his mind and they don’t have any choice.”

“Poor things,” sighed Helga, “but I suppose it’s for the best.”

“Edith also gave me a letter from Kurt,” said Ruth.

“From Kurt?” Helga’s eyes lit up with pleasure. “Oh darling, how wonderful. You must be over the moon. What did he say? Where is he? Is he coming here?”

Ruth took out the letter and handed it to her mother. “You can read it yourself,” she said.

Helga looked doubtful as she took the letter. “Well,” she said, “if you’re sure,” and adjusting her glasses on her nose, she read it through. When she looked up she looked a little bemused. “What a strange letter,” she said. “What does he mean?”

Ruth explained what she thought Kurt had been telling her. “He doesn’t know if the post is safe,” she explained. “He’s telling me things which no one else would understand. And at least now I know where he is, for the moment anyway.”

“So you can write back to him and tell him what’s been happening here.”

“And I must do it quickly before he moves on,” said Ruth. “If he writes to me care of Edith again, I shan’t get the letter, and whichever Nazis are living in Edith’s house will.”

“Do you know when they are leaving?” asked Helga. “Did Edith say?”

“No, not exactly, but I think it will be as soon as possible. She asked us to come and visit them on Sunday.”

“I can’t believe they’re going so far away,” Helga said, a break in her voice. “My Edith in China. Shall I ever see her or the children again?”

Ruth was beside her at once, her arms round her comfortingly. “Of course you will, Mutti. It’s only till this nightmare is over.”

“It’ll never be over,” said her mother flatly. “The Nazis will never be satisfied until they’ve got rid of every Jew in the country, and there’s no one to stop them.”

“You could go with them, Mutti,” Ruth said gently.

Her mother’s head jerked up. “And leave you here on your own! I would never do that. Edith has David to look after her and the children. She doesn’t need me.”

It was three more weeks before David, Edith and their family finally left Vienna. Getting all the exit permits from the Department of Emigration had taken longer than they had thought. David spent hours queuing up at the department, waiting with the required documents, only to be told that this form was incorrectly filled in, or that another one was now necessary. Their situation in society had changed radically. Anna and Cook had both left, neither prepared to work for a Jewish family anymore. Edith had to manage the house and do the cooking on her own, something she had not done since she had married David. Jacob, the driver, also left, because David no longer had a car. That had been confiscated. Two SS men had arrived at the house one afternoon, brusquely demanding the keys of the beautiful motor parked outside the house. David, remembering his father’s fate when he had argued about the apartment, could do nothing but hand them over, his face pale with contained fury, as he watched the men drive away.

Once their application to emigrate had been lodged, they prepared for their journey. Edith had been right about the amount of luggage they could take, and they packed and re-packed the cases trying to cram in all the basic things they would need to set up their new home.

On the two Sundays before they left, Ruth and Helga took the children across the town to visit them. Summer was fast approaching and the children were allowed to play in the garden, under the eye of a disconsolate Paul. Watching young children play wasn’t his idea of fun, but there was no Anna to look after them anymore, and he knew his parents were relying on him more and more these days. He was quite excited about moving to Shanghai. He’d never been out of Vienna, and thought that the whole trip would be a great adventure.

“You’ll be able to go back to school there,” his father had promised, “and then train as a doctor as you always planned.”

“I don’t want to go to China,” Naomi confided to Laura as they sat together on the swing seat. “I want to stay here.”

“I didn’t like leaving my home either,” Laura said sympathetically, “but it may not be as bad as you think.”

“Yes it will be,” asserted Naomi. “I shan’t know anyone, and I shan’t see Hilda again for ages.”

“But you’ll have both your mother and father,” pointed out Laura, “and your Oma and Opa.”

“Opa’s gone all funny,” Naomi said, “and Oma’s fiercer than ever!”

At that moment the twins erupted from the house, chasing and yelling as they hared round the garden. They charged over to Paul, whom they both adored, and he swung them up in the air, one after the other, as they shrieked at him to do it again and again.

“Your Paul is a fine boy,” Ruth remarked to Edith as they watched from the window. “Almost a young man now.”

“We’re getting him out just in time,” said David who had overheard her comment. “On his sixteenth birthday he’d have had to register for a work permit, and he might have been sent anywhere.”

“When are you leaving?” Helga asked her son-in-law.

“If I get the final documents tomorrow, as promised, we shall take the train to Odessa on Wednesday,” he replied. “From there we travel by boat.”

“They were promised last week,” complained Edith, “but when David went to collect them, they sent him away and told him to come back next day. He’s been going back every day since.”

Ruth thought of her dealings with the Office of Jewish Affairs in Stuttgart and shuddered. She knew exactly how the Germans worked when dealing with Jews; the Austrians were clearly as bad.

“They’ll have to give them to me this time,” David said. “We have to leave on Wednesday, some high-ranking Nazi and his family are moving in here. They’ve given us until Wednesday to get out.”

“But what about all your things?” asked Helga. “Your furniture, your pictures, all your glass and silver?”

“Our dear Anna made an inventory of it all,” spat Edith. “She gave it to the Nazis, and we are to remove nothing from the house. They will have it all, and Anna will have her job back… working for them.”

“Anna?” Helga was incredulous. “But she’s been with you for years.”

David shrugged. “So she has, but she has obviously decided to join the winning side.”

The door to the drawing room opened and Friedrich and Marta Bernstein came in. Ruth was shaken by the difference in their appearance since she had last seen them, the night the Anschluss was announced. Both had aged ten years, particularly Friedrich, who no longer carried himself ramrod straight, as he always had, but walked with a stoop, leaning on an ebony cane. Marta still held herself erect, but there were new lines etched deep in her face, and her skin was pale and drawn taut over her cheekbones.

Helga and Ruth both got to their feet, Helga holding out her hands to them saying, “My dear Frau Bernstein, how do you do? Herr Bernstein, I hope you are recovering from your ordeal.”

Friedrich shuffled over to the window, making no effort to take her hand or to reply, but Marta took the extended hand in hers for a brief moment, saying, “Yes, he is much better, thank you. The bruises have almost gone.” She turned to look at her husband who stood staring out at the children playing below. Suddenly he swung round and addressing them all, said, “They will kill us all. The Nazis will kill us all.”

“No, Father,” David said firmly. “They won’t. We leave on Wednesday, remember?”

“They have driven us out of our home, and now they’re driving us out of our city. I would rather die here than live in Shanghai.”

“Well, I would not,” David said. “And we have the children to think of. I have to get them out of Vienna, and I can’t leave you and Mother behind.”

“David’s only doing what he thinks is best for all of us, Friedrich,” said his wife soothingly. “We need to take the children away from here to somewhere safe.”

That evening, when they were back in their apartment and the children were tucked up in their beds, Helga finally allowed her self-control to snap and began to weep. When they had said goodbye that afternoon, she had remained dry-eyed, even when Edith dissolved into tears. She had hugged her grandchildren convulsively, but had talked brightly about the great adventure of going to China, making them promise to write and tell her about all the new and exciting things they had seen. Knowing how distressing they would find them, she had held her tears at bay until there was no one but Ruth to see them.

Ruth, too, had managed not to cry as she had said goodbye to Edith. Deep in her heart she knew it was unlikely she would ever see her, or her nephew and niece again, and, despite Edith’s self-centredness, she was still Ruth’s big sister and Ruth loved her. David had shaken her hand and then reached across to kiss her cheek. Startled, Ruth drew back, looking up into his face, and was surprised to see his expression was a mixture of affection and admiration.

“God bless you, Ruth,” he said. “You’re a brave and resourceful woman. I admire you for how you’ve coped since Kurt was arrested.” He seemed about to say more, but simply gave a small shrug and turned to Helga.

“Look after my Edith,” Helga had said, and David had nodded.

They had left then, no one wanting to prolong the painful goodbyes, and had brought the children home.

“Well,” said Helga when, clasped in Ruth’s arms, she had wept until she had no more tears, “we’re on our own now.”

15

Kurt sat on the bed in his tiny room in Hans Dietrich’s house and pulled out the latest letter that had come from Ruth.

My darling Kurt, she had written,

They have gone now. They left for Shanghai on Wednesday. Goodness knows what awaits them there. Mother was very upset when we went to say goodbye on Sunday, though she’s been very strong in front of the children, I know she’s grieving inside, almost as if Edith was dead. Mother is certain she’ll never see her again.

Life goes on here much as it did in Kirnheim, the children are well and though we haven’t much money, provided I am able to keep my job they won’t go hungry or cold. Hans and Peter are a real pair of monkeys and keep Mother on her toes during the daytime. Inge worries me these days, she is still very quiet, nothing like her old volatile self, though she seems to be settling at school at last. She has begun to make friends with some of the other girls in our little complex, but she is very clingy and always wants to know where I am and when I am coming home again. Laura is, as she has been ever since you left, my rock. She is so grown-up you would hardly recognise her. She never complains about what is happening to us and she is fiercely protective of the younger children. I enclose a picture of us all that David took a couple of weeks ago… just so you’ll recognise us when we meet up again!

If you do manage to get to see Berta it would be lovely if you could arrange for us to come and see her too. The children haven’t seen her for ages, and of course Mother would love to see her again as well.

Keep well and safe, my darling, we all miss you, but are happy to know you’re with friends.

All my love,

Ruth

The letter was dog-eared, and its enclosed photograph was decidedly ragged at the edges. Kurt stared down at the little group in the picture. In the ten months he’d been away the twins had changed from toddlers into little boys, grinning mischievously into the camera. Identical twins, and still so alike that if they walked in through the door now, after ten months’ absence, Kurt was not at all sure he would know which was which. He looked again at the girls; Inge seemed to be clutching a piece of cloth against her cheek, and Laura, solemn-eyed, was staring into the camera. Standing behind them was Ruth, his beautiful Ruth, but now a shadow of the Ruth he remembered. Her face was thin, the flesh drawn tightly over her cheekbones, making her nose more prominent; her hair, even in the photograph, showed streaks of grey, and although she was smiling for the camera, there was a sadness in the eyes that struck at his heart.

Kurt could only imagine what life must be like for his family in newly Nazified Austria. He wished with all his heart that he’d managed to reach them in Vienna before the Anschluss, but even as his heart ached to be with them, he knew in his head that he had been right to come to Hamburg.

The train journey had been uneventful. There had been a couple of document checks, and, as the police came through the train, he braced himself to make a break for it, but his identity card was unquestioned and handed back to him. Perhaps his fear of Loritz was out of all proportion. Surely an SS camp commandant could not have such far-reaching tentacles, but even if it wasn’t Loritz after him, he was still a Jew travelling between cities with no luggage and no apparent reason for the journey. Since his escape from the hotel in Regensburg, he’d had no chance to shave, and his clothes were looking decidedly slept-in, just the sort of scruffy individual to be picked up by the Gestapo as a vagrant. He slept for a good while, and when he arrived at last in Hamburg he was hungry, but wide awake. From a station kiosk he bought a street map and set out to find Festungstrasse and Hans Dietrich.

Festungstrasse turned out to be a side street in a smart part of the city, where exclusive shops offered expensive goods. Kurt felt completely out of place in an area where chic and fashionable women sauntered the streets, glancing into the discreet shop fronts of jewellers, furriers and couturiers, where a single item might be displayed, its price tag delicately turned inward. Hans Dietrich’s shop was just such a one, the bow window holding one disembodied hand through the fingers of which trailed a three-row pearl necklace with a diamond clasp. Even as Kurt watched from the outside, a hand reached in and removed the pearls. The shop was closing for the day, the precious merchandise being placed in the safe overnight.

Kurt glanced along the street. There were few shoppers around now, and the couple who had been approaching flagged down a taxi, and drove away in the opposite direction. Kurt pushed the shop door, but it was locked. Anxiously he peered in through its frosted glass panel. A light shone through the window; there was definitely someone inside, moving round the shop. Then Kurt noticed a discreet bell beside the door with a sign: “Please ring for attention”. Hans Dietrich was not going to allow just anyone inside his premises. Kurt drew a deep breath and pressed the bell. For a moment he thought there was going to be no response, but then a disembodied voice crackled in his ear, and he realised that there was a speaking tube from inside the shop.

“Yes? What do you want? We’re closed.”

“I’m looking for Herr Hans Dietrich,” began Kurt.

“Who are you?” The voice was distorted by the speaking tube, and Kurt could not tell if he were being addressed by a man or a woman. Kurt had been about to give his own name but then realised that whoever was in the shop would have no notion who he was, so he replied, “Günter Schiller.”

There was movement behind the glass. Kurt saw the silhouette of a man, and he stepped back from the door so that the streetlamp behind him would light his face. The door opened on a chain and a voice said, “You’re not Günter Schiller. Günter Schiller is dead.”

“His father, Paul Schiller, sent me,” Kurt said. “I’m looking for Herr Hans Dietrich.”

The door closed, the chain was released and then the door opened again. “I’m Hans Dietrich; you’d better come in.”

Kurt edged through the partially opened door and the man immediately closed it behind him, pulling down a blind so that it was impossible to see through the glass panel from the outside.

“You’d better come through to the back and tell me what this is all about.”

The man led the way through the shop, behind the counter and into a room beyond. It immediately reminded Kurt of Paul Schiller’s backroom. An overhead lamp threw a pool of light into the centre of the room, and when he turned to face Kurt, Hans Dietrich was revealed. Aged about fifty, he was a small man with delicate features. His blue eyes were pale in the pallor of his face. His fair hair was too long, curling on his collar, and his mouth was small, lips pursed together as he surveyed his visitor. One long-fingered hand pushed a lock of hair from his forehead as he said, “Well, what’s your name and why did Herr Schiller send you to me?”

Kurt looked at the strange man in front of him, and knew that he had no option but to trust him. Paul had said to go to him, and now he was here there was nothing to do but to tell him. “My name is Kurt Friedman… and I need to leave Germany,” he said.

“You don’t want much, do you?”

“He said I should come to you if I needed help,” said Kurt.

“Did he now? What a cheek!”

“In which case,” Kurt said, stepping towards the door, “I’ll leave now.”

Hans Dietrich made no move to stop him, but said, “You can’t go out onto the streets round here looking like that. You look like a vagrant, and they aren’t welcome in this part of the world, I can assure you.”

“My luggage is lost,” Kurt began. “I need a shave and…”

“Why did you say you were Günter?” Hans cut him off with a wave of the hand. “Why are you using his name?”

“Paul gave me Günter’s passport and told me to use his name if I needed to.” Kurt paused before adding, “And he said you might be able to help me.”

“Did you know Günter?” asked Hans, dropping into a chair and waving Kurt towards another.

“We went to the same school,” answered Kurt, ignoring the second chair, “but he was older than I am and we weren’t close friends.” He looked across at Hans Dietrich and said, “Were you just business acquaintances, or were you friends, too?”

“Oh, I think you can say we were friends.” Hans Dietrich was inspecting his fingernails as he spoke, not looking at Kurt, but running the nail of his right forefinger under a nail on his left hand to remove a speck of dirt. “Günter used to stay here when he was in Hamburg.” He looked up, suddenly irritable, and snapped, “For goodness’ sake, man, don’t tower over me like that, sit down.”

This time Kurt took the chair Hans indicated, perching on the edge of it. He looked across at the jeweller, trying to decide why Paul had thought he might help. He was clearly not a Jew and yet Paul had been sure it would be safe to approach him in need; that was why Kurt had expected him to be Jewish. Why, Kurt wondered, would he put himself in danger to help someone he didn’t know?

“Have you got the passport here?” asked Hans. “May I see it?”

Kurt reached into his inside pocket and passed it over to him. Hans opened it at the picture page, and stared down at it for a long moment, before looking up and saying bluntly, “Well, you don’t look very like him do you?”

Kurt agreed that he didn’t, but added that the beard made all the difference. “I have to decide whether to say I shaved it off, or to grow one myself.”

“You’d look more like the picture if you grew one,” Hans said, “but you’d also look more Jewish, which would be dangerous. Günter Schiller isn’t a particularly Jewish name, if you stay clean-shaven, perhaps wear some spectacles, they might not look at you too closely. Whichever you do is a risk, but then we’re all at risk, aren’t we? Still,” he went on, “the first thing, Kurt Friedman, is for you to have a bath. Not to put too fine a point on it, you smell. Come with me.” Hans Dietrich got to his feet and opened what Kurt had supposed was a cupboard in the corner of the room, to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the floor above. He led the way up the stairs, which opened onto a tiny landing, off which were three doors. He opened one and said, “Bathroom in there.” Opening a second door to show a small bedroom, he said, “You can sleep in here tonight. I’ll put some clothes out for you to change into.” He gave the surprised Kurt a little push. “Go on,” he said, the irritability back in his voice, “have a bath. We’ll talk when you’re clean.”

After luxuriating in the first hot bath he’d had for weeks, Kurt towelled himself dry and crossed the landing to the bedroom Hans had shown him. On the bed were some clean clothes.

They’ll be far too small for me, Kurt thought as he picked up the shirt, but to his surprise they all, more or less, fitted him. Surely these couldn’t be Hans Dietrich’s clothes, they would hang off the little jeweller like those on a scarecrow.

When he was dressed, Kurt emerged onto the landing and was about to go downstairs again when he noticed the other bedroom door was ajar. Unable to stop himself, Kurt took a silent step and gently pushed it wider, ready to apologise should his host be in the room. But he was not, and Kurt, ashamed of himself even as he did it, took another step inside. It was a larger bedroom, furnished with a wide double bed, beside which stood a chest of drawers and a bedside table. On each of these was a framed photograph, the one on the chest showing two men laughing together, Günter and Hans; the other, on the bedside table, was of Günter, his head turned back over his shoulder, smiling into the camera. And Kurt understood; he now knew whose clothes he was wearing, why they were in the apartment and why Hans Dietrich, himself, was already at risk.

Very softly he pulled the door to, and went down the stairs to where Hans Dietrich was waiting in the little sitting room.

Hans looked up as he came in. “You’ve decided not to shave,” he remarked.

“No, not decided,” replied Kurt, “just kept my options open.”

The next few weeks Kurt stayed with Hans Dietrich. He worked in the shop as an assistant during the day and with the help of a dictionary and with Hans himself as teacher, set about learning to speak English. During the evenings spent learning the new language, Kurt and Hans gradually got to know each other, and, each liking what he found, a real friendship was forged. Kurt told of his arrest and the troubles that had surrounded him ever since. He spoke of Ruth and the children and his desperate desire to get them out of Vienna. He found that talking about them, speaking of them aloud instead of simply thinking of them, brought them closer, made them more alive.

Hans spoke little of his past and never of family, but he revealed himself in his generosity to Kurt and in his hatred of the Nazis.

They had decided that the best way forward was for Kurt to travel to England through Holland, visiting another of Hans’s business acquaintances in Amsterdam on the way. He would have letters of introduction to the Dutch jeweller and to James Daniel in London, and he would travel on Günter’s passport, which named him as a jeweller. Other papers were needed before he was able to leave the country, and Hans, through unnamed contacts, set about getting these, all in the name of Günter Schiller. In the meantime, Kurt learned as much as he could about the trade, so that he could, at least, answer superficial questions without difficulty. He was seen in the shop, and though it was not the sort of establishment that encouraged idle chatter with its prestigious customers, they let it be known that Günter was a cousin of Hans, who had moved from Munich. After some discussion they had decided against the beard.

“It makes you look too Jewish,” Hans said, “as it did with Günter, but it used not to matter as much.” So, Kurt remained clean-shaven.

At last the day came for him to try and leave. All his papers were in order; he had the relevant permits, identity card, ration book and passport with its visas still in date, all in the name of Günter Schiller, jeweller. Each, including the passport, was adorned with a recent picture and stamped with the required stamps. How Hans had managed it, Kurt didn’t know, and Hans had refused to tell him anything.

“What you don’t know can’t harm anyone but yourself,” he said. “If you have a problem with the authorities, you can point them in the direction of no one but me… and with the current political thinking I am probably on one of their lists already. It is almost certainly only the high profile of several of my regular customers that has saved me from a knock on the door in the middle of the night.” It was the nearest he ever came to explaining himself and the relationship he’d had with Günter.

The station was busy, reverberating with the noise of steam engines, announcements and whistles. Carrying a small suitcase, Kurt boarded the train that would take him on the first leg of his journey to Amsterdam. Once across the border into Holland he would be safe. In a wallet in his inside pocket were the required documents to leave Germany, including a return ticket from the Hook of Holland to Harwich.

“They won’t let you into England, even on business, unless they think you will be leaving again,” Hans had said. “Günter travelled over quite often, so if they decide to check their records they will find you there. Once you’ve contacted James Daniel you’ll have to be guided by him as to what to do next.”

The two men had said their goodbyes in the privacy of Hans’s sitting room, with the firm grip of a handshake. Kurt was surprised to see tears in Hans’s eyes, and reaching forward put his hands on the other man’s shoulders.

Hans pulled him close for a brief hug and then broke free, saying as he did so, “You’re more like Günter than you know. Now be off. Write to me from London, and I’ll forward any letters that come for you here.” He smiled a rueful smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t let her lose track of you.”

Kurt settled himself in a corner seat and buried his face in a newspaper. As he scanned the inside pages, an item, tucked away at the bottom of a column, caught his eye. He read it and then reread it, hardly believing what he read, and he realised that he was getting out of Germany just in time to escape the next move against the Jews. All Jewish men were going to have to add the extra name of Israel to their names, and all the Jewish women, Sarah. There would be no protection afforded by a non-typical Jewish name. Every Jew would have to register, every Jew would be known. Every Jew would soon have to have a huge red J stamped on his passport. Kurt stared at the article and knew real fear. The Nazi grip was tightening, and his family were held within it. Now, even more, he must try and get them away to safety, and his best chance was to work from England.

The train pulled out of the station, and Kurt sat back in his seat, apparently at ease reading the news, but vitally aware of the people around him. The compartment was almost full and there was a steady flow of people up and down the corridor. Kurt watched them from behind his paper, but as the train gathered speed and steamed its way through the suburbs of the city, the flow decreased as people found seats and settled down for the journey. Kurt did not relax, could not relax, he felt as taut as a bowstring, but he closed his eyes, as if in sleep, to discourage any conversation with his fellow-passengers.

The train stopped in Bremen, and it was after this that the ticket collector made his rounds. Kurt passed over his ticket and it was clipped and returned without comment.

The hours passed and at last the moment that Kurt feared most arrived as the train reached the border. It pulled up with the squeal of brakes and a shriek of steam. Border guards in uniform swarmed onto the train, demanding passports, papers and permits. Everyone in the compartment pulled documents from their pockets and wallets, ready for inspection. Kurt did the same, rehearsing yet again his explanation for travelling, business in Amsterdam and London. Tucked in with the official papers was a letter on Hans Dietrich’s headed paper stating “To whom it may concern”, that Günter Schiller was “travelling on the firm’s behalf to diamond merchants in Amsterdam and London”.

Kurt could hear the border guards moving closer, and it was all he could do to maintain a calm expression, when his heart was pounding so alarmingly that he thought the whole carriage must hear it.

The compartment door slid open with a screech and a uniformed man blocked the way out.

“Passports!” he demanded. “Have your passports ready for inspection.” Each person’s papers were carefully scrutinised before being handed back.

“Which is your luggage?” he demanded of a woman sitting in the opposite corner to Kurt.

“It’s up on the rack.” The woman’s voice was hoarse with fear.

“Get it down!”

The woman stood up and reached for her case. The man snatched it from her, and opening it on the seat upended it, searching through the clothes it contained. Then with a shrug and without a word of apology, he left the woman to repack her belongings and turned to Kurt.

Trying to keep his hand from shaking, Kurt passed across his papers. The official checked both the passport and the official permit to travel, squinting at first the picture and then at Kurt, before grunting and passing them back. He withdrew from the compartment and the door screeched protestingly shut behind him. His departure was greeted with palpable relief within the compartment, but no one dared relax until, with the sound of banging doors and much shouting, the German border guards left the train and it began to edge forward. Another hundred metres up the track it stopped again, and more uniformed men came on board, this time Dutch customs officials. Once again they all had to present their papers.

“And your reason for entering the Netherlands, Herr Schiller?” asked the official who inspected Kurt’s documents.

“Business,” Kurt replied. “I am going to see Herr Torben Stuyvesant in Amsterdam.” He produced Hans’s letter on the headed paper. The guard gave it a cursory glance before handing all the papers back and turning to the woman in the corner.

Ten minutes later the train moved forward once more, and picked up speed as if, Kurt thought, it was as anxious as he to leave Germany behind. He felt weak with relief and sank back into his corner seat, watching the flat Dutch countryside pass the window. The others in the compartment sat back too, and although no one spoke, the atmosphere was lighter as they sped onwards towards Amsterdam.

At last Kurt was safe, at last he no longer had to look over his shoulder, at last he was out of Germany. Now all I have to do, he thought, is to reach London and arrange, somehow, to get them all out. All I have to do! He knew a moment’s despair at the enormity of the task, before giving himself a mental shake. “It’s all I have to do.”

16

Life was very difficult for Ruth and her family over the summer months. The first disaster was that Ruth lost her job at the haberdashery. She met Frau Merkle, the proprietor, at the door of the shop one morning sticking a notice to the window. No Jews.

Looking a little flustered, Frau Merkle said, “Ah, Frau Friedman. Please come inside for a moment.”

For a moment? Ruth had come to work her normal nine-hour day. She followed Frau Merkle into the shop, and almost as if the act could stave off what the woman was going to say, began to remove her coat and hat. Frau Merkle went to the till behind the counter and took out some money. Turning, she thrust it towards Ruth.

“This is what you are owed, up to last night. I’m not able to employ you anymore. Trade is falling off, and it is clearly because there is a Jew behind the counter.” The woman lifted her chin defiantly. “Understandably, no one wants to be served by a Jew.”

Ruth stared at the proffered money for a moment, before reaching out to take it. The old Ruth longed to tear it in two and fling it back into her employer’s face, but the new, wiser Ruth knew that those few notes were all that stood between her children and hunger. As she took the money, her fingers touched Frau Merkle’s and the other woman, withdrawing her hand, wiped it on her skirt, as if to remove the touch of Jewish flesh.

Without a word Ruth turned on her heel and went to the door, with Frau Merkle’s parting salvo ringing in her ears. “Ungrateful Jewish bitch! I didn’t have to pay you!”

“What are we going to do now, Mother?” Ruth asked when she had told Helga what had happened. “We’ve enough money for a week’s rent and a little food! The miserable cow didn’t even pay me a full week’s wages, let alone a week’s notice!”

“We’ll manage somehow,” replied her mother, imbuing her voice with far more optimism than she actually felt. “We’ll think of something.”

They discussed the situation long into the night and decided that Ruth must approach all the Jewish businesses still operating in the area and try to find work with one of them.

“But there aren’t many,” Ruth said, “and they’re all family businesses, so any jobs go to the family. They’re all fighting for survival.”

“I know,” agreed her mother, “there was an SS soldier outside Liebermann’s yesterday. He was stopping any non-Jews from going in to shop. There were a few of their old customers who tried, but the SS man turned them away and called them ‘Christian pigs!’ When I went in poor Frau Liebermann was in tears.”

Ruth set out next morning and visited every Jewish shop in the area, but they all turned her away, and Ruth couldn’t blame them.

It was Helga who had the idea. “Why don’t you go to the girls’ school,” she suggested. “I know it’s school holidays now, but there might be something.”

Ruth went to the school the very next day, to ask Herr Hoffman, the Jewish head, if there was any work available.

Herr Hoffman recognised her as a parent of two of his pupils, and saw the desperation in her eyes even as she said calmly, “I’d be happy to do anything round the school. I’m not afraid of hard work, Herr Hoffman.”

He smiled at her. “I’m sure you’re not, Frau Friedman,” he replied. He thought for a moment and then said, “We could do with a temporary cleaner. The whole school has to be scrubbed from top to bottom and the classrooms repainted before the children come back in the autumn. But it wouldn’t be permanent, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll do it,” said Ruth. “The cleaning and the painting, too.”

Herr Hoffman looked doubtful. “The painting is quite a big job,” he said.

“I painted our shop last spring,” Ruth told him. “I can do it. Please, Herr Hoffman, I’m a good worker, and I need the work.”

Herr Hoffman saw the determination in her eyes and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job,” he said.

They agreed a wage, much less than she’d been earning at the haberdashery.

“But at least we’ve got some money coming in,” she said to Helga, “and it’s several weeks’ work.”

It was hard work, but Ruth found it very satisfying, seeing the dreary classrooms bright with new paint. At the end of each day she could see the progress of her work, but each day brought her nearer to its completion.

Once again she found herself tramping the streets, further afield this time, looking for Jewish-owned businesses, but so many had been “Aryanised”, their Jewish proprietors simply pushed aside or made to sell out for a pittance, that there was no work to be had there.

She even went back to Frau Liebermann at the little grocery shop, pointing out that she used to run a grocery herself and was familiar with what was needed, but yet again she was disappointed.

“You’re wasting your time,” Frau Liebermann told her. “We shall have to close down soon. Twice our shelves have been raided by gangs of youths and though we called the police, they stood by and did nothing.”

During the hot days of the summer, things in Vienna had calmed down a little, and Helga, along with so many other Jews, began to think that perhaps the worst was over. Ruth was nothing like as optimistic. So many things were closed to Jews now, cinemas, swimming pools, theatre and opera house, the parks and gardens, even the benches along the tree-lined boulevards were for Aryan use only.

As the weeks passed, more anti-Jewish directives were announced, all of them designed to oppress the Jews in every aspect of their lives. Oppression and exploitation were the weapons of choice for the everyday anti-Semitic Austrian; the true Nazis had something far more sinister in mind.

Many wealthy Jews, those with enough money to buy their way out as had David and Edith, were fleeing the country, leaving the poorer Jews to their fate. Ruth didn’t blame them. Goodness knows, she thought, if I had the chance to get my family out there would be no stopping me.

She went to the Jewish Community Office, queuing for hours before she was able to see anyone, and although the man she finally met was sympathetic, he pointed out that there were hundreds of others in the same situation or even worse.

“At least you have a roof over your head,” he said. “Lots of families have been turned onto the street with nowhere to go.”

However, he agreed to take her name and the names and ages of her family, wrote down their address and promised to contact her if there was anything else he could do for her.

“There is a fund,” he said, “which we’re building up to help families like yours to emigrate, but it isn’t just a question of money, you know; there are all sorts of documents and certificates required if you are to leave. All this takes time, and we have to work with Herr Eichmann’s Central Office of Jewish Emigration.”

“I thought they wanted us to leave,” Ruth said bitterly. “That’s what Goering said back in March. Vienna, a Jew-free city!”

The young man shrugged. “They do,” he said, “but only if we pay a fortune for going and leave everything else behind.” He gave her a few Reichmarks, and told her that her family’s wish to emigrate had been noted.

It was the very next day that the letter arrived, addressed in Kurt’s handwriting… and it had English stamps. Ruth could hardly believe it. With shaking hands she slit open the envelope and drew out the letter, in which was wrapped a large, white, English five-pound note. Ruth stared at both the letter and the banknote through eyes flooded with tears. Kurt was safe… in England. She dashed the tears aside and began to read.

My darling Ruth,

I am here in London, staying a few days with my friend James Daniel. I had a smooth crossing and am now setting about my business. You can write to me at the above address and even if I have moved somewhere else, the letter will find me.

I think about you and the children every day and hope that things are not too awful. I loved the letters from the girls and the pictures the twins drew for me, and I carry them with me always.

I am hoping to start a new job here in the near future, but there are things that need to be sorted out before I can take up my post. James is being very helpful about it all, he has found me a job as a manservant with a family living in a place called Hampstead. It is in London, but there is a wide, open heath here, with trees and grass and lovely views, so there are times when it will feel like living in the country. Once I am settled I can work on your arrangements. Each of you will need a sponsor, so it may take some time to organise, but I will spend every waking hour trying to find people willing to act as such.

My darling, it is almost a year since I saw you all, but I carry the photo you sent me next to my heart. Give my respects to your mother, kiss the children for me and know that I love you, forever and always.

Kurt

Ruth read the letter over and over. He was safe. He was going to have a job. He was going to get them out.

The money from the Jewish Community Office and the five-pound note would help tide them over for a little while, but Ruth knew she desperately needed to find work. Day after day she trudged the streets, but there were too many others, thrown out of their jobs; doctors and lawyers no longer allowed to practise, teachers banned from schools, professors from the university, all searching for work, no matter how menial.

Ruth was coming home despondently yet again, when a young man came hurrying round a corner and cannoned straight into her, almost knocking her over.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, putting out a hand to steady her. Ruth looked up to respond to his apology and found herself looking into the cheerful face of Peter, the student she had met in the Heldenplatz on that fateful day in March. She recognised him at once, the cheerful young man who had helped her up onto the statue, the young man who had clapped and cheered and waved his hat at the sight of the Führer, who had said that the Anschluss was a great day for Austria… who was going to be a lawyer and approved of Hitler’s laws.

“Wait a minute, don’t I know you?” Peter demanded. “Yes, I do. Now don’t tell me… Helga Heber. Am I right or am I right? I never forget a face. Remember me? Peter Walder?”

Ruth almost denied remembering him, but knew it would be stupid as he so clearly remembered her, so she managed to conjure up a smile and say, “Yes, I remember. A law student.”

“Not a student anymore,” Peter said proudly. “I’ve graduated. I’m working for my uncle in his law firm. I’m a real lawyer now!”

“Congratulations,” Ruth said faintly, not knowing what else to say in the face of the young man’s enthusiasm.

“Your son is called Peter, too, isn’t he?” Peter Walder went on, clearly delighted with having remembered this piece of information too. “How is he liking our brave new Austria?”

For a moment Ruth was at a loss for an answer to this, but then she said, “He’s only just turned four, he doesn’t realise what has happened.”

Peter grinned. “Yes, well I suppose four is a bit young. But what does your husband think?”

“My husband is away… on business,” replied Ruth, but this time Peter Walder picked up on her hesitation, and, still holding her arm, scrutinised her more carefully.

“Is he now? Where is he? What does he do?”

Becoming entangled now in her web of lies, Ruth said, “He works for a jeweller… he’s gone abroad… to buy…”

Peter Walder’s expression changed. He seemed to take in, for the first time, the worn state of her clothes, the gauntness of her face, the thinness of her body. He looked her up and down and said, “He’s a Jew, isn’t he?”

When Ruth didn’t answer, he gave her a shake. “Isn’t he?”

Ruth still did not reply and he said, “And so are you! Aren’t I right, Helga Heber?” He peered into her face for confirmation and then said, “So, he’s gone. But why didn’t you go with him? You and little Peter? Austria’s no place for any of you anymore.”

“I have other children,” replied Ruth at last. “We couldn’t all go.”

“So he skipped and left you!” Heavy sarcasm. “What a brave man!”

“It’s not like that,” Ruth asserted angrily. “He was able to go. We need sponsors from abroad. He went to find them.”

“And in the meantime…”

Ruth’s shoulders sagged suddenly. “In the meantime, I’m trying to find work to put food on the table, but as I’m sure you know, no one wants to employ a Jew anymore.”

“Well, Helga…”

“Ruth, my name is Ruth.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, Ruth, what work can you do?”

“I can do anything that will feed my family,” Ruth replied.

“What on earth were you doing in the Heldenplatz that day?” demanded Peter, suddenly changing the subject. “What the hell were you doing at a Hitler rally?”

“I was on my way to work and I was swept there by the crowd,” answered Ruth. “It was go with the crowd or get trampled underfoot.”

“Hmm, yes, it was a seething mass, wasn’t it?” He gave a shout of laughter. “How ironic! How funny! A Jew at the Anschluss rally!” His face clouded for a moment. “Well, not funny for you, I suppose.” He thought for a moment and then said, “And now you need a job. What can you do, I wonder?”

“I told you, I can do anything that will feed my family.” Ruth tried to pull away from the hand that was restraining her, but his grip tightened.

“Come on,” he said, and turning, he set off down the street, pulling Ruth along behind him.

“Where are we going?” she cried, trying to break free. “Let me go!”

“We’re going to find you a job,” he snapped, “so just be quiet. People are staring at you.”

A job? Ruth followed the young man more meekly now, though he still had a firm hold of her wrist and she doubted if she could have broken away if she’d wanted to. He led her through the streets, and stopped eventually in front of an elegant apartment block. Four stories tall, with an arched portico, it was similar, Ruth thought, as he pushed her in through the door, to the one where David Bernstein’s parents had lived. He opened a door on the first floor and led her into a spacious apartment. It was fully furnished with heavy furniture, long silk curtains, plush rugs on the polished floors, ornaments in glass-fronted cases, books on the bookshelves.

“My mother’s coming to live here,” Peter Walder said. “But it needs spring cleaning first. The previous owners – ” he hesitated, “– have gone.” He took her into the kitchen. “The whole place needs airing,” he said. “Every inch of this needs to be scrubbed.” The faintest aroma of food lingered in the air, a familiar breath of spices that Ruth recognised at once. Now she knew for certain. This had been a Jewish kitchen.

“And the bathroom, of course” – Peter led her further along the passage – “has to be totally refurbished.” Ruth stared into what had been the bathroom, now completely gutted, no bath, lavatory or basin. “They’re fitting the new bath and things tomorrow,” he said, “and then the floor must be scrubbed, the walls washed and the tiles polished.” He took her through the whole apartment, telling her what had to be done in each room. “And when you have cleaned it,” he said, “I will pay you.”

“How much?” whispered Ruth, staring round the huge apartment, recognising how much there was to do.

“Enough, but you’ll have to trust me for that, won’t you?” His face broke into its cheerful grin. “Don’t worry, Ruth, I won’t let little Peter starve. You’ve a week to get this place habitable, and, who knows, if you’re any good, my mother might just keep you on.”

“A new bathroom, Mother, simply because Jewish bottoms had sat on the lavatory!” exclaimed Ruth as she told her mother later that evening all about her encounter with Peter Walder. “Can you believe that?”

“Just be grateful for the work,” Helga said, wearily.

“Oh, I am, believe me I am,” replied Ruth. “It’s just that he’s such a strange mixture. One minute revelling in the new Austria, and the next finding work for a Jew… when he clearly doesn’t like us.”

“Don’t question his motives,” advised her mother, “just take the work on offer.”

Ruth spent the next seven days at the Walders’ apartment. She scrubbed floors, polished furniture, cleaned windows, washed curtains, beat rugs, swept and dusted. Many of the ornaments she cleaned were clearly valuable, and she wondered which wealthy Jewish family had lived there and had had to leave all their treasured belongings behind. Clothes still hung in the wardrobes, and when she asked Peter Walder what she was to do with them he said they were to be burned.

When he saw her reaction to this, he said, with a sort of casual generosity, “You can have them if you want them, just get them out of the place.”

The next day Ruth took their two suitcases over to the apartment and filled them with as many of the clothes as she could. She carried them home to Helga, who marvelled at the quality.

“These are beautiful,” she said, feeling the softness of a cashmere jumper, admiring the cut of a dark blue winter coat. “Imagine just leaving all these behind.”

“They had to leave everything behind, Mutti,” Ruth said sadly. “Not just their clothes. Everything.”

They selected a new coat each, a skirt and blouse, some underclothes and a warm jumper.

“It’s a pity there are no children’s things,” Helga sighed as she sorted through the rest of the clothes.

“But we can sell all these,” Ruth pointed out, “and then get some winter clothes for the children with the money.”

By the end of the week, the work on the apartment was finished. The new bathroom was fitted, and the whole place smelled of beeswax and lemon. Peter Walder came to inspect what she had done, and then, keeping his word, paid her. It was little enough, but Ruth pocketed the money gratefully. Another week’s rent and a little over for food. With the money she had made from the sale of the remaining clothes, she knew that she and her family would eat for another couple of weeks.

Frau Walder moved into the apartment and sent for Ruth. She was a grossly fat woman, but her grey hair was expensively coiffed, and her jowls heavily made up. She had a small pug nose, and small eyes that peered out at the world through folds of flesh. They studied Ruth now, assessing her, faintly contemptuous.

“My son tells me that you are a good worker,” she said. “I shall have my maid, of course, and a cook, but I’ll need someone to do the rough work. Be here each day at six-thirty in the morning, and you’ll be told what to do.”

Ruth thanked her and promised to be there at half-past six the next day. With the new Jewish curfew ending at six in the morning, she knew she could just get there in time. There had been no mention of pay.

“But her son paid me,” Ruth said to Helga, “so I have to trust her, too.”

With the small amount of money Frau Walder paid and the occasional pound note in Kurt’s letters, they survived; September slid into October, and the weather grew chilly. The girls had gone back to school, and found it crowded with new pupils; children expelled from the state schools, no longer allowed into mainstream education. The classrooms were crammed with children, the teachers struggling to teach so many and the parents continually worried about them. How long would it be, they wondered, before even the Jewish schools were closed?

Many Jews, forcibly ejected from their homes, had been forced to move into the increasingly overcrowded Jewish areas, Leopoldstadt and Brigittenau, working-class districts on the island between the Danube and the Danube Canal. There was nothing like enough accommodation and still they crowded in, many living several families in an apartment too small for even one. Rumour was rife; rumour fuelling fear, fear fuelling rumour. And always new directives to be complied with; everyone scrambled to comply… obey the rules and you might be safe, but there was no certainty. No certainty about anything. No prospects for a Jewish child.

There was no question of university for any Jew now, nor entry into the professions, and many of the older children left school immediately. The Jewish Community Office organised practical courses, training plumbers, mechanics, electricians, trying to equip young Jews with skills still needed in Vienna, skills that might make them “useful Jews”, offering slight protection, and providing them with a trade should they ever have the chance to emigrate.

More directives were announced; all Jews must disclose their wealth and assets, Jewish firms must register with the authorities, all males over fifteen must apply for an identity card, the addition of Sarah or Israel as middle names for every Jew. All Jewish ration cards and passports must be stamped with the letter J.

Ruth had to take her passport and all their ration cards to be stamped with a large red J, and again she, like hundreds of others, had to queue for hours, simply to comply with this new directive.

As the autumn went on there were more arrests and skirmishes. Jews began to disappear again, and the fear that had eased a little during the quieter, summer months returned again, escalating to panic in many quarters. Although most of the borders had been closed and few countries were still prepared to take refugee Jews, the desperate wish, the desperate need, to leave the country drove hundreds to queue for hours outside the foreign embassies and consulates in the vain hope of getting visas or permits to enter their countries. Even though Ruth knew that Kurt was doing everything he could to bring the family to England, she queued outside the French and Belgian consulates, the American and Swiss. At each her name was taken, her family noted and absolutely no hope was given of a visa to travel. She knew the wait had been in vain, but she still felt that she had to do it.

“Supposing there was even the slightest chance, Mother,” she said to Helga. “Supposing just one place said yes, they had a place for us.”

“We’re too many,” Helga said. “You shouldn’t even mention me.”

“I’m not likely to leave you behind, Mutti,” Ruth chided her gently.

“Well, you may have to,” replied her mother. “It is you and the children who need to get away most. They have their lives before them, mine is almost over.”

“Mutti, don’t say such things,” cried Ruth.

“Even if things were following their natural course I’ve only a few years left,” said Helga. “The children are the future. I thought that maybe the worst was over, that things were settling down a bit, but they’ve been getting bad again these last weeks. I know Kurt is doing his best, but you’re right to explore every avenue.”

Helga was right, too, things were getting worse. Several times recently there had been fights on a Friday night, when the brave souls who ventured out to go to the synagogue were attacked by young Nazis lying in wait for them on the way home. Old men were beaten up by bands of thugs, who attacked them with impunity, while others cowered in their homes, their doors locked and their windows closed to the cries for help and the shouts of glee from the streets outside. Jews were being arrested, disappearing off the streets, simply not coming home one evening. Several of the men who shared their courtyard had just vanished, leaving their distraught wives trying to discover what had happened to them and where they had been taken; trying to provide for the families left behind.

Once again fear stalked the streets. If it were a Jew who was attacked, the police made no move to intervene, they simply stood aside and watched the violence taking place, walking away from the battered body left in the gutter. More and more Ruth kept the children at home, only allowing them out to go to school with Helga. Not that Helga, she knew, could do much to protect them if they were set upon by one of the bands of young Nazi thugs that had taken to roaming the streets.

Monday 31st October 1938

We had another letter from Papa, yesterday. He is working as a servant in London. He says the house is very large and the people who live there entertain a lot, so he’s always busy. He has to clean the silver. He says it’s the forks that are the most difficult because the silver cleaner gets between the prongs. I can’t picture Papa cleaning silver. I can’t picture Papa at all anymore. It’s funny because I know what he looks like, only I can’t see his face in my mind. I talked to the twins about him yesterday when the letter came, but they weren’t interested to hear about him. I don’t think they remember him at all.

Oma is very tired today. She keeps falling asleep when she’s supposed to be looking after the boys. I know she can’t help it because she’s very old, nearly seventy I think, but the boys are so naughty, she needs to stay awake.

Mutti says Papa is trying to find people who will help us go to London to live with him. It would be an adventure to go, but only if we all went. How would we manage, we don’t speak English?

I have a new friend at school. She is called Sonja Rosen. Her papa is a dentist. He is only allowed to look at Jews’ teeth now, but he hasn’t got anywhere for his surgery. They have had to move out of their nice house and now they live across the courtyard from us. We always walk to school together. Her mother takes me and Inge too, so Oma doesn’t have to. Mutti doesn’t like her taking the boys out.

Ruth got to know the Rosen family quite well, and it was a relief when Anna Rosen offered to see Laura and Inge to school each day. Daniel Rosen was no longer allowed to practise as a dentist except on Jewish patients, but, when forced to leave their home, he had also been forced to leave most of his equipment in the room he had used as his surgery. He still looked at people’s teeth if they had toothache, but there was little he could do to help them, and most of the time he worked as a street cleaner. Anna couldn’t find any work at all.

Ruth knew that she was one of the few lucky ones, with a regular job to go to. Frau Walder did not need her all day, just to do the rough work first thing in the morning, but Ruth had soon slipped into a routine, and although the work was heavy, she never complained; it put food on her table.

Every night she prayed that Kurt would write and say he had found sponsors for them, every morning she woke to face another day of uncertainty and fear.

17

As before it was the shouting that awoke Laura. She heard the chanting, the animal roar of a crowd in search of prey. She sat bolt upright in the darkness, petrified, as the terrifying sounds brought memories of the riot in Kirnheim flooding through her.

“Oma! Oma! Wake up!” She reached over and shook her sleeping grandmother. “Oma! Wake up!”

Helga stirred and then, as she heard the noise from the street outside, was instantly awake. “Wake your mother,” she said. As Laura rushed from the room, Inge began to scream.

Ruth grabbed the twins and some clothes. “Get dressed,” she instructed, “all of you.” Moments later, dressed, all except Inge, with whom Helga could do nothing, they were in the kitchen. Ruth sat with the boys beside her, but although they had grizzled a little when awoken from their sleep, they now leaned drowsily against her, each holding his rabbit, apparently unaware of the fear in the room or the noise outside it.

Perhaps they don’t remember, thought Ruth. Perhaps they’re too young to remember.

Inge remembered. Helga held her in her arms, trying to soothe her, holding her close and rocking her like a baby. At last the little girl’s screams dwindled to wails and then whimpers, as she buried her face in her grandmother’s shoulder, rubbing her little piece of silk scarf against her cheek. Helga slid a comforting arm around Laura as the child stood close beside her. Laura’s eyes were wide with terror, and fighting the urge to cry like Inge, she nestled against her grandmother, her whole body trembling.

The noise outside grew louder, there was the sound of smashing glass, and cheering, bangs and crashes and more broken glass, and all the time the growing snarl of a hunting animal. “Jews out! Jews out! Jews out!”

Beyond the tenement roofs etched black against it, the night sky was spiked with red and orange. The dancing glow of numerous fires filled the sky, and lit from below by the very flames that produced it, clouds of thick black smoke roiled above the rooftops.

Ruth, holding the twins close, looked across at her mother. “Should we try and escape?” she whispered. “Fire…”

“No.” Her mother was adamant. “It’s further over, on the main street. They may not even come down here.”

“We must get out!” Ruth’s voice rose in panic as the memory of fire at her back, the hiss of it, the smell of it, the heat of it, rose to engulf her. “We could be trapped again! We must get the children out!”

“Where to?” snapped her mother. “Into the street? Into the path of that mob? Listen to them, Ruth. They’re already baying for blood. Don’t give them ours!”

Ruth went to the window and looked down. The courtyard below was lit by the single lamp above the archway. Most of the apartments now had lights on; one or two, as if unoccupied, remained dark. Ruth reached over and switched off their own light, and as the room was plunged into darkness, Inge began to moan again.

“Ssh, ssh,” Helga soothed her. “It’ll be all right, darling, we’re all here.”

That’s what Papa said, thought Laura, before they took him away. There was no papa with them this time. She pulled away from Helga and went to join her mother at the window.

“What’s happening, Mutti?” she whispered. “Is it like before? Will they come here?”

“I don’t know, darling,” replied Ruth, who, though trembling, had mastered her panic. “But Oma’s right. It would be very stupid to go out into the street now. They may not bother with our little courtyard, there’s nothing worth anything here.”

“Jews out! Jews out! Jews out!” The crowd was closing in now, and even as Ruth watched from the dark window, a crowd of men streamed under the archway into the courtyard, carrying staves and axes and sledgehammers. Others brandished flaring torches, held aloft to light the yard. Behind them, in less unruly fashion, followed armed SS soldiers. As windows of the ground-floor apartments were broken, and locked doors were smashed open with axes, the SS went into each apartment and reappeared, dragging out any men they found inside.

“They’re taking people, Mother,” Ruth’s voice was a croak. “The SS. But it’s just the men… I think.”

As she watched, Daniel Rosen appeared at the door of the flat opposite, pushed out at gunpoint, his hands in the air. His wife Anna came running out, and although Ruth could not hear what she was crying, she was clearly pleading with the soldiers not to take him.

One of the mob shouted something, and the rest of them turned on her. A man with a pickaxe handle hit her on the head, crashing the heavy wood down hard against the side of her skull. She crumpled to the ground, and would have received a further beating or kicking had not Daniel dived forward, covering her with his own body. The men surged towards them, but the man with the rifle bellowed, “Leave him! We’ve got this one. See if there’re any more hiding in these other flats.”

The men paused for a moment, then dispersed round the courtyard, running up the staircases to the upper levels.

At that moment their own front door flew open with a crash. Ruth spun round in horror to find an armed man striding into the kitchen. He flicked on the light and surveyed the little family cowering away from him. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he had the arrogant bearing of not just a soldier but an officer.

“Where’s your husband?” he demanded.

“Not here,” Ruth replied, her voice quavering. “He’s away.”

“Search the place, Neumann,” the man ordered another behind him, and while he stood, his gun trained on the twins, who surveyed him solemn-eyed, a second smaller man went into each of the three rooms, flinging open cupboards, upending beds, and peering into corners that clearly could conceal no one. As he passed the kitchen dresser, he swept his hand along the neatly arrayed plates, dashing them to the floor in a heap of broken china. Inge began to scream again, and Helga clamped a hand over her granddaughter’s mouth as the man with the gun swung it round to point at her.

“No one here,” reported Neumann as he stamped his way across the remains of the china and peered out of the window. “Got some more down there, though.”

“Right, next floor,” ordered the officer, and without another word the two men stalked out of the flat.

For a split second nobody moved, then Ruth ran to the front door and pushed it shut, wedging a kitchen chair against it as both latch and lock were broken.

Not that it’ll keep them out if they come back again, she thought. But somehow it made her feel safer to have a closed door between them and the madhouse outside.

She returned to the window and watched as several men were marched away by the SS soldiers, Daniel Rosen among them. There was blood streaming down the side of his face, but Anna was no longer lying on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Ruth wondered what had happened to her.

The last few rioters streamed out of the courtyard in search of further prey, but not before one of them had smashed the light above the arch, and another had tossed a firebrand into a pile of smashed furniture pulled from one of the lower apartments. For a moment the fire flared, a blaze of hatred in the middle of the yard, and then it was being doused by women running in and out of their apartments with buckets of water, and all that was left was a column of drifting smoke carrying the message of hate into the night sky.

The howl of the crowd had faded somewhat as the rampage had moved on. The courtyard, now empty, was left in darkness except for faint illumination from lighted windows. Above the rooftops the sky was on fire and the dense black smoke hung in an impenetrable cloud.

It was still dark when Ruth ventured out the next morning. Although she was afraid of what she was going to see after the night of rioting, she did not dare be late at Frau Walder’s apartment.

“I don’t think you should go,” Helga told her, in no uncertain terms. “It’s madness.”

“Mutti, I can’t afford to lose the job.”

“And we can’t afford to lose you,” replied her mother.

“Don’t let the children out of the flat today,” Ruth said. “We don’t know how widespread the riot was last night, or what’s going to happen next.”

“Which is why I wish you wouldn’t go to work either,” insisted Helga.

“Mother, I have to. We still have rent to pay, food to buy and we need fuel for the stove. If I lose my job now I may never find another… and then we’ll starve.”

Ruth went down the steps into the courtyard and glanced across at the broken windows of the Rosens’ apartment. Once she had resettled the children last night, she had crept down and across the yard to find out what had happened to Anna. The door was hanging slackly from its hinges, and she pushed it open to find Anna lying on the floor, her head on a pillow, and her daughter, Sonja, sponging her forehead. The child leaped to her feet, the colour draining from her face, as Ruth pushed open the door, but then relaxed as she saw who it was.

“Is your mother all right?” Ruth asked softly, and was profoundly relieved to see Anna’s eyes open at the sound of her voice.

“Is that you, Ruth?” whispered Anna.

“Yes, it’s me,” Ruth replied. She knelt down beside the woman on the floor and took her hand. “Oh, Anna, thank God you’re not dead.”

“Just knocked out for a minute or two,” answered Anna. “That SS man let Daniel carry me inside before they took him away.”

“He stopped the crowd from finishing you off, too,” Ruth told her.

“Perhaps he has a Jewish grandmother,” said Anna bitterly.

Ruth had stayed for another half hour, helping Sonja get her mother into bed.

“Don’t go out tomorrow,” Ruth had told the girl as she went back to her own apartment. “You look after her here, and I’ll come in again later in the day. But don’t go out.”

I seem to have been telling everyone else not to venture out today, thought Ruth as she skirted the remains of the fire in the courtyard and hurried up the winding lane leading to the main street. And here I am out before dawn myself.

When she turned out of the lane and began to walk along the street towards the bridge, what greeted her almost made her turn back. She had smelled the smoke still hanging heavy on the air as she came out of her own front door, but as she emerged from the lane, the acrid smell engulfed her, making her cough. The pavements were covered in glass, smashed from the shop windows. The few shops and businesses owned by Aryans were left untouched, while their Jewish neighbours had been wrecked, left open to the street and the looters, jagged shards still projecting from window frames, doors hanging askew. Brickwork daubed with paint demanded Jüden Raus! Jews Out! The light from the streetlamps glinted on the shattered glass and cast shadows on the damaged buildings, on the sticks of broken furniture, on small, personal possessions, photographs, ornaments and family heirlooms, dragged into the street and then tossed aside by avaricious looters; and hanging over it all was the thick, black, suffocating smoke.

Horrified, Ruth stared at the small synagogue on the corner of the street. It stood stark and jagged against the lightening sky, its roof gone, its windows smashed, its door lying flat in the doorway. From its blackened rafters smoke continued to rise in a straight, dark column. She picked her way along the pavement, pausing at the next street to look down the road towards the school building that she had scrubbed and repainted in the summer. It, too, had been attacked; its windows and doors broken open, the remains of a bonfire of books smouldering in the schoolyard. She need not have told Helga not to send the girls to school this morning, there was no school left to send them to.

A few other people were beginning to appear on the streets now, staring in silent horror at the devastation that met their eyes. Keeping her head down, her eyes fixed firmly on the pavement, Ruth hurried onward to Frau Walder’s apartment. She dared not be late, but all the way through Leopoldstadt she was confronted with destruction, the havoc wrought by the incited mob. Rubble and glass and splintered timber littered the pavements, evidence of the violent use of sledgehammers; the contents of shop and office were strewn across streets, trampled in the dirt by a thousand rioting feet. Fire still smouldered among the ruins of businesses, pouring smoke into the early morning air. An inferno raged unchecked in one large synagogue, the flames leaping with crackling abandon through its upper windows, streaking the grey dawn sky blood-red and orange. Ruth was stunned to see firemen standing by, watching the building burn while making no effort to put out the fire. For a moment she stared at them in disbelief, but as one man turned towards her, a fire-axe in his hand, she turned and scurried away, dodging a heap of broken chairs as she hurried onward, out of his sight.

As she left the Jewish quarter, the streets returned, suddenly, to normality. There was no more broken glass, no further signs of destruction. The mob’s violence had been confined to the predominantly Jewish quarters of the city. As if, Ruth thought when she turned the final corner and reached her destination, there had been lines, drawn on a map, a battle plan.

It was a long day. Ruth was greeted with usual silent resentment she had come to expect from the other servants, and on the one occasion when, carrying a scuttle of coal to the drawing room, she saw her employer that morning, she was met with a lifted eyebrow, but no greeting at all. Ruth had no idea why Frau Walder continued to employ her, especially in the face of such opposition from the rest of the staff, but she was eternally grateful to her, and carried out everything she was asked to do without comment or complaint. Today she was kept late, far later than usual, and it was almost dark before she was able to leave. She walked briskly through the darkening streets, but as she drew nearer to home, the way seemed, somehow, sinister and unfamiliar. Smoke still hung in the air, and although some of the pavements had been cleared of the debris that had covered them that morning, others were still treacherous. Even now fires smouldered, gleaming red in the gathering dusk as the evening breeze stirred the ashes. There were people about, but all kept their heads down, never making eye contact, anxious not to draw attention to themselves. Ruth did the same, but as she neared the lane that led to their courtyard, she heard, once again, the dreaded chanting, the clatter of boots, and before she could duck into a doorway, a group of youths pelted round the corner, knocking her flying into the gutter before trampling over her and disappearing into the next street.

For a long moment she lay there winded, unable to regain her breath, her ribs aching from the casually aimed kicks delivered in passing; her hands were bruised where booted feet had stamped, her cheek slashed wide by a metal toecap. No one came to her aid. Neighbours scurried by, faces averted, terrified of being caught on the streets by another marauding gang.

Ruth struggled to her feet and dragged herself into the lane, and using the high walls that enclosed it to steady her, she edged her way into the courtyard and up the steps, home.

The days that followed were little better. Each day Ruth ran the gauntlet of the Leopoldstadt streets on her way to work, and each afternoon she returned, her ears strained for the sound of approaching feet.

It was as she was leaving Frau Walder’s apartment one day two weeks later that she almost bumped into Peter Walder, coming up the staircase two at a time.

“I always seem to be crashing into you, Ruth,” he cried cheerfully as he put out a hand to steady them both. Then, as she drew back from him, he looked at her more carefully. “What happened to your face?”

Ruth touched the partially healed gash on her cheek. “The streets aren’t safe for Jews anymore,” was all she said, and pressed herself against the wall to allow him to pass, but Peter Walder did not move on.

“You should get young Peter out,” he said. “Things are going to get worse for you from now on.”

“Thank you.” As if she didn’t know! Ruth struggled to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “But it’s impossible.”

“It may not be,” Peter said. “I’ve been working with the Jewish Emigration Office recently. We’ve just heard that the English are prepared to accept a certain number of unaccompanied Jewish children. Lists are to be made at the Jewish Community Office. You should go and see them… get his name down.”

“Unaccompanied?” repeated Ruth faintly. “They’re too young.”

Peter Walder shrugged. “It’s a chance to save them,” he said. “We don’t want Jews in Austria anymore. I don’t want Jews in Austria anymore, but the round-up of Jews last week…” He left the words hanging between them, then said, “Go to the Jewish Community Office and register his name, all their names. If the English want them, let them have them.” Then as if he realised that he had said far more than he should have, his arm shot out in the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” Opening the front door of his mother’s apartment, he went inside.

“Unaccompanied!” echoed Helga, when Ruth told her about the children who might be allowed to leave the country. “How could you send children so young? Where would they go? Who would look after them?”

“I don’t know,” replied Ruth, “but I intend to find out. And remember, if they’re being sent to England, Kurt is already there.”

The word had spread like wildfire. When Ruth reached the Jewish Community Offices the next day, there was a queue of desperate parents out of the door and down the street, all determined to register their children for the children’s trains to safety, the Kindertransports. When, hours later, Ruth finally reached the front of the queue she gave the names of all the children. “Only two from each family,” stated the man. Ruth stared at him in horror. How could she choose whom to send, whom must stay behind? She had only just convinced herself it would be all right for the twins to go, even at the age of four, because they would have Laura to look after them, and now she had to choose.

“Which two, Frau Friedman?”

Ruth closed her eyes. “Laura and Inge,” she replied. “Laura and Inge.”

The man entered their names, ages and address on a form. “Your application will be considered, and you will be informed if it has been successful. Please be ready to supply photographs of each girl and her birth certificate.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Ruth told Helga later that evening when the children were all safely in bed. “Laura could go, and if the boys went she could look after them on the journey, but we can’t split them up. Inge… what do I do about Inge? She’s the one who worries me the most. She’s not my Inge anymore. How can I let her go? How can I let any of them go?”

“How can you not?” asked her mother gently. “If it were you, I’d want you to go. Like I wanted Edith to go. It broke my heart, but I knew she had to go. There’s nothing left for us here, and in the end we shall all have to go… somewhere.”

“They may not be chosen,” Ruth said. “There are a limited number of places. The English still insist on sponsors, but there are more and more groups coming forward with sponsors, the man said. There’s a rabbi in London who is finding Jewish families to take them and give them homes.” She looked at her mother in desperation. “Oh Mutti, I don’t know what to do.”

The next time she visited Anna Rosen, Anna told her that she had registered Sonja for the Kindertransport as well.

“At the Jewish Community Office,” Ruth said.

“Yes, but at the Palestine Office, too,” replied Anna. “Gives you a double chance.”

“But I don’t want the children to go to Palestine,” cried Ruth.

“Better there than stay here,” said Anna flatly. She had heard nothing from Daniel since he had been arrested on the night of the pogrom. Making light of the orchestrated rampage, the Nazis were calling it Crystal Night, the night of broken glass.

“More than broken glass,” Ruth said bitterly. “Broken lives and broken hearts, more like.”

Following Anna’s advice, she went to the Palestine Office and registered the children with them as well.

Within a week she received a message. She was to come to the office, bringing the children with her, bringing birth certificates. She left the boys with Helga and took Inge and Laura across to the office. Once again the queue of desperate parents waiting with their children already stretched down the road, but eventually, after more than three hours of waiting, Ruth and the girls reached the front. They were shown into a large room furnished with several desks, and at each of these sat a man to take down details and to conduct the interviews. The interviewer who called them forward to his desk was a young man with fair hair and startlingly blue eyes. He smiled at the two girls and asked them their names. Laura answered up well, but when Inge was spoken to she simply turned her head away, looking round the room and smoothing the fragment of silk scarf against her cheek.

“Come along, darling,” coaxed Ruth. “Don’t be shy. Tell the man what your name is. He wants to know. And he wants to know when your birthday is. You know that too, don’t you? We made a special cake for it the other day, didn’t we?”

Inge looked at the young man with solemn eyes and he smiled encouragingly at her.

“I’m eight,” she said at last, “and I’m called Inge.”

Ruth could have wept with relief. She’d been sure if Inge didn’t answer her name she wouldn’t have been included. “You will put them both on your list, won’t you?” she begged. “Their father is waiting for them in London. Please, please, put their names on the list to go.”

The young man gave a sad smile. “It’s not up to me,” he explained. “All I’m here to do is fill in the forms and do the paperwork. Now, Frau Friedman, we have a photographer here to take their pictures and a doctor ready to check them over, to see if they’re fit to travel.” He gave Ruth a reassuring smile. “There will be several trains going in the next few weeks. Don’t despair if they aren’t on the first one. I promise you we’re doing all we can to get the children out.”

Several weeks passed, and Ruth had almost given up. She had been to the Community Office again and again, only to be told that lists were being collated, and if the girls were chosen she would be informed. She had gone back to the Palestine Office, but had received the same answer. If her daughters were chosen she would be told. She should have them ready to leave at short notice, just in case.

Ruth had written to Kurt, telling him what she was trying to do.

I know you are doing your best for us from your end, she wrote, but this may be the only chance we have to bring the girls to safety. I wish I could come too, and bring mother and the twins, but the transports are only for unaccompanied children. They’ll only take two from each family, and anyway the boys are too young to come on their own. As soon as we know when the girls are coming, I will write to you so that you can meet them in London.

“When” not “if”. Ruth refused even to contemplate the thought that Laura and Inge might not be chosen.

I know they can’t live with you, she wrote, but you’ll be there to meet them at the station. You can introduce them to their foster parents and keep in touch with them. Oh, my darling, I am so glad you are in London waiting for them.

It was the middle of January when Ruth was summoned to the Palestine Office. She had not met the man who dealt with her this time, an older man with thin grey hair and sad eyes.

“Your daughters will leave on the next transport from the Westbahnhof,” he told her, reading from a list. “In ten days’ time. Here are their permits, issued by the British.” He handed her an identity card for each girl, to which her photo had already been attached. “And their exit permits, allowing them to leave Austria.” He passed across two more pieces of paper, each stamped with an official Nazi stamp.

Ten days! Ruth put the precious permits into her bag and went home to tell the girls.

“You’re going to London, to see Papa,” she said.

18

The Westbahnhof was a cavern of noise; the shriek of a train whistle and the hiss of the steam into the echoing canopy of the iron roof reverberated with the clamour of voices. Ruth and her family arrived to find the platform thronged with people. Parents and children crowded together in an anxious and bewildered swarm, under the steely eyes of the SS soldiers ranged round the station, waiting for the slightest excuse to lash out at troublemakers.

Although it was almost midnight, the whole family had come to say goodbye to Laura and Inge… on their way to meet Papa in London. Helga held each twin by a hand, hanging on to them for dear life as she followed Ruth, pushing her way through the press of people.

“Hold tight to my skirt,” Ruth instructed Inge. “Laura, hold Inge’s hand.” In her own hands were the two small suitcases permitted by the authorities. Nothing but clothes, a few personal possessions and a packet of food. Anything else, they had been told, anything valuable, would be confiscated, and the owner put off the train. The girls had few enough clothes as it was. Ruth had dressed them in several layers to keep them warm on the long winter journey, and had scraped together enough money to buy a warm hat and coat for each. In the suitcases were an extra skirt and blouse, thick woollen stockings and another set of underclothes. The last pound note that Kurt had managed to send had been hidden inside a piece of sausage, and tucked into the package of food in Laura’s suitcase.

“Remember not to eat that sausage, darling,” Ruth had warned her. “I can’t have you arriving in a foreign country with no money at all.”

Laura had looked at the money doubtfully. “It’s not like real money,” she said.

“It’s real money in England,” Ruth assured her. And worth a lot more than I’d have been able to exchange it for here, she thought ruefully.

The young man from the Palestine Office was on the platform. He looked harassed as he checked off the girls’ names on a typed list, checked that they had the required documents with them and then handed Ruth two labels.

“Please attach these to the children’s clothes,” he said, “then there will be no question of them getting lost.” He consulted his list again. “Mr and Mrs Gladstone will be at the station in London to meet them and take them to their new home. Girls travel in the front three carriages, please.” And with that he turned away to deal with the next family demanding his attention, leaving the Friedmans to fight their way across the crowded platform to the train.

“Come on, darlings,” Ruth said, brightly. “Let’s get you onto the train and find you some seats.” She looked down at her two young daughters, white-faced in the unforgiving lights of the station, and had to fight every instinct that told her to gather them into her arms and take them home. “Look at all the children travelling with you!” she cried. “What an adventure it will be!”

Ruth led them to an open carriage door, and was about to climb on board to find them seats and to put their luggage up onto the rack when her way was barred by a burly SS man.

“No adults on the train!” he barked. “Children only.”

“I only want to find them a seat…” began Ruth, but he shoved her roughly aside. “No adults on the train,” he repeated.

Ruth pulled the girls back from the doorway, so that they could say a proper goodbye to their grandmother and brothers before they got on the train, but when she turned to find Helga and the twins, they were nowhere to be seen. They had got separated from her and the girls by the heaving crowd on the platform. Ruth looked round frantically, but there was no sign of them. She glanced up at the station clock; it was ten minutes to twelve. She dare not go in search of them now; she would never find them in time in the confusion of the station. As the hands of the clock moved round to the hour, children were being pushed up into the train. Pale, tear-streaked faces appeared at the carriage windows, peering out helplessly for a final look at mother or father left on the platform.

Ruth was determined not to break down in front of her children. She fought the lump that rose so painfully in her throat, struggled to keep the brimming tears from flooding down her cheeks as she looked down at her two little daughters, one just eight, the other eleven, about to embark on a journey into the unknown. How could she let them go? How could she send these two young children off on their own across Europe? Surely they’d be safer with her here in Vienna, where she could look after them properly. Surely she should take them back home with her, and look after them as a mother should.

Then an SS officer started shouting into a megaphone. “The train leaves in five minutes, any child not on board in the next two minutes will be refused leave to travel. There will be no waving to the train, no calling out to the children. Anyone who does so will be arrested.”

And Ruth knew why she was sending her daughters away; so that they should be safe from monsters like him, men who refused a parent the right to wave goodbye to her children, who would arrest a parent for waving or calling out an encouraging word to a small and terrified child.

Sonja Rosen had also been chosen for this particular transport, but at the last minute Anna had changed her mind.

“I can’t let her go!” she cried to Ruth. “With Daniel gone, she’s all I have left.”

Despite the soul-destroying ache in her heart, Ruth thought Anna had made the wrong decision. The only way to protect her children was to send them away, but it was breaking her heart.

“Where’s Oma?” cried Inge suddenly, staring with terrified eyes at the crowds around her. “I want Oma!”

“She’ll be here in a minute,” Ruth promised, knowing it was a lie. “She and the boys got caught up in the crowd.”

She knew it was time, time to kiss her daughters goodbye, and with a conscious effort forced a reassuring smile. “Darlings, you must get on the train. Laura, look after Inge; Inge, do what Laura tells you. Give Papa great big hugs from me and the twins. We’ll be there to join you in no time.”

She pushed her way forward, and pausing only to give each girl a convulsive hug helped them up onto the train. She just had time to pass their cases up after them, before she was shoved aside by another terrified parent, trying to hoist her small son into the carriage.

The SS soldier was there again. “Only girls in this carriage,” he snarled, hauling the little boy back out of the train and pushing him towards his terrified mother. “Boys in the back carriages.”

As the last few frightened children were pushed onto the train, Ruth stood back a little and craned her neck to see Laura and Inge appearing, white-faced, at a window, Laura lifting Inge up so that she could see out. Other parents swirled round her as Ruth stood, blank-eyed, staring at her girls for what could well be the last time in her life. She had no illusions. Her girls would be safe, but almost certainly they would grow up without her.

“Be good for your foster parents,” she had told them. “Mr and Mrs Gladstone are very kind to take you in, and to offer to have both of you, so that you can stay together.”

“I thought we were going to Papa,” Inge had wailed. “I don’t want to go, Mutti. I don’t like Mr Gladstone.”

“Papa will meet you at the station,” Ruth promised, “but you can’t live with him. He has to live where he works and there isn’t room for you as well. He’ll come and visit you whenever he can, and as soon as he’s arranged it, the twins and I will be coming to London too.”

“And Oma?” demanded Inge.

“And Oma,” Ruth said, almost certain that she was lying. Her mother had made it fairly clear that she would not leave Vienna. But Inge and her grandmother had become very close over the last few chaotic months, and Ruth wanted to make their parting easier, offering illusory hope.

Vain promises, she thought now as she stood, rigid, watching her daughters’ faces pressed against the compartment window.

The SS officer with the megaphone repeated his announcement, amending it to one minute to embark or be left behind.

“No waving!” he bellowed. “No shouting. No wailing! Or you will be arrested.”

As the train doors were slammed shut, Ruth felt a tug at her sleeve and looked down to see Hans at her side, still in the firm grasp of Helga who had Peter wedged onto her hip.

“Where are they?” Helga asked, her voice breaking. “I didn’t say goodbye!”

“In that window, look,” Ruth said, nodding towards the train. She was unwilling to point out exactly which window, in case the watching SS man decided she was waving.

All the doors were shut now, the children locked into the train, but although the whistle shrilled several times, and the engine blew energetic steam into the roof, the train didn’t move.

“Where’s Laura?” demanded Peter, suddenly. “Is she…?”

“…on the train?” finished Hans.

“Yes,” replied Ruth as she hoisted Hans into her arms, holding him tightly against her. “She’s going to see Papa, remember? She and Inge are off to see Papa. Aren’t they lucky?”

It was another ten minutes before the train finally began to move, chugging its way slowly out of the station. Some of the parents tried to run along the platform, tried to keep up so that they could have one last glimpse of their children. With the boys in their arms, neither Helga nor Ruth attempted to run beside the train; they simply stood and watched it growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared round a corner. They had gone. For better or worse, Ruth had sent two of her children, unaccompanied, to England.

The officer with the megaphone was ordering everyone to leave the station and go home, with more threats of instant arrest for any who still stood there, staring down the empty track, long after the train had gone.

As the bereft parents streamed out of the station into the cold night outside, many were openly crying, their keening rising up into the night sky, like the smoke from the train that carried their children away.

Again the megaphone roared. “Jews who are making that dreadful caterwauling will be arrested, instantly.”

The SS soldiers began moving through the crowd, grabbing the arms of anyone outwardly showing emotion and dragging them away.

“You’re all breaking curfew,” bellowed the officer, “we’ll arrest anyone still here in five minutes.”

Panic ran through the crowd, and they began to scatter, slipping away into the darkness of the surrounding streets.

Each carrying a twin, Ruth and Helga ducked into the first side road they saw, and threaded their way through back streets and pathways, until they crossed the canal and reached the comparative safety of their home.

Exhausted, the two women put the boys to bed and then sat by the dying embers, finally allowing the tears to stream down their cheeks, as they thought of the two frightened little girls on the train.

“Did you see the age of some of those children tonight?” Ruth said at last.

She had been amazed at how young some of the children on the train were. “Some were scarcely more than babies; some had older children to look after them, but others were simply pushed into a carriage before the doors were closed.”

“Yes, I saw,” agreed Helga bleakly.

“Toddlers!” cried Ruth. “How could they do that?”

“Fear and desperation,” answered her mother.

“I have to get the twins out now,” Ruth said with sudden determination. “If other parents can send their babies away to safety, so can I. I shall go to the Palestine Office and the Jewish Community Office and register them tomorrow.”

Then she broke down once again, weeping, and her mother gathered her into her arms and rocked her as she had rocked her when a baby, trying to calm her, to soothe her as any mother should, until the dawn came up on their misery, and it was the beginning of another day.

19

The train started with a jolt. All the children who were pressed against the windows, staring out for a last glimpse of their parents, were flung sideways, grabbing at each other to maintain their balance. Those who had been unable to reach the windows and stood on the seats behind in a second rank clung to the luggage racks as the train began to move. All craned their necks for one last sight of their parents who stood frozen on the platform or ran beside the train. Laura clutched at Inge, holding her closely, as the train picked up speed. Some children were crying, others stared mutely out of the window at the darkness rushing past them, lit only by flying sparks from the engine so far ahead. Yet others, mostly the older ones, turned away from the darkness and regained their seats, checked their suitcases were on the rack above, comforted the younger ones, tried to be grown up. Laura led Inge, silent and expressionless, away from the window to two seats in the middle of the compartment.

“Come on, Inge,” she said, hugging her. “We’re going to see Papa.”

Inge didn’t reply, didn’t return the hug. She simply curled into her seat and buried her face in her piece of silk. Laura watched her for a while, but she didn’t move.

“Inge? Inge? Are you asleep?” Laura whispered. She knew that she wasn’t; Inge’s eyes were open, staring blankly and unseeing. She didn’t move, didn’t reply, hardly seeming to breathe, she simply stared. Pale-faced and pinched, she had withdrawn into a world of her own. Laura reached over and took her hands. Inge seemed warm enough, but she didn’t respond to Laura’s touch. Reluctantly Laura let go of her hands and left her alone, curling up in her own seat and trying to lose herself in slumber. But sleep eluded her. As soon as she shut her eyes, all she could see was Mutti, standing on the platform, her eyes fixed on the train, her face pale in the harsh light of the station. Mutti, suddenly smaller than she had seemed at home, waiting for the train to pull away, to carry them away from her; Mutti, small and tired and afraid… and left behind.

“When you get to London,” Mutti had said, “Papa will be at the station, and so will Mr and Mrs Gladstone. They have no children, but have always wanted little girls, so they’ll be so pleased to see you.”

Laura fought the tears that threatened to overcome her now. Mr and Mrs Gladstone will be kind people, she thought, they’ll look after us until we can go home again. But her deepest fear continued to assail her. Suppose we never go back?

“Never go back. Never go back. Never go back,” clacked the wheels of the train, their rhythm taking root in her brain. “Never go back. Never go back. Never go back.”

At last, exhausted, Laura slipped into a restless sleep, from which she awoke some hours later, stiff and cold, her neck aching. For one moment she had no idea where she was, and then she remembered, with awful clarity; remembered the sight of Mutti, Oma and the twins on the platform, getting smaller and smaller, until they disappeared into the darkness.

Laura was fully awake now. All around her were children she didn’t know, children of all ages. Some asleep, snuffling as they slept; others awake, staring white-faced out of the window at the pearl-grey dawn. Some were eating the food they had brought, others shuffled to one of the two toilets at the end of the carriage, queuing to relieve themselves. Laura knew she should join the queue, but she looked across at Inge, who seemed exactly as she’d been the night before, curled into her seat, eyes closed now, the silk against her cheek.

As the morning drew on, the train stopped several times, but the children were not allowed to get off. The carriage doors remained locked, and as they looked out of the windows, they saw people on the station platform staring at the train, turning away if a child waved.

Laura had woken Inge at last, scared by her sister’s long sleep, but although Inge’s eyes were open again, she still stared into space, and when Laura offered her some of their packed food, she did not even seem to see the proffered sandwich, let alone take it and eat it. Laura took Inge to the toilet, going in with her to make sure that she used it, and although Inge allowed herself to be led along the train and into the cubicle, she never once spoke, simply did what Laura told her and then went back to her seat.

They travelled all day and all night. Some of the older children tried to make them sing, some children joined in, others just listened. Laura got her diary from her case and tried to write, but the words wouldn’t come; how could she write about leaving Mutti, Hans, Peter and Oma behind? Later, she thought, I’ll do it later, and she tucked the diary back among her clothes. Inge sat, unmoving, eating and drinking nothing, her eyes blank, her face a deathly white, and Laura sat beside her, holding her hand.

Once again the train slowed down, and, peering out of the window, Laura was horrified to see a group of SS soldiers climbing aboard.

“SS!” cried someone in panic. “They’re coming on the train!”

Cold fear gripped them all; most of the children had enough experience of the dreaded death’s head soldiers to know true terror. Some of the younger ones, while not knowing the cause, caught the atmosphere of fear and began to cry.

The carriage door slammed open, and a young SS soldier strode in. He was tall with cropped fair hair, cold blue eyes and a long scar down one cheek. Instinctively the children shrank back into their seats as he towered over them.

“Papers!” he barked, and waited, tapping the whip he carried impatiently against the polished leather of his boot. The children hurried to find their passports and permits. As he scrutinised each, he peered at the label round the child’s neck, his face thrust into theirs, his pale eyes alight with pleasure at his own power to instil fear.

Inge did not move, she seemed entirely unaware of his presence. Laura, having charge of both sets of papers, passed them over to the soldier. He looked at them and then pointed at Inge. “What’s the matter with her?” he demanded.

“Please, sir,” Laura whispered, “she’s scared.”

“Half-witted, more like,” snapped the soldier. “Retards like her should be put to sleep!” He looked at the cases on the rack. “Those yours?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Laura.

“Get them down!”

He stood and watched as Laura struggled to get their cases down from rack.

“Open them!”

Laura opened the first case, Inge’s. The man lifted the few clothes from the case, running his hands round the bottom as if he expected to find contraband in there. He tossed Inge’s uneaten food onto the floor, casually crushing it with his boot. Obviously disappointed he turned his attention to Laura’s case, growling, “And the other one.”

Once again he rifled through it, pulling out her clothes and the last of her food. He picked up the sausage that contained the pound note, and looked at it. He saw Laura watching him with frightened eyes.

“Not hungry, little Jew?” he taunted, and with a wolfish grin, he sank his teeth into the sausage. For a moment he chewed on the rich-flavoured meat, and then he spat it out into his hand.

“Oh yes? What’s this then?”

He pulled away the last of the meat to reveal the pound note. He turned avaricious eyes on Laura, and, carefully unrolling the note held it up and looked at it. “No valuables allowed,” he said, and pushed it into his pocket.

“Wonder what else we’ve got hidden in here then,” he remarked, as he upended the suitcase onto the seat. He made a more careful examination of its contents, throwing her precious diary onto the floor, tipping her underclothes after it, clearly checking for anything else that he might purloin. The only other thing that interested him was the double picture frame that Oma had given her, her grandparents smiling out from one side, her mother and aunt out from the other. He pulled the pictures out, ripping them across and throwing them on top of the clothes. Then, with a smirk, he pocketed the frame.

“I will report you, little Jew,” he said, his eyes gleaming malevolently, “for carrying valuables… and you will be put off the train.”

He moved on to the next carriage, leaving Laura white-faced and terrified. She picked up the torn photographs, staring at them for a moment through eyes blurred with tears, before tucking them inside her diary and returning them to the suitcase. With shaking hands she began stuffing the rest of their things back into their cases. What would happen to Inge if she, Laura, was put off the train? What would happen to her? The welling tears overflowed and began to pour down her cheeks.

“He can’t report you unless he admits taking the money,” said a voice behind her. Laura turned to find one of the older girls watching her. “If he tells them you had English money, he’ll have to admit he took it and then he won’t have it either.”

“He might not care about the money…” began Laura. “He might not want it himself, and…”

“Oh, he wanted it himself,” the other girl said. “I saw his face. Still,” she went on, “it might be best though if you went into the toilet until we move on again.” She saw Laura glance, panic-stricken, across at Inge, and added, “I’ll watch your sister for you, go on.”

Laura pushed her way through the carriage, where several other children were repacking cases that had been searched, and went into the toilet. The SS soldiers had already searched there, so unless they came back looking especially for her, she should be safe enough. She shut the door and locked it, then sitting down on the closed lavatory seat she began to weep. She wept for her mother, great heaving sobs that she had stifled at the station and ever since. She wept for Oma and the twins, whom she was sure she’d never see again, and when it seemed that she had no more tears left, she wept for herself. How was she going to cope in a country where she didn’t speak the language? How was she going to look after Inge who had simply shut out the world, disappeared inside herself and didn’t speak at all? She and Inge were cast adrift from everything that they knew, and although Papa would be there to meet them at the station, they would still have to live with people they didn’t know, in a house they didn’t know, in a country they didn’t know, and all of a sudden it was too much.

It seemed an age before there was a clanging of doors, more shouting and a whistle blowing and the train started clanking its way slowly onward again. Drained from her bout of weeping, with red eyes and blotchy face, Laura crept out of the toilet and went back through the crowded carriage to find Inge. Good as her word, the older girl was sitting beside her, holding her hand, but throughout the whole episode Inge had remained silent. She had shown no fear of the soldiers, no interest in the other girl, indeed no reaction at all, and when Laura returned to her seat, she showed no reaction to her either, still not answering when Laura spoke to her.

“I was right,” the girl said, ignoring Laura’s tear-streaked cheeks and speaking cheerfully. “He didn’t come back for you.” She smiled at Laura. “You were very brave,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Laura. Laura Friedman. And this,” she indicated Inge, “is my sister, Inge.”

“I’m Gerda Berger,” the older girl said, and held out her hand. Solemnly they shook hands. “Your sister is very quiet,” Gerda said, as she moved aside to let Laura sit down beside Inge. “Is she always like this?”

“She won’t eat or drink,” answered Laura. “She hasn’t had anything since we left Vienna. I don’t know what to do.”

At that moment the train, which had been rattling forward, began to slow again. Laura stared at Gerda in horror. All round them the chatter of children died away as they waited, resigned to the next search of the train.

“Do you think they’re coming back for me?” whispered Laura, her face ashen.

“I don’t know.” Gerda, despite her earlier courage, looked pale too. She peered out of the window. “We’re stopping at another platform.”

Once again the carriage door burst open and another man in uniform came in. Instinctively the children shrank back, but he greeted them with a huge smile on his face. “Welcome to Holland,” he cried in heavily accented German. “Welcome to Holland!”

Someone gave a cheer, but most of the children were too tired and frightened to take in what the man had said. He moved on to the next carriage, but almost immediately two women climbed in, both carrying baskets.

“Welcome to Holland,” they said. “You’re safe now, all of you. Anybody hungry?”

It was as if they had broken an evil spell that had bound the children for as long as they could remember. Suddenly everyone was talking at once, some laughing, some crying, some simply holding out their hands for the bread and cheese and milk and, wonder of wonders, chocolate. The women’s smiles were the first any of the children had seen on the faces of strangers for months. These welcoming women, many of them Dutch Jews, went through the carriages, into every compartment, feeding the hungry children, hugging them, holding the little ones close as if they were the most precious things they’d ever seen.

One lady stopped beside Laura and Inge. Seeing Laura’s still blotchy face she said in stilted German, “Are you all right, little girl?”

“I am,” replied Laura bravely, “but my sister…” Her voice trailed off before she added, “Mutti gave us some food, but Inge won’t eat any.”

The woman smiled, and kneeling down beside Inge gently took her hand. Inge did not respond, simply continued to stare, blank-eyed, into space. The woman produced a small piece of chocolate, and breaking off a sliver slipped it between Inge’s slack lips. At first Inge still did not react, her eyes still blank and unseeing, but as the tiny piece of chocolate began to melt in her mouth, her tongue slid across her lips as if seeking more. Laura watched as the Dutch woman slid another crumb of chocolate into Inge’s mouth. When that, too, was swallowed down the woman poured milk from a bottle in her basket into a cup and held it to Inge’s mouth.

“Come on, little girl…”

“Her name’s Inge,” said Laura.

“Come on, Inge, just a little sip. It’s milk. You like milk don’t you? Just a little sip, there’s a good girl.”

Gradually, coaxed by the lady’s soft voice, Inge drank the milk. A piece of bread and butter followed, but then, as several blasts on a whistle came from outside, the lady got to her feet.

“I’ve got to get off now,” she said. She handed the bottle of milk to Laura. “Take this,” she said, “and give her some more later. You’re a brave girl looking after your little sister, your mother would be proud of you.”

There was another blast on the whistle and the woman scurried to the door and jumped down onto the platform. As the train began to move slowly out of the station, all the women stood along the platform, smiling and waving. The children on the train smiled and waved back. Flags fluttered in the breeze above the station roof, Dutch flags, blowing freely in the wind; no sign of a swastika anywhere.

Gerda stared out of the window at the flat countryside as it slid by. “Look, Laura,” she said, “Holland. We’re free. The Nazis can’t touch us here.”

“No,” whispered Laura, “but I wish Mutti, Oma and the twins were here too. We’re free, but they’re not.”

“No, but at least your papa will be waiting for you,” Gerda said. “Mine’s disappeared.” Then making a valiant effort she said, “But my brother Bruno is with the rest of the boys, somewhere on the train. So I’m not quite alone.”

When the train reached the Hook of Holland it was late evening. All the children were unloaded and made to stand in line, as their names were checked on a register. Laura held tightly to Inge’s hand as they went up the gangplank onto a waiting ship. Inge still hadn’t spoken, but she had lost the blank stare and, seeming more aware of the strangeness of her surroundings, kept a firm hold on Laura’s hand. They were given some food and assigned a place to sleep, and sleep they did for a while, curled up together like puppies on a bunk, each drawing comfort from the closeness of the other.

The crossing was not rough, but there was a steady swell, and the rise and fall of the boat made both girls feel queasy, so it was with great relief that some hours later they found themselves being led off the ship onto the quay. It was a cold, grey morning, but after the stuffiness of the cabins on the ship, the air was fresh and clean, and Laura gulped down lungfuls, grateful to be on dry land once more.

“We’re here, Inge,” Laura said, still holding her sister’s hand. “We’re in England. When we get off the next train, Papa will be there.”

Yet again the children were mustered, checked and loaded onto a train. Gerda had found her brother. Laura saw her hugging a tall dark boy, as they emerged onto the quay, but she didn’t get a chance to talk to her again as they were put into different compartments.

The train sped through the cold morning air, and as the grey sky lightened, and shafts of early sunshine struck the trees and meadows, Laura stared out of the window at the unfamiliar countryside; small villages with houses clustering round the church, a stand of trees on the skyline, a solitary farmhouse with grey stone outbuildings, cows coming in from the fields to be milked, a man on a bicycle riding to work. Countryside at peace with itself, waking up to a new day. For the first time since she had left Vienna, she felt her spirits lift a little. They were going to live here, somewhere in this new country, where there were no Nazis, no SS, no Hitler. Soon, very soon, they would be with Papa.

“Look, Inge,” she said, turning to her sister, “look at the villages. This is England. This is where we’re going to live.” But Inge had, once again, retreated into herself, and showed no interest in their new country.

The train did not stop at any of the stations through which it passed, and the towns, with strange names like Ipswich and Colchester, passed by and gave way to the outward sprawl of a great city. Houses in rows, pocket-handkerchief gardens, brick warehouses and tall factory chimneys all warned of the approaching city. London.

The train slowed right down and edged its way across a multitude of tracks, clattering over the points and finally drawing under the echoing roof of Liverpool Street Station. All the children had had their noses pressed to the window, anxious to see the sort of place they had come to. As the train finally came to a halt, its great engine blowing off steam as it reached the buffers, there was nervous chatter and noise in all the carriages. Now they were going to meet their foster parents, their new families, where everyone would speak English, no one German.

Laura collected their two cases, and held one out to Inge. “Here’s yours, Inge,” she said. “You can carry it.”

Inge made no move to take the case, and one of the escorts called out to them, “Come along there. Get down from the train.” He reached up and took the cases from Laura, so that she could help her sister down onto the platform, then he handed them both back to Laura. “Take your sister over into the line,” he said and turned away to help another child.

Carrying both cases, Laura led Inge to the group of children waiting patiently, lined up in pairs.

“You’ll all wait on the platform until everyone is off the train,” they’d been told. “Then keeping together, everyone with a partner, we’ll go to the hall where your relatives and foster parents will be waiting for you.”

Gerda was standing with her brother. She waved when she saw Laura again. “This is my brother Bruno,” she said.

Bruno was tall, almost grown up. He smiled at the two girls. “Hallo,” he said. “We’ve made it, then.”

At last the train was empty. Once again the young man from the Palestine Office checked their names against his list.

“He has to go back to Vienna,” Bruno told them. “The Nazis only let him come as an escort. If he doesn’t go back, they won’t let any more children come.”

“He’s very brave,” remarked Gerda, “going back.”

I’d go back, thought Laura bleakly, watching the young man checking each child against his list. If I could, I’d go back to Mutti, Oma and the twins.

Once they were all assembled, the crocodile of children was marched off towards the hall where they would finally meet their new families. As they walked along the platform, still wearing their labels and each carrying a small suitcase, people stopped to watch them.

“Refugees,” remarked one man, “poor little buggers.”

“Never mind, darlin’,” called another, smiling at Gerda as she walked beside her brother. “You’re safe now. ’Itler ain’t comin’ ’ere!”

What were the men saying, wondered Laura? The only word she recognised was “Hitler”, and it made her shiver.

They were led to a lofty, echoing hall. It was gloomy inside, its dirty windows, high in the wall, only allowing dull, grey light to filter through. As they came through the door, each child was handed a packet of sandwiches and then told to sit down on the benches that ran along one wall. The children filed in obediently, and took a seat. One or two opened the sandwiches straightaway and began to eat them; experience had taught them that you never knew where the next meal might come from, so it was best to eat food immediately, before it vanished again.

Laura, still struggling with both cases, pushed the sandwiches into her coat pocket and said, “Inge, stay close.”

There was a great shuffling of feet and edging sideways as the children moved along the hall, trying to get a glimpse of the people who waited for them on the other side.

“Sit down, children,” called out one of the escorts. “Sit down and wait for your name to be called.”

The children sat on the hard wooden benches and waited in nervous expectation to hear their names. On the opposite side of the room were the group of sponsors and foster parents, who also waited, peering across at the assembled children, wondering. Who? Which?

Suddenly Inge let out a shriek, and leaping up from her place on the bench, she shot out across the floor, speaking for the first time in forty-eight hours; speaking… calling… crying out, “Papa!”

One of the escorts made a move to pull her back to the bench, but she pushed him aside and flung herself across the room into the waiting arms of Kurt Friedman. Laura dropped the suitcases and followed her, erupting from the bench, tears streaming down her face as she, too, found herself safe at last within the circle of her father’s arms.

The noise around them faded, the business of matching child to foster parent blurred behind them as the three held and hugged and laughed and cried. Kurt on his knees, his daughters crushed against him. A middle-aged couple stood behind them, watching the ecstatic reunion. They looked at each other. “Can we really be parents to these little girls?” their eyes seemed to say. “They already have a parent here.” They waited patiently for another few minutes and then the man stepped forward and coughed.

Kurt looked up and forced a smile to his lips. The Gladstones. He had met them already, had thanked them for offering to take his daughters into their home, but even as they stood there waiting to be introduced to their foster children, he could hardly bear it. His girls were here safe, and within minutes he was going to have to give them up again. He got to his feet, and still holding the girls against him, turned them towards the Gladstones.

“Laura, Inge, here are the kind lady and gentleman who are going to give you a home. Mr and Mrs Gladstone. Say how do you do.”

Neither girl moved at first, but at a gentle push from her father, Laura stepped forward and dropped a small curtsey. “How do you do?” she said in German.

“You must be Laura,” said the woman and coming forward took Laura’s hand.

Laura, recognising her own name, although it wasn’t said quite right, smiled and said, “Laura.” Then she pointed to Inge, who had buried her face in her father’s stomach, and said, “Inge.”

The woman pointed to herself, “Aunt Jane,” she said, “and this,” she pointed to her husband, “is Uncle Frank.”

Gradually the echoing hall was emptying as the children were claimed by their new families. Kurt picked up the girls’ suitcases and led the little group over to the man with the clipboard, explaining who he was and where the children were going.

“That’s right,” said the man marking them off. “To Mr and Mrs Gladstone.” He shook the Gladstones by the hand and said in careful English, “Thank you for taking these children, your generosity has brought them to safety.”

Kurt travelled with them to their new home, having agreed with the couple beforehand that he would see the children into the house and then leave. So, after drinking a cup of tea in the Gladstones’ parlour, he stood up to take his leave.

Immediately Inge burst into tears. “I don’t want you to go, Papa,” she wept. “I don’t like it here. I want to come with you.”

“I can’t stay, my darling,” Kurt said gently. “And you can’t come with me, because there is no room for you where I live, but I promise I will come and see you on Sunday, all right?”

It wasn’t all right, and Inge continued to cry, clinging to him, burying her face against him. Kurt looked over her head at Laura, who was fighting tears of her own.

“Be brave, my darlings,” he begged. “Be brave and I will tell you some wonderful news. I have found a sponsor for Mutti. It won’t be long before she and the twins will be here as well. So be good, my darlings. It won’t be forever. In a few weeks we shall all be together again. Mutti’s coming to England.”

Wednesday, 30th August 1939

Inge and I are so excited. The twins arrive in London today. They’ve had to come by themselves, like we did. They’re such little boys, I hope they weren’t too scared. Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank are taking us to the station to meet them. I can’t wait to see them! Will they remember us, I wonder? It’s more than six months since we saw them. I wish Mutti was coming with them, but Papa says she’ll be coming next weekend and then we’ll all be together. She would have come sooner, but Oma was ill and she had to stay and look after her. Poor Oma has died now, but she was very old. Poor Oma.

Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank have been very kind and we shall still have to live in their house, but we shall all be safe. The boys at school say, “We ain’t afraid of Ole ’Itler.” I am, and I think they should be too.

The Kindertransports

As the orchestrated persecution of the Jews intensified in the late 1930s, more than ten thousand unaccompanied Jewish children were brought to England from Germany, Austria, Poland and Czechoslovakia, between December 1938 and August 1939. Sent by parents, desperate to save them from the Nazis’ “Final Solution”, children aged from three months to seventeen years old travelled on trains that carried them across Europe and then over the sea to England. When they arrived they were fostered in families all over the country. Jewish, Methodist, Quaker, Catholic and Protestant families opened their homes to the children so brutally taken from their own families. For some no foster parents could be found and these were housed in hostels or went to boarding schools; but all had escaped the Nazi terror.

Some were lucky, and their parents managed to escape as well, so they were reunited; others found remnants of family who had survived the death camps after the war, but most of them never saw, again, the parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters they had left behind.

The strength of the love and courage of the parents who sent their children away is hard to imagine… their hearts were broken, but their children were saved.

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Castlehaven Books

This eBook edition first published in the UK in 2015 by Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Diney Costeloe, 2009

Jacket Design © KS Agency

Author Photo © Helen Faubel

The moral right of Diney Costeloe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (E) 9781784972622

Head of Zeus Ltd

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www.headofzeus.com

THE SISTERS OF ST CROIX

Diney Costeloe

A gripping story of love, death and danger in Nazi Occupied France.

When Adelaide Anson-Gravetty finds out her father is not the man who raised her, she is both shocked and intrigued. Determined to find out more about her new family, she travels to the convent of Our Lady of Mercy in France to meet her aunt, the Reverend Mother.

But when France falls to the German army, Adelaide and the nuns are soon in the thick of a war that threatens both their beliefs and their lives. Collaborating with the resistance, sheltering Jewish orphans, defying the rulings of Vichy France: these are dangerous activities in dangerous times.

These courageous women must give all they’ve got in order to protect the innocent from the evil menace of the Nazi war machine.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Cover

Welcome Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Copyright

1

9th September 1937

Adelaide Anson-Gravetty drifted awake with the feeling that today something special was going to happen. And then she remembered. Today she was twenty-one. Today she was an adult and could decide things for herself. Today was the beginning of the rest of her life. Today, though she didn’t yet know it, her life was going to be turned upside down.

She swung her legs out of bed and, crossing the room, threw back the curtains. The morning sun streamed in and her heart lifted with pleasure as she opened the window and, leaning out, looked down into the gardens of the square below. There were already plenty of people about, and she watched them going about their business as she often did, but for some reason today it was as if she were seeing them all for the first time. Footmen exercised dogs in the gardens, a newsboy sold papers from a stand at the end of the square, old Mrs Harriman had already taken her seat on her favourite bench. All was the same and yet all was different for now, today, Adelaide looked at it all through adult eyes.

There was a knock at her bedroom door and Florrie, the housemaid, came in with her morning tea.

“Oh, Miss Adelaide, you’re up already,” she said, setting down the tray and catching up Adelaide’s dressing gown from a chair. “Here, Miss Adelaide, put this on. You’ll catch your death there at the open window.”

“Don’t worry, Florrie,” Adelaide laughed. “It’s not cold, it’s a beautiful morning.”

“So it may be, miss, but you shouldn’t be leaning out the window with only your nightdress on. What would the master say?”

“He won’t know,” Adelaide said, adding conspiratorially, “if you don’t tell him.”

Florrie sniffed. She had known Miss Adelaide since she was three years old, and never once had she given her away to the master. “Come and drink your tea while it’s hot,” she instructed, “and I’ll draw your bath for you.”

“Thank you, Florrie,” Adelaide said meekly, though her eyes still gleamed with mischief.

“And may I be the first to wish you many happy returns of the day, miss,” Florrie added as she turned to leave the room.

“Thank you, Florrie.” Adelaide smiled at the maid with genuine affection. She took her cup to a chair by the window and continued to watch the comings and goings in the square below as she dutifully sipped the tea.

Twenty-one! she thought. Father can’t stand in my way now!

It wasn’t strictly true of course. Her father, Richard Anson-Gravetty, could always stand in her way while he held the purse strings, but now she was of age she could decide for herself if she wanted to get a job, and if she did she could, perhaps, support herself. She need no longer rely on him. It was a heady thought. She gave it further consideration as she lay in the bath a few moments later. She loved her father, of course she did, but he liked to make all the decisions, and when he had there was no going against him. Quick of temper, any opposition put him in a towering rage, and she and her mother had both learned that the most comfortable way to live was to keep her father happy; to do what he required of them and to ask permission before doing anything that was the least bit out of the ordinary.

Mummy. Darling Mummy. Adelaide thought of her mother, so pretty, so timid, so… what? Irresolute? Docile? Weak? Heather Anson-Gravetty had lived all her married life in her husband’s shadow, biddable, eager to please, and when she had died when Adelaide was sixteen, Richard had hardly seemed to miss her. Adelaide missed her dreadfully. She had been away at school and summoned at the last moment, had come home to find her mother lying in bed, her once-auburn hair faded and in disarray about the gaunt parchment of her face. Adelaide knew that her mother had been ill for a while, but no one had warned her how quickly Heather was wasting away. When she came into the bedroom and saw her lying, a frail waif against the white pillow, Adelaide gave a cry of distress, bitten off as her father gripped her shoulder with an iron fist. They had been together, the three of them, for the last time, but it was Adelaide, not Richard who sat holding her mother’s hand. When her mother’s grasp finally slackened, it was Adelaide who laid her head on the counterpane and wept. Richard simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving his grieving daughter sobbing by the bed.

Still, Adelaide thought now as she lay back in the warm water of the bath, that’s Father’s way. He never shows his emotions… except when he’s cross of course!

In the days that followed her mother’s death Adelaide had always felt that Richard wasn’t so much saddened by it as angry that she had dared to die without his permission. He seldom mentioned her and if he did it was never, it seemed to his daughter, with affection.

“It’s as if he’s put her in a cupboard and forgotten about her,” Adelaide confided to Grand’mère one day.

“That’s how he copes with the loss,” Adelaide’s grandmother replied gently. “Some people find it easier to cope by hiding the loved one away, by not thinking about them, or talking about them. Some people find that too painful.” She had smiled at her granddaughter. “I miss her, too, you know, so we can talk about her together, you and I, hein?”

Life from then on had not been easy for Adelaide. Although her mother had never made a stand or taken her side against her father, Adelaide had known that on occasion she had sympathised with her and had done what she could to make up for Richard’s rigid rule. After the funeral Adelaide had been sent back to school, and during the holidays she had spent most of her time staying with Grand’mère, Heather’s French mother. Richard’s parents were both still alive, but Adelaide found them less sympathetic. She had always been closer to her mother’s mother and it was she who helped Adelaide through the difficult days after Heather died. It was Grand’mère who championed Adelaide’s cause, who stood out against her son-in-law when she thought he was too harsh, who gave her the warmth and love her father seemed unable to express.

When Adelaide had wanted to go university, Richard had been adamant that it was a waste of time and money, even though there was a place for her at King’s College, London. Adelaide had never discovered what Grand’mère had said to make him change his mind, but eventually her father had simply shrugged. “Do what you like, though why a woman would want a degree is beyond me.”

Adelaide had read French, a subject she found easy as she was already almost bilingual. Grand’mère had always insisted on speaking to her in French, even when she was quite a little girl, and Adelaide had responded with enthusiasm. She had spoken French to her mother, too, but never when Richard was there. He had forbidden them to speak it in front of him as he spoke none and refused to be excluded from the conversation in that way.

No more college, thought Adelaide as she finally emerged from her bath and set about getting dressed. She had taken her degree earlier in the year and was now, unwillingly, a lady of leisure again. She had no mother to “bring her out”, and anyway she despised the debutante scene. Adelaide was a girl of action. She wanted to be up and doing. She wanted to get out into the world and earn her own bread, to be responsible for herself.

Richard Anson-Gravetty was not at home on the morning of the day that his daughter attained her majority; he was away on business and wouldn’t be back until the evening. So, when she finally made it down to the dining room, it was to breakfast alone, to open the cards from her grandparents and her cousin Andrew, in solitary state; to open the unexpected letter that waited beside her plate with no one there to see her do it.

The envelope, typewritten, was addressed to her and had a Belcaster postmark, but she had no idea from whom it came. Leaving it till last, she finally slit open the envelope and drew out the contents. It was from a firm of solicitors, Brewer, Harben and Brewer, with an office in Cathedral Road, Belcaster. She skimmed through it, but, as its significance penetrated her mind, she started to read again from the beginning.

Dear Miss Anson-Gravetty,

Allow me to congratulate you on attaining the age of majority. I write in pursuance of the wishes expressed in the will of your late grandfather, Sir George Hurst. As you know he died in 1920 and left you a substantial legacy to become yours on your twenty-first birthday. As Sir George’s only grandchild, you were named as the residual legatee, the money to be invested and held in trust until you came of age.

This happy day is now upon us and I respectfully suggest that you make an appointment with me to go through the terms of the will. I am sure your stepfather has a financial advisor who will take over from me now that I am no longer your trustee, but I should certainly like to meet with you and explain my stewardship to date. I hope you will be satisfied with it.

If you would write to my secretary and arrange a time convenient to yourself I shall look forward to meeting you at last.

I remain, madam, yours very sincerely,

Arthur Brewer

Adelaide stared at the letter and then looked at the envelope again to make sure it was really addressed to her. It was. She read it through yet again. Her grandfather, Sir George Hurst? She hadn’t got a grandfather called George Hurst. Her grandfathers were called Gilbert Anson-Gravetty and Norman Driver. Norman Driver, Grand’mère’s husband, had been dead now for ten years or more, but her other grandfather, Father’s father, was alive and well and living in Winchester. So who was this George Hurst? And why did the letter refer to her father as her stepfather? None of it made any sense. Had she been adopted? Were Mummy and Daddy—she seldom called him Daddy anymore but when thinking of them together it sometimes still slipped out—were Mummy and Daddy not her real parents then?

Adelaide left the last of her breakfast and went out into the hall to telephone Grand’mère.

“Adelaide, my darling,” Grand’mère cried when she came onto the line, “many happy returns of the day!”

“Thanks, Grand’mère,” Adelaide said. She paused and then asked, “Can I come and see you? We need to talk.”

“Of course. But we shall see each other this evening at your birthday dinner.”

“I know, but I need to speak to you before that. Before Father gets home. I’ve had a letter.”

“Ah, I see.” Antoinette Driver sounded suddenly serious. “Yes, well in that case I think you’d better come round this morning and we can have a nice chat in private. I have a luncheon engagement, but that is not until 12.30.”

“Can I come now?” Adelaide asked.

“Of course. Just ask Davies to show you up as soon as you arrive.”

Within half an hour, Adelaide was knocking on the front door of her grandmother’s house just off Eaton Square.

“Good morning, Miss Adelaide.” Davies greeted her with a smile. “May I wish you many happy returns of the day.”

“Thank you, Davies,” Adelaide replied, returning his smile. “Indeed you may. Is my grandmother still upstairs?”

“Yes, miss, she is, but she said to tell you to go on up as soon as you arrived.”

Adelaide thanked him and hurried up the wide oak stairs to the old lady’s bedroom. She knocked loudly and in answer to a call to come in she opened the door. Her grandmother was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray on a table beside her, the post opened and strewn across the bed covers.

“Adelaide, my darling, happy birthday!” Antoinette Driver held out her arms and, as always, addressed her granddaughter in French.

Adelaide crossed the room for a birthday hug and a kiss and then drew up a chair beside the bed. Grand’mère removed her pince-nez and smiled. “So, now you are quite grown up. Feel any different?”

Adelaide shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Nor I,” the old lady said equably. “I haven’t felt any different since the day I left the schoolroom.”

“I got your birthday card,” Adelaide said, not quite knowing where to begin, “and one from Granny and Grandpa. Andrew remembered, too.”

“Well done, Andrew,” said her grandmother, “but I think you had some other post, yes? Another letter?”

Adelaide pulled it out of her bag and handed it over. Mrs Driver replaced the pince-nez on her nose and pulling the letter from its envelope, read it slowly. Adelaide watched her face as she did so, but the old lady showed no signs of surprise or disbelief. When she had finished she handed the letter back to Adelaide.

“So…” she said and waited.

“So, what is it all about?” demanded Adelaide. “Firstly, is this letter really meant for me, and if so who on earth is George Hurst?”

“It is definitely meant for you,” confirmed Mrs Driver, “and Sir George Hurst was your grandfather, your paternal grandfather.”

“But…” began Adelaide.

“Your mother, my Heather, was married before. She married a man called Frederick Hurst at the very end of 1915. He was killed on the Somme in July 1916. You were born posthumously.”

Adelaide stared at her. “You’re saying my mother was married before… and she never told me?”

“Richard wouldn’t allow her to.”

“What do you mean, he wouldn’t allow her to?” demanded Adelaide.

“Darling, you know your father. People do what he says. He didn’t want her to tell you, so she didn’t.”

“But she was married to this Frederick Hurst for nine months?”

Mrs Driver sighed. “Not really, no.”

Adelaide looked shocked. “You mean I’m illegitimate?”

Mrs Driver shook her head with a laugh. “No, of course not, darling. What I meant was that they were never together as a married couple. Freddie was a friend of Uncle Johnny’s. Freddie and Heather met in London and corresponded while he was away in France.”

“Freddie, is that what he was called?” Adelaide interrupted. “I think I like that better than Frederick. So what happened?”

“Freddie came home on leave and they decided to get married.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” agreed her grandmother. “We tried to persuade them to wait, but it was no use. They were difficult times, the war years; people snatched their happiness where and when they could.

“So, he had ten days’ leave over Christmas. They got married by special licence on 29th December and had a four-day honeymoon in London before he went back.” Mrs Driver gave a sad sigh. “He never came home. She never saw him again. He was killed on the first day of the Somme. You were born two and half months later.”

Silence fell between them as Adelaide struggled to take it all in. Grand’mère reached out and took her hand and together they sat thinking about what Adelaide had just heard.

“When did she marry Father? Richard, I mean.”

“Two and a half years later. We gave her all the support we could, but your mother, God rest her soul, was the sort of woman who needed a man to lean on. And anyway it would have been wrong for her to turn down another chance of happiness. Besides, she had you to consider. Richard was happy to take you on and bring you up as his child. All he asked was that it be done legally, so, when they got married he also adopted you legally and gave you his name. He said it would be better when they had more children that the family should all have the same name and grow up together with no ghosts lurking in the background.”

“But Mummy must have wanted to tell me about Freddie, when I got older I mean. Old enough to understand.”

“I think she did, but Richard asked for her promise and she gave it.”

Adelaide shook her head in confusion. “It is most peculiar,” she remarked, “to grow up thinking you are one person and suddenly discovering you are someone quite different!”

“You are you,” Grand’mère pointed out gently. “You are the same you as before. Your father was Freddie Hurst, but to all intents and purposes your father is Richard Anson-Gravetty. He is the one who’s brought you up as his own, loved you as a daughter, given you everything. It is no mean task to take on another man’s child and he has done his best. All he asked was that you should think of him as your real father… and you do, don’t you?”

“Of course, it’s just… well, just such a shock to find out that he isn’t. Especially when everyone else knew it all along.”

“Not everyone at all,” said her grandmother. “Only Norman and I, Richard’s parents and Johnny. Others may have known, but in the chaos that surrounded the end of the war everyone was too concerned with their own affairs to remember other people’s.”

Adelaide was still holding the letter and now she looked at it again. “This solicitor, this Arthur Brewer, says I’ve been left money by my real grandfather, Sir George. He must have known about me.”

“Yes, of course he did, but when he died there was no one left on that side of the family to have any claim to you.”

“Was Freddie an only child then? Didn’t he have any brothers or sisters?”

“There was a sister, Sarah I think she was called. She went to France to nurse the wounded. Took her maid and upped and went to nurse in a convent or some such. Anyway, the maid later came home in disgrace, but the sister stayed on and became a nun, of all things.”

“A nun?” Adelaide was startled.

“Well, we are a good Catholic family, remember,” said Mrs Driver, her face entirely serious.

That made Adelaide burst out laughing. “Oh, Grand’mère, how can you say such a thing? When was the last time you went to Mass?”

“Be that as it may,” her grandmother answered serenely, “Freddie was brought up a Catholic and so was your mother. So were you, come to that. At least Heather won that battle!”

“So this Sarah is my aunt. Where is she now?”

“Still in her convent, I imagine,” replied Mrs Driver, pushing aside the bedclothes and preparing to get up. “They don’t let them out, you know.”

“Grand’mère, why didn’t you tell me before?” Adelaide asked softly.

Her grandmother gave her a rueful smile. “It wasn’t my secret, my darling. Heather asked us to keep the promise she had made and so, with many misgivings, we have.”

“Does Andrew know?” Adelaide was very close to her cousin, and the idea that he should have known something of this importance when she had not, would hurt.

Mrs Driver shook her head. “I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. I imagine Johnny was sworn to secrecy too. Now shoo, I have to get up.”

“Grand’mère, what shall I do about this letter?” Adelaide asked.

“I should do what it asks you to,” was the reply. “Go and see the man and find out about your legacy. I should imagine you have become quite a wealthy woman.”

“What about Father? What do I tell him?”

“You don’t need to tell him anything. He already knows. He’s always known that it would all come out the day you were twenty-one. He’s simply been putting it off.” She looked speculatively at her granddaughter. “Why do you think he was away for your birthday morning, hein? He didn’t want to be there when you found out. Never forget, darling, that he loves you in his own way. He’s afraid of losing you to some ghostly father from the war. You must reassure him that he is truly your father and you are truly his daughter.” The old lady reached for her robe and went on, “And now, my darling, I really do have to get up. You may go downstairs and wait for me there if you like. Ask Davies for coffee. We can talk some more once I am ready to go out.”

The rest of her birthday passed in something of a blur. Adelaide had arranged to meet her friend Sophie for lunch, and it was all she could do not to tell her of the amazing discoveries she had made that morning. However, she knew she owed it to her father, her adoptive father that was, to talk things through with him first. The lunch was thus somewhat difficult, as Adelaide could think of very little else.

“Addie, you’re miles away,” laughed Sophie when she had made the same remark twice and received no answer.

Adelaide smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” she said, “I was thinking about this dinner party Father is giving for me this evening. What did you say?”

“I said, shall we go shopping this afternoon? I want to buy some shoes.”

“Oh Sophie, do you mind if we don’t?” she said. “I really ought to go home. My grandparents are driving up from Winchester for this evening and I really should be at home to greet them when they arrive.” She smiled across at Sophie and added, “Andrew’s coming too. He’s going to stay the night. Do you want to come round tomorrow morning for a cup of coffee?” Adelaide was well aware how Sophie felt about her cousin and she tried to bring them together whenever she could.

Sophie looked at her affectionately. “Thanks,” she said. “I might.” And they both laughed, knowing wild horses would not keep Sophie away.

Richard Anson-Gravetty arrived home only an hour before the dinner guests were due to assemble. Adelaide knocked on his dressing-room door and when he called her in, she crossed the room and put her arms round him in an unusual gesture of affection.

“Welcome home, Daddy,” she said. “Granny and Grandpa are here and getting changed. Everything’s ready for the dinner.”

He returned her hug and then held her away from him and looked into her face. “Happy birthday, Adelaide. And congratulations!”

She looked at him quizzically. “Congratulations on what?”

“On coming of age, of course.”

“The years of discretion… when I can be told everything.”

“I imagine you have already been told, if I know anything about your grandmother.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Adelaide laughed. “You’re right, of course. Today I discovered that I am lucky enough to have two fathers. But you do Grand’mère an injustice, Daddy. She kept the secret until I had learned of it from another source.”

Her father grunted. “You heard from old Brewer, I suppose.”

“I did, so of course I went to Grand’mère to find out what it was all about.”

“You didn’t think of waiting until this evening and asking me?”

Adelaide hadn’t thought of doing so, but now she prevaricated. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell me, or you’d have done it before… or let Mummy tell me,” she said. “Wasn’t that why you were away this morning?” It was after all what Grand’mère had suggested.

Richard shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. His hands dropped from her shoulders and he turned to the mirror to knot his evening tie.

Adelaide moved towards the door where she turned and said softly, “Thank you, Daddy, for all you’ve done for me.”

“It was my duty,” he replied without turning round. “I’m your father.”

On this rather unsatisfactory note Adelaide left the room to put the finishing touches to her own evening dress.

Later that night, as she lay in bed, her birthday dinner over, she thought about the extraordinary revelations of the day. She had left her curtains open so that the light from the street lamp below gave an eerie green glow to the room. The familiar shapes of her room were comforting as she confronted her world turned upside down. Her father wasn’t her father and her mother had never told her. All of a sudden she was somebody different. It was all very well for Grand’mère to say that she was still the same person herself, but she didn’t feel it. She wasn’t the same person who had woken up that morning, sure of who she was and where she came from. Now she felt that part of her was made up of someone else. Parts of her, physical and mental, had been bequeathed to her by someone whom she didn’t know anything about. And she wanted to know; who he was, what he was like, where he came from.

Dinner had passed off quite well. Her favourite foods had been served, a birthday cake ablaze with twenty-one candles had been brought in and the assembled family had sung “Happy Birthday” and “Twenty-One Today”. Not by the slightest glance did Grand’mère, elegantly attired in a black chiffon evening dress with a corsage of tiny white roses, indicate that she and Adelaide had anything else on their minds but the birthday celebrations. No sign came from Richard that anything untoward had happened between them and to all intents and purposes the family party was a great success. He had presented her with her birthday gift in the drawing room where they had all gathered for drinks before dinner. Inside the parcel was a beautiful gold elbow bracelet, broad and heavy, chased with swirling patterns. There were gasps of admiration as she held it up to be admired before she slid it over her elbow where it nestled comfortably, fitting perfectly and drawing attention to the slender shape of her arm.

“It’s really beautiful, Daddy,” she said and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much. I love it. And you’ve put my initials inside and the date. That makes it really special.” But she wondered as she spoke if the “A A-G 9th September 1937” was some sort of statement, a declaration that whoever had been born on 9th September 1916, she was Adelaide Anson-Gravetty now.

As she caught Grand’mère’s eye, she saw a look of approval and shot her a smile.

When her father had stood and raised his glass to propose her health, he had said, “We wish you every happiness, Adelaide. I only wish your mother were here with us tonight to see what a beautiful daughter we have. We wish you health, and happiness for the rest of your days.”

Everyone had stood up and dutifully repeated, “Health and happiness!” as they clinked their glasses, but Adelaide had been touched by Richard’s words, not only was it the first time he had mentioned her mother in months, but also the nearest he had ever come to saying he was proud of her. Perhaps Grand’mère was right; perhaps he had been afraid he might lose the battle against a ghostly, heroic father about whom she might fantasise.

Everyone had stayed overnight, so there was no rush to leave as the hour got late. They sat around in the drawing room talking companionably, at ease as they always had been. No one mentioned the subject that was churning round Adelaide’s brain, though they all must have known that she knew by now.

It was strange, Adelaide thought. Was she the only one whom the revelation affected?

She had looked across at Andrew, who was chatting to Grand’mère, but there had been no chance to have a private word with him.

If he really doesn’t know I’m not Richard’s daughter, what will he say when he finds out, she wondered? I wish I could talk to him.

At last she fell asleep and didn’t wake again until Florrie was tapping on the door with her early tea.

By the time she got down to breakfast, her father was about to leave the table.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said. “Come and find me in the study when you’ve had your breakfast.”

“Yes, of course, I won’t be long,” Adelaide replied. As she ate her toast she wondered what on earth it could be. After all, she’d had her present last night.

When she knocked on the study door twenty minutes later, she found her father at his desk.

He looked up as she came in. “Ah, there you are. I’ve looked this out for you. Your mother wanted you to have these things when you reached twenty-one.”

He pointed to an envelope on the desk, but Adelaide did not pick it up. She said softly, “I know I’m not your real daughter, by blood I mean. But I am your daughter, you know. You are my father, not the man who died in 1916.”

Richard looked up from what he was writing as she spoke but said nothing. Adelaide went on, “You’re the one who’s looked after me all these years. It was you sitting with Mummy by my bed when I came round from having my appendix out. It was you who ran in the fathers’ race at my first school sports.” She paused and when he continued to say nothing she added, “I just wish you’d told me, that’s all.”

Richard shrugged. “I thought it better not to. Your mother agreed. However, we both knew you’d learn in the end, when you came into Sir George’s money.”

“I still wish you’d told me yourself, not left me to discover from a complete stranger,” Adelaide said. She sighed. “I suppose I must get in touch with this Mr Brewer, now.”

“You must do what you think fit,” Richard replied calmly. “You’re of age now.” He turned back to what he had been writing when she’d come in, saying as he did so, “Don’t forget to take your envelope.”

It was her dismissal and Adelaide picked the envelope up. “Thank you, Father.” Quietly she turned and went out of the room; clearly he wanted no displays of affection. He felt he had done his duty by her and now she was on her own.

Adelaide took the envelope to her room, locked the door and sat down in the chair by the window. For a moment she looked down on the square. Only twenty-four hours since she had looked down on it in such hope yesterday morning, the first day of her adult life and yet it seemed a lifetime away.

She slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. Inside there were two documents and another, smaller, sealed envelope. The first of the documents was her birth certificate, naming her Adelaide Sarah, daughter of Heather Hurst and Captain Frederick Charles Hurst (deceased). Born 9th September 1916 at Greyling House, Chalfont St Giles. The second was the certificate of adoption in which she, Adelaide Sarah Hurst, became the legal daughter of Richard David Anson-Gravetty, and her surname was changed to his. It was dated 12th June 1919. She had never asked which year her parents got married. Although she knew that their anniversary fell on 21st April it was never celebrated in any style and it had never dawned on her that they might not have been married until she was nearly three.

Adelaide set the two certificates aside and opened the other envelope. Inside was a letter, written in her mother’s handwriting. The sight of her mother’s neat hand made tears spring to Adelaide’s eyes. She dashed them away and started to read.

My darling Adelaide,

I know I haven’t very long to live. This awful disease has got the better of me, and my time is nearly over. My only real regret is that I shan’t see you grow up into the beautiful young woman I know you will be. You’ll know by now that Richard is my second husband and not your natural father, though he has been as real a father to you as is in his nature. He made me promise not to tell you about Freddie. I know that he was always jealous of the place Freddie might hold in my heart, though he had no need to be, and he was afraid that Freddie might usurp his place with you as well. He also hoped to have children of his own and he thought it would be easier, for you and them, if it were assumed that he was your natural father.

When Freddie was killed, I was on my own. Even with the help of my parents, life was a struggle. I was still very young, with you to consider, and when Richard finally asked me to marry him it was a chance of security for us both and I took it. He is a kind man and even though he doesn’t show his emotions, he loves us both. We’ve both learned to love him too, haven’t we, and thanks to him we’ve had happy and contented lives.

Freddie was a wonderful man; honourable and courageous. He had a wonderful smile, which I’ve seen on your face on many an occasion, and a really infectious laugh, just like yours. You are like him in so many ways, not just in looks, which indeed you are, but mannerisms and character, too.

However, when I look back now I realise I hardly knew him as a husband. We had a whirlwind romance and then three days of married life and that was all. To me he was a figure of great romance, straight from a young girl’s dreams. Handsome and debonair, he swept me off my feet… a brave soldier off to do his bit for King and country. I loved him and he loved me, don’t ever doubt that, but we never had our own home, never delved deeper into each other than our few days together allowed. Richard is my true husband and believe me when I say that despite all the outward signs to the contrary, Richard is a vulnerable man.

On your twenty-first birthday you will come into the money put in trust for you by your grandfather, Freddie’s father, Sir George Hurst. Then you will have to be told about Freddie, but if you feel the need to find out more about him, please be gentle about it. Remember, even though Freddie gave you life, it is Richard who has watched over you as you have lived it. Look after him for me.

God bless you, my darling.

With my love, Mummy

The writing blurred in front of her eyes as Adelaide read. Sitting with the letter in her lap, Adelaide thought about her mother.

Dearest Mummy. She knew she was dying and she wrote to me, even though she knew that I wouldn’t read the letter for another five years.

Adelaide wondered briefly if Richard had read the letter before giving it to her and then chided herself for such an uncharitable thought. It was not in Richard’s nature to do such a dishonourable thing.

Adelaide considered what to do for several days before she finally put in a call to trunks and spoke to Mr Arthur Brewer in Belcaster.

“My dear Miss Anson-Gravetty,” said the voice over the crackling line. “I would be delighted to meet you on Thursday. Will you catch the 10.30 train from Paddington and perhaps you would take luncheon with me after we have concluded our business?”

Adelaide took a taxi from the station to the offices of Brewer, Harben and Brewer and was greeted by a lady of middle years, smartly dressed in a grey suit over a pale blue twin set.

“How do you do, Miss Anson-Gravetty. I am Miss Davenport, Mr Brewer’s secretary. He is expecting you and asked me to show you straight up.” She led the way up some narrow stairs to a room on the first floor. With a brief knock she opened the door and ushered Adelaide in.

“Miss Anson-Gravetty, Mr Brewer.”

An elderly man rose from behind the desk at which he had been sitting and came forward to meet her, his hand outstretched.

“Miss Anson-Gravetty,” he beamed, “how delightful to meet you at last!”

Adelaide shook his hand and was shown to a comfortable seat in front of a smouldering fire. Having asked Miss Davenport to bring coffee, Mr Brewer took a chair opposite her.

“I like to have a fire, even though the days aren’t that cold yet,” he said. “When you get to my age, you know, you feel the cold so much more.” He looked across at her. “May I ask you something, Miss Anson-Gravetty? Did you know about your inheritance before I wrote to you?”

“No, Mr Brewer. It came as a complete shock,” Adelaide replied. “I didn’t know until I received your letter that my father wasn’t my father, if you see what I mean. I knew nothing of Freddie Hurst.”

“Ah,” Mr Brewer sucked his breath in through his teeth. “I was afraid that might be the case. I had hoped that Mr Anson-Gravetty might have told you himself before the letter arrived. It certainly must have come as a shock.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Adelaide agreed. “I had no idea that he wasn’t my real father.”

“It was his wish that we didn’t communicate directly with you and as he is, was, your legal guardian, we had to respect his wishes. However, now you are twenty-one you are responsible for your own affairs.”

“I see,” said Adelaide. “And what are those affairs?”

“Well, apart from a few small bequests, your late grandfather, Sir George Hurst, made you his sole beneficiary. I must tell you, Miss Anson-Gravetty, that you are an extremely rich young woman. The capital has been invested in trust for you and all the accruing interest has been reinvested. It amounts to a tidy sum.”

Adelaide stared at him. “How much?” she asked him softly.

“Well, let me see now,” Mr Brewer reached for a file on his desk and opened it. He pulled out a sheet of figures. “At the last evaluation your portfolio was worth some £75,000.” He glanced at her face and saw the colour had drained from her cheeks. “My dear Miss Anson-Gravetty, are you all right?”

“How much?” whispered Adelaide.

“As I said,” Mr Brewer went on, “you are an extremely rich young woman. The money is now yours to do with as you wish. At present it is invested fairly conservatively, and I suggest, if I may, that you leave things as they are until you’ve had the benefit of some professional advice.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, Mr Brewer, but I can’t quite take all this in.” Adelaide smiled at him weakly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, my dear, we can sort out all the paperwork and then you can take everything with you. I expect you want to discuss things with your father, hmm?”

“Before we do any of that,” Adelaide said, “may I see the actual will?”

Mr Brewer delved in the file again and producing a document, passed it over to her.

Adelaide read it slowly, trying to take in the meaning through all the legal jargon. There was a small bequest of £200 to his housekeeper, a Mrs Norton, and another to the head gardener of £100, and £50 to every person in his employ at the time of his death.

The village green of Charlton Ambrose, where the Hursts lived, was part of The Manor estate, and this plus another parcel of land beyond it was left to the Parish Council to be used for the benefit of the village.

The residue of my estate is left to my granddaughter, Adelaide Sarah Hurst (now Anson-Gravetty) to be held in trust until she attain the age of twenty-one years, when it shall pass to her absolutely. My trustees, the partners in Messrs Brewer, Harben and Brewer, shall administer the trust in any way they see fit during her minority, including the sale of any property, real or otherwise that I own at the time of my death.

Adelaide looked up at Mr Brewer. “I don’t see any mention of his daughter, Sarah, I think she was called. Why didn’t he leave any money to her? Surely she was entitled to half, even if I had Freddie’s half.”

“I believe Sir George did have a daughter called Sarah, but as you say there is no mention of her in the will. It was my father who drew it up. He may know why. He knew Sir George quite well of course, our firm has been his family’s lawyers for three generations.”

“I see,” said Adelaide. But she didn’t. Why would Sir George have neglected to provide for his only daughter? “It doesn’t sound fair,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s so much money there, she should have had some of it.”

“I’m sure there was a good reason,” Mr Brewer said gently. “Sir George knew what he was doing.” When Adelaide made no comment, he went on, “I hope you will find our stewardship satisfactory. We have been in contact with your stepfather on occasion over the years, but once The Manor at Charlton Ambrose had been sold, he left us to manage everything.

“I’m sure you won’t want to take all these documents back with you on the train,” Mr Brewer said when he had been through them with her. “I’ll have them all delivered to you, or your solicitor in London. Our man Dickens will bring everything up by the end of the week. Would that suit you?”

“I haven’t got a solicitor,” Adelaide said. “I think it would be far better if you continued to handle everything for me. You know exactly what there is. All I would like at present is a regular income if that’s possible.”

Mr Brewer looked delighted and assured her that it was.

On the way home on the train Adelaide tried to imagine having seventy-five thousand pounds. The sum was astronomical.

Father knows that I’ve an inheritance, she thought, but does he know the extent of it, I wonder?

2

Mother Marie-Pierre sat at the desk in her office and stared at the letter. Sister Celestine had just brought it in with the other post that had arrived at the convent. It was addressed to Miss Sarah Hurst, a name Mother Marie-Pierre had given up twenty years ago. Seeing it written on the envelope gave her a jolt. She did not recognise the writing. The stamps were English but she had had no contact with England in the last eighteen years. Miss Sarah Hurst. Whoever had written to her clearly did not know her convent name, maybe did not even know that she had one.

Mother Marie-Pierre picked up the letter and, holding it between her two forefingers, spun it gently. There was no name or return address on the back. It was just a white envelope addressed in a well-formed hand. Miss Sarah Hurst. Convent of Our Lady of Mercy. St Croix. The postmark was London and the date many days ago.

Probably because the address was incomplete, thought Mother Marie-Pierre, as she stared at the envelope. It’s been so long since I’ve had a personal letter, I hardly dare open it.

The rest of the post, all addressed to the reverend mother, was convent business, and setting aside the intriguing letter to Miss Hurst, she had concentrated on that business first. Now there was only this one letter unopened. Mother Marie-Pierre closed her eyes in a moment of unspoken prayer and then reaching for her paper knife slit the envelope and drew out the contents.

The single sheet of paper was headed with an address in London, and signed with a flourish, Adelaide Anson-Gravetty.

Dear God, Mother Marie-Pierre thought, it’s from Freddie’s daughter.

She turned back to the top of the letter.

34 Northumberland Square

Kensington

12th October 1937

Dear Aunt Sarah

I hope you don’t mind me addressing you as that even though we have never met. I am your brother Frederick’s daughter and so you are indeed my aunt. I expect you will be surprised to hear from me out of the blue like this, but until my birthday in September, I didn’t know of your existence. On the 9th September I became twenty-one and discovered that I had an inheritance that I knew nothing about, from a grandfather I had never even heard of. I also discovered to my amazement that my father, or rather the man I have believed to be my father all my life, is not. My mother died when I was sixteen and had never told me that she had been married before. I understand from my grandmother that my mother’s second husband adopted me as a two-year-old, but until I came of age I had no knowledge of that either. I have questioned Grand’mère at some length, but she knows little of my father’s family. She simply said that she thought he had a sister in France who was a nun. Mr Arthur Brewer, the solicitor who dealt with my legacy, knew nothing about you but suggested that I speak with his father who used to deal with the family business. He is now retired, but I went to see him. He thought he remembered where the convent was and gave me this address, so I hope he was right and that this finds you.

What I would like to do, Aunt, is to come and see you. Please do say that I may. Until last month I had never heard of either you or my natural father, Frederick. I would love to meet you and hear about him now.

I will await your reply in hope that we shall be able to meet before very long.

Yours sincerely,

Adelaide Anson-Gravetty

Mother Marie-Pierre read and reread the letter and tears came to her eyes. Freddie’s daughter.

She thought back to the last day she had seen Freddie just before he left for Christmas leave in England in 1915. He’d been so young and handsome, and though his face had been drawn and his eyes were weary from his time at the front, while they had been together it was as it had always been while they were children. They had lunched together in the embattled town of Albert and bought each other Christmas presents. She still had the pendant on the silver chain, which he had chosen for her as they wandered the town. She had worn it until the day she took her first vows, the day she ceased to be Sarah Hurst and became Sister Marie-Pierre. Now the pendant lay in its box with her only other private possessions, two photographs, one of her parents on their wedding day and the other of Freddie himself.

Freddie had returned to the front from that leave married to the sister of John Driver, a brother officer. His bride’s name was Heather, but Sarah had never met her.

“I’ll come and see you, sis, as soon as I get any local leave,” Freddie had promised. “I want to show you my wedding photo. I want you to see Heather… I know you’ll love her, too.”

Freddie had never come. He was given no leave in the weeks that ran up to “the big push”, the battle of the Somme, and she never saw him again. Freddie had led his men into the mayhem of the 1st July 1916 and had not returned. Sarah had known that Heather was expecting Freddie’s child and it was with a bitter-sweetness that she heard of the birth of her niece, Adelaide, in September. “A tiny piece of Freddie is living on,” she had written to her father.

In the last months of the war her father had asked Sarah to change her mind about entering the convent where she had been nursing, and come home to him.

“I’ve lost my son,” he wrote, “I’ve lost my granddaughter now that her mother is going to remarry and that man is planning to adopt her. I need you, Sarah. You’re all I have left. At least come home for a while.”

When the war had finally drawn to a close and she could be spared from the convent hospital Sarah decided that she must go and see her father once more. She sought out her aunt, Sister St Bruno, and explained the situation to her. Aunt Anne was sympathetic. She, too, had left home to take up her vocation in the face of a disapproving and reproachful family.

“I think you should go and see him, just once more,” she advised. “He has indeed lost all those most dear to him, and he will be feeling very lonely. I know you will be strong enough to withstand his wishes that you come home, but if you are not, well so be it. Maybe the Lord intends you to stay with him for a while. Go and see Mother. Talk to her about it. She is very wise. She will understand and know what is the best thing for you to do. You are, after all, only a novice. If you wanted to leave the convent, releasing you would not be difficult.”

Sarah took her advice and explained the situation to Reverend Mother.

“I know that God wants me here with you in the convent,” Sarah said, “but I need to see my father once more and explain to him, face to face, why I can’t go home as he wants me to.”

“You must certainly go, Sister,” Reverend Mother said. “If you are sure of your vocation, a trip to England will not change that, and if it does, then you were mistaken in your vocation. You may be absent from the convent for one week. Then you must come back and if necessary we will review the situation.”

Sir George had expected her to return home to Charlton Ambrose, but Sarah had vetoed that. She knew that despite her vocation to be a nun, it would be more difficult to refuse her father if she were back in her childhood home. So it was agreed that they should meet at the home of Sir George’s sister, Lady Horner, in Carver Square.

The last time Sarah had been to stay with her aunt was on her way to France in 1915. When she arrived at the house this time, nothing had changed. She paused on the windswept doorstep and looked round the rather shabby square. It all looked the same and yet her last visit seemed an eternity away. When the door was opened, Roberts, the butler, greeted her in the hall, addressed her as “Miss Sarah” and showed her into Lady Horner’s drawing room, without a flicker of surprise at her unusual dress.

Her father was waiting for her alone in the room. As she was announced he rose unsteadily to his feet and looked across at his daughter, his beloved Sarah, swathed in a floor-length black robe and her face framed by a starched wimple and headdress.

She paused on the threshold, smiling uncertainly. “Pop…?” She held out her hands and then as he still made no move, she crossed the room to him, and took his hands in hers. For a moment her eyes searched his face. He looked older, much older. His eyes had sunk into their sockets, his skin was parchment, his grey hair wispy and thin.

“Pop,” she said again. “Dearest Pop, aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Sarah.” His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. “Sarah, I can’t bear to see you dressed like that.”

“It’s still me inside, Pop,” she said gently, and reached up to kiss his cheek. Her hood got in the way and he made an impatient exclamation.

“For God’s sake, Sarah,” he said, “can’t you take that damned headgear off so I can get a proper look at you?”

Sarah had known it would be difficult for him, but she hadn’t realised just how difficult. With trembling hands she unbuttoned her collar and removed the starched headdress, revealing her hair cropped short underneath, a ragged urchin cut, kept short with an unconcerned slash of the scissors.

“Oh Sarah, what have they done to your beautiful hair?” he cried.

“It’s more comfortable to keep it short, Pop,” she said shakily, “and no one can see how it looks.” It had taken Sarah, herself, some time to come to terms with the loss of her hair. When she had first gone to the convent it was long and thick, and had to be bundled up out of the way under her nurse’s cap.

She had put her arms round him then, an awkward embrace until he had suddenly returned it with a crushing hug.

“If you would like me to change, Father,” Sarah said softly, “I have permission to wear my old skirt and blouse within the house.”

“Permission!” Sir George almost shouted the word, and then as suddenly his shoulders sagged and he said quietly, “It would please me to see you once more as you were when you left… except for…” he waved a hand in the direction of her hair.

Sarah went to her room and removed the long black habit, replacing it with the white blouse and grey skirt that she had worn for nursing in the convent hospital. She stared at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t seen her face since she had taken the veil of a novice. She looked much the same, she decided, though her short hair gave her face a different shape from when it had been crowned with a tumble of dark curls. In the days before the war she could look very sophisticated with her hair swept up off her face, emphasising her slender neck. Now she looked like a scrubbed-up charity child.

Feeling almost undressed in her plain skirt and blouse, she returned to the drawing room where her father awaited her and where Roberts had brought in the tea tray.

They had sat down and talked then, mostly about Freddie and the wife and child he had left behind.

“Heather is marrying again,” Sir George told her. “Some chap in the city. I understand he’s planning to adopt little Adelaide.”

“Perhaps that’s the best thing for them both,” Sarah replied. “Freddie wouldn’t have wanted Heather to spend the rest of her life alone, would he?”

Sir George sighed. “Maybe not, but it’s hard to see your son replaced so quickly.”

“It’s not that quickly, Pop,” Sarah answered gently. “It’s almost three years since he died. Adelaide will be three in September, she needs a father. Freddie wouldn’t have wanted to deny her that.”

“She needs a grandfather, too,” said the old man bitterly, “but they never come down to Charlton Ambrose to see me. The only times I’ve seen my granddaughter are when I’ve come up to London expressly to do so. I am allowed to visit her at her maternal grandparents’ home for half an hour, always in their company. It’s as if they thought I was going to run off with her.”

“Shall I be able to meet Heather and Adelaide while I’m here?” asked Sarah eagerly.

Sir George shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. They’re visiting friends in Derbyshire.”

“Didn’t you let them know I was coming?” asked Sarah in dismay. “Didn’t you tell them I was coming? You must have known I’d want to see Adelaide.”

“I told them,” Sir George said heavily. “I said that you’d want to see Adelaide, but they said they were engaged to join a house party for a week in Derbyshire and felt it would be rude to cry off.”

“The very week that I am able to come home?” asked Sarah, incredulous.

“Precisely,” said Sir George. “This is what I am saying. We are to be cut out of that child’s life. This Richard Anson-Gravetty is to be her father now. Freddie is to be forgotten.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and he looked away. Sarah longed to hug him and comfort him, but she knew that he might break down and would be ashamed of such weakness, so she simply waited in silence for him to regain his composure.

Sarah stayed for five days in Carver Square. She didn’t leave the house as that would have required her to don her habit once more, and she knew her father hated to see her in it. They spent their days talking, talking as they had never talked in all their years. Both of them realised that this would be the last time they saw each other in this world, and each of them clung to every minute.

Then, at last, on her final evening in London Sir George grasped the nettle. “You won’t be coming home again, will you, Sarah?”

They were sitting on either side of the fireplace and Sarah looked across at him with tears in her eyes. “No, Pop darling, I shan’t.”

The endearment, so unusual between them, was nearly his undoing, but he managed to maintain his countenance. “Then we must discuss what will happen when I die.”

Sarah stared at him uncomprehendingly. This turn of conversation was entirely unexpected.

“There is no one to inherit the title. I suspect if Adelaide had been a boy they wouldn’t have been so quick to change her name. Still, be that as it may, I intend to make her my heir in everything else. You will be provided for now. I am going to give you a dowry for your convent, and that will be now, not in my will. Everything else I shall leave in trust for young Adelaide, to be hers absolutely on her twenty-first birthday, but I shall choose the trustees. That man shall not get his hands on her money at any stage.”

“Is he really as bad as you make him out to be?” asked Sarah.

“Probably not,” admitted her father, “but he’s a damned cold fish. I am sure it is he that prevents Heather bringing the child to see me. He wants nothing to do with her former husband’s family. He’d probably prefer Heather without the child, but even she wouldn’t hear of that, meek little thing though she is. Can’t think what Freddie saw in her!”

“Pop,” said Sarah, “you must do whatever you think is right for Adelaide. It is very generous of you to give me a dowry for the convent. I know you don’t want me to go back, but it’s where I belong.”

Sir George looked away again and murmured, “On that we shall have to agree to differ, my child.”

Wanting to change the subject, Sarah said, “Do you know how Molly is? Molly Day and her baby?”

“I have no idea,” replied Sir George brusquely. “She came home in disgrace, and as far as I know she lives with her parents. She was very lucky they didn’t throw her out. Not only was she expecting, it turned out that the father was a coward and a deserter. Did you know that, Sarah? The man was shot; shot for running away in the face of the enemy. What sort of man is that? What sort of father is that for a child?”

Sarah knew that this was not an accurate account of events, but realised it would be no use to explain what had really happened to the father of Molly’s child. She had been going to ask Sir George if he could see his way to giving Molly a little cash, but it was clear from his expression that he would never entertain that idea. It had been an unfortunate choice of subject and Sarah tried to turn him to another.

“How are things generally in the village?” she asked. She knew he took his duties as squire very seriously, and cared about the people of Charlton Ambrose.

“I’m making a memorial to Freddie and the other men who went to the war from the village and didn’t come back,” he told her. “I’m going to plant some trees on the village green, at the far end. One for each man who died. That way they’ll never be forgotten. It’ll be a living memorial. What do you think of that idea?”

Tears sprang to Sarah’s eyes. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Pop. A living memorial.”

Sarah had left the next day, dressed in her nun’s habit. Sir George did not accompany her to the station, they took their leave in Lady Horner’s drawing room. Their final embrace was an awkward one, cut off as she was inside her wimple and headdress, but as she finally pulled away, Sir George said gruffly, “You’re as darned obstinate as your mother, but she’d have been proud of you, Sarah, as proud of you as I am.” With that he strode out of the room, leaving Sarah to carry her small bag out to the taxi he had called to take her to Victoria. She knew she would never see him again, and tears streamed down her face all the way to the station.

She had been right, within eighteen months Sir George had been dead, and she had made her final vows. When the news of her father’s death came, Sarah wrote to Adelaide, but she received no reply. She had heard from no one in England since that day.

Now she had this letter from Adelaide herself, asking to meet her, asking about Freddie.

Sarah drew a sheet of paper towards her and began to write: “My dear Adelaide…”

3

The train chuffed fussily through the flat French countryside, stopping at small stations along the way. Adelaide looked out of the window. It was the first time she had travelled abroad by herself and she felt it was quite an adventure. She had considered hiring a car and driver when she got off the boat, after all, she could well afford to do so now, but she decided it would be more fun to take the local train and soak up the flavour of the country and its people.

As the fields and villages passed by, a living tapestry of French life, she thought about her aunt, living in her convent at St Croix. She had turned out to be the reverend mother, for goodness’ sake! Would she be very religious? Would she understand why Adelaide wanted to see her, cut off as she had been from the world for more than twenty years? Adelaide was longing to meet her father’s sister, but it was a longing touched with a certain amount of trepidation.

At last the train drew into the station at Albert, and clutching her suitcase, Adelaide got off and made her way outside. In the station yard, she managed to find a taxi to take her to St Croix. It was an elderly Citroën driven by a stout man, his coat stretched across his midriff and a black beret perched on his bald head. He put her small suitcase into the boot and then held the door as she climbed into the car.

“St Croix, you say?” he asked as he squeezed himself in behind the steering wheel.

“Yes, please,” Adelaide said, settling herself into the battered seat. “To the convent.”

The driver eyed her curiously in the mirror. “You wish to join the sisters?” he asked.

Adelaide laughed. “No, Monsieur. I am merely visiting!”

The taxi drove into St Croix, passing through the square and then along a winding lane to the convent itself, which stood four storeys high overlooking the village below.

What a forbidding place, thought Adelaide as she looked up at the bleak, grey stone walls towering above her. Almost like a fortress.

The taxi dropped her at the main entrance and she walked up the steps to the old oak front door. With its iron hinges and grille, it looked more like a castle gate than the entrance to a convent. Adelaide paused for a moment, and then, drawing a deep breath, tugged on the iron bell-pull. She could hear the bell clanging away in the distance, but almost at once the grille in the door opened and a face peered out.

“May I help you?” The question was, of course, posed in French and Adelaide happily answered in the same.

“Oh, yes please. My name is Adelaide Anson-Gravetty, I’ve come to see Reverend Mother.”

There was a scrape of bolts being drawn, the door swung open and Adelaide was greeted by a small nun who peered at her anxiously. “Mademoiselle Adelaide? I am Sister Celestine. Yes, Mother is expecting you. Please come this way.”

Adelaide followed Sister Celestine across the stone-flagged hall and along a corridor. There was no decoration on its stone walls and despite her warm overcoat, Adelaide felt even colder than she had outside. The nun led her up a flight of stairs and opened the door to a small room at one end of a long corridor.

“Here is your room, Mademoiselle. I have put hot water in the jug so that you may wash after your journey. There is a lavatory at the other end of the passage. If you will make yourself comfortable, I will come back in fifteen minutes and take you to Mother. In the meantime, I will tell her you have arrived.” So saying Sister Celestine stepped aside to allow Adelaide into the cell-like bedroom, and then closed the door behind her.

Adelaide tossed her case onto the narrow bed, and having shed her hat and coat, crossed to the window to look out. Below her was a courtyard, circled by a high stone wall. Outside this was a field with woodland beyond and over to one side another, walled area, with a tall stone cross at its gate; a cemetery perhaps. The sky was grey and overcast and the view rather depressing. Shivering, Adelaide turned back into the room to find the jug of water Sister Celestine had promised. It stood on the top of a chest of drawers, steam rising from it, and folded neatly beside it was a small white towel. Adelaide washed her hands and face, brushed her hair and paid a quick visit to the lavatory at the end of the corridor. There was no mirror in the room, but she squinted into the small mirror on her powder compact and smiled encouragingly at her reflection.

It’s ridiculous to be nervous, she told herself firmly. She’s your father’s sister, and even if she has turned out to be Reverend Mother, she’s your aunt, Sarah.

She chewed on her lips to give them a little more colour, not liking to wear lipstick within the convent, and awaited the return of her guide.

She did not have long to wait. There was tap on the door and on her calling “Come in,” Sister Celestine peered round the door.

“Mother is ready to see you now,” she said and led the way into the depths of the huge, grey building.

Eventually the nun paused outside a door and knocked gently. A bell sounded from within and she opened the door.

“Mademoiselle Adelaide is here, Mother,” she said and stood aside for Adelaide to enter.

“Thank you, Sister.” The voice was soft, with an interesting lilt. “Would you bring us some tea, please.”

Adelaide walked into the room and found herself facing a middle-aged nun, rising from a desk and smiling across the room at her.

“Adelaide,” she said, her eyes alight with pleasure. “You’ve really come.”

“Aunt Sarah?” began Adelaide and then hesitated. “I’m sorry, perhaps I should call you Reverend Mother?” Her voice rose interrogatively as she paused just inside the door.

“Just Sarah, I think,” replied the nun cheerfully. “You’re almost the only one in the world who can call me by that name. Come in, come in and sit down. I’ve had them make up the fire so we can be comfortable.” She indicated two chairs, one on either side of a tiny fireplace in which smouldered a small log. Despite the fire, the room was chilly, but Sarah did not seem to notice. “I hope Sister Celestine has shown you your room and made you comfortable.” She added with a laugh, “It’s a tiny room I’m afraid, but you’re luckier than I was when I first arrived, I had to share it!”

“It’s fine, thank you,” Adelaide replied, still standing a little awkwardly by the door.

“Come here, my dear. Let me look at you,” Sarah said. She took Adelaide’s hands in hers and turned her face to the light of the window. “My dearest girl,” she said with a break in her voice, “you could be your father.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Sarah with tears in her eyes, then as if suddenly recollecting herself she said, “I’m sorry, Adelaide, do come to the fire and sit down. Sister Celestine will bring us some tea directly, I’m sure you’d like something warm to drink after your long journey. Tea is the one thing I have allowed myself as a treat since I became Reverend Mother. The sisters indulge me, and, I think, smile at my English ways behind my back.”

Adelaide suddenly realised that they had, quite naturally, been speaking in French. She said, “Aunt… Sarah, how do you come to be a nun in a French convent?”

“That, my child, is a long story and bound up with the story of your father, too. I will tell you, of course, but let’s have our tea first. I think I hear Sister Celestine at the door.” Sure enough there was a light tap on the door, which swung open, and Sister Celestine struggled in with a tray, which she set down on the desk. On it were a teapot and two cups and saucers.

“Thank you, Sister,” Reverend Mother said, and with a bob of her head the nun left the room.

“I hope you can drink tea without milk,” Sarah said as she poured them each a cup of tea. “If the French ever drink tea it is almost always without milk!”

When they were sitting on either side of the fire, Sarah stared across at her niece, her eyes drinking her in as if she couldn’t get enough of her. Adelaide sipped her tea, and said nothing, allowing her to look.

“Adelaide, I am so glad you wrote,” Sarah said at last. “I have had no news from England since my father died in 1920. That’s a very long time. I did write to you at the time, but of course you were only a tiny child then and you wouldn’t remember the letter.”

Adelaide smiled ruefully. “I doubt if I ever got it, Aunt Sarah,” she said. “I think my father… my adoptive father… didn’t want me to know that he wasn’t my natural father. As I explained in my letter, I only found out about Freddie and you on my twenty-first birthday.”

“I can understand that he wanted you to think of him as your real father,” Sarah said. “But I think he was misguided. A person needs to know where she comes from.”

“I think so too,” agreed Adelaide, “which is why I am here now. I want to know about Freddie’s family. I am afraid I’ve come to think of him as Freddie in the last few weeks. Father still means the father I’ve grown up with.”

“Of course it does,” Sarah agreed, “and so it should. He has been your father all your life. But Freddie is there too.” She smiled across at Adelaide again, saying, “You really are so like him, especially when you smile. Did your mother see it, I wonder?”

“She said so,” Adelaide replied, “in the letter I was given on my birthday. I’ve brought it with me, in case you wanted to read it.”

Sarah shook her head. “No, Adelaide, I’m sure it is far too personal, but I am so glad so much of Freddie lives on in you.”

The late afternoon light began to fade as they sat and drank their tea and Sarah lit the lamp that stood on a stand behind her desk. A bell began to toll in the distance and Sarah got to her feet. “I have to go to the chapel now for vespers. If you would like to join us, please do. If not, you can wait here and after vespers I will come and fetch you for the evening meal. After that, in recreation, we’ll be able to talk properly for a while.”

“I think I would like to come to the chapel with you, if that’s all right. My mother was a Catholic too, and though I don’t go to Mass as often as I should, I have been brought up in the faith.”

Reverend Mother smiled. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “Follow me.”

She led the way through the winding corridors of the convent, joining with a flow of sisters heading towards the chapel. Adelaide was shown to a seat at the back, and she watched with interest as the sisters filed into their stalls. Before the nuns began to sing their office, there was a scuffling of feet and five children were led into the chapel by a flustered-looking novice. They sat down on a row of chairs just in front of Adelaide. Four of them were girls and all dressed the same in grey skirts, white blouses and pinafores. Each had her hair tied back off her face and each wore a white cap on her head. The fifth was a boy, aged about seven, with closely cropped hair that stood in a tuft at the back of his head.

“They’re our orphans,” Sarah told her when, after a supper of soup, bread and cheese, they repaired once more to her office. “After the war there were several children in the village who were left without fathers. One poor mother asked if we would accept her nine-year-old daughter as a novice. She had five other children and nothing to feed them with.

“Reverend Mother at the time refused to take the child as a novice, she was far too young, but she did agree to give her a home until she was old enough to make up her own mind. That made other families want to do the same. Three of our children were truly orphans, passed on to us by an aunt who couldn’t cope. Once the word got round that we accepted children, several have been deposited on our doorstep… what my father would have called children of shame!”

“And you took them all in?”

“Of course. Where else could the poor mites go? I was asked by Mother to look after them, to see to their day-to-day care and teach them, so that one day, should they choose to leave the convent, they would be able to earn their living in the world.”

“Did you want to do that?” asked Adelaide with interest. “I thought you were a nurse.”

Sarah laughed. “I was, after a fashion, but never a good one. Oh, I could scour bedpans and make beds, but the real nursing was left to those much more skilled than I. Anyway, as the wounded soldiers finally went home there was less call on our little hospital. No, I was delighted to take on the children. Our mother house in Paris also has an orphanage, and so it was well within the work of our order.”

“And you’ve had orphans ever since?” asked Adelaide.

Sarah sighed. “They still turn up on our doorstep from time to time. We’ve never turned one away. I don’t have the daily care of them now. That is the work of Sister Danielle. She, and one of the novices, Sister Marie-Joseph, take care of them now, and they go to the village school, so that they are part of the local community.”

“And the hospital? Has that gone? Are you no longer a nursing order?” asked Adelaide.

“After the war, when the last of our wounded had been sent home, a new, small hospital was built just outside the walls. Just two wards, one for men and the other for women. That is where we still nurse the local people, and look after the dying. During the war there were huts in the courtyard outside, dreadful, ramshackle affairs, but we needed the space then and they were better than nothing. Those, I’m glad to say, have gone. They were pulled down when the new hospital was built.” She sighed. “We’re kept busy enough, but nothing like the flood of wounded that came back from the front.”

“Tell me about my father,” Adelaide said. “Tell me about Freddie.”

Sarah smiled reminiscently. “Dear Freddie. He was the best of brothers. Our mother died when our younger brother, James, was born. He didn’t survive either, so there was my father and just the two of us. We were very close. When Freddie joined up in 1914 I missed him dreadfully, and when he wrote to us telling us of the dreadful state of affairs in the hospitals behind the lines, I persuaded my father to let me come, with my maid, Molly, to help nurse the wounded.”

“But why here?” asked Adelaide.

“Because nowhere else would have me! I was too young to join the VAD and anyway they wouldn’t have let me come to France for years. I wanted to be there straight away, to help. I’d done some Red Cross training and I thought I could be of use.” She gave a short laugh. “It turned out that my maid, Molly, was far more useful than I was. She knew how to make a bed, to do laundry, to scrub floors. And as it happened, she turned out to be a natural nurse.”

“But why here?” persisted Adelaide. “Why this convent?”

“Because my aunt was already here. My mother’s younger sister had joined the convent while I was still a child. It was she who persuaded the reverend mother that I could come and help. Persuading my father was the hardest part, but I finally managed it. So Molly and I came, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“What happened to Molly? Is she a nun too?”

Sarah laughed. “No, not Molly! She was decidedly Protestant. She didn’t approve of all this Popery at all. She only came with me because I pressed her to. My father really wouldn’t have allowed me to come completely alone.” Sarah sighed. “No, poor Molly fell in love with one of her patients, and when he… died… she was sent home in disgrace because she was expecting his child.”

“How sad!” Adelaide said. “What happened to her?”

“She went home to her parents and had the baby there. It wasn’t a happy household. When I took my vows I sent her all the money I had left. It wasn’t much, but I hoped it would give her a chance to break free and live her own life.”

“So where is she now?” asked Adelaide, fascinated by this story.

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve had no news of her since my father died. I have written of course, but I’ve never received a reply. I don’t think she can have received my letters or I am sure she would have answered.” She gave a shake of the head. “Now, I have something else to tell you, which I hope will please you. Your great-aunt, my mother’s sister, is still alive and here in the convent. She is almost bedridden now, poor dear, but her mind is as sharp as ever. I’ve told her you’re coming and she asked me to bring you up to see her before compline.”

Adelaide stared at her for a moment. “You mean I’ve another aunt alive that I knew nothing about?”

Sarah nodded and rose to her feet. “Sister St Bruno. Your Great-Aunt Anne. Come and meet her.”

Together they went through the convent, past the common room where Adelaide heard several of the nuns gathered for their hour of recreation and upstairs to a small room on the first floor. Sarah tapped on the door and then opened it, peeping round before going in.

“Are you awake, Sister?” she asked softly.

“Of course, Mother, please come in.”

Sarah opened the door wide and ushered Adelaide into the room. An elderly woman was sitting up in bed, a shawl over her head and another round her thin shoulders. Glasses were perched on her nose and she had an open Bible on the bed beside her.

“I’ve brought Adelaide to see you, Sister. You know, Freddie’s daughter. Adelaide, this is your Great-Aunt Anne.”

“Freddie’s daughter… Charlotte’s granddaughter.” The voice was so soft that Adelaide could hardly hear the words, but she crossed the room to the old woman’s bedside and reached for her hands. Thin and papery though they were, they gripped hers fiercely as the old nun peered up into her face. “You have the look of Charlotte,” she said.

“Sarah… Reverend Mother… says I look like Freddie,” said Adelaide.

“She may be right,” agreed her aunt, “but I hardly knew him. No, you have Charlotte’s eyes, though your colouring is not quite the same.” She patted the bed and said, “Will you sit with me for a few minutes? Mother, I’m sure you can spare her.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. “I’ll come and collect you just before compline.” She smiled at her aunt. “Now don’t tire yourself, Sister, Adelaide will come and see you again tomorrow, I promise. She’s staying with us for three days.”

Adelaide sat on the bed as directed and smiled at the old lady. “It must be very strange to call your niece ‘Mother’,” she said.

“Not really,” replied Sister St Bruno. “There is always a reverend mother, just now it happens to be my niece. She has only just been elected, but I think she will make a good job of it. She is well respected by the sisters, despite the fact that she’s English. Most of them have forgotten that by now anyway. She is strong and stands up for what she believes.” The old lady laughed. “She wouldn’t be here at all if she hadn’t stood up to her father on more than one occasion. No, I think the convent is in good hands while she is Reverend Mother, and that is how I address her… in public.”

Adelaide smiled. “And she calls you Sister.”

“She has done so ever since she took the veil. It is as it should be.” The old lady gave a conspiratorial smile. “Except when we’re alone, then we’re Sarah and Aunt Anne.”

“Will you tell me about my grandmother, your sister, Charlotte?”

“Ah, Charlotte, she was another very strong-minded one…”

When Sarah came back to collect her, Adelaide could hardly believe she had been sitting by the old nun’s bedside for nearly half an hour.

“She’ll come and see you again tomorrow, I promise,” Sarah said as she took her aunt’s hand and tucked it under the covers. “God bless you, Sister.”

That night Adelaide lay in the narrow bed in the room her aunt had shared with her maid Molly all those years ago and thought about all she had learned that day. What a day! Two new relations, both full of stories about their family… her family. Telling her of Freddie, her father, the man with dark hair and dark eyes so like her own; whose smile matched her own.

Sarah had shown her a faded snapshot of Freddie, not in his uniform, but in comfortable country clothes in the garden of his own home, petting his dog and grinning up at the camera. Even Adelaide could see the likeness between them, and she felt an ache in her heart that she had never known this laughing man, her father.

She heard of a man with all his life before him, who had led his men into the trenches and beyond. Of the war; of the courage of two young women, setting off to a foreign hospital to “do their bit” for King and country; of the horrors they had found and the wounded they had nursed. Adelaide was amazed by their courage, their stamina, their devotion to duty. She wondered as she drifted off to sleep, could she have ever done something like that?

The next two days Adelaide spent exploring the village and surrounding countryside. Although it was November and the days were short, it was relatively mild and the wintry sun still probed the drifting clouds. She walked along the riverbank, and drank coffee in the little café called Le Chat Noir on the village place. She attended several services in the convent chapel. She talked to the orphans when they came home from the village school, playing ludo and snakes and ladders and telling them stories. After the midday meal she spent some time with Sister St Bruno, her Great-Aunt Anne, and heard childhood stories of her grandmother. During recreation she sat with Sarah and listened to tales of her father, his exploits as a boy, his experiences in the trenches, his brief courtship of her mother, and wished that she had had the chance to know them all. It was on such an evening as this that she brought up the question of the money she had inherited.

“I’ve seen the will,” she told Sarah, “and it worries me. There’s no mention of you in it. Surely your father should have left half what he had to you.”

Sarah took her hand. “Bless you,” she said, “but there’s no need to worry about that. My father provided for me when he was still alive.” And she told Adelaide about her trip to London at the end of the war. “He was determined that the money should come to you and that no one else should have any control over it once you were of age. So, my dear, have it, enjoy it, use it for good. That’s what he really wanted for you. Remember, he was a charitable man. Follow in his footsteps and he would be proud of you.”

On the last morning, when she was due to leave the convent, Adelaide sat with Sarah for the last time.

Sarah opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a box. Inside it was the photo of Freddie that Adelaide had already seen. Sarah held it out to her niece.

“You must take this,” she said. “It is important that you have a picture of your father to keep.”

Adelaide didn’t take the snapshot, but shook her head. “No, thank you. You must keep it,” she insisted. “It’s yours.”

“No,” Sarah said firmly. “I can remember what he looked like very well. You must have it… and this, too.” She took something else out of the box and held it out to Adelaide. It was a silver pendant on a chain. Sarah placed it in Adelaide’s hand and closed her fingers over it.

“Freddie gave it to me on the last day that I saw him,” she said. “I would like you to have it now.” And, as Adelaide began to protest, she went on, “I can’t wear it, Adelaide, it is a waste for me to keep it in a box. It gave me great pleasure when he gave it to me, and I wore it all the time, but since I can’t wear it and enjoy it anymore I would like you to wear it for me. See, the pendant is a St Christopher… to keep you safe.”

“Sarah… what can I say?” Adelaide looked at the photo and the pendant, all she had left of her father, all Sarah had left of her brother.”

“They’re yours,” Sarah said firmly. “And don’t worry,” she added with a twinkle, “I’ve kept the one of my parents… and that’s as it should be.”

As Adelaide went down the steps to the waiting taxi, she turned back to see her aunt, the reverend mother of the convent of Our Lady of Mercy, watching her go. Her final words still rang in Adelaide’s ears. “Remember, my dearest girl, that though we may see very little of each other, you are very dear to me and will be in my prayers. Write to me, Adelaide, and tell me of your life. Let me know when Freddie has grandchildren.”

Adelaide had laughed at that. “That’s a long way off, I’m afraid,” she said.

“Even so, keep in touch so that I have news of you and can pass it on to Sister St Bruno.”

As the taxi drew away Adelaide found she had tears in her eyes. She dashed them away. How stupid to cry, she thought. I’ve found a new family. That’s nothing to cry about!

4

All day long there had been the distant sound of aeroplanes, the thunder of artillery and the rattle of machine guns from the advancing armies of the Reich combined with the last desperate efforts of the allied armies to hold them at bay.

The sound of gunfire reverberated across the countryside, and on every road there were retreating troops, ambulances carrying the wounded, and adding to the confusion of the retreat were the civilian refugees. These straggled along the roads, a slow-moving stream of humanity heading westward, pushing their worldly goods in prams, wheelbarrows and handcarts. Mothers wheeled small children perched on the saddles and crossbars of ancient bicycles; older children carried babies or led their younger brothers and sisters by the hand as they struggled along the road. The very old and the very young, the most vulnerable, trudging together in the vain hope of outrunning the invading Germans. The air was alive with Heinkels, harrying those in retreat, so that the retreating soldiers and the fleeing refugees continually had to dive in panic for the scant cover of hedge or ditch at the roadside. With no opposition, the planes screamed out of the sky, their machine guns strafing the columns winding slowly along the roads, tracer ripping through civilians and military alike.

Dead and wounded littered the road. The dead left to lie where they had fallen, the wounded struggling on as best they could, supported by their comrades or their friends. Few had any doubts as to the outcome of the German advance; many had already tasted their merciless brutality as they had torn through towns and villages, the Panzers advancing, clearing the road in front of them with indiscriminate shells.

The Leon family was among the refugees. They were making for Bordeaux where Mathilde Leon had cousins. Her husband, Marc, was in the army, but she hadn’t heard from him for weeks and didn’t even know if he were alive or dead. As the Germans flooded over the border, she had decided that they must leave their home, taking only what they could pile into the baby’s pram and try to get to what she hoped was the safety of her cousin Jacques’ home. She had heard what had been happening to the Jews in Germany, and she knew that if they remained where they were, they would be in the most desperate danger when the Germans arrived. Already their little shop had had its windows broken and daubed with paint, and that wasn’t even by Germans but by one of their French neighbours. Mathilde didn’t know who had done it, none of her neighbours had appeared to care before that the Leons were Jews, but now? She decided it was a sign of the times, and the times to come, and for the children’s sake she felt that they should try and get away to safety. She could only hope that they would be safer with Jacques, but in any case she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

They had tried to stay off the main roads. Mathilde didn’t want her little family to become mixed up with the columns of soldiers who seemed to be in full retreat before the oncoming German tanks. She would have preferred to have travelled at night, but it was hard enough to keep moving in the daylight along roads they didn’t know, through villages where they were greeted with hostile stares. David, her eldest, was doing his best to be the man of the family, but he was only nine and could do little to help except hold his younger sister, Catherine’s, hand and sing her songs to keep her going. Mathilde herself had baby Hannah hoisted on her hip in a sling, and was pushing the pram that contained their scant supply of food and water and a few clothes for each of them.

When they reached the town of Albert, they found it seething with refugees like themselves, and Mathilde decided that they might do better to travel in a larger group. There were other Jewish families and, even in the crowd, there was mutual recognition. They huddled together, aware that they were being eyed suspiciously by those around them. That night they all slept together in the bus station. There were no buses, but at least it gave them some shelter from the drizzle that had been drenching them all day.

Mathilde gave her children some bread and a sliver of cheese each, and tried to beg some milk for the baby. The little she had been able to bring with her had soon run out, for Hannah had a healthy appetite.

One woman, who seemed to be alone, took pity on her and poured a little milk into a cup.

“Here you are,” she said as she handed it over. “It’s all I can spare, but it’ll give the poor little mite something in her stomach.”

“Thank you, you are so kind,” said Mathilde. “Let me give you this in return.” And she passed over the crust of bread that would have been her own supper.

The other woman took it, thanking her gravely. “We must hope we can find more food tomorrow,” she said. “Albert is quite big. There must be some shops that still have food to sell.”

Very early in the morning, with hunger gnawing at her insides, Mathilde took the children away from the others into a small park. Here she told David to sit with his sister and not to move while she went to try and find some food.

The little boy nodded solemnly and sat on the ground with his back against a wall, Catherine on the grass beside him. Mathilde dare not leave the pram in the sole charge of a nine-year-old boy, anyone might take it from him, so with some misgivings she placed Hannah in the pram on top of their worldly goods, and made ready to push it ahead of her as she went in search of food.

“Whatever happens, don’t move,” Mathilde told him. “Stay here until I get back. Promise me now. I shan’t be long.”

David promised and, with an anxious glance over her shoulder, Mathilde set off into the town to find them something to eat.

She was gone the best part of an hour, but when she returned there was a loaf of bread tucked into the pram beside Hannah. This she tore into pieces and gave to the two older children. For Hannah she tore the crumb out from the crust and soaking it in a little of their precious water, made it into a soggy pap that Hannah could suck from her mother’s fingers. The crust she ate herself.

The town was awake now and people were going about their business. Many of the other refugees had already moved on, and Mathilde was anxious to leave as well. While searching for food she had become aware of the sidelong glances people were giving her, not exactly open hostility, but obvious mistrust. It was time to get out of this terrified town. She knew they had to travel westwards, so with the sun at her back she took the road out of town. The going was slow, the road uneven and very bumpy for the pram. With Hannah on her hip, she let the other children take turns riding in the pram, and that way they moved a little faster than the previous day. Even so, she knew that they had to keep stopping to rest or the children would never keep going.

Once they heard planes high overhead, and Mathilde looked round wildly for some cover, but there was none. The land stretched away in all directions, flat and almost featureless except for a line of poplar trees away in the distance and the occasional straggling farm buildings. However, the planes were quite high and droned away into the clouds to the north of them. She could hear intermittent gunfire from that direction too, and once there was a big boom as if something had blown up, but it seemed some distance away and she tried not to think about it.

As the morning progressed they began to catch up with other refugees who had set out earlier than they had. Old men and women, young mothers like her with children at their skirts, all plodding along the same straight road. Far ahead they could see the roofs of a village, above which towered a tall, grey stone building with a turret on one end, a chateau perhaps.

We’ll stop there for a proper rest, Mathilde thought, and try to get something else to eat. Maybe there’s a farm that will be able to sell us a little milk for Hannah. But it would be at a price, she knew that, and her small supply of cash was dwindling at an alarming speed. Everything cost so much… and the price tended to rise when the person who was selling knew you were desperate.

They were travelling in a much larger group now, about forty or fifty people strung out along the lane leading into the village. The road was edged with shallow drainage ditches, and above these were low hedges on either side to keep the cattle safely in their fields.

Thank God, Mathilde thought fervently. If there are cattle in the fields there must be milk to buy.

Suddenly the air seemed to explode around them and from nowhere two planes screamed out of the sky, guns blazing as they dived low, skimming the hedgerows and strafing the meandering line of refugees. With a scream Mathilde grabbed Catherine from her place in the pram, and, shrieking David’s name, flung herself to the ground, rolling towards the illusory shelter of the hedge. Tracer bullets, bouncing, fiery red, ricocheted off the road, ripping through the panicking people. The planes roared up and away, spiralling into the sky, only to turn again and make another murderous pass low over the people scattered in the road. The rattle of the guns and the howl of the engines created a terrifying blast of sound, drowning the shrieks and cries of their victims below. Mathilde had rolled onto Hannah who had been riding on her hip and the baby, now beneath her in the ditch, was screaming. Catherine fell from her mother’s arms landing head first in the hedge, and David, who had been walking a little way ahead, had turned to stare up at the planes, until his mother’s agonised scream had made him too dive for cover. The planes came in low, spraying their helpless victims with gunfire, the shriek of their engines almost more terrifying than the barrage of bullets. This time when they were clear, they did not come back, but thundered off into the sky leaving chaos on the ground behind them. In less than two minutes they had reduced the line of refugees to a confused mass of dead, dying and wounded.

People were screaming and crying as the agonies of the wounded rose in their throats. David could hear Hannah howling, and whimpering himself, he crawled to where he could see his mother sheltering in the hedge. Only his mother made no move to calm or quiet the bellowing baby, she lay on her side, her body on top of Hannah, and beside her lay Catherine, one arm flung out as if she were reaching for something.

“Maman, Maman,” he wailed, pulling at his mother’s arm. She rolled over and looked up at him, but her eyes didn’t look right. They were staring at him, but they weren’t smiling at him or even crying with shock or pain. The crying was coming from Hannah, still crushed under her mother’s body, the body that had saved her life at the cost of its own. Still not understanding what had happened, David continued to shake his mother to make her look at him properly and not in that staring way. But she didn’t move and her eyes still gazed up into his face.

“Maman, you must move, you’re squashing Hannah,” he told her. “You’re making her cry!” When his mother still didn’t move, he pulled at her and managed to move her shoulders so that she tipped to one side and he was able to pull Hannah from the sling on her mother’s hip and drag her clear. Hannah continued to scream, her little face scarlet and contorted with fury, her cheeks tear-stained and filthy from the ditch.

David tried to shush her, but it was useless, so he laid her carefully on the ground and bent down to look at Catherine. She lay half in the ditch, half in the hedge, with blood running down her face. She was moaning softly, but her eyes were shut and she didn’t look at him. He tried shaking his mother again but it was no good, she wouldn’t get up. Her head was turned away now and she wasn’t looking at him anymore. That was when David saw the blood coming from a hole in her neck. He stared at it for a moment as he began to take in what it meant. It meant that Maman wasn’t going to get up again… ever. It meant that she had been hit by the bullets from the planes and that she was dead. David let out a wail and gathering up the still screaming baby in his arms he sat on the ground, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

Gradually the carnage left by the Heinkels resolved itself into those who, miraculously, were not hurt, those who were wounded and those who were dead. The unhurt and the wounded struggled to their feet again, wanting to move on, away from this place of death. Those with dead companions knelt beside them and wept, before dragging them clear of the road to be left behind. All the time swivelling their eyes skywards, watching for the aircraft, straining their ears for the throb of the engines that would herald their return. But the sky was empty, the air was quiet except for the cries of the wounded and the wails of the children. The hunters, having wreaked their havoc on this little company of refugees, were searching prey elsewhere.

Slowly, those who could began to walk again, on towards the village that lay so close around the corner. Those too badly injured to walk were heaved onto handcarts, carried or supported by their friends… or simply left behind.

Some tried to gather up their scattered possessions, taking them into their arms, or if their handcarts or barrows had survived the onslaught, piling their and other peoples’ goods onto those and pushing them away. One old man edged towards the upturned pram beside the three children, but David screamed at him.

“Go away! That’s our pram! Go away! Go away!” Dumping the still screaming Hannah unceremoniously on the ground beside him, David picked up a stone and hurled it at the man. It hit him in the midriff and the man hesitated, squinting at the small boy who was already reaching for another stone. David continued to yell at him and hurl stones until the old man turned away and went in search of easier pickings.

David flopped down panting with fright and having looked once more at his mother, realised that it was up to him now. Papa had said when he went away to the war that David must look after Maman for him, that he must be the man of the house and help Maman with the girls.

“They’re only little girls, David,” said Papa. “You can help Maman by looking after them when she’s busy.”

David thought of Papa now and the tears welled up in his eyes. He didn’t know where Papa was, and now Maman was dead… he knew that… so he, David, had to do something.

He crawled over to where Catherine still lay unmoving. She didn’t seem to be bleeding now, but she was still moaning in a very frightening way. He knew he had to get help and that they had to get away from here before the planes came back to find them again. Unsteadily, he got to his feet and went to the overturned pram. Most of the things inside had been flung out and he noticed that there were holes in the bottom of it, but with a struggle he was able to right it again. He looked round and found some of their clothes strewn across the road. Under a jersey he found the photo of his father and mother getting married. Maman had brought it with her and wrapped it up in a shirt. Carefully he put it with the other things back in the pram and then made a sort of nest in the clothes for Hannah. She had stopped bawling now and was making a sort of whimpering noise, her fist stuck in her mouth. Carefully he picked her up and lifted her into the pram. Then he covered her with a towel and turned his attention to Catherine. He was just wondering how on earth he was going to move her, when a voice spoke behind him.

“Is she dead?”

David spun round and grabbed the handle of the pram. A woman was standing at the edge of the road looking down at him. David thought she looked a bit familiar, but he didn’t know who she was. He held tight to the handle of the pram so that she couldn’t take it.

“Is she dead?” the woman asked again, nodding at Catherine.

“No.” David’s voice came out in a husky whisper, not sounding like him at all. “Maman, she doesn’t move and her eyes are staring at me. I think she’s dead, but Catherine isn’t. She’s got blood coming out, but she’s making a funny noise, so she isn’t dead.”

“What will you do?” asked the woman. “Do you want to come with me? I am going on now.”

“No. I have to bring Catherine. She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. I have to find a doctor.”

The woman gave a sharp laugh that didn’t sound like a real laugh at all, and David took a step back.

“Don’t think there’s much chance of that,” the woman said, “but if you want me to help you get your sister to the village over there, I’ll do that.”

When David didn’t answer she said, “Well, do you? We can’t just stand here and wait for those buggers to come back.”

David nodded dumbly. He didn’t know what to do, but perhaps there was someone in the village that might help if he could only get there.

“Right, then,” the woman said, and bending down she scooped Catherine up into her arms and laid her on top of the pram.

Hannah gave a squawk and the woman said, “Lift the baby out. You can carry her. I’ll push the pram with the little girl on top.”

“What about Maman?” David looked anxiously down at his mother still lying on her side with her face in the hedge.

“You’ll have to leave her,” the woman replied brusquely, “like everyone else.” Then she added, “Did she have any money on her? You ought to look. You’ll need money whatever happens to you.”

David knew that his mother had her money in a little leather bag tied round her waist under her skirt. Should he take it? Suppose this strange woman took the money away from him. He didn’t want to touch his mother again. He didn’t want to rummage through her clothes to find the moneybag, but they did need the money.

Losing patience, the woman said, “Here, hold onto the pram. I’ll look. Do you know where she hid it?”

David told her and within a moment she was handing him the little leather pouch. “Put it somewhere safe,” she instructed. “Not everyone’s as honest as I am.”

David hoisted Hannah up onto his hip as he had seen his mother do and managed to stuff the bag into his pocket. Then returning the baby to his arms, he looked at the woman again. This time he remembered where he’d seen her.

“You gave Hannah some milk,” he said. “Last night.”

She didn’t answer that, but simply said, “Come on, let’s get away from here.”

David turned to look at his mother once more and then with a shuddering sob turned to follow the woman who was already wheeling the pram, with Catherine draped across it, along the road towards the next village.

It was still a mile or so, but they made steady progress and half an hour later they trailed into the village square. It was already seething with refugees trying to find shelter for their wounded, food and drink for themselves. The woman kept walking, pushing the pram with the injured child in it, and David was now afraid of losing his new friend. Hannah had at last fallen asleep in his arms, and she lay heavy against his shoulder, but although his arms ached he clutched her to him with one arm and held fast to the woman’s skirt with his other hand, so that they should not become separated.

The woman pushed her way through the crowd and headed for a small café that opened off the square. An old lady was sitting in the window looking out at what was happening. The café door was closed, and when she pushed it, as many others had before her, the woman found that it was locked. Undeterred she banged on the window.

“Let us in,” she bellowed. “I’ve an injured child here.”

The old lady inside continued to stare, but made no effort to open the door. A young girl came round the side of the café and said, “You can’t come in. We’ve no spare food here.”

“It’s a doctor we need,” snapped the woman. “Which is the doctor’s house?”

“He’s not there, he’s at the hospital.”

“Hospital! Where’s that, then?”

“Up at the convent,” the girl pointed vaguely out of the square.

“Come on,” the woman said, and plucking Hannah from David’s aching arms, tucked her under her own. She rested her other hand on the handle of the pram. “You’ll have to help me push.”

Together they skirted the square and headed in the direction of the tall, grey stone building that dominated the village.

Sitting in her small office, the convent accounts spread out on the desk in front of her, Mother Marie-Pierre had been listening to the sound of gunfire. It had seemed a long way off at first, but now it sounded much closer, and planes had twice roared low over the convent before spiralling away into the sky.

It’s happening again, she thought bitterly. The Germans are coming, and this time there’s no line of trenches to hold them back.

She was right. Even in the comparative seclusion of the convent, news and rumour, often intertwined and indistinguishable, were circulating. News came in from the village with the lay workers. A steady procession of refugees straggled through St Croix, each with his tale to tell. The Germans were coming. The Allies were running. The advance had been stopped. The English were swinging south to save Paris. The English were scuttling back across the Channel to save themselves, leaving France to the mercy of her enemies. Perfidious Albion!

To try and curtail speculation, Mother Marie-Pierre allowed the nuns who wanted to, to listen to one broadcast on the radio each day, and what they heard made desperate listening.

The German Panzer divisions were racing across the country, sometimes as much as thirty or forty miles a day, forcing the allied armies to retreat, squeezing them back to the Pas de Calais. Many of the retreating soldiers, both French and English, had been overtaken, blasted by the tanks, machine-gunned from the air, captured or left wounded or dead at the side of the road. Bridges were blown up, roads destroyed as the Allies retreated, and still the Germans came on, shells flying, guns blazing, unstoppable.

All this they had heard, piecing together the snippets they gleaned, blending them with the official news broadcasts.

It sounds very close today, Mother Marie-Pierre thought. Too close. I must send someone to the village to find out what has happened.

She got to her feet and went in search of Sister Henriette. Sister Henriette was one of the sisters who went visiting regularly in the village, never afraid to go into a house where there was sickness, always with a basket of food on her arm. She was well known and well liked and the people would talk to her.

“See if you can find out what’s happening,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “That gunfire sounded very close. It may be that the Germans have arrived in the village. If they have there may be those who need our help. Come straight back once you know what’s going on, and we can decide what we need to do. In the meantime I will call all the sisters together so we can discuss it when you get back.”

“Yes, Mother.” Sister Henriette flung her cloak over her habit and let herself out of the kitchen door. She took the footpath to the village, cutting down through a copse and out onto the lane, which wound down towards the square. As she reached the lane she saw a strange little group of people coming towards her, a dishevelled woman pushing a pram with a child stretched across it, a small boy helping her to push, and tucked wriggling under the woman’s arm, a wailing baby.

Sister Henriette hurried forward. “Good gracious!” she cried. “What has happened? What’s the matter with the little girl? Here, let me take the baby.”

The woman relinquished the baby readily into the nun’s arms, and detached the boy’s fingers from her skirt. “There was a raid on the road. Air attack. These children lost their mother. I don’t know how bad the little girl is, but I’ll leave them with you now.” She let go of the pram and started to turn away.

“Wait! You can’t…” began Sister Henriette.

“Look, Sister, or whatever you’re called. They’re nothing to do with me, OK? The mother’s lying dead in a ditch along with several others. I just helped them get to you. Now they’re your responsibility. They’ll be safer with you than they’d ever be with me. I’m on the road… and I’m a Jew. They’re Jews too, for that matter, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them… not if you keep the boy’s trousers on, that is.” She stared into Sister Henriette’s astonished face. “I’m telling you, if the Germans find them with me they’ll be far worse off. And my chances are better if I travel alone.”

“But wait, maybe we can help you…” cried Sister Henriette.

“No one will be able to help me if I’m caught by the Germans,” the woman said flatly. “Jews disappear, and I don’t intend to be one of them.”

“At least just come into the convent for a while and rest,” urged Sister Henriette.

“If I rest before I’m safe, I’m dead,” the woman replied. “If you want to help people, there are plenty that need it in the village square down there.” She waved her hand in the direction of the village. “Go down and help them. I’m getting away from here,” and turning on her heel she strode on along the lane.

David, staring after her, saw the last link with his mother disappearing and his face crumpled, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Sister Henriette, still holding Hannah, reached out her other hand to him. “Don’t cry, little one. You’re safe now. Let’s go and find you something to eat. I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you? And we can get a nurse to look at your sister. She is your sister, isn’t she? Come along now, I need you to help push the pram like you were before.”

She reached for the handle of the pram and started to push it along the lane to the convent. David tugged at her habit, and struggling manfully against his tears said fiercely, “Give me Hannah.”

The nun handed him the baby and, giving her full attention to pushing the pram, led them back up the lane to the convent.

5

Mother Marie-Pierre had summoned the entire community to the recreation room where they squeezed in and listened with growing horror to the news that Sister Henriette brought with her.

When she had arrived back at the convent with three small children and a pram, Mother Marie-Pierre had hurried out to meet them.

“These children have been bombed by the Germans,” Sister Henriette told her briefly. “I was told their mother is dead at the roadside, and the little girl,” she indicated Catherine still prostrate on the pram, “has been wounded, though I don’t know how badly.” Hannah was by now making her presence known to Mother Marie-Pierre with ear-splitting wails. Sister Henriette took her from David once more and putting her up over her shoulder, patted her soothingly on the back to quieten her.

Mother Marie-Pierre looked at the small boy with the dirty, tear-streaked face, and crouching down so that their eyes met easily she said softly, “What is your name, mon brave?”

David stared at her for several moments, his eyes huge and dark in his pale face taking in another strange lady wearing peculiar clothes. At last, as if he’d come to some sort of decision, he whispered, “David.”

“Well, David, I think you are a very brave boy to look after your sisters. Would you like something to eat, while I get the doctor to look at your sister?”

David nodded and when Mother Marie-Pierre reached for the handle of the pram, he grabbed it from her shouting fiercely, “No! You can’t have Catherine!”

Mother Marie-Pierre stepped back, lowering her hand. “It’s all right, David. You can push the pram, but we do need to get poor Catherine to the doctor, you know. And the little one, she’d like some milk, I’d expect. What’s her name?”

David, still grasping the handle of the pram possessively, murmured, “Hannah.”

“Well let’s go inside and find a doctor for Catherine, some milk for Hannah and perhaps some bread and cheese for you?” She ended on an interrogative note and David nodded again.

“Come along then.” Mother Marie-Pierre led the way to the front door where Sister Celestine was waiting, peering anxiously round the doorpost. Mother Marie-Pierre despatched her to the infirmary to fetch the doctor, telling her, on her way, to ask Sister Danielle to come immediately.

Sister Danielle arrived almost at once and Sister Henriette handed Hannah into her care with some relief. Hannah was very hungry and was making her displeasure at the fact very clear.

“Give her some milk and get her clean and dry, please, Sister, while Sister Henriette finds David something to eat. Then we’ll see what else needs to be done. Ask Sister Marie-Joseph to come to me as well, please.” Mother Marie-Pierre turned back to the little boy, still clinging onto the handle of the pram. She spoke gently. “When the doctor comes we’ll get Catherine into bed and make her comfortable. Will you go with Henriette to the kitchen?”

David shook his head. It was clear he did not want to leave Catherine. “Papa said look after the girls,” he whispered.

“Was your papa with you?” asked Mother Marie-Pierre.

The boy shook his head again. “Just Maman…” His face crumpled and Sister Henriette dropped onto her knees beside him and putting her arms round him, gathered him against her.

For a long while he leaned against her, his sobs muffled in her habit. Sister Henriette looked over his head at Reverend Mother, who nodded briskly and gently lifted the little girl from the pram, carrying her indoors to find the doctor.

At last David’s tears began to lessen and he pulled himself free of the nun’s arms. “Maman is dead,” he said on a sob. “The planes came and shot her. She’s in the ditch. We had to leave her in the ditch. I couldn’t carry her.” He added pitifully, “She’ll get cold.”

“I know, I know,” soothed Sister Henriette. “We’ll find her for you. We won’t leave her in the ditch, I promise you. You’ve been so brave, David. We’ll help you now. You did what Papa told you to. You’ve been very strong. He’ll be proud of you.”

Tentatively Sister Henriette reached for the boy’s hand and when he didn’t draw away, she went to lead him up the steps, saying as he looked back anxiously at the pram, “Don’t worry about your things, they will be quite safe here, I promise you.” Still he dragged his feet, so she said brightly, “Tell you what, David, let’s go in through the kitchen door and you can leave the pram safely in the yard.”

Together they pushed the pram round the building and on reaching the courtyard, Sister Henriette helped him put it into the small shed there before leading him indoors.

Sister Marie-Joseph joined them in the kitchen as David was tucking into bread and cheese and a glass of milk, clearly very hungry.

“Mother wants you in the recreation room,” she said to Sister Henriette. “I’m to take David over to the infirmary to see his sisters and to have him checked over by Dr Felix.” She smiled down at the boy sitting at the table. “If you come with me, David, you can see your sisters. Catherine is awake now. She had a bump on the head, but the doctor says she’ll be fine very soon.”

She held out her hand, and David slid off the stool and took it. He found her less intimidating because, although she wore peculiar clothes too, her hat wasn’t as big as the other ladies’ and she didn’t peer at him from underneath it.

When Sister Henriette reached the recreation room she found many of the sisters assembled there. At Reverend Mother’s request she quickly put them in the picture.

“All that gunfire we heard earlier and the planes; that was the Germans firing on a group of refugees,” she told them. “Aeroplanes dive bombing them. When I went down, I met a woman who was bringing three children up here. She said their mother was dead at the roadside. There are people in the village who have been wounded. We need to send help at once and prepare beds in the infirmary for the most badly injured.” She looked round at her assembled sisters and noticed that most of those who worked in the infirmary were not there.

“Sister Jeanne-Marie has already set off for the village with three others. Sister Eloise is making ready in the hospital,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “The rest of us need to prepare for an influx of injured and frightened people,” adding with the ghost of a smile, “just like before.”

Mother Marie-Pierre was very glad that some of the nursing sisters who had worked so hard during the last war, caring for the wounded ferried back from the trenches, were still able to work in the infirmary. She would need to rely on their experience and expertise to help them all through this crisis and the many more she expected to come with the arrival of the Germans.

Mother Marie-Pierre was a young reverend mother, but one of her great strengths was to use the gifts of those around her. When Mother Marie-Georges had died a few years after the war, her place had been taken by Sister Magdalene, the sister who had run the convent hospital so efficiently throughout the war. The new reverend mother had at once seen the potential in the newly professed Sister Marie-Pierre, and had put her to work in the growing orphanage. She had not been disappointed in her choice. Before long Sister Marie-Pierre had been given charge of the orphans and over the years Mother Magdalene had come to rely on her, respecting her judgement and seeking her opinion on matters which arose. Mother Magdalene had also been a comparatively young reverend mother, and had supervised the running of the convent for almost fourteen years before she had been summoned to the order’s mother house in Paris. Despite her youth and the fact that many of the other sisters were technically more senior than she, it was Sister Marie-Pierre she left in charge while she was away. Again her confidence was not misplaced. The strange English girl, who had arrived of her own volition to help nurse the wounded during the Great War, had proved her worth as a member of the community, and Mother Magdalene knew that she would one day be capable of taking over from her.

Now in her mid-sixties, Mother Magdalene had moved to the Paris convent permanently as the overall mother superior of the order, leaving the community in St Croix in little doubt as to whom she wanted them to elect as her successor. There had been those who doubted the wisdom of her choice and one or two who resented that such a young sister—Sister Marie-Pierre was not much more than forty—had been placed over them, demanding their unquestioning obedience. On the whole, however, the choice had been considered a good one. She was always ready to listen to what anyone had to say, welcomed discussion, and when she finally made a decision her reasons were explained so that everyone understood her action. Thus, she soon had the complete loyalty of most of her sisters.

Now, in a crisis, her unquestioned authority paid dividends as she quickly organised the sisters to deal with the emergency. Sister Danielle who, with Sister Marie-Joseph, now looked after the orphans, quickly took the Leon children into her domain and tried to make them comfortable. Catherine had been kept in the infirmary under the careful eye of Sister Eloise; David and Hannah were washed and dressed in clean clothes. Their few possessions had been retrieved from the pram, stored safely in the shed in the courtyard. David had visited Catherine in the ward and found her sitting up in bed with a large white bandage round her head with one of the lay workers, Marthe, spooning warm soup into her mouth. Catherine smiled when she saw him. “David,” she called out, “David, I bumped my head and they’ve put it in a bandage!” Marthe spooned in another mouthful of soup and then Catherine asked, “Where’s Maman? Why isn’t she here? My head hurts.”

“Now then, Catherine,” Marthe said hastily, “eat your soup like a good girl,” adding as she turned to David, “poor Catherine can’t remember how she hurt her head.”

“We’ll tell her all about it when she’s feeling a bit better,” Sister Danielle said quietly. She was still holding the little boy’s hand. “We want her to try and sleep as soon as she’s had her soup.”

David understood what they were saying. Catherine didn’t know Maman was dead. The sudden picture of his mother lying, staring up at him with empty eyes and blood oozing from holes in her neck made him cry out in despair; a primordial sound that wrenched at the heart. Sister Danielle scooped him up into her arms and sitting on a chair rocked him like a baby as he wept.

Later, when he had been checked over by Dr Felix and was finally asleep in one of the tiny bedrooms usually kept for visitors, Sister Danielle went to consult with Mother Marie-Pierre.

“We must bring their mother in for Christian burial,” she said. “It is very hard for children as young as David and Catherine to take in what has happened. The baby, of course, will remember nothing. As long as she’s fed and dry she will do very well, but the little boy…” The nun shook a regretful head.

“I’m not sure about the Christian burial,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. “I have been talking to Sister Henriette, and she says the woman who brought the children here said that they are Jews. That’s why they were on the road, I imagine.” She looked across at Sister Danielle. “I think it would be wiser to keep this piece of information to ourselves. Sister Henriette knows too, of course, but it could be very dangerous for those children if it leaked out.”

“You mean to the Germans?” Sister Danielle was wide-eyed. “What would they do?”

Mother Marie-Pierre shrugged. “Probably nothing with children this young. They’d be no use in one of their work camps, but there is no need to draw attention to the fact that they are Jewish.”

“Would anyone guess?” wondered Sister Danielle.

“Again, probably not,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “but the woman who brought them did remind Sister Henriette that there would be a physical sign on the boy.”

“A physical sign?” Sister Danielle looked puzzled.

“Jewish boys are circumcised,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, adding with a faint smile, “you remember Our Lord in the temple when he was a baby?”

“Oh!” Colour flooded up into Sister Danielle’s face. She knew the story well enough, everyone did, but the actuality, the physical side of it had never dawned on her and the thought of her Lord Jesus having such a thing done to him brought a hot flush to her cheeks.

Seeing her confusion, Mother Marie-Pierre said gently, “Don’t worry about it, Sister, all we have to do is see that it is you who gives him his bath. He’s only a little boy, you know.” Then to change the subject onto less embarrassing ground she went on. “However, their mother, and all the other dead, must be brought to the village for burial. Father Michel will say Mass for them and they will be buried in the churchyard. I will speak to him about the children’s mother.”

It wasn’t just the Germans Mother Marie-Pierre was worried about, though she could hardly say so to Sister Danielle. Marthe, one of the lay workers at the convent, was also a Jew. Her family had lived in St Croix since before the first war and were part of the village community. Her father, Claude, was a farm labourer and her mother, Rochelle, kept a tiny store that sold everything from buttons and lace to billhooks and lamp oil. Marthe had come to the convent looking for work to help maintain the family… there were four children younger than she… and Mother Marie-Pierre had agreed to let her help with the rough work in the infirmary. Sister Marie-Paul, the novice mistress, had come to her in outrage.

“How can you let a Jew into the convent?” she demanded, red-faced. “It is no place for Jews. We are a Christian community!” Her anger had made her outspoken, but Mother Marie-Pierre did not reprove her for that. She simply said, “But Sister, we have a Jew living with us permanently.”

Sister Marie-Paul stared at her. “Who?” she asked, dismay on her face. “Who here is a Jew?”

Mother Marie-Pierre replied gently, “Our Lord, Sister.”

Sister Marie-Paul had been silenced, but she had not been reconciled to Marthe coming to the hospital each day, and Mother Marie-Pierre rather thought that she gave the girl a hard time. Luckily it was Sister Eloise who ran the hospital now, and she, recognising not only a hard worker, but someone with an instinctive flare for nursing, was pleased to have the girl and protected her much of the time from Sister Marie-Paul’s spite.

The rest of the day and much of the night was spent providing care for the others who had been hurt in the German raid, food for those who had survived and somewhere to sleep for the night.

Mathilde Leon was found still lying at the roadside and carried in on a makeshift stretcher along with ten others who had also been killed. They were laid out in the village school to be identified and then buried in the little churchyard.

The curé, Father Michel, was to say Mass for them and then they would be buried in a corner of the churchyard already set aside for strangers. When friends and families had identified the bodies, it turned out that two more of the casualties, a man and a little boy, were also Jews. Their family did not want them included in the requiem Mass, nor buried in a Christian churchyard. A weeping woman had claimed the man as her husband and a bleak-eyed man said the boy was his son. They begged that they be buried somewhere separate.

The curé had shrugged and said that they certainly couldn’t be buried in the churchyard if they were not baptised and told them to ask the mayor, Monsieur Dubois, who was trying to organise the refugees in the square.

The mayor had shrugged helplessly when applied to, but Mother Marie-Pierre had spoken to him and suggested the little copse beyond the graveyard wall, which was quiet and secluded, might be a suitable resting place. The mayor, anxious to be done with the whole thing, agreed and sent a gravedigger there as well.

With the aid of the photograph that had been among the things in David’s pram, Mother Marie-Pierre had identified the children’s mother.

“This woman is also Jewish,” she had murmured to the priest. “I think she should be buried with the other Jews.”

“How do you know?” demanded the curé suspiciously. “No one has claimed her.”

“No, but I have her children safely at the convent. One is injured and in the hospital and one is a baby.” She produced the photo and showed him. “This picture was in their things. You can see it is the woman lying here.” She did not mention David, and afterwards wondered why. She was glad that she hadn’t and actually regretted mentioning the girls, but it was too late now, and anyway the curé was hardly a risk.

She walked over to the families of the Jewish dead and said, “There is another Jewish woman over here. She should be buried with her own people. Will you see to her as well? She has no one else to say the prayers.”

With a desolate nod, the father of the dead boy followed her to where Mathilde lay, and, picking her up, carried her to where his son and the other man lay awaiting burial.

Mother Marie-Pierre considered giving them Mathilde’s wedding picture to place in the grave with her, but decided it would be better to keep it for her children, and for her husband if he should ever return home to find them.

Gradually, over the next two weeks the convent returned to its normal routine. The news continued going from bad to worse. Despair and anger flooded through the demoralised French army as it continued to retreat, a defeated force. Fear and anguish enveloped the civilians they had failed to protect. Everyone knew that within days, barring a miracle, the Germans would be at the gates of Paris and Paris would fall.

Belgium had already fallen and King Leopold, surrendering, had sued for peace. The Allies were left with an unprotected flank as they were backed steadily towards the sea. Considering them now a defeated army with no stomach for the fight and no prospect of escape, the Panzers turned south, towards Paris. With their eyes fixed on the glorious capture of the French capital, they allowed the British Expeditionary Army and many of their French allies to be rescued by the Royal Navy, along with an armada of tiny ships crossing the Channel that snatched the cornered men from under the German artillery fire and dive-bomb raids.

Rumours of the disasters around Calais and Dunkerque spread through the people like wildfire. All had heard of the English army’s escape, but the despondent talk in the cafés and village squares was of the English deserting their allies, of failing to send enough planes, and when Paris fell on 14th June everyone knew it was only a matter of days before France would formally surrender and the Nazis would take control.

However, the nuns kept to the comforting routine of daily office and went about their normal tasks as if disaster were not just around the corner. The hospital continued to care for the wounded refugees who had been brought in after the raid. Several had left to continue their flight to places where they thought they would be safe from the Germans, two more had died, and the task began to assume more manageable proportions.

The Leon children were absorbed into the orphanage wing and although Catherine continued to ask for her mother, David never mentioned her. Baby Hannah had been renamed Anne.

“The other children have ordinary enough names,” Mother Marie-Pierre said to Sister Danielle, “and if we all call the baby Anne from now on, everyone will soon forget that she was ever called anything else.”

The other orphans, Paulette, Monique and Jean-Pierre accepted the arrival of more children without question. Each of them had joined the orphan family in the convent at different times and knew that children came and went. Jean-Pierre was pleased because David was a boy and he’d been feeling a bit outnumbered. Aged eleven, he decided it was his job to show the younger boy the ropes, and Sister Danielle was pleased to see that he had sort of adopted the new boy. Paulette, nearly fourteen and due to leave the convent very soon, was delighted to be allowed to help with baby Anne, and even Monique, always something of a loner, took the young Catherine under her wing.

In the uncertain times, the children were not going to school as they had been, but were now doing lessons with Sister Marie-Joseph, and helping with chores in the kitchen and the garden.

It was in the third week after the raid that Mother Marie-Pierre’s private devotions were interrupted by Sister Celestine banging with unusual vigour on the reverend mother’s office door. Mother Marie-Pierre closed her missal and rang the bell for the nun to enter.

“Oh, Mother, come quickly,” she cried in extreme agitation. “The Germans are here. There’s a car coming up the lane. The Germans are coming here.”

“Calm down, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre instructed briskly. “I’ll come and see what they want. In the meantime, send a message to Sister Danielle and tell her to keep the children in and ask Sister Clothilde to light the fire in here.”

Sister Celestine drew a deep breath and murmured “Yes, Mother,” before turning and running off to do as she’d been bidden.

Mother Marie-Pierre closed her eyes and breathed a prayer for wisdom and courage, and then, closing her office door behind her, went through to the hall to meet her unwelcome guests.

6

Adelaide Anson-Gravetty paused on the steps of the hotel in London to which she had been summoned. She smoothed her uniform skirt and straightened her cap. Her shoes gleamed and the seams of her ladderless stockings, borrowed from a fellow-WAAF on the station especially for the occasion, were straight. Drawing a deep breath, she went up the steps and paused to give her name to a sentry at the door. He was in RAF uniform, and giving her an appreciative grin, he consulted a clipboard.

“Yes, you’re expected,” he said. “See them at the desk,” he nodded back over his shoulder, “and they’ll tell you which room.”

Adelaide thanked him and crossed to the desk. There another WAAF checked her name and then pointed to a chair. “Wait there, please. Someone will come and fetch you when they’re ready for you.”

Adelaide took the indicated seat and waited. She had little idea of why she had been called in from her station near Southampton where she was a driver, all she knew was that her cousin, Andrew, had said she was wasted there with her fluent French and he’d “have a word”. With whom and about what she didn’t know. Andrew was in the RAF too, but he was on special duties of some sort, not on active service, flying planes or anything like that.

When Adelaide had asked him what he did, he grinned. “Nothing very exciting, just a bod at the Air Ministry. They use my French quite a bit.” That had been soon after the war had started, and she had hardly seen him since, just the one occasion when they both had forty-eight hours’ leave.

When war broke out Adelaide had been anxious to join up, but her father thought she would be more use working in a job in London.

“That way you are just as useful,” he pointed out, “and you release a man into the forces to do the fighting. After all what do you have to offer the services?”

Adelaide had been furious with this attitude. “Another pair of hands,” she had snapped. “They train you in what they want you to do, you know.”

“Of course they do,” Richard Anson-Gravetty had replied soothingly, “but probably not in work that you are suited for. Surely there’s plenty of voluntary work to do here in London, for the Red Cross or something? But if that doesn’t appeal to you, why don’t you come over to my office. We can always find you something to do there, I am sure.”

Adelaide had thanked him and said she would think about it… which she did… and then took herself off to the recruitment office and joined the WAAFs.

“You’re not even going to be an officer!” Her father was stupefied by what she had done, but Adelaide simply replied, “No, Father, but I am in the war.”

After her basic training she was posted to an air base near Southampton where, as she could already drive competently, she was employed as a driver. Surprisingly she found she rather enjoyed life with the other girls on the station, and although it was a hard life in many ways, she never regretted joining up as opposed to taking a civilian job.

Her work was fairly routine, as she drove officers about in the course of their duties, but she met some interesting people, and on long drives got to know some of her regulars quite well. However, when she saw the work that the plotters and radio operators did, she decided that she wanted to retrain and make, what seemed to her, a more vital contribution to the war effort. She mentioned this to one of the officers she was driving to a meeting at the Air Ministry.

“I feel I could be doing something more important than just driving people about,” she explained. “Anyone can learn to drive. I want to retrain as a plotter or an radio operator.”

Group Captain Williamson, her passenger, sounded interested in her thoughts. “You once told me you spoke French,” he said, casually.

“Yes, I do,” agreed Adelaide. “But I wouldn’t want to spend my time simply translating documents. I want to do my bit in a more active way.”

“Then by all means put in for retraining,” agreed the group captain easily, “but I shall miss you as a driver!”

It was when she’d been home on a forty-eight that she saw Andrew again. He had come to see her on the first morning.

“Andrew!” she cried in surprised delight as she greeted him with a hug.

“Heard you were home from Grand’mère,” he said. “I’ve got a forty-eight too. Thought we might do a show, or would you rather have dinner and dance somewhere?”

“Both?” suggested Adelaide hopefully, adding as he laughed, “Well two days in London is too much of an opportunity to miss, don’t you think?”

He did think, and when they came out of the theatre he took her on to the Savoy. They had a wonderful evening together and when he finally took her home again it was into the small hours of the morning. Even so, she invited him in and they sat over one last drink before he left.

“My train goes first thing,” he said, nursing a glass of Richard’s best cognac, “so there’s no point in going home to bed.”

“Won’t Grand’mère wonder where you are?” teased Adelaide, knowing that he was meant to be staying at their grandmother’s house.

He grinned his familiar grin. “She’ll be tucked up in bed so she won’t know I wasn’t there, will she? Anyway, I have to go back before I leave to collect my kit, so I’ll see her then.”

“Where are you going?” asked Adelaide with interest. “You didn’t say.”

“No, I didn’t,” agreed Andrew. “Up north.”

“Have you finished at the Air Ministry, then?”

“For now.”

“And you can’t tell me…?”

“No.”

Adelaide shrugged good-naturedly. “Fair enough. Though actually, I’m not a German spy.”

“Aren’t you?” grinned Andrew. “Well you never know! ‘Careless talk costs lives!’” The well-worn slogan made them both laugh.

They had been talking about her life on the air base and Adelaide had told him how she felt about her driving and wanting to retrain.

“I must do something better than driving. Anyone can do that!”

“You are doing important work,” Andrew said as he listened. “But, I agree, anyone trained properly could do your job. I think you’re right to be looking for something else, but not a plotter or r/t operator. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not belittling what you want to do,” he added hastily as she began to protest, “far from it. It’s just that you have other talents and skills that are not so readily available, which could be put to good use.”

Adelaide looked surprised. “Like what?” she asked.

“Like speaking French like a native,” he said. “Thanks to Grand’mère your French is perfect.”

“And to the university. I did get my degree, you know,” Adelaide pointed out.

Andrew laughed. “That’s all about French lit,” he said. “Being able to spout Molière is not so helpful when there’s a war on and France occupied!”

“So what sort of thing?” asked Adelaide intrigued.

Andrew shrugged. “Well, translation of documents, that sort of thing,” he said vaguely. “Acting as interpreter for Free French brass, something like that. I could have a word, if you like.”

Adelaide wasn’t particularly keen on this idea, but she didn’t say so. She did not really think he would have any influence in such matters. For her own part she had no intention of applying for such a position. When the time came, she had decided, she would put in for r/t training.

However, Andrew must have had the ear of someone, because here she was waiting to find out what they might want her to do.

It must be using my French, she thought. I can’t think of anything else.

A door opened and a man came out. He was in his early forties, tall and thin, dressed in the uniform of an army captain. He walked over to Adelaide. “Aircraftswoman Anson-Gravetty?”

Adelaide leaped to her feet and saluted. “Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.”

“My name is Jenner. Please come this way.” He led the way back through the door from which he had emerged and closed it carefully behind him.

The room was large and bare, furnished only with a big oak desk and some upright chairs. A second, panelled door opened into a further room, but it was closed.

Captain Jenner walked round behind the desk and waved at one of the upright chairs in front of it. “Please take a seat,” he said and settled himself in his own chair.

Adelaide did so, perching awkwardly on the edge of the seat, waiting.

“I understand that you speak fluent French,” said the captain, addressing her in that language.

Adelaide replied to the question in kind. “Yes, sir. My grandmother is French and she has always spoken to me in French. I spent a good deal of time with her as a child, so I speak it pretty fluently.”

“I believe you also read French at university.”

“Yes, sir.” Remembering Andrew’s comments about Molière, she did not enlarge on this.

For the next hour, Captain Jenner questioned her about her family, her friends, where she had been to school. He seemed to know a great deal about her already as he tossed in queries about her natural father, Freddie Hurst, as well as her adoptive father. He asked her why she had joined up instead of getting a civilian job. Why she had joined the ranks and not put in for officer training.

Adelaide answered him as best she could, trying to work out what he was getting at, what he wanted to know and why he wanted to know it; and the whole conversation was carried on in French. Captain Jenner’s French was fluent and idiomatic, his vocabulary wide, so that on occasion he had Adelaide searching for a word that escaped her. On the whole, however, though she was surprised by the range and depth of questioning, she answered his questions as truthfully as she could, not trying to hide anything from him, though she suspected that somehow he knew all the answers already.

At last he said, “Thank you for coming to see me, Miss Anson-Gravetty. It could be that we need to send you for some special training. I assume you’d be happy about that?”

He asked this as a question, but Adelaide knew it was not, not really. She was expected to agree, and so she did.

“You should return to your present job for the time being,” Captain Jenner said, standing up to indicate that the interview was over, “and report as directed when the time comes. I need hardly tell you that you should not discuss this with anyone. Careless talk costs lives.”

This time the slogan did not make Adelaide laugh as she had when Andrew had trotted it out, this time she knew it was in deadly earnest.

“No, sir. I won’t mention it. May I ask, sir, exactly what this training will be for?”

Captain Jenner allowed himself a faint smile. “You may ask, Aircraftswoman, but until things have been decided you won’t get an answer. Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.” Adelaide saluted him smartly and turning on her heel left the room.

When she had gone, the door in the corner opened and another man, in the uniform of a major, came in. He looked across at Captain Jenner. “Well, Jenner, what did you think of her? Will she do?” He took a seat in the chair that Adelaide had vacated, and Jenner returned to his place behind the desk.

“Her French is probably good enough,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “with a little brushing up. Accent unexceptional. Plenty of commonsense by the sound of her. Certainly officer material, though she joined up in the ranks.”

“Yes, interesting explanation for that,” remarked the other man. “Did you believe it?”

“What, that she wanted to learn a trade and know how it feels to be an ordinary aircraftswoman before taking on the responsibility of telling other girls what to do?” Jenner drew on his cigarette, considering. “Yes, I think so. It seemed an honest enough answer. She’s clearly intelligent.”

“Ah, but can she think on her feet?”

“That we shall find out if we recommend her for training.”

“She’s very upper class,” pointed out the major. “Will she cope with all she has to learn? It’s a very tough training. Lots don’t make it.”

Jenner shrugged. “Can’t tell for sure, obviously, but yes, on balance I think she will. She may be upper class and very well off, as I understand it in her own right, but she hasn’t used that as an excuse to avoid service life as she might have done. She said her father offered her a job in his business, remember, but she turned it down. It struck me that not only is she self-reliant, but that she has a determined streak.”

The major, who had listened to Adelaide’s interview through a microphone, nodded. Jenner was well known as a talent-spotter and the major had great faith in his judgement.

“Who put you on to her?” the major asked.

“Two sources, which is why I had her in so quickly,” replied Jenner. “One, a group captain she’s been driving on a fairly regular basis, and the other, her cousin, Flight Lieutenant Driver. He’s one of ours. Both spotted her potential.”

“Right,” said the major. “She’s worth a try. We’ll call her up for preliminary training and see how she gets on. If she measures up she could be extremely useful with that fluent French.”

It was only a week later when Adelaide received orders to report to a manor house near Guildford, and on arrival there her life changed out of all recognition. The training was intensive. With four other girls, Adelaide worked from dawn till dusk and sometimes on into the night. Every minute of their day was filled. There was hard physical training, leaving them so exhausted that when they finally fell into their beds they sank into immediate oblivion, only to be woken, it seemed to Adelaide, minutes later to be sent on a five-mile run before breakfast. One army sergeant taught them to handle various weapons; another, unarmed combat. A third drilled them in map reading, while a fourth introduced them to signalling. There seemed so much for them to learn and the pressure on all of them was relentless. After ten days, two of the girls disappeared and did not rejoin Adelaide and the fourth girl, Cora.

“Where do you think they’ve gone?” Adelaide asked Cora wearily as they climbed into bed that night.

“Don’t know,” shrugged Cora, too tired to care. “Probably flunked it.”

“And got chucked out?”

“That, or they asked to leave.” She sighed. “Perhaps they didn’t like what we’re being trained for.”

“But we haven’t been told much about that yet,” pointed out Adelaide as she pulled the blankets up round her chin. “Gosh, it’s cold in here.”

“No, not spelled out,” Cora agreed, “but it’s pretty clear, don’t you think?”

“Undercover work of some sort?” suggested Adelaide.

“I’d put money on it,” Cora said and with a sigh was instantly asleep.

Although she was tired, Adelaide did not immediately follow her friend’s example. She lay in her bed thinking about the things with which they had been bombarded. It didn’t take a genius to work out that they were being prepared for something really special. Their instructors were tough, tolerating no sloppiness or laziness.

“If you don’t get this right first time,” bellowed Sergeant Garner, spinning round on her when Adelaide had fumbled a silent approach, “you’re dead meat, right? No second chances in this game. So, stop thundering about like a bleedin’ elephant and try again!”

“Use your brain!” snapped Sergeant Allen. “You’ve got to out-think your enemy, and you’ve got to do it fast. If circumstances change, you’ve got to be ready to switch course, OK?”

Cora and Adelaide struggled with all that was thrust at them with determination, though there were times when Adelaide felt close to tears with frustration and exhaustion. Their fitness increased a hundred-fold, their brains remained in overdrive as they gradually became more competent. Reactions speeded up, weapons were handled more instinctively. They learned how to use explosives and practised using the wireless, spending hours transmitting to each other in Morse code.

At the end of three weeks they were called up individually to see Major Harper, the officer they had met on arrival, but had hardly seen since.

“Aircraftswoman Anson-Gravetty,” he said when she was sent for. “Come in and sit down.”

Adelaide did as she was told, waiting anxiously on the edge of the chair, wondering if she was going to be told she hadn’t made whatever grade had been expected of her.

“Your time with us is over,” Major Harper said. “This was only preliminary training, just to assess your potential use to us in the field.”

“The field?”

“We are in great need of agents who can be dropped into France,” he explained. “People who can pass for French, so that they can move about with comparative safety, despite the checkpoints and controls set up by the Germans. But that’s just the start. Once someone is there we need them to liaise with any resistance movement that there is in the area. We need to organise escape routes for pilots who have been shot down or prisoners who may escape. We need to sabotage German installations, make life as difficult for the occupying power as we can. There are some strong resistance groups already; we need to find out what they need, give them all the help we can to stiffen that resistance. We need someone to send back all the information they possibly can about troop movements, fuel dumps, weapons stores, factories and what they are manufacturing. We need ears and eyes on the ground to keep us up-to-date on what is going on in every area. Details we can get from nowhere else. We need to boost the morale of the ordinary people, we need to let them know that they have not been forgotten or abandoned.”

Major Harper paused, his eyes had drilled into Adelaide all the time he had been speaking, now he waited. When she made no comment he went on, “We think you have the makings of an agent such as this. Your French is fluent; you could pass for French, and you have done well in all the training so far, but what we are asking you to do takes courage and a cool head in danger. You will be in constant danger yourself, the danger of discovery. Discovery not only from any mistake you might make yourself, but also from those wishing to curry favour with the Germans. We have to face facts that there are all too many French who feel defeated and have decided to throw in their lot with the Germans. If they guess who you are and what you are doing, they will inform on you and you will be caught. Set against that the importance of what you may discover yourself, of what you can do in the areas I have mentioned and you will see that it is not unreasonable to ask you to go. However,” the major paused again to ensure that he had her attention, “we only take volunteers for missions such as these. No one is sent unwillingly, such a person would be doomed to fail.” He fell silent for a moment and Adelaide waited, not sure what to say, or indeed if she should speak at all.

“In the morning you will leave here. If you agree to further training, knowing what that training is to prepare you to do, then we shall be sending you elsewhere. If not, you will have several weeks at a particular establishment, before being posted to a new station to continue the work you were doing before you came here. In either case you will be bound by a pledge of secrecy, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Adelaide just managed to get the words out; her mouth felt dry and her heart was thumping.

“Right, well, I’ll see you in the morning for your answer.”

Adelaide returned to her billet and flung herself down on her bed.

A spy! she thought. They want me to be a spy.

Her heart turned over at the thought. Had she the courage to accept such a mission, to carry it through to the end whatever the consequences? Was this the sort of work Andrew had been thinking of when he said she had special talents? That she should be asked to use her French like this? “Is that what you’re doing yourself?” she murmured to her absent cousin. “I bet it is! I bet that’s where you’ve disappeared to!”

Cora did not reappear that evening, her bed was not slept in, though her kitbag was still stowed in the locker at the end of the room. She must have been sent somewhere else to make up her mind, Adelaide thought, so that we couldn’t discuss things between ourselves.

Adelaide did not sleep that night. She lay tossing and turning, Major Harper’s words churning round her brain. The very idea of being dropped into enemy occupied country terrified her. How could she possibly get away with what they were asking her to do? She remembered the bellowing sergeant. “Get it right first time or you’re dead meat!” Supposing she didn’t get it right? Supposing because of her other people were put at risk? Supposing she were to be captured, how would she cope? Would she be strong enough not to give away any information… under torture? A cold sweat broke out all over her and she lay shivering under the mound of blankets. I can’t do it! she thought in panic. I’m not brave enough! I’d be terrified all the time! I’d be useless.

She remembered what Andrew had once said, that everyone was afraid at times, but it was how they dealt with their fear that mattered. How would I deal with it? Adelaide wondered now. The major said I would need a cool head. Have I got a cool head? If I go how will I get there? Major Harper said something about being dropped behind enemy lines. Dropped? By parachute? Good God, I could never jump out of a plane!

“We need to boost the morale of the ordinary French people,” the major had said. Adelaide thought about her last trip to France, to visit her aunt, Sarah, in her convent. She wondered now how would the nuns be faring under the occupation? What about the children, the orphans living in their care? Where was Andrew? Had he really gone over there too?

The turmoil of her thoughts kept her from sleep and in the end she gave up. Switching off the light, she went to the window and pulled back the blackout. It was still dark outside, but she sat on a chair staring out into the night until the grey fingers of dawn crept across the sky. She watched a startling ray of sunshine, bursting from a sun as yet unseen, but piercing the greyness of the sky like a shining sword. Even as she watched, another joined it and the clouds were painted a brilliant orange, edged with gold. A new day dawning, a new beginning burgeoning with fresh hope. As the sun climbed upward from the horizon, first a half disc of burnished gold, then a full sovereign gleaming in the sky, Adelaide realised that to keep hope alive in a world at war, people had to do things they would never have considered doing before. They had to test their courage as they fought against the evil that threatened to engulf them all. Her eyes drank in the sunrise, and burned it into her brain. It would be a talisman to be conjured up in the future when her heart was low and here courage was failing. The dawn of hope, and she, Adelaide, must be part of it.

Three hours later both she and Cora were on a train to Scotland to begin their real training.

7

The black car had pulled to a halt in front of the convent door. The driver jumped out and going round to the passenger door, opened it smartly. A German officer stepped out. He was about thirty-five, tall and darkly good-looking, his uniform immaculate. He stood for a moment beside the car, his hand resting on the door, surveying the countryside spread below him before turning round to look up at the convent building. Mother Marie-Pierre watched him from a window, wondering what he was going to want and how she would deal with him. She saw him look at the door as if he expected it to open, but when it did not, he spoke to the driver, who still hovered at his side, and the man ran up the steps to pull heavily on the iron bell. The bell clanged loudly in the hall, and Sister Celestine, now back at her usual place in the portress’s office by the front door, looked up anxiously at Mother Marie-Pierre who still stood, concealed, beside the window. Reverend Mother could see the fear in the little nun’s eyes as they flickered back to the door.

“Go ahead, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, trying to quell the stab of fear she herself felt as she descended the stairs. “Let them in and show them into the parlour. Then come and fetch me. I’ll be in my office.” As she turned and went back along the corridor, she heard Sister Celestine open the grille in the great front door.

It was only moments later that there was a quiet knock on the office door. Mother Marie-Pierre rose from her prie-dieu and settled herself behind her desk before ringing the bell in answer to the knock. When the door opened, not only was Sister Celestine outside, but also the tall German officer.

“Mother…” began the little nun nervously, but the German swept past her and interrupted, in passable French.

“Good morning, Reverend Mother. I am Major Horst Thielen, Commanding Officer of the occupying force in St Croix.”

Mother Marie-Pierre got to her feet, and still standing behind her desk replied coolly, “Good morning, Major. If you had cared to wait, I would have come to meet you in the parlour.”

“I did not care to wait,” the major said, crossing the room uninvited and staring down into the little garden below.

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled reassuringly at Sister Celestine, who stood white-faced behind the major. “Thank you, Sister. Please would you ask Sister Clothilde to bring some coffee to us here.” She turned her attention back to the major as Sister Celestine scuttled away. “You will have a cup of coffee, Major?”

“Thank you.” The major did not smile but looked round the room, taking in its sparse furnishings; the desk, the prie-dieu with the crucifix above it. The only signs of comfort were the two armchairs that flanked the fireplace.

“Please, do sit down and tell me how I can help you.” Mother Marie-Pierre pointed to one of the chairs. She had decided that calm politeness was the best approach, as if this visitor were no more or less important than any other she might receive. She did not know why he had come, and she felt she must proceed with caution. She resented the cool assurance with which he had come striding into her office, but she had no intention of antagonising a man who might well have the power of life and death over them all. Neither would she show fear, however. She would revert to her earliest training as Miss Sarah Hurst and treat him with the cool civility one accorded to those to whom one would rather not have been introduced.

“We have just arrived in the village, Reverend Mother,” he said. “I am making myself acquainted with the surrounding area.” As he spoke, she looked at him. Good-looking, she supposed, with dark eyes, and a straight nose above a rather thin-lipped mouth; a cruel mouth she decided, and then gave herself a mental shake. How could she possibly know if he were cruel or not, simply from his mouth? Or was it his eyes, not the warm velvety brown of a generous man, but the cold, coal-black eyes of a hunter.

He was still speaking. “I understand that you run a hospital here.”

Mother Marie-Pierre jerked her mind back to what he was saying and managed a nod. “Yes, Major, we have a small hospital here for the local people. Just two wards.”

“And that you have an orphanage.”

He obviously did his homework before coming here, Mother Marie-Pierre thought. “Not really an orphanage, not as it used to be…” She almost added “after the war…” but bit the words back just in time. “Yes, we do still look after some children,” she agreed, “but only six at present.” She called, “Come in,” with some relief in response to a knock at the door.

Sister Clothilde, one of the novices, came into the room carrying a tray with a pot of coffee on it, and a tiny jug of milk. She set it down on the table and, with a nervous bob of her head, left the room.

Mother Marie-Pierre took time pouring the coffee, and then handed the major a cup. “I’m afraid we have no sugar, and only a little milk. We do have a cow, but we keep her milk for the children.”

The major accepted his coffee, but turned down the milk. He took a sip and regretted having any at all. It was bitter and there were certainly no coffee beans in its make-up. He put the cup down beside him. “Does the convent have a home farm?” he asked.

Mother Marie-Pierre shook her head. “No, not really. We grow our own vegetables as best we can, and we have a cow that is kept with Monsieur Danot’s herd. He sends over our milk each day, but there is little enough of it.” Mother Marie-Pierre decided not to mention the few hens that scratched about in the yard behind the kitchen and were Sister Marie-Marc’s pride and joy. She had no illusions as to what would happen to them if the Germans decided they needed eggs or a bird for the pot. The cow would have to take her chance with the rest of Monsieur Danot’s herd.

“I should like to see your convent and your hospital,” Major Thielen said, abandoning the coffee after a second cautious mouthful. It was not a request, but a demand, and he set down his cup and got to his feet. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show me round.”

Mother Marie-Pierre put down her own cup and stood up. “Of course, Major, but you do realise that though this is a religious community, it is a working one.”

She took him first to the hospital. All the beds were full, for despite the passage of time since the raid on the refugees, several of the badly injured were still being cared for and there were always patients from the surrounding area. She introduced him to Sister Eloise, who greeted him briskly and then excused herself, apparently entirely unimpressed by the German uniform.

“Yes, please carry on with what you’re doing, Sister,” said Mother Marie-Pierre, glad that the elderly but efficient sister had shown no fear of their unwanted visitor. “I will show the major round.”

They walked into the first ward, where ten beds were lined up, five on each side. It was clear that many of the patients were recovering from wounds rather than illnesses. Several were still heavily bandaged, and there had been more than one amputation. Major Thielen looked round the room. Two nuns were busy preparing to change the dressing for an old man whose right arm ended at the elbow, one sister bustling up the ward with a trolley of bandages, ointments and creams and a bowl of warm water, the other drawing a screen round the patient’s bed.

“What happened to these?” demanded the major.

“These?” Mother Marie-Pierre also looked round the room, as if seeing the patients for the first time. “Oh, these were refugees. They were bombed on the road.”

“They must have been in a military column,” the major said stiffly.

“If they were, we found no one in uniform,” Mother Marie-Pierre said calmly. There was no accusation in her voice, but the major turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out of the ward.

Mother Marie-Pierre paused a moment to speak with Sister Eloise. “Where is Marthe?” she asked softly.

“I sent her up to the children’s rooms, like you said.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and followed the major outside.

He was staring out across the kitchen garden, where three nuns, their sleeves tucked up to their shoulders, were labouring on a vegetable patch.

“Do you sell your produce in the village?” he asked waving at the rows of potatoes the nuns were digging.

“No, certainly not,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied. “We have barely enough to feed ourselves and those in the hospital.”

The major nodded and continued to watch for a moment or two, as if estimating the yield of the garden, before turning back to the waiting nun. “So, we will go on.”

“The operating theatre and the women’s ward are the other end of the building,” she volunteered, anxious to move away from any area that might encourage the major to return and load his supply lorries. “Would you like to see those?”

“No, I would like to see inside the main building.”

“That is where the sisters live,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly.

“And I would like to see their quarters.” Major Thielen had been wrong-footed by the sight of the patients in the ward and their reason for being there. He was determined to wrest the initiative back from this cool-eyed nun.

Mother Marie-Pierre shrugged, as if it were of no great consequence and led the way back indoors. She showed him the kitchen and scullery where Sister Elisabeth and Sister Marie-Marc were preparing the midday meal. She led him through to the refectory where the long tables were already laid up. A single glance was enough for him there and they went on, up the stairs to the dormitory corridor where each sister had her cell.

Without invitation he opened the door of one of these and peered inside. His eyes took in the narrow bed, the locker at its side and the prie-dieu and the crucifix that were its sole furnishings.

“They are all the same,” remarked Reverend Mother quietly. “None of us has more than any other.” She rested her hand on the door of the next room as if to open it, but the major shook his head. These rooms, cold and bleak even in the heat of summer, were not what he was looking for. He stared down the corridor for a moment. Mother Marie-Pierre thought of her aunt, old Sister St Bruno, bedridden in the room at the end and hoped that he had seen enough. It would upset the elderly nun if a man came striding into her room where she was propped up in bed dressed only in a nightgown and shawl. But he appeared to have lost interest in the rest of the rooms on this passage.

“And the chapel?” he asked abruptly. “Where is that?”

“Please, come this way.” Mother Marie-Pierre guided him back through the convent to the chapel. There was no service at this time of day, but she opened the great west door softly and then stood aside. The major stepped in and then came to an abrupt halt, staring in surprise.

The chapel was warm and quiet, the scent of incense lingering heavily in the air, the sanctuary light glowing red in its hanging lamp-holder. The sun shone in through the stained glass in the south wall, casting patterns on the stone floor and striking fire from the ornate gold reredos. It was not this, however, that made the man halt in his tracks, but the sight of a nun, lying prone before the altar, cruciform; her arms outstretched, her legs arrow-straight, her forehead on the stone floor, her face concealed by her hood. He stared at her at length, and then crossing himself backed out of the door.

“What is she doing?” he asked awkwardly, as the reverend mother closed the door behind them.

“Penance,” replied the nun.

He looked startled. “Penance? Penance for what?”

“I have no idea,” answered Mother Marie-Pierre. “That would be between her, her confessor and God.”

“And do you all do that?” The major’s questions had changed character. Now he was asking because he was intrigued.

“There is always someone watching in the chapel,” Mother Marie-Pierre explained. “Our Lord is never alone. The penance is not always the same.” She smiled at him. “You understand, Major. You’re a Catholic yourself.” She had seen him bless himself and knew that it was true. His action had been instinctive and belonged to a man who had learned to cross himself as a child.

The major made no answer to this but said sharply, “Where is your orphanage?”

Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. She had hoped to get away without bringing the major face-to-face with the children, but she knew it would be pointless to refuse and probably dangerous to show reluctance. Reasonable as this German officer seemed to be, he was just that, a German officer.

“They are in the far wing,” she said, “so that they don’t disturb the sisters at their prayers.” She led the way back through the main part of the building and then along yet another passage to a stout door set in the stone wall.

As she opened this, they were greeted by the wails of a baby and the sound of children’s voices. Sister Danielle was sitting at the table encouraging a small girl to eat her lunch, while a young girl of about eighteen was walking up and down the room trying to pacify the crying baby.

Sister Danielle looked up and at once came to her feet. “Mother,” she said, her eyes wide at the sight of the German. “Can we help you?”

“Not at all, Sister,” replied Reverend Mother. “Major Thielen was interested to see the work we do with the orphaned children.” She turned to the major. “We have four other children at present, but they are at their lessons with Sister Marie-Joseph, in the next room.”

At that moment the baby gave a great burp and was sick all over the shoulder of the girl who carried her.

“Marthe, take Anne to the nursery and change her,” ordered Sister Danielle, “put her down for her nap and then get cleaned up yourself.”

The young girl ducked her head, and muttering “Yes, Sister,” hurried from the room, still clutching the baby.

“Who is that?” asked the major as the door closed behind her.

“The girl?” Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “That is Marthe. She comes in every day from the village. We are trying to train her as a nursery nurse.”

“I would like to see the other children,” the major announced suddenly. “Have them brought in here.”

“They are working with Sister Marie-Joseph…” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but he cut her short with a wave of his hand.

“I will see them now.” He indicated Catherine watching him wide-eyed from the table where Sister Danielle was still trying to get her to finish a bowl of stew. “It must be time for their lunch. They will be glad to finish their lessons early.”

Sister Danielle half got to her feet, but Reverend Mother waved her back. “You finish giving Catherine her lunch, Sister,” she said. “I’ll go and fetch the others.” She opened the door at the far side of the room and disappeared for a few moments.

While he waited Major Thielen looked across at Catherine. “How old is she?” he asked Sister Danielle.

“We think she’s five,” replied the nun, continuing to offer the child a spoonful of stew without looking up at him.

“You don’t know? Where did she come from? What happened to her parents?”

Before Sister Danielle could answer, Mother Marie-Pierre came back into the room with the four children. Paulette came first holding David tightly by the hand, followed by Jean-Pierre and Monique.

“Children,” Mother Marie-Pierre said softly, “this is Major Thielen. Say bonjour.”

In the brief moment outside the room, Reverend Mother had warned the children that there was a German soldier who wanted to meet them. “Just say bonjour to him, and answer politely if he asks you anything.” One look at David told her that he was petrified, all colour had drained from his face and his mouth was open as if in a silent scream. “Paulette, take David’s hand,” instructed the nun. “Be a good boy, David, and hold Paulette’s hand.” She dared not leave David in the other room. The major already knew that there were four more children and she did not want him to wonder why he was only meeting three.

There was a muttered chorus of “Bonjour, Monsieur” from the three other children, but David said nothing, his eyes fixed in obvious terror on the German soldier standing in front of him, then with a wail, he ripped his hand free from Paulette’s grasp and dashed screaming from the room. The three older children stared after him and Catherine, still sitting at the table, began to cry. Sister Marie-Joseph, who had been coming in through the door as David thrust past her, turned at once and followed him out.

Mother Marie-Pierre stepped forward and closed the door firmly behind them and turning said to the startled major, “I’m sorry, Major, but he has just lost his father in this war and is afraid.” She turned back to the three children who were standing rooted to the spot. “Go and wash your hands for lunch,” she directed, “and then Paulette, you can take Catherine out after her nap.”

Sister Danielle, taking this as her cue, gathered up the still weeping Catherine in her arms and swept her out of the room, shooing the older children out ahead of her.

Reverend Mother opened the door that led back into the main part of the convent and stood aside to let the major precede her. He seemed anxious enough to leave the schoolrooms and marched out in front of her. He made no comment about David’s outburst, and Mother Marie-Pierre found herself sending up a heartfelt prayer of thanks that he had not done so. She wanted no awkward questions about David. She had a prepared story of course, but she was not sure it would stand up to real scrutiny.

However, as they left the children’s wing and headed back to the main hall, he asked, “Why are the children not in school?”

“School is over for the summer,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied easily. “They will go back in the autumn, but in the meantime they practise their reading and numbers with Sister Marie-Joseph each day. She was a teacher before she joined us, and it does her good to keep her hand in.” She looked across at her unwelcome visitor and asked, “Is there anything else you wish to see, Major?”

“No, I have seen enough. I must tell you, Reverend Mother, that I am looking for a suitable billet for myself. The men are well accommodated in the village for now, and most of my officers will live at The Manor, but I want something separate.”

“Here?” Mother Marie-Pierre looked at him in undisguised amazement. “In the convent?”

“I was considering it,” he admitted, “but having seen the place I do not think it will suit me. I shall take over the mayor’s house as my headquarters and live there.”

“But the mayor…” began Mother Marie-Pierre, startled at the man’s casual appropriation of someone else’s home.

“Will live somewhere else,” cut in the major. “I understand his son has a farm not far away. He can go there.”

Having made his decision, Major Thielen said, “And now, Reverend Mother, I have taken up too much of your time already. If you will kindly lead me through this rabbit warren back to the front door and my car, I shall leave you for today. I have, as you can imagine, much to do in such a place.”

“I’m sure you have,” murmured Mother Marie-Pierre, adding a little louder, “certainly, Major, if you’ll just follow me.”

The car pulled away and Reverend Mother stared out long after it had disappeared round the corner of the lane. She had found the major’s visit very disturbing and she needed to talk to someone, but her position as Reverend Mother was such that it made it almost impossible to confide in any of the sisters. There was one exception, however, and that was Sister St Bruno, her Aunt Anne. The old nun might be bedridden, but she was still mentally alert, making her physical reliance on others even more of a cross to bear than it would have been for someone less aware. Mother Marie-Pierre made a point of visiting her aunt at some point every day, usually in the recreation hour before compline, but the German major’s visit was too worrying for her to wait for evening. She wanted to discuss things with Aunt Anne now. She slipped into the kitchen to find Sister Elisabeth.

“I will take my meal with Sister St Bruno today,” she told her. “If you will put it all together on a tray I’ll take it up.” Sister Elisabeth did as she was asked and as Mother Marie-Pierre carried the tray to the door, she turned back. “Please ask Sister Marie-Paul if she will preside at lunch for me today.”

Sister St Bruno was sitting up in bed, her Bible lying open on her knees. She looked old and frail, propped up against the pillows, but when she saw who her visitor was her face cracked into a smile and her eyes glowed with pleasure.

“Mother!” she said. “How lovely!”

“I’ve brought up our lunch,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, setting the tray down on the locker by the bed, and plumping up the pillows so that the old lady could sit more comfortably to eat her food. “I thought we could eat together. Sister Marie-Paul will be only too happy to preside in the refectory.”

Sister St Bruno gave a wry smile and set her Bible aside so that she could take the plate that her niece was offering her. As they ate their meal Mother Marie-Pierre told her about Major Thielen’s visit.

“He was perfectly polite… correct, you know. But I felt the whole time that he was weighing up what we had here that he might use. He certainly took in what we’re growing in the vegetable garden,” she went on ruefully. “We don’t grow much to help feed the children and the patients, but I have a feeling his men will soon be up here, taking what little there is.”

“Privilege of an occupying power, Sarah,” Sister St Bruno replied with a sigh. As usual when the two of them were alone together, they ceased for the duration of their privacy to be Reverend Mother and Sister St Bruno, a senior member of the community, and reverted to being Aunt Anne and Sarah. It was Sarah who had insisted on this easy relationship; she loved her mother’s sister and would only allow her to treat her as Mother Superior in the public life of the community. Mother Marie-Pierre had no feelings of guilt about their two relationships; none of the nuns was cut off entirely from her family, the order was not an enclosed one, and Sister St Bruno and Mother Marie-Pierre were the only family that either of them had. Alone, they became Sarah and Aunt Anne, and both enjoyed the ease that was between them.

“The thing is, I need your advice, Aunt Anne. I am concerned about the children.”

“What about them?” asked her aunt when Sarah paused and did not go on. “They’re safe enough, aren’t they?”

Sarah told Aunt Anne about the major’s visit to the schoolroom. “David took one look at him and started to scream. He ran out of the room and I had to leave Sister Marie-Joseph to look after him while I dealt with the other children… and the major of course. I gave some quick explanation that David’s father had been killed in the war and that David was afraid.”

“And did the German accept it?”

Sarah shrugged. “He seemed to. I sent the other children off to get ready for lunch and brought him out of the children’s wing.”

“And he didn’t ask any more about David?”

“No, I thank the Lord,” Sarah said fervently.

“Then the children should be safe enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah sounded anxious. “I’m not so worried about Paulette, Monique and Jean-Pierre, but David and his sisters could be at risk because they’re Jews. There’s no reason for the Germans to know that of course, except that there are other people who know it and secrets like that don’t stay secrets for long.”

“No, I agree with you there,” said her aunt. “But what use has he for any children, Jewish or otherwise? They aren’t old enough to be sent off to these labour camps, are they? They couldn’t work in the German factories, they’re far too young.”

“No, of course they couldn’t.” Sarah looked slightly happier. “But even so I shall keep them out of the way as much as I can, until people have forgotten where they came from. We may see nothing of the Germans up here anyway, but we don’t know how this occupation is going to be, do we? I mean how much the Germans are going to demand things.” She told her aunt about the major’s decision to turn the mayor out of his house so that he could use it himself. “He’s billeted his men around the village, but he is going to have to provide for them somehow.”

“You say he was considering using the convent himself?” asked her aunt.

“So he said, but thank God he realised how impossible that would be. I think if we keep a low profile he probably won’t interfere with us too much… except for allowing his men to forage in our garden.” She smiled ruefully. “I just wanted to discuss it with you really, just to see what you thought.”

“I think we are in the hands of the Lord as always,” replied her aunt with a serene smile. “All you can do, Sarah, is keep faith. You take your problems to Him in prayer and He will help you to make the right decisions if and when the time comes.” She reached for Sarah’s hand and said in a rallying tone, “Come on now, Sarah. At present the children are safe enough, all of them. I think you’re right, too. Our work in the village may change somewhat with the arrival of the German soldiers, but I doubt if they will trouble us much actually in the convent.” She looked across at her niece, adding with a twinkle in her faded eyes, “But it might be wiser if they didn’t find out that you and I are English, don’t you think?”

Sarah stared at her in surprise. “You won’t believe this,” she said slowly, “but that thought hadn’t even crossed my mind! I suppose we are enemy aliens or something.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve been here so long I never even think about being English anymore.”

“Nor do I,” agreed her aunt, “but there are several people who are well aware that we are, and not just the sisters.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about them,” laughed Sarah, “not the sisters. But I suppose there are people in the village who know that I’m English. I doubt if many remember that you are. You’ve been here for over forty years!”

“Maybe,” agreed the old lady placidly, “but we have to face the fact that there are people who are going to want to be on the winning side round here. Little snippets of information may find their way into German intelligence. So, keep your counsel.”

8

As the anniversary of the occupation came and went, the convent was largely ignored by the Germans. Occasionally soldiers arrived and relieved them of some sacks of potatoes or strings of onions, but Major Thielen seemed to have taken on board the fact that the nuns needed their produce to help feed the patients in the hospital, and the requisition was not, at first, excessive. The sisters went about their daily routine of prayer and service within its walls; the hospital was busy as always, and the nuns who nursed the elderly inhabitants of St Croix and the surrounding area in their own homes, travelled about the countryside unhindered. The children continued to be cared for in the orphanage and attend the local school. No one seemed interested in any of them, and Mother Marie-Pierre allowed herself to relax a little.

“It is amazing how little our lives have changed under this occupation,” Mother Marie-Pierre said to Sister St Bruno as they sat together one evening before compline, “except for the shortages, of course, and they affect everyone. Rations have been cut again. Poor Sister Danielle spent five hours at the food office in Albert today, getting the children’s ration cards properly stamped, and someone will have to go again next week to deal with all our cards.”

“I think we’ll find things get worse before they get better,” her aunt said. “Remember how scarce everything was by the end of the of last war?”

Mother Marie-Pierre did remember and she sighed. “You’re probably right,” she said, “but it doesn’t look as if we’re going to win this one.”

“Come on, Sarah!” Her aunt spoke bracingly. “Of course we’re going to win! Where’s your faith?”

St Croix gradually got used to seeing the men in German uniforms who had taken up residence there. Being the largest village in the area, it was used as a hub from which the spokes of the local occupation extended. From the town hall, now the German HQ, soldiers patrolled the surrounding country. Lists were made of the local residents and their families, to make a record of everyone in the area. French soldiers, returning, defeated and demoralised, to tend the land or the businesses that their wives had kept running during their absence, found themselves being noted, listed. If the work they had come home to do was not considered vital, able-bodied men were liable to be sent as forced labour to Germany to work in the factories. As this happened more frequently, such men began disappearing again; sons of local families slipping away before the efficient machinery of the German occupation gathered them into is jaws.

Sullen faces still greeted the German soldiers who carried out spot checks on papers, who travelled on the trains, who searched houses and barns for shot-down airmen, weapons caches and other works of a quietly growing resistance movement, but the cold loathing was reserved for those Frenchmen who collaborated with the Germans; opportunists who offered their services, passing on their local knowledge to the occupying power. Determined to be on the winning side when the war finally ended, they cheerfully gave information about local families, passed on anything they considered suspicious, betraying their countrymen without compunction.

Alain Fernand was one such. He lived in a house in the lane that ran behind the town hall, a house belonging to an elderly spinster called Mademoiselle Martine Reynaud. She had been forced to take in a boarder to make ends meet before the war, and once Fernand was ensconced she had been unable to get him out. He terrified her with threats to tell the Germans that her grandmother had been Jewish.

“But she wasn’t!” protested poor Mademoiselle Reynaud.

“Wasn’t she?” asked Fernand innocently. “Well, the Germans won’t know that, will they?” He smiled wolfishly. “If they took you away, I could have the whole house, now couldn’t I? Better not to upset me, eh?”

So he had stayed, and, confining Mademoiselle Reynaud to the room he had originally rented from her, he took over the rest of the house for himself. He was a plumber by trade, and this meant that he would not be called up for Service du Travail Obligatoire. As a skilled tradesman his work was too important for him to be sent off to Germany, and, while plying his trade in the surrounding area, he started to gather information about his customers, which he used to his own advantage.

Fernand had already informed on one young lad whom he found hiding in the barn of an outlying farm. The boy had finally returned from the war, only to hear that he was to be sent to Germany to work in a factory.

Tipping the Germans off as to the boy’s whereabouts had earned Fernand a cash reward; he’d been on the German payroll ever since.

“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Major Thielen had said. “We’ll always pay for good information.”

So, as he went about his business, Fernand had begun gathering information about his customers; who was hoarding food, undeclared in their barns, who was selling produce on the black market, which shops were saving goods for favoured customers, naming the children who had thrown cow dung over Major Thielen’s car. All pretty low-grade information, but it made him a little extra money and kept him in with the Germans. And that was what Fernand wanted most. Before long, he reckoned, the war would be over, and those who had been helpful to the victors would do very well for themselves.

He also ran a small blackmail business. When Fernand hinted at what he’d discovered about them, local people were prepared to pay him not to pass that information on. He would take their money for a few months, and then shop them anyway. He knew he was hated in the village, but he didn’t care. He had been rejected all his life. Unpopular at school, taunted for his lack of a father, bullied because he was too small to retaliate, beaten by his mother’s succession of lovers, Fernand became a survivor. He learnt early to look after number one, because if he didn’t, no one else would.

The hatred for such collabos smouldered beneath the surface of the entire community, liable to erupt without warning like a dormant volcano. Flashes such as these did little good, retaliation and retribution could be swift and cruel, but memories would be long and revenge was promised when the time was right.

Accommodation was requisitioned for the occupying soldiers. Madame Berniers, an old lady of ninety, was banished to the servants’ quarters of her own manor house. Her maid, Ninette, almost as old as her mistress, was told to look after her, while seven German officers took over the house and made free with the wine Madame’s husband had laid down in the cellar some forty years earlier. Major Thielen was satisfactorily established in the mayor’s house and the other ranks were billeted comfortably enough in the barns of two farms at either end of the village.

It was not only accommodation; cars and horses were casually requisitioned by the German authorities; their troops also augmented their rations by helping themselves from local farms, at times officially, at others by stealth.

Sister Marie-Marc’s precious chickens survived until they were noticed by Sergeant Franz Schultz when he was carrying the bags of potatoes he and his mates had been sent to collect from the convent garden by the quartermaster in the town. That evening when darkness was falling and the nuns, following their own idiosyncratic timetable, had retired for the night, Sergeant Schultz crept back up the path from the village and with a leg-up from his friends, scaled the courtyard wall. He opened the gate to admit his accomplices and together they made their way to the hencoop. He reached for the wooden bolt that secured its door and dragging it free, knelt down and peered into the henhouse. The birds were roosting peacefully, but as soon as he made a grab, catching the first unsuspecting hen round her neck and passing her hastily back out for one of his friends to stuff into the sack they had brought, the squawking began. He worked as quickly as he could, snatching birds from the safety of their roost and passing them back to his mates. The squawks and squooks of alarm increased in volume and the soldier posted as lookout heard the sounds coming from the convent as the back door was dragged open and someone came out with a lantern.

“That’s it,” he hissed as the light wobbled towards them across the yard. “Come on, let’s go!”

With a mixture of muffled laughter and swearing, the hencoop raiders ran out of the gate and disappeared into the night, and poor Sister Marie-Marc was left peering round in the darkness of the courtyard, looking for her beloved hens. She found only five still inside the henhouse and another, which must have been dropped as the thieves ran away, pecking its way peacefully among the clumps of weeds just outside the convent gate.

The wails of Sister Marie-Marc were even louder than the squawks of the hens had been, and when Mother Marie-Pierre appeared in the courtyard wearing a dressing gown, with only a shawl to cover her head, it took her some time to calm the irate nun.

“Don’t worry, Sister,” she said soothingly leading her back in through the kitchen door, “I will go and see Major Thielen in the morning.”

“That will be too late, Mother,” moaned Sister Marie-Marc. “Les sales Boches will have wrung their necks!”

“Sister!” exclaimed her superior, even as the little nun clapped a hand over her mouth in horror at her own words.

“Oh, Mother!” she cried in dismay. “May God forgive me for such words. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“So I should think, Sister,” reproved the reverend mother, struggling to keep a straight face. “Now, back to your bed. There is nothing more we can do this evening.”

Next morning, however, Mother Marie-Pierre went down to the town hall where Major Thielen had his office, to complain.

When she arrived she was asked to wait and it was nearly half an hour later that she was finally taken in to see the major. He came to his feet as she was announced and extended a hand. “Reverend Mother, what an unexpected pleasure. How can I help you? I hope you weren’t kept waiting.”

“Only about half an hour,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied dryly, seating herself on the chair he had set for her. “I am sure you’re busy, so I won’t take up much of your time.”

“I am indeed,” he agreed. “Now, how can I help?”

“Last night, all but six of our hens were stolen from the henhouse,” Mother Marie-Pierre said coming straight to the point. “I think it was some of your men. They climbed in over the wall and escaped out through the back gate.”

The major’s welcoming smile faded as she spoke and the hard look she had seen before slid into his eyes. “What makes you think they were my men, Reverend Mother?” he asked coolly. “Far more likely it was your own countrymen. Several have already been caught by my men, thieving from the German army.”

Mother Marie-Pierre managed to hold his gaze as she replied. “The sister who was woken by the noise the hens made, came down to the courtyard and heard them; heard them speaking German. Major,” she continued, “we need those chickens to provide the extra food our patients in the hospital need to get well. We have three of your men in there at present, as you know, all of them could do with good food to help them to make a swift recovery. You’ve taken much of our potato crop, what’s left of our carrots and the last of the onions we stored last year.”

“You will be paid for those,” cut in the major sharply.

“Be that as it may,” Mother Marie-Pierre, who was pretty sure they would never see a cent, went on firmly, “we need our hens to provide eggs for the hospital, and those you did not requisition. Is there any way you can find out who the thieves are and perhaps get the hens back?”

The major gave a short bark of laughter. “I very much doubt it, Mother. I imagine that whoever has taken your hens has already disposed of them.”

“And there is nothing you can do about it,” Mother Marie-Pierre stated flatly.

“There is not.” The major got to his feet to indicate that the interview was over. “I have a great many important things to deal with at present, and your hens are not among them.”

Mother Marie-Pierre also got to her feet and said quietly, “I am sorry your soldiers in the hospital will not receive the nourishing food they need, Major.”

“Are you daring to threaten me, Reverend Mother?” Major Thielen asked. Before, he had been cool, now he was icy.

“No, Major,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied calmly, “just stating a fact. The rations we receive for our patients are insufficient for their needs. With no hens and only a small part of our vegetable crop, we can no longer adequately supplement them.”

As she turned to leave, the door was flung wide and another officer strode into the room. To her surprise Major Thielen snapped to attention and saluted.

“Heil Hitler!”

The newcomer returned the salute and looking across at Mother Marie-Pierre asked in German, “And who is this?”

With chill realisation, Mother Marie-Pierre saw that the uniform this man was wearing was different from the major’s, and carried the now famous death’s insignia on the collar. Even in the convent, word of Himmler’s Waffen SS and its activities had been whispered; rumours that became increasingly frightening as they circulated. Until now the reverend mother had dismissed most of these, but now, seeing this man looking her over, as if deciding what she might fetch at market, she sensed an emanation of evil. Instinctively she drew herself up, levelly returning his gaze. The man was tall, his close-cropped hair displaying the elongated shape of his head. His eyes, grey and cold, looked out on the world from beneath pale eyebrows with hauteur and arrogance.

And I thought Major Thielen looked cruel! thought Mother Marie-Pierre.

“This is the reverend mother from the convent above the village, Colonel,” the major replied, and then turning to Mother Marie-Pierre he introduced her to the newcomer, in French. “Mother Marie-Pierre, this is Colonel Hoch, of the SS.”

Hoch looked at the nun standing so straight and upright before him and gave a curt nod, and speaking with a guttural accent, said in French, “Good morning. I am afraid I must ask you to leave. I have business with Major Thielen.”

“We had already finished our discussion,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “I will bid you good day, gentlemen.”

Swiftly she left the building. If only half of what she had heard of the SS and the Gestapo was true, then Colonel Hoch was a man to be feared. She hoped he would not be staying in St Croix for long.

In this she was disappointed. It was only days later that Sister Henriette returned from visiting an old woman, bedridden in the village, with the news that Major Thielen had moved to The Manor where his officers were already billeted. Colonel Hoch had taken over the mayor’s house.

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled bitterly when she heard the news. Serve him right, she thought uncharitably, as she recalled the way he had evicted Monsieur Dubois. She actually said as much to Sister St Bruno when she visited her that evening.

“He had no compunction in turning out Monsieur Dubois,” she said, “and now the same thing has happened to him.”

“Shows how important this Colonel Hoch is, Sarah,” remarked her aunt.

“There is a difference in rank,” agreed Sarah. “Hoch is the senior officer.”

“More than that, I think,” replied the old nun. “Your major is simply in the army. An SS officer, or Gestapo or whatever he is, is much more important.”

“What have you heard about them?” asked Sarah. It never failed to amaze her how well her bedridden aunt was informed about things, even though she had not left her room for more than a year.

“Oh, just snippets, you know.” She smiled. “Young Marthe is quite chatty when she comes in the mornings. She tells me what is going on in the village, who says what, who does what. She’s a real gossip, and I suppose I should discourage her, but when one’s shut away up here, well, the child’s like a breath of fresh air.”

Sarah smiled too. Marthe was a cheerful girl, and was good, both with the children and with the patients in the hospital. “I’m glad she cheers you up,” she said, “and you can keep me posted on the things that are going on that I otherwise wouldn’t hear about!”

It was not Sister St Bruno, however, who told Mother Marie-Pierre what had happened several weeks later, but Marthe herself. Sister Danielle brought her to the office, white-faced with terror, almost unable to speak.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mother,” Sister Danielle said, “but Marthe is here and she’s in a dreadful state. I think you should listen to what she told me.”

“Come in, Marthe,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “Come in and sit down. Please stay, Sister Danielle, in case I need you.”

They settled Marthe down in one of the chairs, but she couldn’t stay seated. Almost immediately she was on her feet again, pacing the tiny room.

“Marthe, try and calm down,” Sister Danielle said, “and tell Mother what you told me.”

“They’re taking them!” Marthe cried. “My family. They’re taking them away. Maman, Papa, François, Étienne, Jeanne, even little Margot. They’re putting them in lorries!”

“Who?” demanded Mother Marie-Pierre. “Who is taking them?”

“The Germans,” wailed Marthe. “The Germans. They came to the house this morning and made them all get up. Pushed them outside. They’re in the square, Mother, a whole crowd, and there are lorries coming to take them away.” The girl’s voice rose on a note of panic, and she cried out. “I must go to them, Mother, I must, but Sister Danielle says I can’t.” She turned towards the door, but Sister Danielle was standing in front of it, as if ready to block her escape.

“Try to be calm for a moment, Marthe,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly, “and we will think what to do. Now tell me, how do you know all this?”

“Francine, who lives next door to us; Maman managed to whisper to her, to tell me to stay away. I stayed here last night because Sister Eloise wanted me to help with the night duty. I was just going to have my breakfast with the children when Francine came to find me, but Sister Danielle wouldn’t let me go!”

“And she was quite right,” Mother Marie-Pierre said firmly. “Your mother didn’t send you that message to get you to go to the square, did she? No, she wanted you to stay here, where you would be safe.”

“But I don’t want to be safe,” wailed Marthe. “I want to be with my family. Where are they taking them? Francine says it isn’t just them, there’s a whole crowd gathered in the square.”

“Marthe, listen.” Mother Marie-Pierre took the hysterical girl by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “You must not go to the square. You will do no one any good if you are rounded up too. Your mother knows that, that’s why she sent you the message. She wants you to stay here where you will be safe.” She turned to Sister Danielle. “I’ll leave Marthe with you, Sister. Take her over to the children’s wing. I’ll go now, at once, to the village and find out what is going on. I’ve met Major Thielen several times, so I’ll try and find out from him what’s happening. I am sure there is some mistake.” She smiled at Marthe to reassure her. “I know they have been taking able-bodied men to work in the factories in Germany, but there can be no reason to take your mother or the younger children. Your papa and François, maybe, but not the rest.” She passed the young girl into Sister Danielle’s care. “You are to stay with Sister Danielle until I come back. You understand? You are to stay here in the convent till I get back. We shall know more then.”

Sister Danielle took the weeping Marthe in her arms and led her to the children’s wing. Mother Marie-Pierre gathered up her cloak and leaving instructions with Sister Celestine to tell Sister Marie-Paul that she had had to go to the village on an extremely urgent matter, she hurried down the footpath that led through the copse to the village.

When she reached the village square her heart was pounding both from the exertion and with fear at what she might find. The square was deserted except for about twenty-five people, who stood pale and frightened under the watchful eyes of three armed soldiers. Most of them were adults, their faces pale and drawn, but there were children there too. Mother Marie-Pierre could see Marthe’s family huddled together, a group within a group. They had one suitcase with them set down at Claude Lenoir’s feet. Marthe’s mother, Rochelle, was clutching a bag of what appeared to be food and the younger children clustered round her like chicks to a mother hen. François, the eldest boy, stood with his father, his face bleak, his eyes staring at the soldiers with their rifles. Apart from this forlorn little group there was no one in sight. The windows round the square were shuttered and blank, the pavements empty, the doors closed and probably bolted. The tables outside Le Chat Noir were still set out, but there were no customers and the blind was drawn down over the window. The people of St Croix had seen what was going on and were keeping well clear. Who knew who would be next? Best not to be seen. Best hide away behind shutters and blinds until the danger had passed.

Mother Marie-Pierre crossed over to one of the guards. “Please can you tell me what’s happening? What have these people done?”

The man shrugged at her. “Parle pas Français.” But when she moved to speak to Marthe’s family, he barred her way with his outstretched rifle.

“Verboten!” he growled, and Mother Marie-Pierre, needing no translation, backed away. Glancing again at Marthe’s family she saw the almost imperceptible shake of Madame Lenoir’s head. Don’t speak to us, her eyes warned, don’t draw attention to us or to the fact that Marthe isn’t here.

Mother Marie-Pierre gave a curt little nod as if to the soldier, but in fact to the Lenoirs, and turned away.

“Where is Major Thielen?” she asked the guard.

Recognising the name of his commanding officer, the man jerked his head backwards towards the town hall.

Mother Marie-Pierre crossed the square to the building that housed the German headquarters. Again her way was barred by a sentry, but this time when she asked for Major Thielen the sentry replied in fractured French that the Herr Major was inside and too busy to see anyone; he continued to block the doorway.

Undeterred by this, Mother Marie-Pierre treated him to a smile and said quite calmly and matter-of-factly that the Herr Major would see her when he knew that the mother superior from the convent was waiting to speak with him. The man looked uncertain, and then saying, “Wait here,” disappeared inside. He returned almost at once. “You will wait in here.”

Wait she did, for more than an hour in a small anteroom off the main hall. Through the window she could see the desolate cluster of people still waiting amid their guard in the middle of the square. The square itself remained otherwise deserted. No one else came near, it was as if it were a group of lepers gathered there, and fearful of infection all those in the vicinity had withdrawn, clutching their clothes about them and scurried away to the safety of their homes. Even as she watched, Mother Marie-Pierre saw little Margot Lenoir whispering to her mother. Madame Lenoir looked anxiously at one of the guards and then, plucking up courage, edged her way towards him. Immediately the man raised his rifle, pointing it at her menacingly. She stopped, but called out something to him. The man, keeping his gun pointed at her, replied with a shake of his head, and when she spoke again he simply turned his back on her.

With a shrug she returned to the little girl, who was now hopping from one foot to the other. Mother Marie-Pierre watched as the family drew round her, shielding her as best they could from other eyes, and then within their tiny circle, the mother helped the five-year old lift her dress and squat down to relieve herself. The youth and innocence of the child made the act unimportant, but when, still within the protective circle of the family, all the girls and Madame Lenoir did the same thing, Mother Marie-Pierre found her heart reaching out to them… such a small thing, but destroying their dignity.

She got to her feet and crossed the hall to the major’s closed office door. Drawing a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked. There was no reply, and having knocked again, she cautiously turned the handle and eased the door open. The room was flooded with sunlight through windows that also looked out onto the square. Major Thielen was sitting at his desk, and he looked up angrily at being disturbed. When he saw who it was he rose to his feet, his expression still dark. “Yes, Reverend Mother, what is it? Why are you here?”

“Good morning, Major,” said Mother Marie-Pierre with a calm she was far from feeling. “I came to find out what is happening in the square.”

The major flicked his eyes towards the window and then returned them to her face. “That is our business,” he replied stiffly. “I hardly see how it can concern you.”

“I came through the square on my way to visit the sick in the village,” Mother Marie-Pierre said equably, “and I saw these people standing there, surrounded by soldiers who were pointing guns at them. They are clearly under arrest for some reason, and I wondered what they were supposed to have done.”

“As I said,” returned the major, “I scarcely think it concerns you. Kindly do not interfere in what you don’t understand.”

“But I am asking, so that I do understand,” said the nun. “I know these people. Why are they standing here for hours on end with an armed guard?”

“They are awaiting transport,” replied the major. “Now if you don’t mind…”

“Transport? Transport to where? Where are they going, Major?”

“To work in Germany,” he answered. “They are going to work in the factories to help the war effort. Now if that is all, Reverend Mother, I’ll bid you good day.” He sat down abruptly and picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, began to read.

“To work in the factories?” Mother Marie-Pierre did not accept her dismissal. “Major Thielen, there are children of only five years old out there. What use will they be in your factories?”

“Their parents will work for the benefit of the Fatherland,” a smooth voice spoke from behind her, “and surely you would not wish to split up a family, Reverend Mother? Of course the children go too.”

Mother Marie-Pierre spun round to find herself face-to-face with Colonel Hoch. He had come into the room silently behind her, and now he stood within inches of her, the supercilious lift of his eyebrows and the curl of his lip both designed to show his contempt for her.

“And now if you have quite finished wasting the major’s time,” Hoch went on, “he and I have some business to finish.”

He moved a little, but not out of her way, so that she had to brush past him to reach the door. When she did so, Mother Marie-Pierre turned back and said in a soft voice, “May I speak with them, those out there?”

“No, you may not,” Hoch said, and turned his back on her.

Shaking with fear and anger, Mother Marie-Pierre paused in the hallway before leaving the town hall. As she collected her thoughts and decided what, if anything, she could do, she heard the colonel speak to the major again, his voice harsh and authoritarian.

“There is still another family, the Auclons, to be rounded up,” he said, “but the trucks will be here within the hour. If your men haven’t found them by then they’ll have to go with the next lot.”

Mother Marie-Pierre did not understand all he said, but her schoolgirl German gave her the gist of his remarks and made her blood run cold. The Auclons were another Jewish family who had lived in St Croix ever since she could remember. Joseph Auclon was a barber, and his wife, Janine, helped out occasionally at The Manor where she had been in service before she married. Their two boys, Jacques and Julien, were identical twins and only about three years old.

She wondered where the Auclons were. Had they got wind of the round-up and gone into hiding? Why had these families been chosen to go to Germany? Was it because they were Jews? Probably, she conceded. Jews would be chosen first for forced labour. But what about the children? Why take the children as well as the able-bodied adults? What use would they be in a labour camp? What use would their mother be with them to look after?

Mother Marie-Pierre walked out into the sunshine again and looked across at the waiting prisoners, for that is what they were, trying to see who else had been taken. Most were young men who had returned from the war, but there were several older men there too, and three women. The women stood together, staring round them with large frightened eyes. When they saw Mother Marie-Pierre watching them, one of them ran towards her, her arms outstretched as if in supplication. At once the guard nearest to her fired into the ground at her feet, causing her to reel backwards with a shriek of fear, and to retreat sobbing into the arms of one of her friends. The gunfire brought the colonel and the major running out of the town hall, and when he saw that Mother Marie-Pierre was still standing just outside, the colonel snarled. “Nun, unless you want to go and work for the Reich as well, I suggest you go back to your convent where you belong.”

Realising she could do no more here, Mother Marie-Pierre turned away and walked quietly out of the square and up the adjoining lane past the church towards the curé’s house.

The wooden shutters of Father Michel’s house were closed, as if the house were deserted. Undeterred, Mother Marie-Pierre strode up to the front door and raised the big brass knocker, but before she could let it fall, the door swung open and Mademoiselle Picarde peered out. The curé’s housekeeper was a tiny, wizened woman with eyes like a snake’s, harsh and unflickering, but now those eyes showed fear as they glanced anxiously over the nun’s shoulder.

“Reverend Mother,” she hissed, “what do you want?”

Mother Marie-Pierre was somewhat surprised at this reception. “I’ve come to see Father Michel.”

A voice from inside the house called out. “Who is it, Rose?”

“You’d better come in,” the housekeeper said ungraciously, and standing aside, allowed Mother Marie-Pierre to enter the house.

The priest appeared from a door further down the narrow corridor that ran the length of the house. “Ah, Reverend Mother,” he said a little nervously when he saw who his visitor was. “Good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Father,” she replied. “I need your help.”

“You do?” The priest looked worried and gestured her to follow him back into the room from which he had emerged. Mother Marie-Pierre had never called on the priest before, and, following him into the room, found herself in his study. The room was lit with candles, the windows darkened by their shutters.

Mother Marie-Pierre came directly to the point. “The Germans are taking some of the local people away,” she said. “They’ve got them gathered in the square and are only waiting for transport to collect them.”

Father Michel nodded. “So I heard,” he said. “Rose went to buy bread this morning and told me. I suppose they will take any of our young men that they need,” he added resignedly.

“But it’s whole families, Father,” Mother Marie-Pierre said softly, “not just able-bodied adults, there are children there as well. Little Margot Lenoir is only five. Why are they taking her? She’s no use to them.”

The curé shrugged. “That I can’t say, Mother.”

“It’s because they’re Jews,” stated Mother Marie-Pierre flatly.

“You could be right,” Father Michel replied uneasily. “But if it is, there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? I mean, if they chose the Jews to work in their factories, that may save some of our own boys from having to go.”

Mother Marie-Pierre stared at him for a moment. “Some of our own boys? Father, these people are as French as you are. They’ve lived in this country, this village, all their lives.”

“Even so, if the Germans have decided to move them, then there is nothing we can do about it,” replied the priest. “And surely it’s better for the Lenoir family, and others like them, to stay together, don’t you think?”

“Others like them?” Reverend Mother’s eyes skewered him. “Which others?”

His eyes slid away before her gaze. “Well, I don’t know…” he began to bluster. “I mean there are others aren’t there? The Auclons for instance.” He raised his eyes to her again, adding slyly, “After all you’ve Jewish children in the convent, haven’t you?”

Dismay registered on Mother Marie-Pierre’s face before she could control her features and he continued. “I shouldn’t want to draw attention to myself if I were sheltering Jews from the Germans. Far better to let them take those they’ve found already and hope they don’t find yours.”

Mother Marie-Pierre tilted her head in the candlelight the better to see him. She spoke quietly. “Thank you for your advice, Father. I knew you’d be able to help me.” Swiftly she pulled wide the door, which had been standing ajar, and Mademoiselle Rose Picarde almost fell into the room.

“I just came to see if I could get you or the reverend mother anything, Father,” she said virtuously, steadying herself with one hand on the door frame.

Mother Marie-Pierre answered before the priest was able to, with chilly politeness. “No thank you, Mademoiselle, I am not staying. I have things to do. I’ll bid you both good morning.”

Opening the front door, Mother Marie-Pierre stepped out into the fresh summer air, the relief of being out of the house an almost physical thing.

9

Mother Marie-Pierre turned her steps back towards the convent. As she was emerging from the lane into the square, she heard the rumble of engines and saw two lorries come to a halt outside the town hall. Instinctively, she stepped back into the shelter of the café wall, and was glad she had, for Hoch and Thielen both came out from the German headquarters onto the square. At an order from the colonel, the guards herded the waiting families towards the canvas-covered trucks. As the tailgates were let down, Mother Marie-Pierre could see that the lorries were already crammed with people.

Surely, she thought, there isn’t room for anyone else in there.

Even as she watched four young men and a woman sprang from one of the lorries, sprinting away from the truck in search of escape, of a place to hide. Each ran in a different direction, zigzagging as they ran, making for the illusory safety of the alleyways that gave onto the square. Immediately chaos broke loose as both the guards riding on the lorries and those covering the people in the square opened fire on the fugitives. One man was killed outright as a bullet powered into his back, flinging him into the air before he crumpled like a ragdoll to the ground in a pool of blood. Those still in the trucks began to shout as gunfire rattled round the square, the soldiers shooting, indiscriminately, in the directions that the fugitives had taken. Those gathered to be loaded onto the lorries screamed and shrieked with fear, flinging themselves flat on the ground as bullets ripped through the air about their heads.

There was a bellow of rage from Colonel Hoch, and shouting a mixture of orders— “After them! Shoot to kill! Guard the rest!” —the officer disappeared down one of the alleyways, his pistol in his hand.

There was confusion among the soldiers. Some followed the colonel, rushing from the square in hot pursuit, their rifles at the ready; others turned their guns on the prisoners in the lorries, to deter any other would-be escapees. Major Thielen hurried back into the town hall, shouting orders to someone inside. The group who had been waiting in the square were still flat on the ground, while a German private barked orders at them, waving his rifle threateningly. There was a rattle of gunfire from further away and another scream.

From her place behind the café wall, Mother Marie-Pierre saw that several of those who had dived for cover had actually rolled underneath one of the lorries, seeking shelter from the spitting bullets. Madame Lenoir was one, her body shielding Margot, her youngest child. For a moment their eyes met, desperate appeal in Madame Lenoir’s, compassion in the nun’s. She held out her arms and the woman under the lorry murmured something to her daughter and then pushed her out from the shelter of the lorry, across the two metres of open space and into Mother Marie-Pierre’s open arms. The nun gathered the child to her and stepped back into the shelter of the lane down which she had come. Even as she drew the little girl back behind the wall, obscuring her from the sight of the guard, the soldier saw the mother underneath the truck and roared an order at her, prodding her with the barrel of his rifle. Madame Lenoir crawled out from the other side of the lorry, her back firmly to Mother Marie-Pierre and Margot in the lane, and rejoined the rest of her family who were now on their feet again and being herded once more towards the waiting transports. She kept her eyes steadfastly away from the direction her daughter and Mother Marie-Pierre had taken, fighting with every fibre of her being the compulsion to turn for one final glimpse of her baby.

The reverend mother gathered the small girl into her arms and doubled back behind the café. She could hear the soldiers still shouting to each other as they searched for the escaping prisoners. There was another burst of gunfire close enough to make her shake, and she clutched the child to her ever more tightly.

“In here, Sister,” hissed a voice, and a door in the wall beside her opened just wide enough to admit her. She squeezed through and the door was immediately closed and bolted behind her. An old woman grabbed her hand and pulled them both in through the back entrance of the café.

“Down here!” she instructed, and Mother Marie-Pierre saw that there was a trapdoor open in the stone floor of the kitchen, from which a flight of steps led down. Margot, terrified into silence until now, began to wail.

“Ssh, ma petite,” soothed the old lady. “You’re safe now. Down you go, Sister, till they’ve gone.” She smiled up encouragingly. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t see it was you. Best keep both of you out of sight until they’ve driven off, at least.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and with Margot still in her arms sat on the edge of the hole in the floor, feeling for the steps with her feet. The trapdoor was closed over her head, and they were left in the gloom of a cellar only lit by the grey light that filtered through a narrow window set high up in the wall.

Margot was still crying. “I want Maman,” she wailed. “Where’s Maman? I want her.”

“I know you do, chérie,” soothed Mother Marie-Pierre, sitting down on a box with the child on her knee and getting out a handkerchief to mop her tears. “But Maman can’t come just now. She wants you to stay with me for a little while. Then I’ll take you to see Marthe. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She sat rocking the little girl in her arms until she gradually calmed down, and with her thumb set comfortably in her mouth, began to doze. Mother Marie-Pierre longed to go to the tiny window to see if she could see or hear anything from outside, but she didn’t want to disturb the now sleeping child. Better to wait, she decided, until her hostess and saviour came to give her the all-clear, and then, somehow, she’d have to get Margot back to the relative safety of the convent.

It was well over an hour later that she heard the scrape of the trapdoor above her and light flooded into the subterranean room.

“You can come up now, Mother,” said the old woman.

Gently Mother Marie-Pierre lifted the sleeping child up to the waiting arms above and then followed her out into the kitchen.

“Madame Juliette,” she said softly, “that was a very brave thing to do.”

The old woman peered at her and then smiled. “Ah, Mother,” she said, “there is little enough that we can do in these sad times. What can the Boche want with little children, hein?”

“I don’t know, Madame.” Mother Marie-Pierre looked across at the old lady, a woman she had met all those years ago when she had first come to the convent to nurse the wounded in the last war. “What finally happened out there?” She nodded her head towards the square.

“The lorries have gone,” Madame Juliette said flatly. “They loaded in those waiting in the square and drove away.”

“And those that ran?”

“One they killed, two they brought back, both wounded and bleeding and two…” she shrugged eloquently. “I suppose they are still searching for them.”

“And the child?” Mother Marie-Pierre looked at Margot now nestled against Madame Juliette’s ample bosom. “Did they realise that she’d gone?”

Madame Juliette shrugged again. “Who can tell?” she said. “Probably not. There was such a fracas when those tried to escape. I was watching from upstairs and I don’t think they counted the prisoners into the truck. The rest of the family were just pushed onto one of the lorries and then the back was secured. The last one they caught was shot in the leg and bleeding badly. They just tossed him in on top of the others.” She sighed. “I think he will die.”

Mother Marie-Pierre crossed herself and murmured. “May the Lord take his soul.”

“Amen to that,” said the old lady. Then she suddenly pulled herself together. “Now, we have to decide what to do with you and Margot.”

“Well, I can come and go about the village as I always do, so I’m in no danger,” began Mother Marie-Pierre.

“Until someone remembers that you are English,” interrupted Madame Juliette. It was the first indication she had given that she remembered that the nun in front of her was one of the English girls who had frequented her café to eat pain d’épice when they had first arrived from England in 1915. “You must not trust anyone, Mother. There are too many round here who would sell their own grandmothers if they thought it would be to their advantage.”

“Surely not, Madame,” began Mother Marie-Pierre.

“Believe me, Mother. I remember where you came from… so will others. Be very careful.”

“So, what do you suggest?” asked the nun.

“For the moment you should be safe enough, that major probably doesn’t pose much of a threat. He’s just a soldier.” Madame Juliette spoke dismissively. “No, the dangerous one is that Colonel Hoch. Try not to draw his attention. He is an evil man.”

“Well, I have met him a couple of times, and I think I agree with you,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “I shall certainly steer clear of him if I can. Still, for the moment, I think it should be safe enough for me to walk back to the convent, taking Margot with me. The Germans won’t know that she should have been put in the lorry. They’ll just think she’s one of the village children.”

“Better you go openly,” agreed Madame Juliette. “If they thought you were trying to hide from them, that would be really dangerous. You must go in the daylight, but go with caution, they will still be looking for those two who got away. Your habit should protect you and if a patrol stops you, you must tell them you are taking the child to the hospital.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded. “Then I think we’d better be off, before we bring any trouble to you and your family.”

The old woman nodded at this and gently roused the child from her sleep. “Wake up, Margot,” she said, “you’re going with Mother Marie-Pierre, now. So, be a good girl and hold her hand all the way. I’ll let you out the back way, Mother,” she added. “If you walk down the lane to the end you’ll be on the towpath and can cut back to the convent from there.”

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Yes,” she said, “I know the way. Come along, Margot.” She held out her hand to the little girl who took it obediently.

“Are we going to find Maman and Papa now?” Margot asked.

Before the nun could answer Madame Juliette said, “In a little while. Don’t you worry about them, Margot. They’ll be back soon. You go with Mother Marie-Pierre for now like a good girl, and in a day or two I’ll bring you a little cake, just for yourself, all right?”

The child nodded and the two adults exchanged glances over her head. The lies had to be told, for Margot had to be inconspicuous as she was got to safety. A crying child would draw unwelcome attention to them. She could be told about her parents when she was out of danger.

“Is Marthe still at the convent?” murmured Madame Juliette softly.

“Yes, at least I hope she is,” replied the nun. “I left her with Sister Danielle and told her to stay there until I got back.”

“Let’s hope she did,” replied the old lady as she led the way to the back gate. She eased it open and looked out into the lane beyond. “No one in sight,” she said, “but don’t forget they’ll still be looking for the two who got away.”

Mother Marie-Pierre slipped out through the gate, still holding Margot firmly by the hand. “God bless you, Madame,” she said.

“And you, Mother. It’s you taking the risks now.” With that she closed the gate and Mother Marie-Pierre heard the bolts being drawn across again.

“Come along, Margot,” she said turning down the lane towards the river, “let’s get home to the convent and have something to eat.”

The lane led to the towpath that ran along the riverbank. The river itself wound its way lazily round the edge of the village before widening into a pool from which it emerged to continue its leisurely way to join the Somme. The towpath was a well-used track to some of the outlying cottages, a shortcut to the centre of the village, or to the road that led eastward beyond. Today, however, it was deserted. The river flowed slowly here, its brown water sluggish as it slid under the willows that lined its bank.

Mother Marie-Pierre hurried along the path, her eyes scanning the fields on the further bank, flicking anxiously towards the backs of the houses that sprawled untidily at the edge of the village. Keeping a firm hold on Margot’s hand, she almost dragged the child in her wake.

“Halt!” The word rang out and Mother Marie-Pierre stopped abruptly as a burly soldier carrying a rifle stepped out from the end of another of the lanes that led into the centre of the village. He looked across at her and the little girl clutching the skirt of her habit, and said in execrable French, “Where do you go?”

“To the hospital,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre simply. “This child needs to see a doctor.”

The man, looking at them suspiciously, took a step towards them, still covering them with his rifle. Margot gave a scream of fear and buried her face in the habit. Immediately Mother Marie-Pierre scooped the child up into her arms and said sternly to the man, “Put your gun aside. Can’t you see you are terrifying the little one?” She gestured at the rifle to make her meaning clear and then gathered Margot closer into her arms. The little girl was sobbing, her face hidden against Mother Marie-Pierre’s shoulder.

The man lowered his weapon and looked round. “A woman. I look for a woman. Maybe shot. You have seen?”

Mother Marie-Pierre shook her head. “I’ve seen no one,” she said and took a step forward along the path. For a moment the soldier continued to bar her way, then he stepped aside, and turning away set off along the path in the direction from which they had come.

“No,” murmured Mother Marie-Pierre to his departing back, “I’ve seen no one, man or woman, but would I have told you if I had?” It was no time to be considering the rights and wrongs of lying to save a life, she still had a life to save here and now. Margot must be got to safety and the sooner the better. Still carrying the child, she hurried to the path that led across the fields and up through the copse to the convent. She could see the tall, grey walls above the trees, and never had she longed to be there so much as now. As she finally reached the copse, Margot heavy in her arms, she looked back across the field and saw two more men in field grey searching among the willows along the riverbank. Clearly they had not yet found all those who had made a break for freedom.

As soon as she reached the convent gate, she was greeted by an almost hysterical Sister Celestine, who rushed out to greet her.

“Oh Mother,” she cried. “Thank God you are safe! We heard shots from the village and when you didn’t come back, Sister Marie-Paul sent Sister Henriette down to find out what had happened, and she hasn’t come back yet. And there’ve been soldiers on motorbikes on the road, roaring up and down and…” Her words came tumbling in a torrent of anguish and relief, but her superior cut her off.

“Well, as you see, Sister, I am quite safe. Please go to the kitchen and get some bread and milk and bring it up to the children’s wing. I shall be with Sister Danielle. Please also tell Sister Marie-Paul that I am back and ask her to call all the sisters who can be spared from their work to the recreation room in half an hour.” Even as she was speaking, Mother Marie-Pierre was striding through the hallway and along the passage to the children’s rooms.

“Yes, Mother, of course, Mother, straight away.” Sister Celestine scurried away to find the novice mistress, Sister Marie-Paul.

When Reverend Mother entered the children’s dayroom she was greeted with a shriek from Marthe, who rocketed from her chair at the sight of her little sister. Margot, set down on the floor at last, was gathered into her sister’s arms and hugged so tightly that after a minute she wriggled to be free. Sister Danielle appeared from the next room and looking over the heads of the two girls raised her eyebrows questioningly. Mother Marie-Pierre shook her head slightly and the younger nun went pale.

“Now then, Marthe,” Mother Marie-Pierre said briskly, “let’s get Margot comfortable. Sister Danielle will take her to the bathroom before Sister Celestine gets here with her food. I want you to come with me for a moment or two.”

Marthe, still cradling Margot in her arms, looked up and saw the compassion in the reverend mother’s face. Gently putting Margot away from her she stood up. There was a bleak control in her voice. “Go with Sister Danielle, Margot. I’ll be back in a minute to give you your tea.”

The little girl reached for her sister’s hand, her bottom lip quivering, but Marthe placed the reaching hand into Sister Danielle’s. “Be a good girl now, Margot,” she said. “I’ll be back in minute, I promise.” Then turning her back resolutely on the tears that were beginning to course down Margot’s cheeks, she followed Mother Marie-Pierre out of the room.

“We’ll go to my office,” said the nun, leading the way, and with a leaden heart, Marthe followed.

Once in the privacy of the office, Mother Marie-Pierre turned to the white-faced girl. It was heartbreaking to have to tell this girl, little more than a child herself, of the events down in the village square. For a short moment she looked at her, wondering what words to use to break the news, but Marthe didn’t wait to be told.

“They’ve gone, haven’t they?” she asked quietly. “Are they dead?”

“No, of course not…” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but Marthe continued almost as if she hadn’t heard. “We heard the guns, you see. Shooting. Lots of shooting. I thought…”

Mother Marie-Pierre took the girl’s hands in her own. They were icy cold and the nun chafed them gently as she spoke.

“There was shooting,” she agreed, “but not at your family. They were put on a lorry to go to Germany to work in a factory there.” No need to describe the dreadful conditions that they must be facing in that overcrowded lorry, no need to tell this brave girl that they were being treated worse than cattle on the way to the abattoir.

“Your mother gave Margot to me to look after until they come home again,” she went on. “She knows you are safely here with us and that you’ll look after Margot for her.” No need to explain how her mother had put her own life at risk to save young Margot’s. Let Marthe think that the Germans had had no use for such a young child and had allowed the nun to take her. “She sent you her love. They all did.” Not aloud, Mother Marie-Pierre thought as she stretched the truth for the third time that day, but she had no trouble with that, she had no doubt that the love had been sent.

Marthe’s face was rigid with her determination not to cry. Mother Marie-Pierre could see the tears brimming in her eyes, but the young girl would not let them fall. It was as if, before her eyes, Mother Marie-Pierre saw the girl’s childhood fall away, sloughed off like a snakeskin, and the cloak of adulthood envelop her.

“They’ve gone,” she said flatly. “Margot and I have only each other now.”

“Certainly for now you must look after each other,” Reverend Mother agreed gently, “but there is no reason to think that your family won’t return at the end of the war.”

“Isn’t there?” Marthe looked pityingly at the nun. “You don’t understand, do you, Mother? We are Jews. There will be no Jews left at the end of this war. Jews in Germany have been disappearing for years. Now it is our turn.” She gave a sharp and bitter laugh. “You think we shall be safe here in the convent? Margot and I will be safe nowhere round here where it is known that we are Jews. Before long someone will send the Germans here, you’ll see. They’ll come for me and for Margot and probably for those Leon children as well, and you won’t be able to stop them. We shall be loaded onto a lorry, just like Maman, Papa and the others… and we shall disappear. There will be no end to the war for us.” She had spoken with steely control, but as she uttered these last words her voice broke in a sob.

Mother Marie-Pierre moved to gather her into her arms, but Marthe pulled away and spoke, almost fiercely. “No, Mother, I’m not a child like Margot, to be comforted with a hug and soothing words. I know what we are facing, and I know that you won’t be able to protect us when the time comes.” She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and went on, “I must go back to Margot, now. She’ll be frightened here with no one she knows. Thank you for bringing her to me.” Her voice was so unemotional and polite she might have been thanking the reverend mother for having her to tea.

Mother Marie-Pierre stood aside. “Yes, go back and find her. I will consider what we do next. You’re safe for the time being, I think, but it may not be for long and we must make plans.” She smiled at the young girl. “May God give you courage, Marthe.”

Marthe, who had reached the door, turned back and looked the reverend mother in the eye. “There is no God, Mother. Not yours, not mine.” And with that she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Some minutes later Mother Marie-Pierre joined the rest of her community in the recreation room. There was a buzz of conversation, but it died away as she entered, and the nuns all turned their eyes expectantly on their superior.

“Sisters,” Mother Marie-Pierre began, “today the Germans have started rounding up people from the village and shipping them off to Germany. They say they are to work for the German war effort in their factories, and maybe they are. However, they are taking whole families including young children, who can be of little use in the factories. The families they are taking are those of Jewish extraction. We have all heard rumours of camps where the Jews are being held, and whether we believe these or not, the fact remains that Marthe Lenoir’s family have all been loaded into a lorry today and taken away. Her mother managed to get the youngest daughter, Margot, to my care before they left, but from what I have heard in the village”—she did not mention the attitude of the curé as most of the nuns would bow to his authority and accept his line of thinking—”it will only be a matter of time before someone tells the Germans they are here.”

Sister Marie-Paul raised a hand and Mother Marie-Pierre nodded to her to speak. “Mother, surely their presence here will endanger the whole convent community.”

There were murmurs of assent to this, but Mother Marie-Pierre cut through them. “So, what do you suggest we do, Sister? Simply hand two innocent young girls over to Colonel Hoch?” she asked sharply.

“No, Mother, of course not,” Sister Marie-Paul said hastily. “I was merely going to suggest that we should find a family to take care of them until their own people return from Germany.”

“Will that not put the foster family at the same risk you are saying we shouldn’t take?” the reverend mother asked evenly. There was no accusation in her voice, but the other nun flushed. “We run an orphanage, Sister, and to all intents and purposes these children are orphans. They are our responsibility and we must not shirk it.

“Please, sisters, discuss this among yourselves, and if anyone can come up with a way to protect the children that have been confided to our care, then come to me so that we can consider it. In the meantime, please carry on as normal, and remember the families who have been carried off in your prayers, particularly Marthe and Margot’s.”

As she left the room, there was another buzz of excited conversation. Never before could the nuns remember having been asked to discuss something among themselves. Usually decisions were taken by the senior members of the community, Reverend Mother, Sister Marie-Paul as Novice Mistress, Sister Eloise as Matron, and handed down from on high to be implemented without argument. This new reverend mother ruled the convent in a very different way from her predecessors, and that in itself was worth discussion.

Mother Marie-Pierre left them to their amazement and went upstairs to talk things through with Sister St Bruno. She had the germ of an idea, but needed to consider it carefully with someone whom she could trust implicitly.

10

Sister St Bruno was dozing in her bed, her missal open upside down on her lap, her head tilted sideways on the pillow and her spectacles askew on her nose, but at the sound of the door opening she jerked awake.

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled across at her apologetically. “Sorry to wake you, Aunt Anne,” she said as she came into the room, “but I need to talk to you urgently.”

“I wasn’t asleep, Sarah,” replied her aunt, “just resting my eyes.”

Sarah laughed. “Good, then I haven’t disturbed you.” She drew the little, upright visitor’s chair to the bedside and sat down, her face instantly serious. “Aunt, we’ve got a problem and I need to talk it through with you.”

Her aunt settled her glasses more comfortably on her nose and looked gravely at her niece. “What has happened?”

“The Germans have started taking people from the village,” replied Sarah. “Ostensibly to work in their factories in Germany, but they have taken whole families, not just the able-bodied who would be of use to their workforce. The families they have taken are Jews, and among them are Marthe’s family.”

Her aunt stared at her in horror. “All of them?” she queried in disbelief. “Even the children?”

“All except Marthe, who was here overnight in the hospital, and little Margot, the youngest.” Sarah described how Marthe had been brought to her in great distress that morning, and then went on to tell what had happened when she had gone down to the village to investigate. Aunt Anne listened without interruption as Sarah described the events of the day, finally telling of the meeting she had called in the recreation room.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Several of our sisters think we shouldn’t keep the children because we endanger the whole convent.”

“Sister Marie-Paul spoke for them?” It was hardly a question, more of a statement.

Sarah shrugged. “She certainly spoke out,” she agreed. “No one else did, but I had the feeling that there were others who think as she does. Our primary work is the hospital and they think that we shouldn’t get involved in anything that might bring German wrath down on our heads.”

“It makes sense, I suppose,” sighed Aunt Anne.

Sarah stared at her in horror. “But what about the children?” she exploded. “Aunt, I can’t believe you said that!”

Her aunt reached out a hand to her. “Sarah, I said it made sense, I didn’t say it was right! Of course we must find some way of looking after the children, but you have to face the ugly truth. It won’t be long before the Germans know that we have them here and that they are Jews. There will be people ready enough to inform if they think it will be to their advantage… and those same people will probably also tell their new masters that you are English. That is something else to be considered.”

“That doesn’t put the convent at risk,” pointed out Sarah briskly, “only me.”

Her aunt inclined her head in acquiescence. “And me,” she added softly.

Sarah was immediately contrite. “Oh, Aunt Anne, of course, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” soothed her aunt. “I am of no consequence. I’m over seventy and bedridden with arthritis. There is little more I can do in the Lord’s service, I am more than ready when my time comes. Much more important is what we are going to do about these children. I assume we have to consider the three Leon children as well as Marthe and Margot.”

“Certainly we do,” Sarah agreed, “and I have asked all the sisters to try and think of something that we can do to ensure their safety.”

“Was it wise to make it a topic for discussion?” wondered the old lady. “Who knows who may be listening?”

“I haven’t ever revealed to the community at large that the Leon children are Jews,” Sarah said. “Only those who are concerned with their day-to-day care know the truth, but in a community such as ours I am sure there are whispers about them. However, my instruction referred to Marthe and Margot.” She closed her eyes, massaging her forehead as if to ease away her cares. “I have got an idea,” she said, “but it will need careful planning and should be kept as secret as possible.”

“Go on.”

“Well, if Marthe was right and they are rounding up all the Jews, the children won’t be safe anywhere where it is known that they are Jews.”

Aunt Anne nodded her agreement. “So?”

“So, we need to move them to somewhere where no one knows who or what they are. It’s no good fostering them out to local families as Sister Marie-Paul is suggesting, we have to get them right away from here.”

“So where will you send them?”

“I shan’t send them, I shall take them myself. I shall take them to Mother Magdalene. No one in the Paris house need know why they’ve come. We can say we needed extra room to expand the hospital. No one need know how they came to be with us in the first place, they can simply be cared for there as orphans of the war. Let’s face it there are going to be enough of those.”

“But how will you get them to Paris?” asked her aunt.

“I shall take them on the train,” replied Sarah. “If we are stopped I shall say that we are devoting ourselves to hospital work now and that the orphans are being moved to the mother house where there is more room for them.”

“It might work,” conceded the old nun, “but what about Marthe? She is clearly too old to be an orphan in need of care.”

“I’ve thought about her,” Sarah said, “and I think that if we put her in a novice’s habit she could travel with us to help look after the children. I doubt if anyone will question a young nun who is travelling with her reverend mother.”

Sister St Bruno considered for a moment. “What about papers? You will have none for the children… or for Marthe for that matter. She can’t use her own.”

“Well,” Sarah said, “it’s only Margot that we haven’t got papers for. Our own children have them of course and I managed to get new ones for the Leon children as they were orphaned in the air strike and any papers they had were never found. Of course they aren’t registered as Jews now, even if they were before.”

“And Margot?”

Sarah shrugged. “I hope if I’m stopped that I should be able to talk my way out of any trouble by saying she has been so recently orphaned that we haven’t had a chance to replace her papers. Mother Magdalene will have to sort those out when we get to Paris. I certainly can’t risk applying for those here!”

“Marthe?”

“Marthe will have to take her chances. She will have to travel without any, but I think it is most unlikely that they will bother to ask for them from a nun travelling with her superior. I will have my own, of course.” She paused. “What do you think?”

Her aunt shook her head. “It’s very risky,” she answered. “It could work if you are bold enough to carry it out, but if you are caught…” Her voice trailed away.

“I know, then we shall all be lost. But I can think of no other way of protecting those children. We have to get them away from here, and the quicker the better.”

“Then I suggest that the fewer people who know of this plan the better,” said Aunt Anne. “If you are going through with this, you have to minimise the risks. Do you need a permit from the Germans to travel to Paris on the train?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Sarah. “People seem to be travelling freely enough, but I believe there are spot checks on the trains, at the stations, even in the streets. We shan’t be able to avoid these controls, not moving with a group of children. We shall have to put our trust in the Lord.”

As Sister St Bruno started to speak again there was a knock on the door and Sister Marie-Marc put her head into the room.

“Oh, Mother, you’re here,” she said with relief in her voice.

“Sister, what is it?” asked Mother Marie-Pierre. Sister Marie-Marc was clearly agitated. “What’s the matter?”

“I think you should come, Mother,” replied the nun. “There’s somebody… I’ve found somebody… I mean… when I went to the henhouse…”

“Start again, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said calmly, “and tell me from the beginning.”

“I went to the henhouse to shut the birds in for the night, and I found a woman in there. In the henhouse. Hiding.”

Mother Marie-Pierre looked at her sharply. “Where is she now, Sister? What have you done with her?”

“I didn’t know what to do, Mother. She was bleeding, you see.”

“So, where is she?” Mother Marie-Pierre fought to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“I’ve brought her into the kitchen, Mother, and I’ve locked her in the pantry.”

The reverend mother was at once on her feet and heading to the door. “I’ll come back later, Sister,” she said over her shoulder to her aunt, and hustled Sister Marie-Marc out of the door and down to the kitchen.

“Have you told anyone else?” she asked as they hurried down the stairs.

“No, Mother. All I did was to ask Sister Celestine if she knew where you were, and she said you were with Sister St Bruno.”

“Good.” Better to discover what this is all about before alarming the other sisters.

They came into the kitchen and Sister Marie-Marc drew back the bolt on the pantry door. She eased the door open and they both looked in. The woman, whoever she was, was lying on the floor, her face ashen, blood seeping from a wound in her shoulder, her clothes dark with the oozing blood. Her eyes opened and she scrabbled against the stone-flagged floor in an effort to get up, but the effort was too great and she sank back down and closed her eyes again.

“It’s all right,” Mother Marie-Pierre said gently, “we’ve come to help you.”

The woman gave a faint moan and Mother Marie-Pierre knelt down beside her to look at the wound.

“Sister, please would you fetch Sister Eloise? I know she’s busy in the hospital, but if you would just say I need her here straight away.” She glanced up at the waiting nun. “There’s no need to say why, just ask her to hurry.”

Within minutes Sister Eloise was at her side, looking down at the wounded woman.

“What have we here, Mother?” she asked softly.

“I think this is one of those who escaped from the German lorries in the square this morning,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. “I think she’s been shot.”

Sister Eloise knelt down and very gently probed the wound. The woman let out a cry of pain.

“Towels, please,” said Sister Eloise, and Sister Marie-Marc passed over a towel from the kitchen rack. Sister Eloise drew her scissors from her pocket and with the utmost care cut away the woman’s clothes, exposing the wound, which began pulsing blood again. Quickly she ripped the towel in half and placed one piece underneath the shoulder before gently pressing the second half against the gaping wound.

“We need to get her somewhere where I can work on her,” Sister Eloise said briskly. “Can we move her to the hospital now?”

“No, Sister, I don’t think so,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied. “Too public. The fewer people who know about her the better.” She thought for a moment and then spoke to Sister Marie-Marc. “Sister, please fetch Sister Henriette… but as quietly as you can.”

As Sister Marie-Marc disappeared Mother Marie-Pierre turned back to Sister Eloise. “We’ll take her up to my cell. Sister Henriette and I should be able to carry her between us.”

“She would be better in the hospital, Mother,” ventured Sister Eloise, “where I have everything I need to tend her.”

“I know that, Sister,” replied the reverend mother, “but the Germans are probably still looking for her. She must be hidden away in case they come here.” She knelt down by the injured woman again. “We are going to take you somewhere safe to see to your wound. If two of us support you, will you be able to walk at all?”

“Yes.” The single word was forced out through gritted teeth, and Mother Marie-Pierre saw that the eyes that looked up at her were full of determination.

Sister Eloise sighed. “If that is really best,” she said, and ripping up another towel, she tied the makeshift pads into place.

Sister Henriette and Sister Marie-Marc came into the kitchen then, and between them all they managed to get the fugitive onto her feet and support her slowly across the room.

“Clean the pantry floor, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre instructed Sister Marie-Marc as they manoeuvred the injured woman out of the door. “Make sure there is nothing to show what went on here.”

Before they emerged from the corridor into the hall, Sister Eloise went ahead and found Sister Celestine at her usual post beside the front door. She sent her to the ward kitchen with instructions to fetch some bandages and to bring them to the reverend mother’s cell.

“Don’t alarm anyone,” she said, “it’s nothing much.”

With the portress safely out of sight they moved as quickly as they could up the stairs to the main landing where the nuns had their individual sleeping cells. Within moments they had negotiated their way along the corridor to that of the reverend mother, and the woman was lowered gently onto the bed. Sister Eloise set about cleaning the wound, sending Sister Henriette for hot water while Mother Marie-Pierre found more towels from the linen cupboard at the end of the passage.

As she carried these back along the landing she glanced out of the window and saw, to her horror, Major Thielen’s car crawling up the lane towards the convent gate, followed by a truck full of soldiers.

“The Germans are coming,” she hissed as she placed the towels on the chair by the bed. “Major Thielen’s car is coming up the lane.”

Sister Eloise looked up. “You’ve blood on the front of your habit, Mother,” she said quietly. “Put on a nursing apron before you greet the major. Go now,” she added as Mother Marie-Pierre hesitated, “I can manage here. Tell Sister Henriette to hurry with the water.” She spoke with the ease of one used to command, and Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and hurried away, pausing momentarily at the linen cupboard to seize one of the huge white aprons the nursing sisters wore in the hospital. It was voluminous enough to cover most of her habit including the bloodstains on the front, where the woman had leaned against her. As she descended the stairs she met both Sister Henriette returning with a jug of hot water from the kitchen and Sister Celestine coming back with the bandages from the hospital.

“Give the bandages to Sister Henriette,” she said to Sister Celestine. The little nun had handed them over and the reverend mother issued swift orders to Sister Henriette. “Take all that up to Sister Eloise as quickly as you can, and then go at once to the children’s wing and warn Sister Danielle that the Germans are here. Tell her to take all the children up to the chapel and to lead them in prayers, aloud. If they search the convent they must find all the children kneeling at prayer in the chapel. Marthe too. Do you understand?”

Sister Henriette did. “Yes, Mother.” She hurried up the stairs with the water. Even as she disappeared Mother Marie-Pierre heard the slam of a car door.

“When they ring the bell,” she said to Sister Celestine, “answer the door as usual and bring the major to me in my office.”

The portress looked frightened, but she nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

Drawing a deep breath and firing a prayer heavenwards, the reverend mother turned away from the front door and walked towards her office ready to deal with Major Thielen when he was brought in. She came to an abrupt halt, however, when she heard Sister Celestine give a shrill cry, a cry that was abruptly cut off. Spinning on her heel, Mother Marie-Pierre hurried back to the hall where she found Sister Celestine standing, terrified, at the wrong end of a German rifle, as Major Thielen and a group of soldiers crowded in through the door.

“Major Thielen!” ejaculated Mother Marie-Pierre. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? What are these men doing in the convent?” Without pausing for him to answer she turned to the petrified nun. “It’s all right, Sister, please go and ask Sister Marie-Paul to join us here.”

“Stand exactly where you are!” barked the major, at which the soldier raised his rifle more threateningly and the portress, who had started to move, froze once more.

“Major,” began Mother Marie-Pierre, “I really don’t understand what is going on here. Why have you come and why are you threatening my sisters with your guns? If you wish to come into the convent you have only to ask, as you have done before.”

Ignoring her completely, the major issued an order to his men. “Search the place,” he snapped. “Look in every room, including the hospital… especially the hospital. Taube, Hesse, stay with me.”

“Major, please,” Mother Marie-Pierre tried again. “If you could just tell me what you are looking for, perhaps I can help.”

The men streamed out of the hall, spreading out along the corridors towards the refectory, the kitchen and the recreation room as they began their search. Two men only remained, the one covering Sister Celestine with his rifle and another who had turned his on the mother superior. Now at last the major gave her his attention.

“Prisoners have escaped from the village,” he said shortly. “They may be hiding here… even without your knowledge, Mother.”

“Please ask your men to lower their rifles,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. Her voice sounded calm enough, but her heart was pounding. “They are terrifying Sister Celestine, and there is really no need to do so. Neither of us is going to run away.”

The major waved a dismissive hand at the soldiers and they lowered their rifles. “You,” he said, jerking his head to one of them, “you come with me. We will search upstairs.” He looked back at the two nuns. “You will wait for us here.”

“I shall accompany you,” said Mother Marie-Pierre. She fought to sound calm, but all the time her mind was racing. Had Sister Marie-Marc had time to get the pantry floor scrubbed before the Germans reached the kitchen? Any bloodstains on the floor would alert the soldiers, and they might bully information out of the elderly nun. Convent normality must be the order of the day.

Reverend Mother glanced across at Sister Celestine who was now leaning, pale-faced, against the wall. “Go and help Sister Marie-Marc in the kitchen. Tell her to prepare some coffee and bring it to my office for the major’s refreshment when he has finished his search.” The little nun looked anxiously at the rifle, but before she could move, Major Thielen barked out an order. “No! She stays here.” The rifle immediately swung up again, and she cowered back against the wall. “You,” he turned his attention back to the reverend mother, “may come with us if you insist.”

“I do insist,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied quietly. “It is my convent you are searching; I have responsibility for it and the community that lives within it. If there is anything or anyone to be found, who should not be here, then I wish to know of it too.”

She had hoped to delay him long enough for the children to reach the comparative safety of the chapel, but with the soldiers fanning out through the convent she was now anxious that it should be the major himself who found them on their knees in prayer. She had seen the reverence with which he had entered the chapel on his first visit and could only pray that he would feel as constrained this time and not interrupt the children at their prayers. His men might have no such restraint. She hoped that Sister Henriette had taken the message as swiftly as possible to Sister Danielle and that she had acted immediately.

“And is there anyone here who should not be?” demanded the major, his eyes fixed on her face.

Mother Marie-Pierre held his gaze. “No.”

Without another word he turned on his heel and started up the stairs followed by the soldier and the reverend mother. At the top he spoke to the man. “Every door, Taube.”

Taube went to the first door and raising his boot, kicked it open, bursting in, rifle at the ready. It was one of the sister’s sleeping cells, the very one Major Thielen had looked into before. There was nowhere to conceal anything in the room and after a quick glance round the soldier gave his report. “Nothing in here, sir.”

“The doors do have handles,” pointed out Mother Marie-Pierre mildly, “and none of them is locked.”

The major spoke to the man again and he opened the next door in a more restrained manner, but again found nothing. As they made their way along the corridor towards her own sleeping cell, Mother Marie-Pierre wondered how she was going to keep them from searching that. As they reached the door before hers, her own door opened and Sister Eloise came out carrying an armful of bedding.

She spoke immediately to her superior apparently unaware of what was going on. “Oh, Mother” she said, “I’m afraid poor Sister St Bruno has had another accident in her bed. I’ve changed the sheets and put her in a clean nightdress, so she’s comfortable again now.” She sighed. “I’m afraid she’s rather distressed, but I’m hoping she’ll have a little sleep now.”

“Don’t worry, Sister, I’ll look in on her,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied, wondering just who she was going to find in the little room when they opened the door. “Just take the sheets down to Sister St Jacques in the laundry.”

“Please go into this room quietly,” Mother Marie-Pierre murmured to the major as she stood between him and the door. “A bedridden sister is in here. She is old and frail and will be very scared if you burst in.” She then whispered confidentially, in case the major had not already picked up on her conversation with Sister Eloise. “I’m afraid she’s… well, as you see we’ve had to change her sheets. She can’t always control herself, poor dear.”

The major’s lip curled in distaste and when Taube opened the door Mother Marie-Pierre swept in past him cheerfully. “Hallo, Sister, how are you feeling today?”

Sister St Bruno was propped up in the bed, her hands plucking at the wide blanket draped across her thin body. There was a strong smell of disinfectant in the room, at which Major Thielen, coming into the room behind the reverend mother, sniffed fastidiously.

“Not at all well, Mother,” replied the old nun in a petulant voice. “Sister Eloise says I had another accident.” She broke off as she noticed the German officer for the first time. She gave a little cry. “Mother, there’s a man in my room.” She pulled her shawl down over her face as if to hide from the major. “Make him go away, Mother,” she quavered. “I don’t want a man in my room. Make him go away. Oh, oh, the shame!”

“Hush now, Sister,” soothed Mother Marie-Pierre. “He’s only looked in to see how you are.”

“Is he a doctor?” asked the nun. “Are you a doctor, young man?” Sister St Bruno peered out at Major Thielen from under her shawl.”

“No,” he replied, and with another sniff of disgust he stalked out of the room and waited for Taube to open the next door.

“Now you settle down and have a nice little sleep, Sister,” the reverend mother said in a clear voice. “Sister Clothilde will be up with your supper later and I’ll come and see you before I go to bed.” As she spoke she raised her eyebrows in query, and Sister St Bruno pointed down with her forefinger. Not daring to check, Mother Marie-Pierre could only assume that the injured woman was stretched out on the floor beneath the iron bedstead, concealed only by the blanket that trailed to the floor on either side.

The search continued along the landing, and included the linen cupboard, which Taube emptied out into the passage in three swift movements, tumbling sheets and towels, pillow cases and aprons into a heap on the floor, but finding no one hiding in its depths. The bathrooms were empty, the lavatory doors open. Major Thielen did not seem to be expecting to find anyone concealed here and when every door had been opened and the bare rooms scrutinised he had already thought of what was coming next. “Now the chapel, Reverend Mother.”

Mother Marie-Pierre raised her eyes as if in surprise, but acquiesced readily enough. “Certainly, Major. Come this way.” As she had done before she led him through the convent to the door of the chapel.

Surely, she thought, after the time we’ve spent searching the nuns’ sleeping cells there’s been time to get the children safely in here.

She paused outside the door, barring the way as she spoke firmly. “I would prefer your man to leave his gun outside. This is, after all, the house of God.”

The major spoke to Taube and the man stepped back, taking up a watchful position in the corridor, his rifle at the ready.

“Thank you, Major.” Mother Marie-Pierre opened the door and stepping aside allowed the German to precede her. The warmth of the chapel, with its rich scent of incense, enfolded them as they entered. Candles flickered in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary and the sanctuary light, in its brass holder, gleamed red before the altar. The major paused on the threshold as he saw that the chapel was in use. There, kneeling in front of the statue of the Virgin was a line of children with one of the sisters on the end. She was leading them in prayer and as he listened he heard the familiar words. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.”

Mother Marie-Pierre touched his arm and spoke quietly. “Sister Danielle always brings the children in for their evening prayers before they have their supper.”

The children continued to chant the prayer. “Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…”

Major Thielen nodded, but he did not back out of the chapel this time, he moved swiftly towards the altar, and then behind it. The chanting faltered as the children became aware of him and watched what he was doing. Returning to the front of the altar he lifted the corner of the embroidered frontal and peered beneath it. Letting the cloth fall back into place he moved to the side chapel where the children were kneeling in front of the statue, but to Mother Marie-Pierre’s relief his eyes were on the little curtained recess to one side. He lifted the curtain and saw the shelves where the votive candles and a pile of prayer books were stored. Again he let the curtain drop and paying no attention to the row of children, who were still kneeling just feet away, he moved on to the vestry on the further side of the high altar.

At a gesture from Mother Marie-Pierre, Sister Danielle began the prayer again, her voice clear and firm, and gradually the children joined in, so that the chorus of “Hail Mary” was well under way when the major re-emerged from the vestry. He took one more look round the chapel as if to ensure that he had not missed a possible hiding place and then returned to the door where the reverend mother waited. Pausing only to dip his hand into the stoup of holy water and bless himself, he walked past her, out into the corridor where Taube waited, his rifle trained on the chapel door.

At that minute there was a commotion at the end of the passageway and the sound of boots on the flagged floor. Mother Marie-Pierre closed the door on the children and, standing in front of it, watched as a sergeant marched up to the major and saluted with an echoing “Heil Hitler”. He made his report, and it was clear that neither he nor his men had discovered anyone hiding within the convent building.

Major Thielen turned to Mother Marie-Pierre. “My men have searched the convent and the hospital and have found no trace of the prisoners. We will disturb you no longer.”

“I see,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “Well, I’m glad. Will your men be leaving the convent now, Major? It is nearly time for vespers and our evening meal, and we should like to carry on with our normal routine. Of course if you would care to join me for a cup of coffee in my office before you leave, you would be most welcome.”

Major Thielen, having clear memories of the coffee he had been served on his first visit to the convent, refused, saying that he must get back to headquarters and supervise the search for the escaped prisoners elsewhere. “Colonel Hoch and his men are searching the outlying farms and houses, I must return and see if he has made a capture.”

They turned their steps back to the main hall, where the rest of the men were waiting. Major Thielen dismissed them, thus releasing Sister Celestine at last from the threat of Hesse’s rifle, and as they trooped out Mother Marie-Pierre sent up a prayer of thanks for their departure and the convent’s deliverance. She was only too aware that if it had been Colonel Hoch who had searched the convent, he would not have been fooled by an apparently incontinent old lady, and a row of children saying their prayers.

As soon as she was sure that the lorry-load of soldiers and the major in his car really had driven away, she locked the front door and hurried back up the stairs to her sleeping cell. Sister St Bruno was sitting in a chair while Sister Eloise attended to the wounded woman who was once again lying on Mother Marie-Pierre’s bed.

“Sister, you were wonderful,” Mother Marie-Pierre said as she came back into the room. “How did you manage to get everything arranged in such a short time?”

Sister Eloise didn’t look up from her work. “Sister Henriette helped me. Now, Mother, if you could get Sister St Bruno back into her own bed, I would be grateful. Then I need a hand here.”

Mother Marie-Pierre had no hesitation in following the instructions given by her hospital matron. All through the Great War, Sister Eloise had issued Sarah Hurst, as she had been then, with instructions and orders that she had obeyed without question. Now, although their roles were reversed, with Mother Marie-Pierre the more senior in the community, she knew that it was Sister Eloise who knew best in situations such as these.

“Come, Sister,” she said to her aunt, formal as always in front of another sister, “let’s get you back to bed.” She needed a word with Aunt Anne in private anyway. With great care she raised the elderly nun from the chair and taking almost all her fragile weight, she supported her from the room and along the passage back to her own cell.

Sister St Bruno eased herself back onto her bed and sighed. “Are the children safe?” she asked.

“Yes, for now,” replied her niece, “but if the raid had been carried out by Colonel Hoch I think it would have been a different story. I don’t think the major’s heart was in it. I mean—” She paused to consider exactly what it was she did mean. “I mean, he was not happy about searching the convent. He left most of it to his men, only taking charge in the rooms where he was pretty sure he would find nothing.” She grinned across at her aunt. “You were amazing,” she said. “Talk about fractious old lady!” Then she was serious. “But it was a grave risk you took, you know.”

“Nonsense,” replied her aunt, “no more than you or Sister Eloise. What else could we do? Turn the poor child over to your major?”

“No, of course not,” agreed Sarah, “and he’s not my major.”

“Maybe not,” returned Aunt Anne, “but he seems to trust you and it could be useful to have him on our side in the future.”

“I doubt if he’ll ever be that,” Sarah replied seriously, “but he may be less of a threat than Colonel Hoch.”

11

The visit from the Germans persuaded Mother Marie-Pierre that she must put her plan to move the children to Paris into action at once. While Sister Eloise continued to minister to their patient laid out on the reverend mother’s bed, Reverend Mother herself was hurrying back to the chapel. Sister Danielle was still there with the children, though she now had them sitting on chairs listening while she read them a Bible story. Marthe had Margot on her knee and was rocking her gently as the child’s head drooped against her shoulder in sleep.

“I think it’s time for the children to go back and have their supper now, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “and while they are having it, perhaps you’d come to my office. I need a word with you.”

“Yes, Mother, of course,” replied the nun. “I’ll be there directly.” She led her charges out of the chapel and closed the door behind them. Mother Marie-Pierre slipped onto her knees in front of the altar.

“Oh Lord,” she prayed, “help me to get these children to safety, away from the horrors and dangers of this war.” She stayed in the chapel for another five minutes, allowing the peaceful silence to have its familiar, calming effect, and when she rose to return to her office to speak to Sister Danielle, she knew that she had drawn strength from her five minutes alone with her God.

“We have to get these children away from here,” she said, coming straight to the point when Sister Danielle had come to her. “The SS are in the village. It isn’t just the German army now. Major Thielen carried out the search of the convent today, and he still has some respect for our calling and our cloth, but Colonel Hoch of the SS is a different man altogether. He’s looking for Jews. If he discovered the Leon children and Marthe and Margot were Jews, they would be rounded up and taken away as the rest of Marthe’s family were today.”

“But where shall we send them, Mother?” asked Sister Danielle anxiously. “Where will they be safe from such a man?”

“We must take them to Paris,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied briskly. “To Mother Magdalene. No one there need know their origins, just children orphaned by the war.”

“But how will we get them to Paris?” asked Sister Danielle.

“I shall take them myself,” said her superior. “I shall simply take them on the train. All we have to do is get them to the station in Albert and take the train to Amiens and then Paris.”

“Am I to come with you?” asked Sister Danielle.

“I shall need someone,” replied Reverend Mother. “I think it should be you as the children know and love you best. But there may be danger. Will you come?”

“Yes, Mother, of course,” answered Sister Danielle. “They are my children.”

“In that case I will tell you the plan I have and see what you think of it.”

Reverend Mother outlined the plan she had discussed with Sister St Bruno earlier.

“I think the safest way is to travel openly, not try to hide our journey,” she said. “It will look far more suspicious if we try to hide what we are doing. The only one I am worried about really is Marthe. She is clearly not a child and she does have a Jewish cast to her features. I have decided to put her into a novice’s habit and let her travel as if she were one of the sisters going to visit the community in Paris.”

“And you will leave her there, as a novice?” Sister Danielle sounded doubtful.

“I shall leave her in Mother Magdalene’s care,” answered Mother Marie-Pierre. “She must decide what is best for the girl once we get her clear of here. That Colonel Hoch is not going to be satisfied when he hears that there were other Jews in the area who were missed in this last round-up. And have no doubt about it,” she added bitterly, “he will hear.”

She did not mention the wounded woman lying on her bed upstairs. The fewer people who knew about her the better. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Sister Danielle, or any of the sisters for that matter, but mistakes could be made, a careless word could endanger not only the woman herself, but the nuns who had sheltered her.

“We shall leave as soon as it can be arranged,” said the reverend mother, “so please make sure the children are packed and ready to go at short notice.”

As Sister Danielle stood to return to her charges, Mother Marie-Pierre went on, “Please ask Sister Marie-Marc to come and see me.” She paused, gravely. “And Sister, these children are truly at risk, the less we discuss this the better.”

Sister Danielle smiled. “I shall say nothing, Mother,” she promised. “Do you want me to get a novice’s habit for Marthe?”

Reverend Mother shook her head. “No, I will speak to Sister Marie-Paul myself.”

As she waited for Sister Marie-Marc to come, Mother Marie-Pierre stared down into the little walled garden below her window and considered how much to say to the old nun. When she had come to the convent as plain Sarah Hurst during the Great War, it was Sister Marie-Marc who had been in charge of the kitchen. Now such work was too much for her and she simply helped Sister Elisabeth with light tasks when necessary, and looked after her beloved hens.

Sister Marie-Marc may be old with creaking joints, Reverend Mother thought now, but she’s in no way senile. When she found the wounded woman, she kept her head, locking her safely in the pantry and then coming to find me. She must have cleaned the blood from the floor, too, before Major Thielen’s search party had arrived in the kitchen, as they didn’t find anything. Pray God we can get the children away before another search, and also find some way of protecting that poor woman upstairs; though what we’re going to do with her is yet another problem.

A tap on her door heralded the arrival of Sister Marie-Marc.

“Come in, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said and pulled a chair round so that they could sit comfortably across from each other as they talked. “Now tell me, was there any problem when the soldiers came searching through the kitchen?”

The elderly nun gave a cackle of laughter. “No, Mother,” she replied. “I had cleaned the floor, but when les sales Boches came in I hadn’t had time to empty the bucket. I heard them coming, so I tipped the bucket into a pan and I put it on the stove. Then I stirred it, as if it were soup.”

In spite of herself, Mother Marie-Pierre laughed. “Soup?”

“Oh yes, Mother. And if they’d asked for a taste I’d have given it to them.”

“Then I can only thank God that they didn’t ask,” replied her superior, trying to control her quivering lip. “Now, Sister, we have a problem. The woman you found is badly wounded, but she is also wanted by the Germans. We have to keep her hidden and safe until she is well enough to move on.”

Sister Marie-Marc nodded.

“So the fewer people in the convent who know she was actually here,” went on Mother Marie-Pierre, “the better.”

“So you’re not going to tell our sisters.”

“No, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied gently. “I think it is safest for all of us if as few as possible are in on the secret. You know, of course, and Sister Eloise. So does Sister Henriette, who has been helping Sister Eloise. There is no need for anyone else to know that we are sheltering an escaped prisoner.”

“In the Great War,” Sister Marie-Marc said slowly, “we were fighting the Germans, our army fighting theirs, but they weren’t here, in France. They weren’t living in our village, taking people’s homes, sending people away to Germany. Shooting people. It can’t be right, Mother, for them to do what they are doing to the ordinary people of France.”

“There is always cruelty in war,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “we saw enough last time. But I agree this is different, and we must respond differently.” She smiled across at Sister Marie-Marc. “Now, we shall have to find a way of looking after the woman you found, but I know I can rely on you if I need you.”

Mother Marie-Pierre and the children set out for Paris the following day. Jean Danot, the farmer, had agreed to take them to Albert in his farm wagon and they had piled all the children and their luggage into it. The children were both excited and fearful. The older ones were leaving the only home they had ever known, but with a growing excitement at the thought of Paris. The Leon children kept close to Sister Danielle, the new rock in their swirling sea of change and anxiety. Marthe, dressed in the flowing habit and small headdress of a novice of the community, held on tightly to Margot’s hand, each the last link with her lost family.

When Mother Marie-Pierre had approached Sister Marie-Paul to give her a novice’s habit, Sister Marie-Paul had been horrified.

“It is a blasphemy for a Jew to wear the habit of a Christian sister,” she cried. “I cannot believe you’ll sully these holy garments in such a way.”

Mother Marie-Pierre fought down her anger. “The garments are not holy, Sister,” she said. “They are simply clothes. But, with God’s help, they will protect Marthe from the Germans.”

When Sister Marie-Paul said nothing, simply tightening her expression, Mother Marie-Pierre went on. “The sooner she is safely in Paris the better, Sister. Mother Magdalene can take responsibility for her then.”

“We should not become involved in what is happening beyond the convent walls, Mother,” replied Sister Marie-Paul. “Our place is to nurse the sick in the hospital and to follow a life of prayer.”

“Certainly, Sister,” said Mother Marie-Pierre equably, “and to fight against evil wherever it rears its head. It cannot be right to send children like Margot to a camp somewhere in Germany.”

“She should have gone with her mother,” Sister Marie-Paul said. “Stayed with her family. There was no need to bring her here.”

Faced with Sister Marie-Paul’s intransigent attitude, Mother Marie-Pierre could only feel relieved that her novice mistress did not realise that three of the other children were also Jews. She sighed inwardly. “Well, they won’t be here for much longer, Sister, and you can relax again.”

“It’s very difficult when someone senior, like your novice mistress, is not in tune with your thinking,” Sarah confided to Aunt Anne later that evening. “I wonder how Mother Magdalene would have handled the situation.”

“Maybe more forcefully than you,” conceded her aunt, “but not necessarily better.”

“I’ve borrowed Sister Marie-Joseph’s papers for Marthe,” Sarah told her. “They might do at a pinch, one nun looks like another to the layman, but they won’t bear close scrutiny. I’ve nothing for little Margot. We’ll just have to pray we aren’t stopped.”

“You will all be constantly in my prayers,” her aunt assured her, as she clasped Sarah’s hands in farewell.

The farm cart lumbered away from the convent gate, pulled by a huge carthorse. There was no fuel for the farm truck, and even if there had been, Monsieur Danot would not have wasted it on taking a group of nuns and children to the station in Albert.

To reach the main road to Albert they had to pass through the village square. This was the part of the journey that Mother Marie-Pierre felt posed the most danger. Once they were clear of St Croix, there would probably be little interest in a group of nuns and children travelling from one convent to another, but should they be seen by Colonel Hoch, or even Major Thielen, questions would surely be asked. However, the risk had to be taken, there was no other practicable way to reach the Albert road.

Mother Marie-Pierre sat up beside Monsieur Danot and the rest of the party were crammed into the back. As they entered the square, Colonel Hoch emerged from the German headquarters. It was almost, Mother Marie-Pierre thought later, as if he had been lying in wait for them.

A sharp order from him had them halted and covered by the rifles of three of his men. The SS officer strode over and addressed her.

“What is this?” demanded Hoch. “Where are you going?”

Mother Marie-Pierre’s heart was pounding, her fear realised, but she managed to answer smoothly. “I am taking the children to our mother house in Paris, Colonel,” she replied. “The hospital is overflowing and so we are moving the children out to make more space.”

The colonel peered at the children and the two other nuns crowded into the back of the wagon. “Out!” he ordered. “All of you!”

There was no hesitation, Mother Marie-Pierre climbed down from the front and everyone else scrambled out of the back. Marthe, uncomfortable in her unaccustomed clothes, tripped and would have fallen if Sister Danielle hadn’t caught hold of her.

The colonel stared at her for a moment and she lowered her eyes, as Mother Marie-Pierre had told her to do if she were addressed by a German soldier, but the reverend mother could see that her hands were shaking as she clasped them together within the wide sleeves of her habit. Margot ran to her immediately and Marthe bent down to her, putting her arm round her, drawing her against her protectively. Colonel Hoch’s gaze moved across the other children as they stood grouped around Sister Danielle, who was carrying baby Anne Leon in her arms.

“And who are these?” he demanded.

Mother Marie-Pierre answered for them. “They are our orphans, Colonel. Our convent runs an orphanage as well as a hospital. They’ve lived with us ever since their parents died. I have their papers here if you wish to see them.” She made as if to produce papers for everyone, but the colonel ignored her; it was as if she hadn’t spoken.

“You,” he pointed. “What is your name?”

Jean-Pierre stared at him, wide-eyed with fear.

“Come on, boy.” Hoch took a step towards him. “What is your name?”

“Jean-Pierre,” muttered the boy, cowering back.

“Jean-Pierre what?”

“Jean-Pierre Malpas.”

“Well, Jean-Pierre Malpas, learn to speak when you’re spoken to.” Hoch turned and, with a jerk of his head, summoned one of his men. “Search this cart.”

The man climbed up into the back of the cart and heaved out all the luggage. “No one here, sir,” he said when all the baggage was strewn on the ground and the wagon was clearly empty.

“Look underneath,” ordered Hoch, and the soldier dutifully crept in underneath the cart.

“Nothing here, sir,” he said as he emerged.

Hoch glowered at them all before turning on his heel and going back into the town hall. The soldier slouched off after him.

“All right, children, let’s get our things back into the cart,” Mother Marie-Pierre said bracingly. “We don’t want to miss the train, do we?”

Everything was gathered up and put back into the wagon, and the children and the sisters climbed back on board.

“They’re looking for someone,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly to Jean Danot when he had whipped up the horse again and they were lumbering out of the village.

“Still haven’t found the two who escaped from the trucks,” grunted Jean. “They’ve been over my farm three times. Sticking bayonets into the hay bales weren’t enough. They pulled the whole lot out into the yard last time. It took me all day to get it safely back under cover again.”

“They searched the convent too,” said Reverend Mother. Only once though, she thought, so they might be back, and what would happen then? She had left the woman—her name was Simone—in the charge of Sister Eloise, and for the time being there was nothing more that Mother Marie-Pierre could do for her. Now she had to concentrate on getting the children safely to Paris.

Silence rested between them. Jean Danot was a man of few words at the best of times, he had no time for idle gossip… dangerous gossip, he thought it. You couldn’t trust anyone, nowadays, not even nuns.

The train for Amiens belched its way into the station and Mother Marie-Pierre and Sister Danielle got their small flock on board. Marthe, still moving awkwardly in her habit, had been given charge of Margot. It would give her something to concentrate on during the journey, Mother Marie-Pierre thought. It was Marthe and Margot who were at the greatest risk. They were the only ones without valid papers.

The train was crowded and the little group crammed themselves into a compartment, the smaller children sitting on the nuns’ knees.

The train was slow and stopped several times, so that when they finally drew into Amiens it was late and they had missed their connection.

“What shall we do now, Mother?” asked Sister Danielle anxiously, Anne still held in her arms, and Catherine clutching the skirt of her habit.

Reverend Mother looked round the bustling station, and then took them into the waiting room. “Wait here,” she said, “and I will find out if there is another train today.”

There wasn’t, and when she asked the stationmaster if they might all stay in the waiting room for the night, his reply was not encouraging. “Sorry, Sister, you’d be breaking curfew.”

Mother Marie-Pierre had forgotten about the curfews imposed by the Germans. They had little relevance to the convent as none of the nuns were ever out at night. “What time is that?” she asked and he told her it was eleven o’clock at present.

“I see,” she said. “Then we’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. Is there a pension, or hotel which might have room for us all?”

“You could try the Lion d’Or,” the man suggested doubtfully, “they might have room.” He gave the reverend mother directions and, with her little brood in tow, she set off through the streets. The Lion d’Or had no room. The proprietor had taken one look at the group on his doorstep and raised his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. He regretted he had no room for such a party.

“Then perhaps you could suggest somewhere else.” Mother Marie-Pierre fought to keep her voice polite. The man shrugged again and she turned away in frustration. As she did so, she noticed a church on the corner of the next street. Surely they would be able to seek shelter there.

“Come along,” she said briskly, and led the way to the church. Once inside she sat them all down. “You are all to wait here,” she told them. “I will go to the priest and tell him of our plight.”

The priest’s house was not difficult to find, and when she knocked on the door she was welcomed by the housekeeper.

“Why, Sister, come on in,” she said when Mother Marie-Pierre had told her that she needed to speak to the priest. “Father Bernard is in his study. I’ll find him for you.” She showed the nun into a sitting room and leaving her there went in search of Father Bernard. When he arrived, Mother Marie-Pierre explained that she was taking a party of orphans to the mother house in Paris, but that their train had been delayed and they were now stranded in Amiens. She passed lightly over the reason for their journey. The less information she gave the better for all.

The priest took in the situation at once. “You must all come here,” he said. “It will be a bit of a squash, but we shall manage. Do go and fetch them while I warn Madame Papritz that we have guests.”

With great relief, Mother Marie-Pierre collected her charges from the church and brought them across to the priest’s house.

Madame Papritz was as welcoming as Father Bernard, and she soon had the children sitting round her kitchen table. While she fed them bread and honey, Father Bernard took the three nuns upstairs to a bedroom at the front of the house, which offered a sagging double bed.

“The children can sleep in here,” he said. “It’s a bit small, I’m afraid, and there aren’t any more beds, but I’ve plenty of blankets. You sisters can sleep in the room next door.” He opened another bedroom door. This contained only a narrow single bed. Father Bernard sighed. “There used to be two of us in the parish, but Father Gilbert went into the army as a chaplain. He didn’t come back, God rest his soul.”

“If you don’t mind, Father,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “I think it would be better if we split up and had some children in each room. Then if they wake in the night, they’ll be with someone they know.”

“Arrange it entirely as you wish, Mother,” the priest said cheerfully. “I’ll find you some blankets and then when the children are settled, perhaps you would join me for the evening meal.”

How different from Father Michel in St Croix, thought Mother Marie-Pierre later, as she lay on a blanket on the floor with Jean-Pierre and David sleeping top-to-tail in the single bed beside her. He would never have put himself out in this way.

Madame Papritz found breakfast for them all before they set off once more to catch the train to Paris, so that the children were all well fed and comfortable for the rest of their journey.

Father Bernard said brief prayers with them and then gave them a blessing, but as they passed out into the street, he held Mother Marie-Pierre back for a moment.

“Mother,” he said quietly. “You must remind the young sister, Sister Marie-Joseph, is it? You must remind her to answer to her name… and teach her the Lord’s Prayer, if nothing else. Otherwise, she will give you all away.”

Mother Marie-Pierre held his eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Father. I will speak to her.”

“Go with God, Mother, and may He keep you all safe.” He raised his hand. “If ever you find yourself in need of somewhere to stay in Amiens,” he added in a soft voice, “please remember that you will always be welcome here, you and whoever is travelling with you.”

Mother Marie-Pierre took his hand. “Thank you, Father. I’ll remember.”

The nuns shepherded the children onto the Paris train and settled them into a compartment. It had been empty and as they filled it, no one else tried to get in with them. Several peered in through the door, but passed on down the corridor when they saw nuns and children packed into the small space.

At last the train started and Mother Marie-Pierre felt herself relax. They were on the last leg of their journey. When they reached the Gare du Nord they would be only a short walk away from the convent, safety and the commonsense of Mother Magdalene. Sister Danielle was singing rhymes with Monique, Catherine and Margot; Anne was sitting comfortably on Marthe’s knee playing with the cross she wore round her neck, and the boys were peering out of the window at the countryside rushing past. Mother Marie-Pierre closed her eyes, soothed by the rhythm of the train.

She awoke with a jolt as the door was hauled open with a loud rattle and two men came in. They were not in uniform, but there was no doubt that they were German and official.

“Papers,” growled the first one and held out his hand towards Mother Marie-Pierre. The singing stopped abruptly and the three little girls stared fearfully at the two men. Paulette looked anxiously at Marthe and then Mother Marie-Pierre, and the boys turned from the window, the colour draining from David’s face. Marthe ducked her head and began rocking baby Anne in her arms. The child crowed with delight at the sight of the men and held out a chubby hand to them.

Mother Marie-Pierre calmly took the papers she carried for all of them and handed them over. Please God, she prayed silently as they began to look at them, let me think of the right words to say when they ask about Marthe and Margot.

She saw them glance at her own papers first, then Sister Danielle’s, then Sister Marie-Joseph’s. His interest seemed only cursory at first, then he turned to Mother Marie-Pierre. “You’re the reverend mother, right?”

Mother Marie-Pierre agreed that she was.

“And where are you all going then?”

“I’m taking these children home, to the order’s mother house in Paris,” she replied.

“Why’s that?” he demanded.

“They are orphans, Monsieur. We run an orphanage there.”

The man grunted. “Which of you is Sister Danielle?” he asked, looking over to the other two nuns.

“I am.” Sister Danielle raised her hand.

“So you’re Sister Marie-Joseph,” he said to Marthe.

Marthe kept her face close to the baby squirming in her arms. “Yes, Monsieur,” she whispered.

“Just a minute.” The second man had been scrutinising the children’s papers. Mother Marie-Pierre felt her heart give a jolt as he went on. “We’re one set of papers short here.” He looked at the children. “Answer your names,” he said gruffly.

Mother Marie-Pierre decided it was time to speak. “You are quite right, Monsieur, we have no papers for little Margot Lenoir.” She indicated the child who was huddled against Sister Danielle. “She has only just come to us. Her father died last year in the retreat to Dunkerque, her mother last week in a fire. Her papers burned with the house. We have no replacements for her yet. We shall apply for those when she is living in the convent.”

“You should not have travelled without them,” said the man eyeing her suspiciously. “A fire? Sounds rather convenient. How do I know it’s the truth?”

Mother Marie-Pierre looked him in the eye. “Because I have told you it is.”

At that moment there was a noise from further down the corridor, some shouting, the sound of a shot and the train began screeching to a halt. Although it had not been travelling particularly fast, the carriages swayed violently as the brakes locked and the two boys, standing by the window, were thrown across the compartment, knocking Margot off Sister Danielle’s knee. The little girl began to cry, but her distress was forgotten as another shot rang out from further up the train.

The two men spun round and out into the corridor where a thin man, with blood streaming down his face, tried to force his way past them. There were more cries from behind him and with a terrified glance over his shoulder, he gave the men a violent shove and tried to open the door of the still moving train. The two men staggered against each other for a moment and then went after him, one grabbing at him to stop him from jumping from the train, the other drawing a gun from his pocket.

The fugitive forced the door open and without a second glance behind him flung himself out as the man raised his pistol and fired. The train finally ground to a halt, its wheels screeching against the track in protestation and immediately the two men—Gestapo, as Mother Marie-Pierre had recognised them to be—leapt out after the fleeing man. More men shoved their way along the corridor, and jumping down onto the line fanned out in search of the fugitive. There was the sound of more shooting before Mother Marie-Pierre slid the compartment door closed, and turned to her white-faced companions.

“Whoever that poor soul was, he saved us from the Gestapo,” she murmured.

“Were they Gestapo, Mother?” Sister Danielle asked softly.

“Almost certainly, Sister.” She smiled at the children. “Now then, guess what kind Madame Papritz gave me before we left.”

Paulette, old enough to realise the danger they had been in, tried to sound interested. “I don’t know, Mother. What?”

“Some pain d’épice!” She produced the gingerbread from her bag and as the children watched in delight, broke it into five pieces. The children took it hungrily and were happily munching when the train jolted and began to move forward again. An hour later than scheduled, it steamed into the Gare du Nord.

When they arrived at last at the mother house, they were taken at once to see Mother Magdalene. One look at Mother Marie-Pierre’s face was enough to tell her things were seriously wrong. She sent Sister Danielle and Marthe, whom she still assumed to be a novice, off to settle the children in the guest quarters and then sat Mother Marie-Pierre down to hear why she had come. She was a good listener and she heard Mother Marie-Pierre out without interruption.

“You did right to bring them to me,” she said at last. “They will be safe here. I will get papers for little Margot, and they can live with us here as long as is necessary. We have ten other children here in the orphanage with us already. They will soon fit in and feel at home.”

“What about Marthe?” asked Mother Marie-Pierre. “She cannot go on disguised as a novice. Father Bernard, in Amiens, saw at once that she was not a nun, and she herself is not at all happy with the deception. I had great difficulty getting her to wear the habit, even as a disguise.”

“You say she used to work in the hospital as a lay worker?” Mother Magdalene asked.

“Yes. Sister Eloise says she has the makings of a good nurse.”

“Then there is no problem,” Mother Magdalene said serenely. “She can work with us as a lay sister, and I will try and get her trained properly as a nurse so that she can support herself outside the convent.”

Mother Marie-Pierre joined the sisters in their chapel that evening and again in the morning for Mass, and then she set off for the station and the journey home.

“Won’t you stay a few days?” suggested Mother Magdalene. “Just till the children settle in?”

“No, Mother, I can’t. The sisters in St Croix need me. But if you’ll keep Sister Danielle for a week or two, that will make the transition for the younger ones a little easier.”

It was agreed, though Sister Danielle was anxious about Mother Marie-Pierre travelling back to St Croix on her own.

“Don’t be silly, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said briskly. “If the trains run on time, I shall be home before dark.”

She was lucky, there were no delays and she managed to hitch a lift from Albert to the village on a carrier’s cart, so she didn’t even have the long walk back to St Croix. She was back at the convent by late afternoon.

She was greeted by Sister Celestine, who, on opening the door, cried out in relief to see her.

“Oh Mother, thank God you are home.”

Mother Marie-Pierre looked startled at her tone. “Why, Sister, whatever is the matter?”

Sister Celestine seemed about to tell her something but then hesitated and replied rather lamely. “Nothing, Mother. I mean, Sister Marie-Paul asked me to say that she needs to speak to you as soon as you get home.”

“I see.” Mother Marie-Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Then you’d better run and tell her I’m back. I shall be in my office.”

12

As the reverend mother and the children trundled out of the village square in Jean Danot’s farm cart, Colonel Hoch strode back into the Gestapo headquarters calling to his aide, Lieutenant Weber.

“I don’t trust that nun,” he snapped as the man came into the office to join him. “She’s up to something.”

Weber knew his officer well enough not to question this statement, though privately he doubted that the reverend mother was up to anything. After all, what could a nun do?

“Find Major Thielen,” Hoch said, “and then come back here.”

Major Thielen entered the room to find the colonel pacing the floor.

“That nun, the one who came here about the Jews the other day,” Hoch said. “I don’t trust her. She’s just set off to Paris with a cartload of children.”

“But surely, Colonel, you searched the cart before they left the village,” Thielen said tentatively. He had watched the whole thing from his window and had been very relieved when there proved to be nothing concealed in the cart. He disliked Colonel Hoch and he disliked his tactics. Everything Hoch did antagonised the local population. Occupation was not easy and Major Thielen, although authoritarian himself, had tried, to some extent, to work with the local people. Co-operation backed up with information from whoever was prepared to provide it was his preferred method. He was aware that there were pockets of resistance in the area, and information encouraged and bought was far more useful than Hoch’s arrogant approach. That was more likely to harden that resistance than to defeat it.

Hoch was, Thielen thought bitterly, as he’d watched him search the cart, the worst type of upstart; a bully, not a true army officer, but one of what Thielen privately called Himmler’s gang. He found now, as they stood face-to-face, that he had to school his features well to hide his loathing of the man.

“I don’t trust her,” repeated the colonel. “Who searched the convent?”

“I did, sir. I had ten men with me and we searched the place from top to bottom.”

“And what did you find?” demanded Hoch.

“Nothing, sir. There was nothing out of the ordinary. We searched the hospital, the chapel, the cellars, everywhere.”

“And this nun, this reverend mother? How did she behave?”

“Some of the sisters were afraid when we arrived, but she calmed them down and then led me round the convent.”

“Did she indeed?” Hoch considered for a moment and then spoke to Weber. “Franz, I think we should pay another visit to this convent, a surprise one while the reverend mother is away. Bring twenty men and then fetch my car.” He turned back to Major Thielen. “You, Thielen, give me the geography of the place. How many entrances? What’s the place like at the back?”

Major Thielen considered. “There’s a courtyard behind the main building, which has a high wall round it,” he said. “The hospital has been built on there. In the courtyard there are some outbuildings, a shed, a henhouse, that sort of thing, and there is a door into the kitchen. There is also a little walled garden.”

Hoch nodded. “I assume your men searched these outbuildings.”

Thielen stared woodenly ahead of him. “Of course, sir.”

“Right, well, we’ll search them again. They won’t be expecting us back again so soon, and without that reverend mother there things may be easier. You, Thielen, will stay here to receive the reports from those still searching the outlying farms.”

Hoch strode out of the building into the square, leaving Major Thielen fuming in his office.

The men Hoch had sent for were formed up, waiting.

“We are going to search the convent again,” he snapped. “I shall arrive at the front door, and as soon as it is open, ten of you will go straight in and search the main building. You know the drill, look for any possible hiding places, pay particular attention to the cellars. The rest of you will have approached the place from the back. When you get the signal, you go in that way. There is a door in the courtyard wall. Break it down if you have to. Search the outhouses—they are just the sort of place a Jew might hide. Go into the hospital, check every patient.

“Remember, this convent is an old building, there may well be secret places where someone could be hidden. Those two Jews are still at large and I want them found. I’ll have no escaped Jews on my patch.” He looked at the men standing in front of him. “You”— he pointed to the group on the left—”will go in from the back with Lieutenant Weber. Remember, surprise is vital. We don’t want them to have time to hide anyone. And also remember that if they learn to be afraid of us now, we shall have less trouble with them later. Heil Hitler!” He turned to the lieutenant. “I’ll give you twenty minutes to get your men into position, Weber, and then I shall drive up to the front door with mine. I will fire my pistol into the air, that is your signal to go in.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “If the nuns are scared of us, so much the better. You understand, Franz?”

Weber nodded and then saluted.

“Twenty minutes, Franz, and wait for my signal.”

Weber led his men off, through the square and up the track through the copse leading to the back of the convent. Hoch sent one of the waiting men to fetch a lorry, and the rest of the search party scrambled into it. It would be difficult for a group of men to approach the front of the convent unnoticed on foot, so Hoch decided that they should all arrive at once, giving as little warning as possible. He needed this raid to be a success.

He had been working in Berlin on the personal staff of Heinrich Himmler when he had received the unexpected and unwelcome posting to this rural part of occupied France. His great fear was that someone, back there in Berlin, had discovered his darkest secret—that his paternal grandmother had been a Jew. She was safely dead now of course, but that didn’t mean that someone jealous of his swift rise through the ranks of the SS had not murmured the fact into the ears of those high in the Nazi party, even to Himmler himself. Hoch’s promotions had come fast, but this sudden, downward move told him that he was regarded with suspicion. Why else would such a potential high-flyer be sent to such a backwater? Hoch knew, with deadly certainty, that he must prove himself a merciless predator, his prey the Jews. There had been some trouble with resistance groups in the area, as well, and those he was also determined to root out and destroy, but his main prey were the Jews, for failure to destroy them might lead to his own destruction.

Hoch climbed into the black Citroën he had requisitioned from the mayor, and his driver pulled away, the lorry lumbering in his wake. When they drew up outside the convent front door, Hoch jumped down, and running up the steps hammered on the great front door while the lorry disgorged its load behind him. When the grille in the door was drawn aside and Sister Celestine peered out, she found herself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

“Open the door,” Hoch snarled at her, and had the satisfaction of hearing the bolts being drawn on the inside. He raised his pistol and fired it once in the air, and as the door swung open he stepped inside pushing roughly past the frightened nun who had opened it.

“Carry on,” he barked at the men who swarmed in behind him. They fanned out through the convent, several rushing up the staircase, others disappearing down the corridors leading to the kitchens and the children’s wing, their boots echoing on the stone floors.

“Please…” began Sister Celestine bravely, but fell silent as Hoch raised his pistol and pointed it at her again.

“Who is in charge here?” he demanded.

“Reverend Mother is away,” said Sister Celestine, pale-faced and shaken.

“I’m well aware of that,” said Hoch. “So, who is in charge now?”

“Sister Marie-Paul?” Sister Celestine sounded doubtful.

“Then you’d better take me to her.”

He replaced the pistol in its holster and followed the frightened nun along a corridor to the small room that served the novice mistress as an office. On reaching the door, Hoch barged past Sister Celestine and flung the door open. Sister Marie-Paul was kneeling at her prie-dieu and looked up startled at the intrusion. When she saw the large SS officer standing on the threshold she leapt to her feet and shrank back against the wall. This show of fear gave Hoch another jolt of satisfaction. He knew he had been right to come to the convent when the reverend mother was not there. Clearly this woman, second in command as she might be, had not the strength of personality to demand things of him as the other one had done.

“Good day, Sister,” Hoch said. “I am Colonel Hoch of the SS. My men are searching for two escaped prisoners. You will have nothing against them searching the convent, I am sure.”

With the shock of seeing him standing over her absorbed a little, Sister Marie-Paul straightened her back. “Of course not, though I am afraid the reverend mother is not here to escort you.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he replied equably. “I don’t need an escort. My men will search and then I wish to speak to you again. This,” he glanced over his shoulder to where Sister Celestine still cowered behind him, “this sister tells me you are in charge of the convent while your mother superior is away.”

“I and one other,” said Sister Marie-Paul, her courage trickling back and her face loosing its pallor of fear. “Sister Eloise, the sister in charge of the hospital.”

“Then I suggest we find this Sister Eloise. I wish to speak to you both. Please send for her… at once.”

“Certainly I will tell her you would like to speak with her,” said Sister Marie-Paul. “Perhaps we should go to the guest parlour, where we can be more comfortable.” She turned to Sister Celestine, still hovering in the background. “Please ask Sister Eloise to come to the parlour, Sister.”

The little nun ducked her head and disappeared down the passage almost at the run, followed at a more leisurely pace by Colonel Hoch and Sister Marie-Paul. She led him to the parlour beside the front door. The parlour door already stood open, and it was clear that the room had been searched. The small cupboard doors stood open, the chairs had been tipped over and the picture of Christ displaying His Sacred Heart had been taken from the wall as if someone had been looking behind it.

For a moment Sister Marie-Paul surveyed the scene, and Hoch watched her reaction. She said nothing, simply righted the chairs and replaced the picture on its hook above the prie-dieu.

“I am sure that none of your community is stupid enough to get involved in affairs which don’t concern them,” Hoch remarked as he went to the window and looked out. As instructed, one man was stationed outside, his rifle trained on the front door in case anyone eluding the search made a break for it. There would be another man posted in the courtyard.

He turned back to Sister Marie-Paul. “So,” he said, “and where has your reverend mother gone?”

“To Paris,” she replied. “We have so many coming into the hospital now that we will have to extend it into the children’s wing. Mother has taken the children to our convent in Paris. It also runs an orphanage and there is room for them there.”

“I see.” It was the same story that the reverend mother had told, but Hoch was not surprised at that. Clearly that was the story that had been agreed. “How many children were there?” he asked casually.

“Six, no, seven,” Sister Marie-Paul corrected herself hastily.

“You don’t know?” Hoch was immediately suspicious.

“Seven,” repeated Sister Marie-Paul more firmly.

He was about to ask who the children were and how they came to be living in the convent when there was a commotion in the hall and one of his men came clattering down the stairs into the hall.

Hoch strode out of the parlour to find out what was going on. “Well, Schwarz?”

“Better come upstairs, sir,” said Schwarz, and turned back to the stairs. Hoch pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time. Schwarz followed and so did Sister Marie-Paul.

When they reached the landing they found two other men standing outside one of the cell bedrooms. One had his rifle pointed at Sister Eloise, who was backed against the wall of the corridor, the other was aiming his rifle into the room.

“Well?” barked Hoch. “What have you found?”

“Found a woman, sir. In the bed here… all bandaged up,” replied the man covering Sister Eloise. “Looks like gunshot wounds.”

Hoch elbowed him aside and striding into the cell stared down at the figure on the bed. His lip curled as he took in the wan face of the woman who lay on the bed, and there was a flash of triumph in his eyes.

“Name?” he barked at the terrified woman.

“Simone,” came the whispered reply.

“Simone? And your surname, Mademoiselle?” The sarcastic emphasis on the title made the woman flinch.

“Simone who?” His tone brooked no argument and Simone, having no energy for one, murmured, “Isaacs!”

“As I thought. A Jew.” He turned away as if disgusted by the sight of her. “Hartmann, take her away,” he said dismissively. “I’ll talk to her at headquarters.”

The two men lowered their rifles and one hauled the injured Simone from the bed. Her legs folded underneath her as he tried to make her stand up, and without more ado he hoisted her up over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. As he did so, she gave a shriek of pain. Sister Eloise moved forward, her hands held out as if to halt them, but the second man pushed her violently against the wall, out of the way.

“Stay back,” he ordered, raising his rifle again.

Hartmann carried Simone along the corridor to the stairs without slackening his pace. Her nightgown was bunched up above her knees and as they disappeared down the stairs, the pale curve of her buttocks was displayed to them all.

“Take the nun as well,” Hoch ordered the other man. “She was harbouring a criminal.”

“I was tending an injured woman,” Sister Eloise said mildly. “It is my calling.”

“The woman is an enemy of the Reich,” replied Hoch smoothly. “Harbouring her makes you an enemy of the Reich. Take her away, Schmidt.”

Schmidt took Sister Eloise roughly by the arm and made as if to march her along the passage in the wake of his comrade, but the nun shook off his hand. “There is no need for that. I will come with you.” She glanced across at Hoch. “Simone will need my care again when you have finished questioning her.”

Hoch raised his hand and dealt her a stinging blow across her face. Her head jerked back and the marks of his fingers flowered red upon her cheek, but she made no sound as she turned her back on him. With quiet dignity she walked along the landing, pausing only to speak to Sister Marie-Paul, who was standing, stupefied, at the top of the stairs. “Don’t worry, Sister. Everything is in the hands of Our Lord. Tell Reverend Mother what has happened when she gets back.” Then with Schmidt behind her, his rifle still raised in case she ran, she descended the stairs.

Hoch, white-faced with anger, spoke softly to Sister Marie-Paul. “You! Nun! Gather all your nuns together somewhere. I wish to speak to them.”

Sister Marie-Paul controlled her mounting anger. “I’ll call them to the recreation room.”

“Do it now,” ordered Hoch. He turned to the last soldier, still standing on the landing. “You and I, Schwarz, will finish the search up here.” He strode to the next cell and kicked the door open. Sister St Bruno was sitting up in her bed staring vacantly at the wall. She had heard the commotion on the landing and had prepared herself for the intrusion.

Hoch glanced round the tiny room, and this time did take the trouble to pull aside the blanket that draped the bed. The space beneath the bed was empty. He glowered at the apparently senile nun in the bed, who gave him a happy smile and spoke in quavering voice. “Hallo, young man. Have you come to visit?”

Hoch turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him. Inside the cell, Sister St Bruno relaxed against her pillows, and picking up her rosary began to pray for Sister Eloise and the unfortunate Simone.

Sister Marie-Paul gathered the community from wherever they were in the convent. She was boiling with anger, not at the violent intrusion of the Gestapo officer and his men, but at the knowledge that there had been someone hidden in the convent without her knowledge. She had been kept in the dark about the Jew.

As one of the three most senior sisters, I should have been told, she fumed. I should have been told that we were sheltering yet another escaped Jew within the convent walls. It was bad enough that we were putting the convent at risk of reprisal by sheltering the Lenoir children, but to hide one of the escaped Jewish prisoners…

What made it worse was that it was clear Reverend Mother had trusted Sister Eloise with the secret, and who knew whom else? Other sisters must have known.

Sister Marie-Paul’s whole being flooded with anger at these thoughts. The entire community had been put at risk by the reverend mother, and now she wasn’t even here to deal with the consequences. Sister Marie-Paul had been glad when Reverend Mother had decided to take the two Jewish children off to Paris. She wished them no ill, but felt that they had no place in the orphanage here; and after all Marthe was not even a child.

Well, she decided, since Reverend Mother wasn’t here, and Sister Eloise had been arrested as a direct consequence of sheltering escaped prisoners, it was now up to her, Sister Marie-Paul, to do what she could to retrieve the situation.

“Is everyone here?” demanded Hoch when she led him into the crowded recreation room.

“Everyone except Sister St Bruno, who is bedridden,” replied Sister Marie-Paul. “And there is one sister left in each of the hospital wards.”

Hoch nodded. He remembered the gaga old nun he had seen upstairs; she was not important. The nuns left in the hospital could be told what he had said by their sisters.

“My name is Colonel Hoch,” he said, looking round at the assembled women. “I am in charge of security in this area. I root out spies and traitors and Jews. All the enemies of the Reich. I do this with or without the co-operation of the people who live here. If it is without their co-operation, and anyone is found harbouring such filth, well, it will be the worse for them.” His eyes roved round the room and he picked out a white-faced novice and pointed a finger at her. It was a tactic he had used on other occasions, and he knew it instilled fear into the whole company, not just the one singled out.

“You,” he said coldly, “what is your name?”

“Sister Clothilde,” came the whispered reply.

“Well, Sister Clothilde, remember this.” His eyes roved the room again to ensure he had their full attention. “All of you remember this, I shall be watching you. We have already found one escaped Jewish prisoner in hiding here. I have removed her and the nun who was with her. From now on, I shall take a sister for every fugitive I find here… in the hospital… in the convent.”

There was an audible gasp, and Hoch smiled grimly. “Exactly,” he said. “One nun for every one I find. This, sisters,” he stressed the word, “is no idle threat. I mean every word of it. People who work against the Reich do so at their peril.” He smiled again into the stunned silence that greeted his words. “So, we shall leave you now. Please remember what I have said.” Turning on his heel, he strode out of the door.

An outburst of talk followed his departure, but Sister Marie-Paul did not quell it as she would usually have done. She, too, hurried from the room. She was horrified at what the colonel had said and she wanted to speak with him before he drove away.

Hearing her footsteps behind him, Hoch paused in the hall. “Well?”

“I just wanted to assure you, Colonel, that I had no idea we were harbouring any escaped prisoners in the convent.”

He gave her a long cool look and she hurried on. “It is not for us to become involved with the world outside our door. This is a house of prayer. This is where we serve God by healing the sick and praying for their souls.” Hoch still said nothing, and anxious to get her point across, Sister Marie-Paul continued. “You can be sure that such a thing will never happen again.”

Hoch’s lip curled. “Can I, Sister? And what happens when your reverend mother returns from her trip to Paris? Will she agree with you, I wonder?”

“Of course she will,” Sister Marie-Paul said stoutly. “She will have only the best interests of the community at heart.”

“And if she does not? Will I hear about it, I wonder?” His eyes bored into her face. “From someone who does have the community’s interests at heart? I should certainly take note of anyone who was helpful in such a way.”

Sister Marie-Paul did not reply, but a look of understanding passed between them before he turned away again and she ventured just one more question.

“And Sister Eloise?”

“I shall be speaking with Sister Eloise,” he replied brusquely, and without another word strode out to his waiting car.

Sister Marie-Paul watched him go. Standing in the empty hallway she looked out over the countryside spread below. She had lived here, in this convent, since she had entered at the age of eighteen. Her family had encouraged her, knowing that it was unlikely that such a plain girl with no dowry would find a man to marry her, and she had never returned to her father’s house. The convent had become her home and her life; now thanks to the new reverend mother, it was all under threat. But Colonel Hoch had made Sister Marie-Paul an offer; the safety of the convent in return for information. As she considered this, she realised he had offered her more than a chance to keep the community safe from further German attentions, he had given her a lever with which to remove the upstart English woman who had leapfrogged her in seniority to become Reverend Mother, leaving Sister Marie-Paul with responsibility only for the novices. She had resented it at the time, and her resentment had grown as she saw the way that the new reverend mother exercised her authority with the least dictatorial and confrontational attitude that had ever been seen in the convent. Governing by consent was not the way Sister Marie-Paul would have set about the job. She would have stamped her authority onto the community in no uncertain manner, and no one would have dared to query any of her decisions. There would have been no general discussions, like the one to decide the fate of Margot and Marthe Lenoir. Sister Marie-Paul would have handed them over to the German authorities and kept the convent safe. Now, with threats from the SS hanging over them, would be the perfect time to undermine the reverend mother’s casual attitude, and oust her from her position.

Her chance to save the convent and to become its superior was approaching, and Sister Marie-Paul was determined not to miss the opportunity. She got to her feet and returned to the recreation room where all the nuns, undismissed, awaited her.

“Sisters,” she said, “this has been a frightening afternoon for all of us. The Germans have gone now, but have taken Sister Eloise with them. I have, of course, spoken to the colonel who was here, but he says he will deal only with Reverend Mother. So, there is nothing more we can do until she comes home to us. In the meantime, we must all go about our duties in the normal way. When Reverend Mother does return, it will be I who will tell her what has happened here. I will explain, so please ensure, Sister,” Sister Marie-Paul turned her gaze on Sister Celestine, “that she is told I need to see her the moment she gets home. You will not tell her why. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sister.” Sister Celestine sounded nervous as she gave her assurance. “Quite understood.”

Sister Marie-Paul gave her a tight smile. Sister Celestine had acted as her eyes and ears in the convent before and could be relied upon. “Good.” Sister Marie-Paul rose to her feet, dismissing them all. “Then back to work, all of you. We have a hospital to run.”

13

Mother Marie-Pierre seemed unruffled as she went to her office, but she sensed that something serious had happened in her absence, something that had clearly shaken the white-faced Sister Celestine, and she wondered what on earth it could be. She wished she had time to go up to see Aunt Anne and discover more before she had to face Sister Marie-Paul, but she knew that really would enrage the novice mistress. She wondered, too, if something had happened, why it was Sister Marie-Paul who was asking to see her, and not Sister Eloise, her official deputy. It was not long before she found out.

“Arrested! Sister Eloise?”

“Yes, Mother,” replied Sister Marie-Paul, looking grim. “The Germans came and took her away, with a Jew who was hidden in the convent, hidden in your cell, Mother.” Her voice was accusing. “You must have known she was there.”

“Of course I knew,” snapped Mother Marie-Pierre. She had got to her feet and was pacing the room, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. “But that doesn’t matter now. Start from the beginning,” she instructed, as Sister Marie-Paul seemed about to interrupt. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Sister Marie-Paul described the arrival of the Germans, their simultaneous approach from back and front of the convent, the ruthlessness of their search, the harshness of their officer.

“Not Major Thielen?”

“No, a Colonel Hoch. When they found the escaped Jew with Sister Eloise, he had them both taken to his headquarters in the village. Then he called us all together and threatened us with what would happen if we sheltered any more runaways.” Sister Marie-Paul repeated the threats Hoch had made. “The whole convent was put at risk by sheltering this fugitive. She could have been a criminal for all we knew about her. I gave the colonel an undertaking that it would not happen again.” She stared defiantly at her superior, as if challenging her to disagree, but Mother Marie-Pierre did not take up the challenge. “Sister Eloise?” she asked, simply.

“I asked about her, of course,” replied Sister Marie-Paul, “and the colonel said that he would be interviewing her at his headquarters.”

“And this all happened the day before yesterday?”

Sister Marie-Paul nodded.

“And you’ve heard nothing since?” Mother Marie-Pierre tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice. “You’ve done nothing since?”

Colour crept up Sister Marie-Paul’s neck into her cheeks. “What could I do?” she demanded fiercely. “What can anyone do?”

“I’ll go and see Colonel Hoch,” said Mother Marie-Pierre tightly, her anger at the novice mistress’s complacency almost exploding. How could this woman have simply left her sister to her fate? “I’ll see him and find out where she is.”

“What about the sisters here?” asked Sister Marie-Paul. “Shouldn’t you speak to them first? They were all very afraid when the Germans searched the convent. They need your reassurance that it won’t happen again.”

“The sisters are quite safe for the present,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied, “they will understand that I must go and find Sister Eloise straight away.”

“If only I had known that she was nursing an escaped prisoner, I might have been able to save her,” Sister Marie-Paul said pointedly. “How did the woman get into the convent? Why weren’t we told she was there?”

“I found her in the yard and brought her in,” replied Reverend Mother evenly. “Sister Eloise came to look after her when I asked her to. It was unnecessary to involve anyone else.” She made no mention of the part played by Sister Marie-Marc or Sister Henriette, there was no need to arouse Sister Marie-Paul’s anger further.

“If I may say so, Mother,” Sister Marie-Paul’s eyes glowed with righteous indignation, “Sister Eloise is now in danger because you chose to interfere in matters that do not concern us here. The Germans being here have nothing to do with us.”

“You may say so,” replied her superior more calmly than she felt, “but I would remind you, Sister, that we are called to heal the sick and help the afflicted, and the woman I found was clearly both.” She opened the door to show that the interview was now over. “I shall go down to the village straight away to see what is happening. In the meantime, please carry on as usual. At supper you can reassure our sisters, and tell them where I am and what I am doing. I will speak to them all when I get back, if it is not too late, or in the morning if it is.”

As she hurried down the path to the village, Mother Marie-Pierre considered what had happened in her absence. She had no illusions about the raid. Once Hoch had seen she was safely out of the way, he had searched the convent again, not, she thought, because he expected to find anyone there, but to demonstrate his power. Finding the hidden woman must have been an added bonus and he used it to ensure that the nuns were afraid, afraid enough not to offer shelter again to anyone in hiding. With Sister Marie-Paul at least he had succeeded. She said she had given him an undertaking that they would not help fugitives in the future. Mother Marie-Pierre did not consider herself bound by that undertaking, but she knew now that she could no longer trust Sister Marie-Paul. The earlier divisions among the sisters about the fate of the Lenoir girls would be deepened now and those who considered Sister Marie-Paul was right would form a faction. There had always been factions within the community, it was inevitable, but Mother Marie-Pierre had sought to reduce the friction between them by her open discussion of issues that affected them all, and she had felt that she was beginning to make progress. Now all that would be at risk again. However, such problems were secondary at present, the most important thing now was to try and get Sister Eloise released. She thought about the injured Simone and sighed. She knew that there would be no saving her from the clutches of the Gestapo.

Dusk was falling when she reached the village, but she went straight to the German headquarters where a few chinks of light escaped from badly blacked-out windows. One of the sentries outside demanded her business and when she asked to see Colonel Hoch, he left her waiting in the square while he went in to enquire.

Hoch had heard that she passed through the village to the convent and was expecting her visit. However, he was in no hurry to deal with her; he decided to let her wait and wonder. It was another of his favourite tactics, a way to increase fear and anxiety so that when the time came for interview he already had the upper hand. “Tell her to wait,” he snapped. “I’m too busy to see her now.”

The message was relayed to Mother Marie-Pierre and she was shown once again into the tiny room that had once been the office of some minor clerk in the Mairie. She sat patiently, her rosary comforting in her fingers as she prayed for Sister Eloise and for herself, that she might find the right words to say when she finally got to see Colonel Hoch. She understood only too well why she was being left there and was determined that the tactic should not succeed. The familiar ritual of the rosary soothed her as she waited.

It was another two hours before she was shown into Hoch’s office, by which time she was cold and stiff and in need of a bathroom.

Hoch did not offer her a seat, he simply regarded her from behind his desk with cold eyes. Mother Marie-Pierre stood perfectly still and did not speak. At last Hoch spoke. “Well?”

“I have come to find Sister Eloise.”

“So I assumed. She is in a cell at the gendarmerie… being interrogated.” Hoch’s face was almost expressionless. “She was harbouring an enemy of the Reich.”

“She was nursing an injured woman,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly. “It is her calling.”

“Then she will be carrying out her calling elsewhere in future,” Hoch said coldly. “As she wishes to look after such people, it has been arranged. She will accompany her patient to an internment camp.”

Mother Marie-Pierre stared at him in horror, and he saw that he had finally pierced her calm façade. “To an internment camp? But Colonel, have you no respect for her cloth?”

“It is because I respect her cloth, as you put it, that I am not having her shot,” he replied coolly.

“Shot? For nursing an injured woman?”

“An enemy of the Reich,” he repeated. “And, as I am sure you have already spoken to the nun you left in charge at the convent, you know that I have warned her, warned all of you, what will happen if such incidents occur again. You are the reverend mother, it is your choice.” He stood to show that the interview was over, but Mother Marie-Pierre, her mind racing, stood her ground.

“May I see her?” she asked quietly.

Hoch shrugged. “If you wish. She will be leaving in the truck that’s coming through in the morning. Schwarz! In here!” He barked the order through the open door and the guard outside came rushing in.

“Take this nun over to the gendarmerie and let her see the other one. She may have ten minutes.” He turned back to Mother Marie-Pierre. “I do not expect to see you here again, Reverend Mother, for any reason whatsoever. This country is still at war, and I will do whatever I consider necessary to protect its people from saboteurs, spies… and anyone else who becomes the enemy of the Reich. Do you understand?”

His eyes drilled into her, and she lowered her own, murmuring, “Certainly, Colonel. I do understand.”

“Take her to see the other one,” he snapped again, and she was dismissed.

Schwarz led her to the gendarmerie, where two local gendarmes were sitting, smoking. He jerked his head at Mother Marie-Pierre, and was brusque. “She’s to see the other nun. Ten minutes.”

Captain Gregoire got to his feet, his cigarette still hanging from his lip, and picked up a ring of keys from the desk in front of him. “In here,” he growled, and Mother Marie-Pierre followed him through a door into a passage beyond. Several doors led off this and Gregoire paused outside one. He raised the flap on a spy hole and peered in, then he turned a key in the lock and let Mother Marie-Pierre pass him into the cell. It contained nothing but a low stone platform to serve as a bed, and an open drain in the corner.

Sister Eloise was sitting on the bed, but as Mother Marie-Pierre came into the room, she stood up shakily. Her habit was torn and dirty, her hood gone, so that her hair, grey and short-cropped, was exposed as it had not been since she had been professed. Her face was bruised, her lip split and one eye nearly closed. Without the dignity of her wimple she might have seemed diminished, to have dwindled into a little old lady, but the light in her eyes was undimmed.

“Mother!” she cried as she saw who was there. “I knew you would come!” She held out her hands, but Mother Marie-Pierre gathered her into her arms.

“My poor sister,” cried Mother Marie-Pierre. “Eloise, what have they done to you?”

Sister Eloise managed a smile as she rested her bruised cheek against the reverend mother’s for a moment. “Nothing that won’t mend, Mother.” She withdrew from Mother Marie-Pierre’s arms and sank back down onto the stone bed.

Reverend Mother sat beside her and took her hands. “Tell me what happened.”

Sister Eloise told her about the Gestapo search and Simone being found. “We thought it was safe to keep her in your bed while you were away,” she explained. “We didn’t think the Germans would come back, and when she was better, Sister St Bruno had suggested that we could keep her as a lay worker instead of Marthe. We thought she’d be safe in the convent.” She sighed. “But they came without warning, swarming over the whole convent. I was in the middle of changing the dressing on Simone’s shoulder. It was impossible to hide her.”

“Where is she now?” asked Mother Marie-Pierre quietly.

“I don’t know,” replied Sister Eloise. “I haven’t seen her since we were brought here. That Gestapo colonel thought I could tell him about the other missing prisoners, you know, the ones that escaped from that lorry. He seemed to think we were hiding them at the convent too. I told him we had only seen Simone, I think he has finally decided to believe me. He says I’m to be sent to some camp or other, to keep me out of trouble.”

“I know, he told me.” Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. “Oh, Sister, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault that you’re in this place, I should never have…”

“Oh yes, you should,” cut in Sister Eloise swiftly with much of her old determination and energy. “What the Gestapo are doing is the work of the devil, and we should fight evil wherever we find it.” She gripped her superior’s hand. “Mother… you have always been a woman of great courage and determination. From the moment you arrived at the convent as Sarah, a green girl keen to do your bit, you have devoted yourself to what you thought was right; what God was calling you to do. No, let me finish,” she said as Mother Marie-Pierre tried to interrupt. “You were an unusual choice as Reverend Mother, being so young and comparatively junior in the community, but I have no doubt that you were God’s choice, and He had His reasons for choosing you. I shall be moving on tomorrow… somewhere… but wherever it is He will have work for me there.”

“Sister, you have such faith,” whispered Mother Marie-Pierre, feeling humble in the face of it.

“So do you,” replied Sister Eloise. “So do you. If it pleases God that I return to the convent at the end of this war, I know I shall find it standing firm, safe in your care. If not, we shall meet again in God’s own good time.”

The key scraped in the door behind them, and Sister Eloise drew Mother Marie-Pierre to her once more, murmuring urgently into her ear. “Fight this evil, Mother, from wherever it comes.”

“Time’s up,” growled Gregoire as the two sisters embraced for the last time.

“God bless you, Mother,” Sister Eloise said as she let her go.

“And you, Sister. You will be in our prayers, night and day.”

“Out!” barked Gregoire, moving to push them apart. “Out! Your time’s up.”

Mother Marie-Pierre left the cell and heard the door clank closed behind her, separating Sister Eloise from her community for the last time.

Gregoire almost pushed Sister Marie-Paul out of the gendarmerie, and she found herself outside in the darkness of the street, but the chill in the autumn air was nothing compared with the bleakness in her heart. She stood for a moment, about to walk back to the convent, but with sudden resolution she turned towards the church and the curé’s house. Perhaps Father Michel could speak to Colonel Hoch and get him to reconsider his decision to send Sister Eloise to the internment camp.

No lights showed from the windows, but she knocked and waited just the same. At first there was no reply, but as she went to raise the knocker again she heard the scrape of bolts being drawn back, and the door opened a fraction. Mademoiselle Picarde peered round it, and saw who was outside. “Reverend Mother, what do you want at this time of night?”

“I wish to speak with Father Michel,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. She kept the anger she felt out of her voice and stepped towards the half-closed door.

“He’s very busy,” said Mademoiselle Picarde, but encountering the look of determination on her visitor’s face she took a step back and allowed Mother Marie-Pierre to push the door open and enter the dimly lit hall.

“Wait here, please,” the housekeeper said. Opening a door and switching on a light she showed Mother Marie-Pierre into a parlour. “I will tell Father Michel you are here.”

The elderly priest came out at once and led the nun into his study at the back of the house. Here a small fire burned in the grate, and it was clear that this was where Father Michel spent most of his time.

“Thank you, Rose,” he said to his housekeeper, and the woman backed out of the room closing the door behind her. Indicating she should take the chair in front of his desk, the curé took his own seat behind it. “Now, Mother, what can I do for you?”

Mother Marie-Pierre explained about Sister Eloise. “She was simply nursing an injured woman, Father,” she said. “That is no reason for the Gestapo to deport her to a camp in Germany.”

“The trouble is,” Father Michel looked at her over his steepled fingers, “the trouble is that she became involved in secular matters, matters that shouldn’t concern you in the convent. You are not to know who is a criminal and who is not. People who come to the hospital with gunshot wounds should be reported to the authorities.”

Sister Marie-Paul’s words echoed in Mother Marie-Pierre’s head, and she realised where they had originated. “Did Sister Marie-Paul come to you for advice, Father?” she asked though she already knew the answer.

“She did, Mother. In your absence she had nowhere else to turn.”

“I understand, of course.” Mother Marie-Pierre was conciliatory, though anger burned inside her. It was better to let the priest think she agreed with what he said, to keep him safe in his authority so that he would not question hers. She smiled sadly. “I just thought you might have some influence with the colonel, that he’d respect your cloth and perhaps release Sister Eloise.”

“I’m afraid not, Mother. I really feel it would be wrong to involve myself in such secular affairs. ‘Render unto Caesar’, Mother. Remember Our Lord’s teaching, and at the present time ‘Caesar’ is the German authorities.”

Mother Marie-Pierre got to her feet and ducked her head as if in submission. “I quite understand, Father. Thank you for seeing me. I must go now or I won’t be in before curfew.” She turned and walked to the front door followed by the priest. He raised his hand in blessing and then closed the door quickly behind her, shutting her out into the night.

14

The convent was in darkness when Mother Marie-Pierre let herself in fifteen minutes later. The sisters had all retired for the night, and the Great Silence had settled on the house, but even so she had half expected Sister Marie-Paul to be lying in wait for her and it was with immense relief that she made her way up to the chapel without meeting anyone. As always, one of the sisters was in the chapel keeping watch, kneeling in prayer before the altar, but she was alone and did not turn when Reverend Mother came in and knelt quietly at the back. In the sweet-smelling silence that enfolded her, Mother Marie-Pierre laid out all her troubles before her Lord, and when she rose from her knees some forty minutes later, she felt stronger and knew a measure of peace. She left the chapel as silently as she had come and went to her own cell. She longed to discuss everything with her aunt, but the Great Silence prohibited that and she must wait until morning.

She had just begun to remove her hood when there came a scratching at her door. Throwing a shawl round her head, she opened it to find Sister Marie-Marc outside. She was fully dressed, and despite the Silence, it was clear that she needed to speak. Constrained by the Silence, Sister Marie-Marc simply stared at her, her eyes intense and urgent. Obviously there was some emergency and Reverend Mother broke the Silence.

“Sister! What has happened now?”

Sister Marie-Marc put her finger to her lips and stepped a little closer. Mother Marie-Pierre stood aside and let the nun enter, closing the door softly behind her.

“Sister. You may break the Silence, Sister.”

“Mother, thank God you are home.”

“Sister, what on earth has happened now?” Mother Marie-Pierre asked in alarm.

“I have found someone,” whispered Sister Marie-Marc dramatically. “In the shed.”

“Who? Who have you found, Sister?” Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts ran immediately to the other Jew who had escaped from the lorry.

Sister Marie-Marc looked a little guilty and murmured. “It is a man, Mother.”

“A man? What man? Who is he?”

“He is an airman, Mother, an English airman, shot down. His plane crashed and he jumped with a parachute.” Sister Marie-Marc’s eyes were round with the wonder of it.

Mother Marie-Pierre sank onto her bed and looked up at her expectant sister. Drawing a long breath, she asked, “Where is he?”

“In the cellar, Mother.”

Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. “You’d better tell me,” she said, and reaching for her hood she began to replace it on her head.

Sister Marie-Marc drew a breath and began. “I was collecting the eggs this evening, when I heard a noise in the shed behind me. I thought it was a rat. They’ve been getting into the chicken feed. I ran in and grabbed the pitchfork to kill it with. It was getting dark and I couldn’t see much but I stabbed the fork into the heap of straw Jean Danot had left there for me.”

“A whirlwind with a pitchfork,” was how Flight Sergeant Terry Ham described it to Mother Marie-Pierre later, as she sat with him in the darkness of the convent cellar.

Once he discovered that she could speak English, he launched into his tale. “I reckoned I’d found somewhere to hide for the night at least, and then she come in, jabbing away. I was lucky not to get stabbed, and that’s a fact. I didn’t want to make no noise, but I had to stop her from jabbing.” He grinned ruefully. “She says I didn’t hurt her when I took the pitchfork off her… least, I think that’s what she said. I don’t know the lingo, but she didn’t scream nor nothing, and when she saw my uniform she pushed me down under the straw again and pulled the door shut.” He looked across at Sister Marie-Marc who was hovering by the cellar door. “She’s a game old bird, begging your pardon, ma’am. She brought me some bread and water to keep me going, and then when it got dark she brought me in here,” he waved his hand round the cellar, “and give me some soup.”

He went on to tell them how his plane had been hit as it was returning to England after a raid. “Skipper said bail out, so out I bailed. Not sure if the rest of them made it. I saw other chutes open, but it was windy and we was blown apart. So I’ve been trying to find them, the others. See if we can get ourselves back to England.”

Mother Marie-Pierre listened carefully to his story, her mind running through what they might or might not be able to do for this man. She looked across at him, small and wiry, with light curly hair and a boyish face. It was the sort of face she remembered so well from the last war, the face of a young man who was afraid, but determined to hide it with a show of bravado.

“Not sure how to set about it,” he admitted when Mother Marie-Pierre asked him if he had any real plans for escaping. “Suppose I should try and get to the sea, find a boat or something. Perhaps go to Spain. I heard of other blokes getting home that way.”

“Well, the first thing to do is get you hidden safely here,” said Mother Marie-Pierre. “It wouldn’t be a good idea for it to be known in the convent that you were here. Sister,” she turned to the little nun still waiting in the background, “where else can we hide him?”

“Nowhere,” replied Sister Marie-Marc. “The cellar is the best place. Only Sister Elisabeth and I come down here for the vegetables. It’s big. No one goes into the places beyond the coal cellar.”

Mother Marie-Pierre had only inspected the cellars once, when she had become Reverend Mother. She knew they extended under the main part of the convent, left over from the days when the nuns kept their winter stores in its coolness; some areas were as small as cells, others spacious and lined with shelves and racks. Little of their capacity was used these days. There were a few old garden tools, some discarded items of furniture and some empty packing cases, but there was little food to store and almost no coal. Sister Marie-Marc was right. Few of the sisters would have any cause to come down the old stone steps at all, and if they did they would be unlikely to venture into the darkness beyond the first cellar.

“But the Germans certainly will,” Mother Marie-Pierre pointed out. “The cellars will be the first place they search if they raid again.” She shook her head at the young man. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you won’t be able to stay here very long. If you were caught here, the whole convent would suffer.”

“I understand,” he said. “I’d better move on then, while it’s still dark.”

Sister Marie-Marc watched their faces as they spoke, unable to follow the conversation in English, but when she saw the airman get to his feet she made as if to push him down again. She turned to her superior. “Surely you are not letting him go, Mother? We must help him get away.”

Reverend Mother repeated what she had said about the Germans searching and the little nun nodded. “But the Boche will not come again,” she asserted. “That Gestapo man, he thinks he has frightened us, so we will not help anyone else.”

“I hope you’re right, Sister,” said the reverend mother, “but we can’t rely on that.”

“This boy will be safe for a few days while we think of a plan,” said Sister Marie-Marc stoutly. “If they find him, Mother, they will shoot him.”

“If they find him here, they may shoot us all,” returned her superior dryly. “There are several sisters who would be most unhappy to know he was here.”

“Then we will not tell them,” replied Sister Marie-Marc with a shrug.

“Let’s have a look at the rest of the cellar,” said Mother Marie-Pierre, and picking up the oil lamp they had brought down with them, she led the way. Together they explored the underground space. It was dark and musty, smelling of damp. Some parts were little more than caves hewn from the rock, others, with old wooden doors, were more like walk-in cupboards. At the far end of the cellar they came to one of these. The lamp showed stone walls and a flagged floor; there were some slatted shelves where apples might once have been stored, otherwise the room was empty, but it did have a stout door to close it off.

“This might do,” suggested Sister Marie-Marc hopefully.

“It’s the furthest from the door,” remarked the airman, peering into the dark corner, “but it don’t smell as musty, somehow.”

Reverend Mother sniffed the air. There was a coolness to it and it certainly smelt fresher. She held the lamp higher to cast the light further and the flame flickered within its chimney.

“There’s a draught,” exclaimed the airman. “Here, give me the lamp.”

He took it from her and held it up above his head. The flame continued to flicker, but by its light they saw there was an iron grating set into the ceiling.

“Must be to let air circulate in the cellar,” said Terry Ham as he peered up at it. It was clearly overgrown, choked with vegetation, no light penetrated, but fresh air seeped through, dispelling the mustiness of the air below. “I reckon I could loosen that if I had a crowbar, then if anyone comes poking about down here, I can nip up and out sharpish.”

“That depends on where it comes out,” pointed out Mother Marie-Pierre. “You could climb straight into the arms of whoever is waiting above.”

Sister Marie-Marc thought for a moment, trying to orientate herself. “It must extend beyond the walls of the building as it is open to the outside air,” she said. “Maybe it comes up in the courtyard.”

“Well, we can’t go and look now,” said Reverend Mother. “Tomorrow you can search, Sister, while you are seeing to the hens. In the meantime,” she turned back to the airman, “you must stay down here, in this furthest corner of the cellar.” She looked the young man in the eye. “Under no circumstances are you to come out of this part of the cellar, is that understood?”

His eyes held hers as he replied. “Yes, I understand.”

“Sister Marie-Marc will bring you food and water and a bucket for… your needs.” Reverend Mother looked away in some embarrassment as she said this, as did the young man.

“All right,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”

“I will come down again tomorrow night and we’ll decide what, if anything, we can do for you.” She turned briskly to Sister Marie-Marc and explained what was needed. “Make sure you are not seen, Sister. The fewer people who know about Flight Sergeant Ham the better.”

“My name’s Terry,” he said.

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Well, Terry. We’ll do our best for you.”

When she had regained the privacy of her own cell Mother Marie-Pierre lay on her bed and considered what she could do. Clearly Terry Ham could not stay in the convent for more than a day, it was too dangerous for everybody, but where could he go? How was he going to get home to England? Wouldn’t it be better if he gave himself up to the Germans? He’d be a prisoner of war, after all, not a spy. They wouldn’t shoot a prisoner of war, they’d just send him to a prison camp. Wouldn’t they? If he surrendered to Major Thielen he’d be all right, wouldn’t he? Then she thought of Colonel Hoch and shivered. He might do anything.

If only I had someone to discuss it with, she thought, as her mind churned with worry and indecision. Aunt Anne maybe, but she was an old lady and would probably tell her to do what she thought best. She needed someone outside the convent, but there was no one, no one she could trust anyway. If only Father Michel were a stronger man, she could go to him, but after this evening’s visit she knew that was hopeless; she already knew what his advice would be.

If only he were more like Father Bernard in Amiens, she thought. Now there was someone you could trust. Mother Marie-Pierre felt her spirits lift a little. If I could only get Terry to Father Bernard, she thought, he’d know what to do.

For the next hour she lay in bed, considering and rejecting plans for Terry Ham’s escape, and only slipped into a fitful sleep as the rising bell rang out through the convent, calling the sisters to matins.

“I would like to speak to everyone after breakfast,” she told Sister Marie-Paul to pre-empt any comment. “Please take the meal, and I will see you in the recreation room when you have all finished.”

Sister Marie-Paul inclined her head. “Yes, Mother, of course.”

Leaving the sisters to go into the refectory, Mother Marie-Pierre went to the kitchen, and, collecting Sister St Bruno’s tray, carried it up to her. As the old lady ate her bread and honey her niece told her everything that had happened since she had left the convent three days earlier with the Jewish children. Then she reached the discovery of the English airman in the cellar. “Of course Sister Marie-Marc did right to hide him, at least I think she did, but what am I to do with him now? I wish I had somewhere to send him, as I did with the children.”

“Well, I think you may have,” her aunt said. “Why not send him to this Father Bernard in Amiens? He helped you before, and clearly he knew what you were doing then. Maybe he will help again.”

“He might, I suppose.” Sarah sounded doubtful. “I did think of him, but how on earth do I get Terry to him? How can he travel without papers? He will be picked up at once. And supposing Father Bernard turns him away?”

“Do you think he will?”

Sarah considered for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think so, but it will put Father Bernard in danger as well. I don’t know if that is justified simply because he didn’t give me and the children away last time. Anyway, I still don’t know how to get him there.”

“As you did with Marthe,” replied her aunt.

“Marthe?” Sarah stared at her. “But Marthe went disguised as one of us.”

“So she did; so could he.”

“But he’s a man.”

“Indeed he is,” replied Aunt Anne patiently, “but put him in a nun’s habit and who is to know it? How big is he? Does he have a moustache? A beard?”

That drew an unwilling laugh from Sarah. “No, he doesn’t have either.”

“Is he tall?”

“No, quite small actually.” Sarah thought for a moment and saw there might be a possibility here. “But where will I get a habit from? Sister Marie-Paul isn’t going to give me another. It was bad enough last time, when it was for a girl, and someone we knew. She would consider it sacrilege for a man to wear it. Anyway,” Sarah looked a little guiltily at her aunt, “you know, I don’t really trust her. She says we shouldn’t get involved with secular things. I don’t think I can rely on her to keep the secret anymore.”

“There’s mine,” suggested Aunt Anne.

Sarah stared at her. “What did you say?”

“There’s my habit. I don’t get up much these days, so I don’t need it for a while. I’ll just stay in bed, or in my room anyway.”

Sarah’s eyes flicked to the habit hanging on the back of the cell door. Sister St Bruno had been tall and though she had shrunk since she’d had to take to her bed, the habit was quite long. As Terry Ham was not in any way a big man, he might fit into it.

“He couldn’t go by himself,” Sarah said musingly. “Someone would have to go with him to do the talking. He doesn’t speak any French. And he’d need papers.”

“What did you do about papers for Marthe?”

“I used Sister Marie-Joseph’s.”

“Then use them again.”

“He doesn’t look anything like Sister Marie-Joseph,” Sarah laughed.

“Very little of him will show,” pointed out her aunt. “And, with luck, all people will see is a nun.”

Sarah considered the idea. It was on the face of it quite outlandish, disguising a grown man as a young nun, and yet the very absurdity of it meant that there was an outside chance that it would work. People saw what they expected to see. Even so.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at length, getting to her feet. “We can’t do anything until I can speak with him again tonight.” She sighed. “In the meantime I must go and talk to the sisters. I have to tell them about Sister Eloise.”

“Remember what she said to you when you left her,” said her aunt quietly. “You must fight evil wherever you find it.”

“Are you suggesting Sister Marie-Paul is evil?” Sarah was startled.

“No,” replied her aunt sadly, “just misguided, but the results may be the same.”

Throughout the day Mother Marie-Pierre considered Sister St Bruno’s suggestion. Sometimes it seemed almost feasible and at others quite impossible. She had an opportunity to speak to Sister Marie-Marc, privately, before the midday meal, and was assured that their visitor had been supplied with all he would need for the day.

“I’ll come down and see him again when everyone has gone to bed,” Reverend Mother promised. “Then we’ll discuss his escape.”

By the time the convent was quiet, Mother Marie-Pierre had come to some sort of decision. She took Sister St Bruno’s habit, and, rolling it up under her arm, slipped quietly down the stairs to meet Sister Marie-Marc in the kitchen. Together they went into the cellar, carrying the oil lamp and a dish of stew for their guest.

“I am sorry you’ve been in the dark all day,” Mother Marie-Pierre said as she set the lamp on the floor and Sister Marie-Marc handed him the stew. “We simply couldn’t risk anyone seeing the light either from the outside, or if they came down into the cellar for something.”

“That’s all right, Sister,” Terry said, and turned his attention to the food. When he had finished, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “So, what next?”

“I have an idea for getting you away from here,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre, “but it depends on several things if it is going to work.”

“OK. Shoot!”

So, Mother Marie-Pierre explained her plan. “One of the sisters will go with you, as you don’t speak French. The story will be that you are going to the mother house in Paris.”

“On a train?” Terry looked doubtful. “What about papers and that?”

“You’ll have the ones that belong to one of our sisters,” Mother Marie-Pierre told him. “But none of this will work if you don’t fit into this.” She held out the folded habit.

Terry stared open-mouthed. “Me? Wear that?”

“Try it on now,” instructed Mother Marie-Pierre. “Sister Marie-Marc and I will give you time to change, then we will come back and arrange your hood.” And before he could protest any further, Reverend Mother drew Sister Marie-Marc out of the little room and into the main part of the cellar.

“Did you discover where the grating is, Sister?” she asked as they waited for their guest to struggle into his disguise.

“Not in the courtyard, Mother. Nowhere in the courtyard is that overgrown. I think it must be outside the wall. I haven’t been able to find it yet, but I will keep looking.”

“You can come back now,” Terry said in a strangled whisper, and the two nuns returned to his cellar. He stood awkwardly in the lamplight, his face red with embarrassment. Mother Marie-Pierre fought down the urge to laugh, but Sister Marie-Marc had no such inhibitions and laughed aloud, making Terry’s young face crack into a grin. She was immediately hushed by her superior, and together they set about dressing the young airman in the wimple and hood, which would do more for his disguise than the habit itself.

When they had finished they stepped back to survey their handiwork and Sister Marie-Marc gasped. “It will work, Mother,” she breathed, and Mother Marie-Pierre, looking critically at the young nun before them, actually began to believe that it might. Terry Ham was young and his face, if they could get him a razor, would be smooth. The wimple covered his hair, his forehead and his ears, fitting snugly under his chin, the shape accentuating the roundness of his boyish face. The hood, with its starched peaks, stood away from his head, and the whole presented a rather coltish nun, but at a glance a nun, nevertheless.

“I’ll bring you a razor from the hospital,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “and then I think you’ll do.” She smiled at the look of dismay that still played on his face. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here and safely to Amiens. It will be a start.”

Terry looked down at his feet. “What about my boots?”

Reverend Mother looked at them, emerging from under the habit. That could be a problem. The nuns all wore black-laced shoes, but they were nothing like as heavy as the flying boots Terry was wearing.

“We’ve no ordinary shoes big enough for you,” she said. “You’ll just have to pull the habit down as far as you can, and try not to let them show. Keep your hands in your sleeves, too. They don’t look like a woman’s hands.”

Terry dutifully tucked his hands into the wide sleeves and tried walking across the room without letting more than the toes of his boots show. Sister Marie-Marc giggled, and he treated her to another grin.

“Who’s going with me?” he asked anxiously. “I’ll be putting them into danger.”

Reverend Mother had been considering this. She wanted as few people as possible to know that he had been staying in the convent. The plan was that he, and whoever she sent with him, should set out at dawn and walk into Albert, from where they could take the train to Amiens. She wanted them well away from the village before people were about. She was praying that they would not be stopped, at least until they had reached the town, but she had to send someone who could deal with any problems on the way. She wished Sister Danielle was back. She looked across at Sister Marie-Marc but dismissed the idea at once. She was too old to make such a journey, and she spoke no English, so she wouldn’t be able to communicate with her charge. In any case she could not think of a reason why she might send Sister Marie-Marc to Paris.

“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted.

“Can it be her?” he asked nodding in the direction of Sister Marie-Marc. “I know her.”

“I don’t think so,” she began, but was surprised when Sister Marie-Marc spoke at the same time.

“Who will go with him, Mother?” she asked. “Will you send me?”

“No, Sister, not you.” The nun started to protest. “You could not walk all the way to Albert, and you do not speak any English, and,” she added firmly to prevent further argument, “I shall need you here to be my eyes and ears while I am gone.”

“You’re going?” Sister Marie-Marc sounded incredulous.

“It is the only answer,” replied Reverend Mother. And indeed, she had recognised in that instant, it was. “I shall take Terry on the train to Amiens and leave him in Father Bernard’s care. We don’t want anyone else to know that he’s been here. Then if the Germans do come back, well, the sisters will all be as innocent as they seem.”

“All except me,” remarked Sister Marie-Marc.

“I know I can rely on you to be the picture of innocence,” smiled her superior. She turned back to Terry and spoke in English. “I will be going with you as far as Amiens. But we will have to wait another day so that I can organise the trip without it looking suspicious to anyone here.

“I shall tell Sister Marie-Paul that I am going back to Paris to fetch Sister Danielle,” she explained to Sister Marie-Marc, “that I don’t want her to travel alone in such uncertain times… which indeed I do not. I will set out very early in the morning, alone. You and Terry will leave before it gets light and wait for me on the other side of the village. Then we shall go on and you will come back.”

“But Mother…”

“It is decided, Sister.” Mother Marie-Pierre spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have lost Sister Eloise, I will not put anyone else at risk.” Turning back to Terry Ham, she went on: “We’ll get you a razor and some hot water to shave.” She gave him a brief smile. “Make sure it is a close shave, hein, your life may depend on it.”

Thirty-six hours later, Sister Celestine let Reverend Mother out of the front door into the cold grey of a November dawn. In her pocket she carried her own papers and those of Sister Marie-Joseph, which she had neglected to return to the young nun.

“God go with you,” murmured Sister Celestine as Mother Marie-Pierre paused on the threshold. “Bring Sister Danielle back safely to us.”

“Thank you, Sister, I will.” Sister Marie-Paul had accepted the story that she was going to fetch Sister Danielle as she did not want her to travel alone.

“But you will be travelling alone, Mother,” she pointed out.

“That is my risk,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre, “I do not want Sister Danielle to take that risk unnecessarily.”

“I understand,” said Sister Marie-Paul, thinking even as she smiled that Reverend Mother was clearly feeling guilty about the fate of Sister Eloise. And so she should, she thought. “I will see to things here while you are away, Mother.”

Now, with her cloak drawn round her shoulders, Mother Marie-Pierre hurried along the path through the copse, and then, taking the track by the river, skirted the village and joined the road beyond. As she passed behind the outlying houses, their shutters still closed against the night, her eyes searched the lanes and gardens for any sign of an early German patrol. She saw no one and could only pray no one saw her.

Where the path met the road, she found Sister Marie-Marc and Terry, carefully attired in habit and hood, waiting in the shelter of a hedge. From a distance Mother Marie-Pierre certainly could not tell that the taller of the two nuns was a man, and even when she drew near it was not immediately apparent.

As she came up with them she spoke in a low voice. “Everything all right?”

“Easy,” replied Sister Marie-Marc, her eyes alight with the excitement of it all. “We slipped out of the back gate. No one saw us go, it was still dark and there were no lights on in the house.”

“And you saw no one on the path?”

“No, Mother. No one.”

“Good,” replied Reverend Mother. “Now you must go back quickly and try not to be seen coming in at the gate.”

Sister Marie-Marc shrugged. “I will collect eggs,” she said. “My naughty hens often lay outside the gate at the edge of the field.”

“Have a care,” her superior warned, resting a hand on her arm. “This is not a game we are playing, Sister.”

Sister Marie-Marc bowed her head slightly. “No, Mother. I’ll be careful,” she promised.

Reverend Mother gave her a brief smile. “I know you will, Sister. God willing, I’ll be back in two days with Sister Danielle.”

As Sister Marie-Marc turned away, Terry caught her hand. “Mercy, Sister, mercy for everything.” Before she could pull away, he planted a kiss on her hand. She snatched her hand away, but she smiled at him before she turned back along the footpath.

“I’d have kissed her proper, on the cheek, if it hadn’t been for this hat thing,” Terry said as he watched her go.

“It’s a good thing that you didn’t,” remarked Mother Marie-Pierre tartly. “Nuns don’t kiss each other, and you could have been seen. Now, Sister, ground rules. Don’t speak from now on. For any reason. You never know who will overhear. If we meet anyone, let me do the talking. Keep your eyes down, don’t make eye contact, and when we are standing still anywhere, keep your hands in your sleeves. It’ll be all too easy for you to give yourself away, so concentrate on being a nun all the time, whether there is anyone there or not. And do not speak. Understood?”

Terry Ham gave her an impish grin. “Yes, Mother,” he said in a demure voice.

“Good,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre with asperity, “for our lives may depend on it.” Then she added, “If by any chance I address you as ma soeur, you simply nod, as if in obedience, all right?”

“Masseur?” Terry grinned at the word.

“It means I’m calling you ‘Sister’. All right?”

“Masseur,” repeated Terry obediently. “I’ll remember.”

It took them two hours to reach Albert, following the twisting lanes and taking footpaths wherever possible. At the station Mother Marie-Pierre bought two tickets for Paris, but then they had to wait for a train. No one could tell them when it would come, so they joined the crowd on the platform. The station was crowded, and there were plenty of German uniforms among the civilians. Terry did as he’d been told and stood in silence, head bowed, eyes on the ground, with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

“Excuse me, Sister,” came a man’s voice from behind them. Mother Marie-Pierre turned sharply to find herself face-to-face with a German officer. “Please, do take my seat on the bench.” The German, who had spoken in fluent if accented French, indicated the wooden bench where he had been sitting.

Although her heart was pounding, Mother Marie-Pierre managed to keep her voice steady. “Why thank you, sir. We’d be most grateful.” She touched Terry on the arm and edged him towards the bench. “Come, Sister, let’s take the weight off our feet while we can.” As she had spoken in French, Terry had no idea what she had said, but hearing the word he had been waiting for, he nodded, and following her example sat down on the bench beside her.

The German major seemed disposed to make conversation, and asked where they were going. Mother Marie-Pierre produced the story she had rehearsed; that they were going to the mother house in Paris, as Sister Marie-Joseph had been asked to help with the nursing there. The German turned politely to Sister Marie-Joseph, but found that she had her head bowed, her rosary beads in her fingers, and was murmuring prayers under her breath. Embarrassed, the major looked away, peering along the platform to see if there was any sign of the train coming. Even as he looked there was a puff of smoke in the distance, and the crowd on the platform surged forward. Mother Marie-Pierre placed a warning hand on her companion’s arm, waiting for the major to move away. She had no wish to share a compartment with him all the way to Amiens.

She need not have worried. The major had felt a fool when he found one of the nuns was actually saying her prayers, in public, on a station. He did not want to share a compartment either. Far too embarrassing if she started to pray again.

The two nuns clambered up into the train, but, as they had held back for a moment or two, there were no seats, and they had to stand in the corridor. Wedged between a large woman with a basket and fat man in a shiny suit, they rocked with the train as it trundled slowly out of the station. The journey was slow, but uneventful. There were no spot checks, for which Mother Marie-Pierre gave thanks, as at such close quarters it was likely that even the most short-sighted inspector would notice that there was little similarity between the picture on the second nun’s papers and the person it purported to represent. It was with great relief that they climbed down from the train when it finally reached Amiens. Here too the station was busy, as the train disgorged its passengers to add to the crowd waiting not so patiently to board the train.

“Keep close to me,” murmured Mother Marie-Pierre as she edged her way through the crush towards the exit. Terry nodded, and shuffled along behind her, trying to keep his boots hidden below his habit. There was a long queue at the gate, where two German officers were checking documents. Mother Marie-Pierre paused, allowing several people to pass in front of her. Terry waited at her side. The people in front filtered through the checkpoint and the two nuns moved forward. As they reached the gate and Mother Marie-Pierre presented the two sets of papers, Terry stood demurely behind her, eyes lowered, hands in sleeves.

“I thought you were on your way to Paris, Sister,” said a loud voice behind them. Mother Marie-Pierre turned round to find the German major at her elbow.

“We are, Major, but I have an errand to run for Reverend Mother in Amiens on the way.” Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts were racing. Her excuse sounded lame even to herself, but something at the back of her mind warned her to say as little as possible.

“Oh, you have a convent here in Amiens?” asked the major.

“No, but we have links with some of the parishes here.” Mother Marie-Pierre summoned a smile to her lips and turned back to the soldier scrutinising their papers. He was now holding them out impatiently to the two nuns, who were clearly known to the major and thus hardly a threat to security. Reverend Mother took the papers with a quiet “Thank you”, and pushing them into the pocket of her habit gave the major another, more spontaneous, smile, then turned to Terry. “Come along, ma soeur.”

Masseur! Again, Terry heard the word he’d been waiting for and nodded dutifully, before tripping along behind her as she strode out into the street.

Knowing how conspicuous they would be even on the crowded streets in the centre of the town, Mother Marie-Pierre turned into a side street as soon as she could, so that the German major, who had come out of the station behind them, should not follow their progress.

Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the Church of the Holy Cross. The street was quiet and no one paid any attention to the two nuns as they pushed open the door to the empty church. The faded light of the winter’s day hardly penetrated the ornate windows, and in the gloom the red sanctuary light glowed before the altar. In the Lady Chapel several votive candles flickered in the draught from the door, but there was no sign of anyone else in the church.

Mother Marie-Pierre led the way into a pew at the back and knelt in silence for a moment or two. Terry did the same. She sat back. “You did very well, Terry,” she said softly. “Especially when the German came up to us on the platform. Pretending to say the rosary was a clever move.”

Terry laughed. “I wasn’t pretending, Mother, I was praying like hell!”

Mother Marie-Pierre couldn’t repress a smile at his forthright answer. “I should continue to do so,” she said. “You wait here. Stay on your knees with your head bowed and then even if someone comes in, they won’t bother you. I’m going to find Father Bernard. We’re in his hands now. If he won’t help, I don’t know where we go from here.”

“You’ll go to Paris and fetch your Sister Danielle,” Terry replied promptly. “And I’ll disappear into the woodwork.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. All right?”

Terry nodded and remained on his knees as she left the church and crossed the road to the priest’s house.

Madame Papritz opened the door as before, and immediately recognising her visitor led her straight through to Father Bernard, who was working in his study.

“Mother Marie-Pierre!” he exclaimed as she was ushered in. “What a lovely surprise!”

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Thank you, Father. I hope you’ll think so when you’ve heard why I’m here.”

The priest’s smile faded. “I see, well you’d better tell me.”

Mother Marie-Pierre knew that having come here she had to trust Father Bernard implicitly. He could do one of three things, he could inform the German authorities about them, he could remain silent, but send them away, or he could offer his help in some way. Mother Marie-Pierre had gambled on the last, but if her trust were misplaced, then she and Terry were in trouble.

“It’s like this, Father,” she began, and told him the whole story, from Sister Marie-Marc’s discovery of Terry Ham hiding in the shed to their arrival in Amiens.

He listened without interruption until she had finished. “And this young man is waiting in my church now?”

Mother Marie-Pierre replied that he was.

“Then I think you’d better go and fetch him straight away.”

When Terry was safely installed before the tiny coal fire in Father Bernard’s study, his host looked at him with interest before turning to Mother Marie-Pierre. He spoke with a smile. “I see how you got away with it… this time. You were lucky he is not a big man. Still, I think the first thing should be to turn him back into a man again… he won’t bear close scrutiny, you know.”

Mother Marie-Pierre gave Terry a quick translation and the young man looked very relieved. “He’s right,” he said with fervour. “I can’t wait to get out of this hat thing.”

Father Bernard took Terry upstairs, returning moments later without him. “I’ve given him some of Father Gilbert’s clothes.”

“Won’t Madame Papritz wonder…?” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but Father Bernard shook his head. “Madame Papritz sees everything and says nothing. She is the perfect priest’s housekeeper. I trust her completely.”

“What are we going to do with Terry now, Father?” Mother Marie-Pierre at last asked the all-important question.

“Don’t worry about him,” Father Bernard said calmly. “He’ll be all right. I have connections. Better you know no more than that. Is the little Jewish girl safe?”

“Yes, she is.” Mother Marie-Pierre smiled at him. “You weren’t fooled then either, were you?”

“No,” he agreed, “but I had ample opportunity to study her. Anyone meeting her in the street might well have accepted her as what she seemed.”

“It was because of her that I came to you,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “I had nowhere else to turn.”

The door opened and Terry came in. He was wearing the collar and cassock of a Catholic priest. “It’s a relief to get out of that hood,” he said. “But I’m still wearing a bloody frock!”

15

The light above Adelaide’s head changed from red to green.

“Go!” bellowed the voice over the roar of the aircraft, and Adelaide, closing her eyes, went through the hole in the fuselage and into the night air, free-falling for a second before her parachute opened above her head with a reassuring crack. She was aware of other parachutes opening above her in fast succession as her suitcase and other containers followed her out of the plane, then she had no time to think of anything else as the ground rushed up to meet her. The instructions that had been drummed into her during her brief training at Ringway came to her aid and she rolled as she hit the ground, trying not to absorb the impact with her legs. For a moment she lay winded, and then she was struggling to her feet, pulling at the release of the parachute harness.

A young man ran over to her and spoke in French. “You OK?”

“Yes, give me a hand with this.”

Together they bundled up the parachute and dragged it to the edge of the field. “We’ll hide it here,” the man said, and began stuffing the unwieldy silk bundle in a hollow under some bushes.”

Adelaide grabbed his arm. “No, we were told to bury them.”

“Not now. It’ll be dealt with. Now we have to gather everything up and get clear before the Germans realise there’s been a drop. Come on… move.”

The reception party who had signalled to the plane were already busy at work. Shadows moved in the darkness as they collected the packages and containers that had dropped from the aircraft as it made its pass over the dropping zone, before roaring away into the sky. As it disappeared, the moon rode out from behind a cloud and the field was bathed in clear, pale light.

“Hurry.” A tall man who seemed to be directing operations spoke to Adelaide. “All OK? No injuries?”

“Fine. You Marcel?”

“Yes.”

“Antoinette,” she returned briefly, and looked round for her suitcase.

The reception party had gathered up the equipment and were loading it into a farm cart, working quickly in the shifting moonlight. Adelaide spotted her own small case and picked it up.

“Right, get going,” Marcel said to his men as the last container went onto the cart. “Tomorrow, at six.”

The cart began to move away and Marcel turned back to Adelaide. “Welcome to France,” he said. “Follow me.”

He set a tough pace, leading her across fields and through a wood before skirting a village that lay silent and still in the moonlight. Adelaide had no trouble in keeping up, though her suitcase was a nuisance. Marcel did not offer to carry it for her and for that she was glad. She wanted to prove herself and she wanted no favours.

Though, she thought, as she manoeuvred it over a stone wall, perhaps I should have let it go on the wagon.

In the distance a dog barked, and Marcel put out a warning hand to halt her. There was no other sound and at last he moved on, keeping to the shelter of the hedgerows as far as possible, straining his ears before hurrying her across an open road and down behind a stone wall on the far side. There was a dirt track along the edge of another open field and then they were through a gate and approaching the dark bulk of a farmhouse, surrounded by outbuildings.

Marcel led the way confidently through the farmyard to the back door. It opened and they slipped inside. Once the door was closed again a light was switched on and Adelaide found herself in a warm, stone-flagged kitchen. Marcel waved to a chair at the big kitchen table.

“Sit down,” he said, and, as Adelaide sank gratefully into the chair, he put his head round the inner door. “Maman!”

An elderly woman appeared from the depths of the house, and greeting Adelaide with a smile she poured coffee into mugs from a pot on the range. Adelaide took hers gratefully, warming her hands round the mug. It had been freezing cold in the plane despite having a blanket wrapped round her. She had been dressed for her landing in France, all her clothes made by French tailors in London, cut in the French style, and despite the flying suit on top, they did not keep out the cold at the high altitudes of the plane’s flight.

Maman then asked Adelaide if she were hungry. By now it was the early hours of the morning and Adelaide shook her head. “No thank you, Madame,” she said. “The coffee is all I need.”

“Anything from Rousseau?” Marcel asked the old woman.

She shook her head. “Nothing. No movement.” She smiled at Adelaide, said goodnight and left the room.

“Now we can talk,” Marcel said. “And you can tell me what orders you bring from London.”

“London wants to set up an escape route for airmen who are shot down over Germany,” Adelaide replied. “They know what your group is doing, of course, through Bertrand”—she used the code-name of the wireless operator who had been sent in some weeks earlier to make contact with the resistance—”and they were very interested in one of your reports. They’ve sent me to follow it up.”

“The convent,” Marcel said.

Adelaide nodded. “Yes. I have to find out exactly what is going on.”

Marcel scowled. “I can’t see why they had to send someone over from England just for that. We could have infiltrated the convent ourselves.”

“They sent me because I already have a contact inside the convent,” Adelaide said tersely. “They sent me from England so that if something went wrong your entire network would not be jeopardised.” She smiled at him. “They sent me to help,” she added more gently. “My grandmother is French, I have come to help France.”

There was a silence between them for a moment, and then Marcel spoke. “And your cover story?”

“I am Adèle Durant and I have come to help my uncle Gerard Launay on his farm. My parents are dead. He is elderly and he and his wife can no longer manage on their own… since their son was killed during the German invasion.” She looked at him questioningly. “London believes you to have made this arrangement already. My papers support it.”

Marcel nodded. “I just wanted to be sure we both had the same cover for you,” he said. “Tonight you stay here, and in a few days, when I have made the proper arrangements, I will take you to the station in Albert. From there your uncle will come and collect you from the train and take you home to the farm.” Marcel got to his feet. “Now I suggest you go to bed. You should be safe enough here. My people have cleared the dropping zone, and it seems that the drop went undetected, by the local Boche, anyway. We have someone keeping watch so we should have warning if there is any sign of them. In the morning I will start the arrangements for you to join your uncle. Bertrand will let London know that you are safe and send any other messages that you may have for them.”

The old woman led Adelaide upstairs to a room over the kitchen, furnished with a large bed and little else. Left alone, Adelaide got ready for bed, and then snuggled under the feather comforter. Although she was dog-tired, her nerves were strung taut as piano wire and sleep eluded her. As she lay in the darkness, her mind churning, she thought back over the last few days.

She had at last finished her special training and then been sent to a small flat in London for what she had thought would be her final briefing. In the past eight months she had had a thorough training in a great many skills that would have been inconceivable for a woman in the earlier days of the war. Relentless physical training had ensured that Adelaide was now superbly fit. In Scotland she had learned how to live off the land, and survive in open countryside in all winds and weathers. She learned signals and codes, she learnt how to use explosives, trained in unarmed combat, became familiar with a variety of weapons. She had learned to kill silently, to fade into the background. She had learned to listen, she had trained her memory and her rudimentary German had improved so that she could at least follow a conversation. She had spoken French most of the time, immersed herself in the language, so that her instinctive response would be to cry out in French, to answer in French, to challenge in French.

There had been times when she had almost given up, when it had all seemed too much and she couldn’t cope with the ruthlessness needed, the perpetual fear, the concentration of living a lie. Then she thought of Andrew, and her resolution hardened with bitter determination and she applied herself again. Andrew, her beloved cousin, more brother than cousin, was dead. Grand’mère had written to tell her, and Adelaide had been numb with the pain of it. Every fibre of her being cried out against it. Andrew? Why Andrew? There were no details of his death, the family had simply been told he’d been killed in action. Adelaide herself did not actually know any more than they did, but having guessed that he was involved in some sort of clandestine work, she also guessed that he had been dropped into occupied territory somewhere, probably in France as his French was as fluent as her own, and he had not returned. He had risked himself in the war behind the lines and Adelaide knew that she must do the same.

So, her training went on. She had spent two days at Ringway near Manchester, learning to parachute, something that had filled her with almost more dread than the thought of living on her wits in occupied France. How could she fling herself out of an aeroplane? The very thought of it brought her close to blind panic. Cora, who had been with her for much of the training, seemed to have no problem with the jump, and it was she who gave Adelaide the strength to go through with it. Almost paralysed with terror, Adelaide had done it, and now she was ready… or as ready as she’d ever be.

She and Cora had grown close during their training, each helping the other in areas where they felt insecure, but at the end of their training, Cora had disappeared, sent on some mission of her own. Adelaide did not know where or what that might be. No one knew anything that was not absolutely essential; even the most courageous would eventually talk if caught and questioned by the Gestapo. Knowledge of another agent put that agent at even greater risk. Now Cora had gone, Adelaide was on her own, to live and die by her own wits… and the silence of others.

“You’ll be dropped near the town of Albert in north-east France.” It was Captain Jenner, the officer who had first recruited her who was briefing her now, sitting across the table in the tiny flat, as if they were normal people sharing a pot of tea. “Your accent will pass in that area and we need someone to carry out some special work there.” He looked at her and smiled. “The reports that have come through about your training are very good, and we think that you are the right person.”

“Thank you, sir,” was all Adelaide said, wondering what was coming next.

“Your codename will be Antoinette,” Jenner told her. “You are going to join up with a resistance circuit being built in the Somme area. We have already dropped in a wireless operator who has linked up with the local resistance to gather information. We need information about anything and everything that might be of use to us, both now and in the future. We need to know exactly what the Germans are up to. What they are building, what they are manufacturing, where their troops are and why. Airfields, anti-aircraft guns, roads and railways, any troop movement. All that is vital and the local circuit is beginning to gather such information for us. However, though you’ll have a link with them, we have a special job we want you to do. Marcel, the local resistance leader, will be told why you are there and will give you any help that doesn’t put the circuit at risk. Marcel, that’s a codename too of course, will be your cut-out. He, and only he, will liaise with you. You will know no one else in the circuit unless he feels that it is essential, and then only by codename. That way if anyone is arrested, neither you nor they will jeopardise the whole network. Do you understand?”

Adelaide nodded. “Yes, sir, but…”

Major Jenner went on as if she had not spoken. “Marcel is arranging his end of the cover story you will be given. I’ll give you that to work on before I leave today.”

“Am I responsible to him?” asked Adelaide. “This Marcel?”

“No,” replied Jenner, “but you will need him and you should be guided by him. He’s the man on the ground, the man with the knowledge of exactly how things stand in the area.” Jenner looked at Adelaide sharply. “Why, is that a problem?”

“No, sir,” she answered, “I just wanted to be sure of my status.”

“Your status, as you put it, is that you work for us. You are responsible to us, but to have any hope of completing the task you will have to have a good working relationship with the local réseau.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Adelaide persisted, “but if the resistance already have a network, and I’m not to be part of it, what am I going to be doing?”

“The farm you are going to is near a village called St Croix in the Somme area,” the major told her.

Adelaide’s surprise was clear on her face.

“Yes, I know you are familiar with the area. I know you visited it for a few days before the war. That’s why we’re considering you. It adds to the risk in some ways, but we think the advantages of using you will outweigh that.”

“I see,” said Adelaide lamely.

“No, you don’t,” replied Jenner cheerfully, “but you will. Now what we want you to do is this…”

He outlined the plan, not dwelling on the added risk he was asking her to take, but not ignoring it either. He went into no detail of what would be required of her. That would come later… when he was sure. Now he spoke only in generalities.

“We need you to get work in the convent, as a maid, or a cleaner or some such, so that you can come and go without causing comment. They employ girls from the village, I believe.” Jenner looked across at her, watching her face, gauging her reaction to his words. If he was not completely sure about her, there was still time to pull her out, to try and find someone else. He didn’t want to do that. In most ways she was perfect for the job he had in mind, and training someone else for it would take time he could ill afford. He had said the advantage she offered outweighed the risk, but did it?

“Will there be anyone who might recognise you?” he asked.

Adelaide thought for a moment. Apart from her aunt and great-aunt, she doubted that any of the nuns would recognise her as the reverend mother’s niece. It had been almost five years ago and she had only stayed at the convent for three days. Now if she turned up there, she would be completely out of context, completely unexpected. With a different hairstyle, with no make-up, wearing the clothes of a French working girl, she would bear little resemblance to the chic young lady who had visited the reverend mother all those years ago, but Adelaide knew that she must not jeopardise any potential operation by being too confident about this.

“I doubt it, sir,” she replied, “apart from my aunts. But I suppose the possibility is there.”

“I understood an aunt of yours is the reverend mother,” Jenner said, “but you said aunts, plural.”

Adelaide explained about her Great-Aunt Anne. “But she’s virtually bedridden. In fact I don’t even know for sure that she’s still alive. Obviously I’ve had no news of them since France fell.”

“Hmm.” Jenner was thoughtful. A thorough check had been made on Adelaide’s background before she had been cleared, finally, for training. It had not turned up the information about her connection with the convent at St Croix. It was purely by chance that he had learned of that from her cousin, Andrew Driver, before he had returned to France for the last time. Together, they had been debriefing an airman who had been shot down over France and somehow managed to get home. When the man had gone, Driver had made his observation. “This convent Ham mentioned, I think it may be the one where Adelaide’s aunt is the Reverend Mum. You know my cousin Adelaide Anson-Gravetty? You’ve got her in training now.”

From this snippet of information, an idea had been sown in Jenner’s mind, had germinated, taken root and grown. At first he had considered sending Driver and Adelaide in together, but Driver had been captured by the Gestapo, and had disappeared, so that plan had to be discarded.

Now, after another mention of the convent had appeared in a report from the local resistance leader, they were considering resurrecting it, but sending Adelaide in on her own? Jenner had come to have another look at her, to sound her out, perhaps to prepare the ground. “Tell me about these aunts,” he said. “How do two English women come to be nuns in a French convent?”

“They nursed in the convent hospital during the Great War,” Adelaide explained. “My great-aunt was already a nun there, I’m not sure how she came to be there, but Aunt Sarah went out to St Croix with her maid to help nurse the wounded in the hospital. After the war, she stayed on.” She smiled ruefully at Captain Jenner. “I only heard about them in 1937, when I was twenty-one. They were related to my natural father who was killed on the Somme. My father, the man I thought of as my father, was actually my stepfather. That’s when I went to see them. I wanted to find out more about my blood father, Freddie Hurst. Sarah, Mother Marie-Pierre, is his sister.”

Jenner nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“I went to visit them that year, but I only stayed for three days. I haven’t seen them since, and I doubt if either of them would recognise me immediately. As to the other nuns, though I was staying there, they paid little attention to me. They have a small guest wing at the convent where people can go and stay for retreats… quiet weekends… so they have people coming to stay quite often. I doubt if they would remember me particularly.” She looked across at Jenner. “If I’m not actually to live in the convent it is most unlikely that anyone would think of me as anything but a local village girl. I would have thought that any risk of being recognised would be minimal.”

“Fair enough,” Jenner said, and got to his feet. “I’ll have to get the final all-clear, but then I’ll be back to brief you fully, probably in a few days’ time. You’ll stay here, in this flat, and I’ll come back to you. Please don’t leave the building, I may need to talk to you again. In the meantime,” he handed her a sheaf of papers, “get stuck into these… and make sure you’re word perfect when I get back.”

Adelaide waited anxiously through the whole of the next day. She had thought she was definitely on her way, and now it was all up in the air. There were only a few days on either side of the full moon when a drop was feasible. If she missed her slot she would not be able to go for another month, and the thought of delay filled her with dread. Now that her training was complete, she wanted to go and get on with what she had been trained to do. Idling her time here in the tiny London flat, she felt claustrophobic; her anxieties grew, expanding, feasting on each other, and the coiled spring of her nerves became ever more tightly wound.

She was allowed to see no one except Monica, the woman who looked after her in the flat. Monica had done her best. She spent hours taking Adelaide through the cover story Jenner had left with her, rehearsing it over and over, answering questions that might be put by a nosy gendarme or a curious agent of the Gestapo. Her papers named her as Adèle Durant. “Better to keep as close to your own name as possible,” they had told her when working on her new life history, “and birthday too, so that you really don’t have to think about that.” She was the niece of Gerard Launay, an elderly farmer who lived with his wife, Marie, on a farm outside the village of St Croix. Their son, Victor, had been killed in the early days of the war and she, also on her own, had come to live with them and to give a hand on the farm, perhaps to find work locally too. Speaking only in French, Monica questioned her over and over again. Where was she born? Who were her parents? When did they die? Why had she come to St Croix? Where had she lived before? Had she other relations? How old was she? Always speaking in French.

“You’ll do,” Monica said eventually, but as they spent the evening playing backgammon or chess, she would toss in a question in English, trying to catch Adelaide off her guard. This drilling on her story gave Adelaide some confidence, but even so, long before Major Jenner returned, two days later, she was pacing the flat like a caged lion.

When he did finally come back, they sat together once more in the small living room overlooking the park.

“We have been discussing the information you gave me,” he said coming straight to the point, but not saying who “we” were. “And we’ve decided that although there is extra risk in your going to an area where you were known before the war, we are going to send you. Now, what I tell you from now on is for you alone to know. You may not discuss it with anyone, except your reverend mother aunt.”

“With Aunt Sarah?” Adelaide was amazed. “What has this got to do with her? Surely you’re not going to embroil her in the resistance.”

Jenner smiled at her outrage. “She is already embroiled, as you term it. She is already helping Jews, and our airmen who have been shot down, to escape from the occupied territory.”

Adelaide listened in amazement as she heard how her Aunt Sarah had helped a flight sergeant called Terry Ham to escape from the Germans by disguising him as a nun.

“He isn’t the only one. We have heard through our contacts in the area that she has also assisted a Jewish family to escape from the Germans. What we want you to do is try and establish a permanent escape route, using the convent as a base. Clearly your aunt is prepared to help our airmen, but we need to get in on the ground there and build up a secure escape route, so that the men can be moved on quickly across the country to safety. Your job will be to organise the section in the Somme, and the convent seems to be excellent cover. You’ll persuade your aunt to give you a job there, so that you can come and go without question. The Germans will be unlikely to suspect the place is a safe house. We learned from Terry Ham that there are cellars under the convent, which sound as if they could be adapted to suit our purposes. I like the sound of this convent.” Jenner nodded to himself. “Yes, I do. It has possibilities. What we need you to do is convince your aunt. If you’re there, she’ll have no need to take any more risks herself. If she’ll just give you a job in the convent, so that you can come and go without looking suspicious, you can work out how to hide these men while they are in your area. You can plan a way to move them on, to provide them with what they need… papers, clothing, money.”

“But where…?” began Adelaide, but Jenner cut her off.

“That is why you will need to liaise with Marcel. He will help to procure the necessaries, papers, clothes. Find out from your aunt how she managed to sneak the Jews out from under the nose of the Germans. Once you have considered what you need to put this scheme into operation, messages can be sent back through Bertrand.”

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow night, if the weather holds,” replied Jenner getting up. “Monica will make sure you’re ready to go.”

Monica had driven them both to Bedfordshire the next day, where they had arrived at a country house outside the village of Sandy. They’d eaten a meal together in an elegant dining room, and when they had drunk their coffee, the best coffee Adelaide had tasted since the beginning of the war, they had gone up to the room set aside for them.

“Now we must sort out your clothes,” Monica said. “You’ll have to change from the skin out. Everything you wear must be French-made. There are some things here for you to try on.”

Adelaide stripped to the skin, her own underwear and clothes set aside to be packed into a suitcase to await her return. In their place she pulled on the chemise and cotton drawers which Monica handed her, followed by a navy blue coat and skirt, and a white blouse, all cut in the French style. Thick stockings and a pair of scuffed black leather shoes completed her outfit. The shoes had the name of the French cordonnier inside them, the coat and skirt a label from a store in the Rue de Ste Anne in Paris. When she was satisfied with how Adelaide looked in these clothes, Monica gave her some more underwear, a flannel nightgown, two more blouses, another skirt, a handmade cardigan. “And for when you are helping your Uncle Gerard on the farm,” she said with a smile, “some dungarees and sabots.” Lastly, she gave Adelaide a grey felt hat and an old grey raincoat that reached nearly to her heels and was belted at the waist. It had once been good quality, and although it had seen better days, it would still keep out the cold and rain. “It used to belong to your mother,” remarked Monica casually when Adelaide tried it on, “that’s why it is a little too large.”

Adelaide looked at the clothes, wondering where they had come from. Who had worn them before? Who had pulled that grey felt hat onto her head or cinched the belt tightly about the waist of the raincoat? Had they been worn here, in England, or on some other, previous mission in France? It was hardly a large wardrobe, but adequate for the poor country girl that she was purporting to be, and each garment carried a French label. She packed them into the small cardboard suitcase Monica had provided, along with some toiletries… all of French make.

“Now your hair,” said Monica and led her to the dressing table. “I think we need a change of style here.” She picked up a pair of scissors, and started snipping at Adelaide’s hair, reshaping it with such speed and dexterity that within ten minutes the whole shape of her head seemed to have changed. Gone was the smooth thick pleat of hair that Adelaide had worn up under her cap as a WAAF, and tied back out of the way during her training. In its place was a rather ragged bob, hair framing her face and straggling to her collar. It looked, Adelaide decided as she studied herself in the mirror, as if she had hacked it off herself with a pair of blunt garden shears. When she said as much to Monica, Monica laughed. “I’ve no doubt you will have to cut your own hair from now on if you want it cut at all. Adèle Durant won’t be able to afford to go to a hairdresser.” She looked at her critically in the mirror for a moment. “Here, these might help,” she said, and picking up a pair of combs slid them into Adelaide’s hair, scooping it up above her ears.

“There,” she said. “That’s better. Not hair that’s been styled, but clearly this girl has made an effort to look chic!”

Adelaide exploded into laughter. “That’s chic?”

She had been given another meal before she left, a good hot meal of beef and roast potatoes with thick savoury gravy.

“I couldn’t,” she murmured, as she looked at the food heaped on her plate.

“You must try,” encouraged Monica. “You may not get anything else for some time now, and you need to keep alert… more difficult when you’re hungry.”

Adelaide did as she was told and as she began to eat she found that she was much hungrier than she had thought. Surprisingly the food seemed to quell the butterflies which had been flapping so violently in her stomach, and when at last she was driven to the nearby Tempsford Airfield to board the Hudson that was to take her to France, she found it was yet again the thought of the actual jump from the plane that terrified her, not the thought of what awaited her when she landed.

The jump had been all right, she thought as she lay curled up in the feather bed at the farmhouse. There had been no time to hesitate as she had been almost pushed out of the aircraft. Now, she had to meet up with Uncle Gerard and Aunt Marie, and get herself established and accepted in the village. From now her every thought and word must be conducted in the manner of Adèle Durant, a young girl, displaced by the cruelties of the war.

Gradually, at last, the warmth of the bed overcame her and she relaxed into sleep, and so conditioned was her mind that even her dreams that accompanied that sleep were in French.

16

Over there, coming in now,” murmured Marcel as he and Adelaide mingled with the crowd who had just got off the train from Amiens. “The one in the black cap.”

Adelaide glanced at the elderly man who had just walked into the station. He paused, as if looking round for someone. She turned back to confirm the identification with Marcel, only to find that he had already disappeared, melted into the press of people the train had disgorged.

Well, Adèle, she thought, this is it.

Crossing to where the old man stood, she called out in a cheerful voice. “Uncle Gerard, Uncle Gerard, here I am!”

The man peered at her and then a smile lit his face. “Little Adèle,” he cried. “It’s been so long. I’d hardly have known you if you hadn’t looked so like your mother.” They embraced, and then the old man held her away from him, studying her face. “So like your dear mother,” he murmured. Then, more businesslike, he took her suitcase from her. “I’ve the horse and cart outside. Do you remember dear old Sunshine? She’s still going strong, thank God. Without her I don’t know what we’d do. There’s almost no fuel for the tractor or my old car. It’s Sunshine and the cart these days.”

Anyone overhearing would have no doubt that the old man was delighted to see his niece… anyone listening. Adelaide fought the urge to look around her to see if anyone was paying them any attention, and joined in the conversation.

“How is Aunt Marie? Is her back any better? Does she still get a lot of pain?”

“She’s not too bad,” replied the old man. “Of course she has pain, but don’t we all when we reach our age? It’ll be a great help to have you there to do some of the heavy work. She’s really looking forward to seeing you again. How long is it? Ten years? Eleven?”

As he chatted on about his wife, he led the way to the station entrance. At the gate was a checkpoint. Police were checking everyone’s papers as they came out of the station and Adelaide felt her pulse quicken as they joined the queue. This would be the first test of the papers that had been prepared for her in London.

When they reached the gate, Gerard handed his papers over first. The policeman gave them a cursory glance before handing them back. Then it was Adelaide’s turn. The papers gave her place of birth as Vire, in Normandy.

“You’re a long way from home, Mademoiselle,” the man said, looking at her quizzically.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she replied, keeping her voice even despite her inner tension. “I have come to stay with my uncle.” She indicated Gerard. Never give more than the minimum information, they had taught her in England. Try to avoid statements that can be easily checked.

“How long are you staying?” asked the man. His eyes slid over her, taking in her face, pretty despite the lack of make-up, her trim figure undisguised by the old raincoat she wore; regarding her not with suspicion, but with obvious lust.

“As long as he needs me,” Adelaide said.

“Hmm, lucky man.” The man licked his lips suggestively, but handed back her papers and allowed her to pass on.

“Animal!” muttered Gerard when they were out of hearing, but the innuendo and the lustful glances had not worried Adelaide at all. She was simply relieved that her documents had survived their first scrutiny. From now on she would present them with more confidence.

“Papers change,” London had warned her. “Check them with Marcel when you arrive and if there have been any recent changes made make sure we know about them.” Marcel had looked at them and pronounced them up-to-date but, even so, Adelaide realised there could always be something that might arouse suspicion.

Gerard led the way to where his horse and cart were standing, waiting patiently in the sunshine not far from the station. He heaved Adelaide’s suitcase into the back, then climbed up onto the driver’s seat and with a flick of the reins they set off on the journey back to St Croix.

They spoke little as they drove, and Adelaide had a chance to study the man who, at the risk of his own life and that of his wife, was providing her cover. He was probably in his early fifties, but looked older with grizzled hair and grey stubble on his face. He had the weathered look of someone used to working outdoors, and although he was a tall, spare man, his shoulders seemed to have sagged, and he had, she noticed, walked with a limp.

Adelaide didn’t know quite what Gerard and his wife knew of her mission. She hoped very little. All she needed from them was the cover of somewhere to live and a reason for being there. That would be risky enough for them, without them knowing exactly what she was up to.

For the last mile or so, they drove along the wide track that constituted the towpath beside the river. Beside an old stone barn, a right fork led them onto another, narrower track. Adelaide could see farm buildings ahead, low and squat, crouching behind a stand of sheltering trees. When they finally reached the farm, Gerard pulled into its yard. “Aunt Marie” emerged from the back door into the yard and stood watching as Adelaide climbed down from the cart. She was a small woman, dressed in an overall, her hair tied up in a scarf. Her face looked worn and tired, but her eyes were still bright as she looked at Adelaide.

“Here she is at last, Marie,” Gerard called as he moved to Sunshine’s head. “The train wasn’t too late.”

“Adèle,” Marie said. “How lovely to see you! I’m so glad you’ve come to us.” She reached up and gave her niece a brief hug. “I was so sorry to hear about your poor mother.”

To be safe they had to live the life they had been given, and Adelaide was relieved to see that her “aunt” and “uncle” were intending to do just that. It was impossible to know who might be watching or listening; a collaborator collecting information to use to his own advantage.

“Always assume you are being watched,” Monica had impressed upon her when they had been studying her legend. “Always assume that there is an informer sitting at the next table, or waiting beside you in the queue. Never drop your guard. These people are your aunt and uncle, it is vital that all three of you remember it all the time.”

“It’s lovely to be back, Aunt Marie,” Adelaide said now. “It’s been so long since I was here.” She looked round the farmyard, taking in the cowshed, the half-empty barn, where some chickens were scratching among the hay on the dusty floor. “It hasn’t changed,” she said with a smile. “It’s just as I remember it.”

For the next few days, she learnt her way about and worked extremely hard. Marie taught her to milk, and though it took her a while to get the hang of it, she was soon able to help Gerard with his cows. She carried fodder and mucked out the cowshed. She dug potatoes from the field and heaved them to the house. She collected wood and mended fences. She brought the cattle in and sent them out again. She swept the yard and shovelled dirt. She went with her aunt into the village on market day, to the village bakery to queue for the bread ration, to Mass on Sunday in the parish church. Gradually she became recognised as the Launays’ niece come from Normandy. At the end of each day she almost fell into bed, completely exhausted. But at least she was well fed. There were fresh eggs and milk, and Aunt Marie made cheese and butter. Adelaide’s days were so filled that she began to wonder if she would have any time to do anything else. It was, however, time well employed, as Marie Launay’s neighbours began to say how lucky she was to have her niece staying and helping out.

She found an old bicycle in the barn, its tyres flat, its frame rusty, but with a serviceable saddle, a basket on the front and a child’s seat on the back. Pulling it out into the yard she asked Marie if she could use it to get about.

Marie shrugged. “It’s very old,” she said doubtfully. “It’s the one I used to ride when Victor was little, but if you want to try and mend it.” She shrugged again, considering it a pointless task.

Adelaide worked on the bike, cleaning it, oiling it, trying to mend the punctures. The outer tyres were not too bad, but the inner tubes were in a bad state. Gerard had produced a repair kit, and between them they managed to patch the holes well enough for the tyres to stay up if pumped frequently. It was not long before Adelaide was a regular sight in the neighbourhood, riding the lanes, picking up firewood and carrying it home in the bicycle basket and wedged into the child seat. The errands she ran for her aunt took her to the village and the market as she delivered their surplus butter and eggs. She was often seen at the side of the road, pumping up the slowly leaking tyres, but the bicycle got her about, and no one questioned her exploration of the countryside.

At length Adelaide decided the time had come to make a move. When they were sitting over their evening meal at the end of the day some two weeks after she’d arrived, she made her announcement. “It’s time I went to the convent to see if I can get a job.”

She had had to confide this as her purpose in coming to the area, but she was no longer worried about telling the Launays that much. Over the weeks she had been with them she had come to know them well and knew their history. Gerard had been at Verdun in the last war and had been lucky to escape with only a shattered leg. Most of his unit had been wiped out in the valiant defence of the Bois de Caures, and Gerard had received his crippling wound in the subsequent retreat. When he had returned, wounded, to his father’s farm in 1916 he had almost died; but for the nursing he received from his beloved Marie, he would surely have lost his leg. They had married as soon as he was well enough, and their son, Victor, was born ten months later.

“He was killed on the retreat to Dunkerque,” Marie confided to Adelaide one day when they were working together in the dairy. “Machine-gunned from a dive-bomber.” Her eyes hardened. “A column of men and refugees simply slaughtered from the air, not just soldiers like our Victor, but women and children too.” She turned bleak eyes on Adelaide and now spoke coldly. “Machine-gunned and left dying in the road. Such people are not human. There is not much we can do against them, but what little we can, we will.” Twice the Germans had shattered the Launays’ lives, and now they were prepared to take risks to fight back.

“When Victor died, I thought my life was over,” Marie said. “Now it has another purpose. We’re getting old, but we can still fight in our own way. Just let us know what we can do to help you.”

Understanding their motive for offering her shelter and cover made Adelaide feel a little more secure. Revenge drove them, and their revenge had added strength, because although they knew the risks, they no longer cared for their own safety. They were protecting her cover as their niece, and her arrival in the local community had been greeted with little more than indifference.

“If we’re asked, we will say that we cannot afford to keep you, that you must do something to bring money into the house.” Marie gave a tight smile. “I have a reputation for being careful with my money.”

Since her arrival at the farm, Adelaide had made no attempt to contact Marcel. Indeed she didn’t know where he lived, but assumed it was Albert. She was fairly sure that it wasn’t at the farmhouse he had taken her to originally; that, she thought, was another safe house. It was also unlikely that “Maman” was actually his mother.

All she knew was that if she needed Marcel she had to go to the café, Le Chat Noir, in the place in St Croix, wearing a red scarf round her hair. Whoever it was who saw the signal would alert Marcel and he would meet her in the woodland beyond the Launays’ farm the next evening.

The next time she went to the market with Aunt Marie, her hair was caught up in a red scarf. Having made their few purchases they sat at a table outside the café in the spring sunshine and drank a cup of ersatz coffee. Marie chatted easily to the waitress, and Adelaide let her eyes wander round the square, wondering who would be reporting back to Marcel. On the other side of the place was the town hall, now the German HQ, its façade draped with a huge swastika. German soldiers were coming and going, but none of them paid any attention to the two women taking the weight off their feet after their marketing. Even so, Adelaide was ever conscious of their presence. It was one thing to practise living a clandestine life while safely home in England, it was quite another to do it for real. Every time there was a demand for her papers, or she heard German being spoken, or she had to step aside to make way for a German soldier hurrying about his business, Adelaide felt her heartbeat quicken. Despite truly living her legend, it would be so easy to make a mistake and give herself away… herself and the Launays.

Marcel was waiting in the woods when she arrived the next evening. They sat down on the grass, their backs against a fallen tree trunk, for all the world like a courting couple looking for a little privacy.

“Settled in?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks,” Adelaide replied. “I’ve been gradually finding my way around, and as far as I know there haven’t been any queries as to why I’ve come. The Launays haven’t heard anything either. Have you?”

“Nothing, except that you’ve come from Normandy to help out on the farm.”

“Then I shall make my approach to the convent tomorrow,” Adelaide said. “I’m hoping to find out how they moved our airman out of the area. When I have any more news for you, I’ll signal again.”

“Don’t signal unless you’ve something important to tell me,” Marcel said. “We should meet as little as possible. Every time we do we’re at risk.”

Adelaide made no comment on this, and changed the subject. “Please ask Bertrand to report my progress to London.”

“Will do,” Marcel promised.

“There is one other thing,” Adelaide said, as he was about to get to his feet. “Are you able to get me some inner tubes for my bike? We’ve done our best with the ones we’ve got, but they aren’t going to last much longer.”

Marcel nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” Adelaide said and made to get up, but as she was about to get to her feet, he suddenly pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her. Adelaide’s body went rigid and she tried to pull away. But Marcel was too strong for her and held her tightly against him, pressing her down on the grass with the full weight of his body. Keeping her pinned beneath him he moved his mouth to her ear and muttered. “Kiss me back! We’re being watched.” Immediately his mouth found hers again, and she felt his hands roving over her body. She no longer struggled to get free, but relaxed beneath him. She could feel her skirt rucked up above her knees, and her blouse pulled free from its waistband. She did not open her mouth to him, but she did put her arms round him so that if they were indeed being watched she would appear to be a willing participant.

After a moment or two Marcel raised his head, and she gave him a slight push so that he rolled away. As she looked past him she saw a figure standing at the edge of the clearing, staring across at them. Adelaide gave a little scream, pulling her skirt down round her legs again and straightening her blouse. Marcel spun round, as if surprised by her scream, to see a man standing at the edge of the clearing, grinning as he watched Adelaide’s obvious discomfort.

“Had a good look, have you?” sneered Marcel, getting to his feet and reaching down a hand to help Adelaide to hers. “That how you get your kicks, then?”

The man walked towards them. “I heard voices,” he said. “In the woods, late at night…”

“Hardly late!” snapped Marcel, but the man went on as if he had not spoken.

“Could have been someone suspicious, up to no good.” His eyes gleamed malevolently. “You never know what people are up to these days.” His lip curled. “But I might have guessed it’d be some couple rutting like rabbits.”

Adelaide felt Marcel tense beside her. The man was setting out to provoke him and she was afraid Marcel would indeed snap and do something they would both regret. She burst into tears, sobbing onto Marcel’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, chérie,” he soothed, putting his arms round her again and stroking her hair. “It’s all right, I’ll take you home now.” He turned his back on the man, who was still standing there, enjoying their discomfort.

“Yes, you do that,” the man mocked. “Don’t want to be out after curfew, do you?”

Marcel kept his arm round Adelaide’s waist. “Don’t worry. We’re going. Just wanted a bit of privacy, that’s all.” Keeping her firmly within the circle of his arm, he led her across the clearing and out onto the track that led back towards the village. Adelaide could feel the man’s eyes on her back as they walked, and she found she was truly grateful for Marcel’s supporting arm.

“I wonder what he was doing, skulking in the woods,” Marcel said thoughtfully when they were well clear.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Yes, a piece of scum called Alain Fernand. Petty criminal turned snout. Happy to do the Germans’ dirty work for a few privileges. Thinks he’s on the winning side.”

“Does he know you?” Adelaide asked anxiously.

“Not yet,” Marcel said, “but he will… one day. When this war is over I will skin him alive and then stick his head on a pike in the village square… and even that will be too good for him.”

Adelaide heard the barely controlled hatred in Marcel’s voice and shuddered. She had no doubt that if he were alive at the end of the war Marcel would do exactly what he promised.

“In the meantime,” Marcel said, “keep your eyes open for him and those like him. They’ll sell you to their German masters whether they know anything about you or not. Evidence can be manufactured, and men like him are past masters at it.”

They reached the gate of the Launays’ farm and Marcel turned her to face him.

“You did well back there,” he said. “Kept your head.”

“I was afraid you were going to lose yours,” she retorted.

Marcel smiled ruefully. “Yes, well, if I had we’d have had one less collabo to worry about… but probably a lot of trouble too.”

He reached for her again, and taking her face in his hands spoke with a grin. “Just in case he’s followed us and is still watching!” He kissed Adelaide again, and as he recognised a response in her, took his time over it.

When they finally broke free Adelaide cautioned, a little breathlessly. “We should change our rendezvous.”

Marcel shook his head. “No, now he thinks he knows why we go there, we have the perfect reason to go again.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Be very careful. Adèle,” he said. “Fernand will know you again.”

Next morning, Adelaide pedalled up the hill to the Convent of Our Lady of Mercy, and, leaning her bike against the wall, tugged on the old bell pull. Almost immediately the grille in the door opened and a nun peered out at her.

“Good morning,” she said through the grille, “may I help you?”

Adelaide drew a deep breath. This was it. “I’d like to see Reverend Mother, please,” she said.

“What would that be about?” asked the nun, not opening the door.

“I’m looking for work,” Adelaide began, but the nun cut her off.

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but I’m afraid there are no jobs here.” The grille began to close, and Adelaide put her hand up to stop it.

“Wait,” she cried. “I just want to see Reverend Mother.”

“Mother is busy,” replied the nun. “She hasn’t time to see any passing vagrant looking for work. I’ve told you there isn’t any.”

“I am not a passing vagrant,” Adelaide said hotly. “I am the niece of Monsieur and Madame Launay. They know the reverend mother and have sent me to see her.”

The grille opened properly again. “What did you say your name was?”

Adelaide hadn’t given her name, but she did so now. “Adèle Durant,” she said. “Monsieur Launay’s niece.”

There was a rattling of bolts, the heavy door was eased open and the portress peered round it. It was the same Sister Celestine who had greeted Adelaide when she had arrived before. The little nun surveyed the visitor, taking in her working clothes, her scrubbed face and hands, but there was no flicker of recognition in her eyes. “You’d better come in.”

Adelaide stepped inside the door and was left to wait in the hall while Sister Celestine scurried off to find out if Reverend Mother would see this person.

She was back within a few moments. “Mother says she will see you,” she said in a voice indicating that she was surprised by this decision. “Please come this way.”

Adelaide followed her along the passage to Mother Marie-Pierre’s office and waited outside while she was announced.

“Mademoiselle Durant, Mother.”

Adelaide stepped inside the room to be faced by not only her aunt, but another sister, who was standing beside the desk.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” began Adelaide. “You have someone with you. I can wait until you are not busy.”

“It is not a problem, Mademoiselle,” replied the reverend mother. “Sister Marie-Paul and I have finished our discussion.” She turned to the nun at her side. “Thank you, Sister, I’ll leave that to you then.” Sister Marie-Paul inclined her head and, with an uninterested glance at Adelaide as she passed, left the room.

As the door closed behind her Mother Marie-Pierre looked at Adelaide. “Now, Mademoiselle, how can I help you? I understand from Sister Celestine that the Launays sent you.”

It was clear to Adelaide that neither her aunt, nor Sister Marie-Paul, whom she had encountered on several occasions during her last visit, had recognised her, and that was good. Very good. But how long would it be before her aunt did recognise her, she wondered? It would be a good test. She continued to speak as Adèle Durant.

“Yes, Mother,” she answered. “I am their niece. I have come to help them on their farm. It is too much for them these days, but I also need to earn some money to help with my keep.”

Mother Marie-Pierre raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought,” she said, “that your work on the farm would have covered your keep.”

“It does, Mother,” the girl agreed, “but I need some cash, you know, for a few personal things. My uncle and aunt feed me, of course, but there are always things one needs, even in this war.” She smiled, and it was her smile, her father Freddie’s smile, that revealed her to her astonished aunt.

“Adelaide?” she whispered.

Adelaide nodded and laid a finger to her lips. For a moment Mother Marie-Pierre stared at her and then she was round the desk and gathering her into a hug.

“My dear girl,” she said, holding her away from her, much as Gerard Launay had done on the station, to get a better look at her. “My dear girl, is it really you? What on earth are you doing here? What’s this nonsense about being the Launays’ niece?”

Adelaide went to the door and checked to see that it was properly closed before she gave her reply. “I’m here because of you,” she said.

“Because of me?” Her aunt looked startled. “Here, come and sit down, so we can talk properly.” As before they sat on the chairs that flanked the tiny fireplace, but this time there was no fire to warm the room. “Now, Adelaide, tell me everything. What is this about being the Launays’ niece?”

“Sarah—” Adelaide began and paused. Now that she was here she wasn’t quite sure where to begin, how much to say.

“Yes?” Mother Marie-Pierre said encouragingly.

If I can’t trust Sarah with at least part of the story, there’s no point in being here, Adelaide thought. “I’ve been sent from England to work undercover,” she said, “and my cover story is that I am the Launays’ niece. I live with them on the farm and help out. I do much of the heavy stuff that they’re finding more difficult.” She gave a laugh. “I’ve even learned to help with the milking. Anyway, I’ve been sent here because of what you’ve been doing.”

“What I’ve been doing?” Mother Marie-Pierre looked at her in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“Flight Sergeant Terry Ham made it home,” Adelaide said, “and he told us how you’d helped him.”

Mother Marie-Pierre’s face broke into a smile. “Terry? Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m delighted he made it,” she said. “I heard nothing after I’d left him with Father Bernard.”

“We’ve also heard that you have been helping Jewish refugees,” Adelaide went on quietly.

Mother Marie-Pierre looked at her sharply. “Where did you hear that?”

“We’re in touch with the local resistance,” replied Adelaide. “There was something about it in one of their reports.”

“I see,” sighed her aunt. “Well, I suppose it was bound to get about. The whole village knows what happened to Sister Eloise.”

“Sister Eloise? What did happen to her?”

Reverend Mother told the story of the escaped Jew, Simone, the raid by the Germans and Sister Eloise’s arrest. Adelaide listened in silence.

“She’s been sent to Germany, to a camp somewhere, where according to Colonel Hoch they send the enemies of the Reich.” Sarah looked across at her niece. “I feel so guilty, because it was I who asked Sister Eloise to look after the woman. It’s my fault she’s in some dreadful camp.”

“But surely, Sister Eloise and the other sisters would have nursed the woman whoever she was. Isn’t that what your community does? Nurse the sick?”

“She wasn’t in the hospital. We knew she was a Jew, so we were nursing her in secret.” Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. “The convent is split down the middle,” she explained. “Some of the sisters think it was right to shelter the poor woman, others think that we ought not to involve ourselves with the politics of the war; that we should continue to nurse the sick in our hospital and maintain our life of prayer, not shelter ‘enemies of the Reich’.”

“I see.” Adelaide looked thoughtful. “What did they think about Terry Ham?” she asked. “Wasn’t he an enemy of the Reich?”

Her aunt gave a rueful laugh. “They didn’t know. Only two of us were involved with that.” She reached out and took Adelaide’s hand in hers. “I still don’t understand why you are here, Adelaide.”

“Adèle, Sarah. My name is Adèle, even to you.”

Sarah smiled ruefully. “Adèle, then. So, why are you here?”

“I’ve come to set up a proper escape route for people like Terry Ham,” Adelaide replied. “So many of our planes are being shot down over enemy territory, the crews bail out and then find themselves stuck behind enemy lines. We are trying to find a way to help as many as possible get back to England. I’m to find safe houses in this area, where they can be hidden until they can be moved on along the line.”

She smiled at her aunt who suddenly realised what she was going to be asked.

“You can’t use the convent,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly. “Too many people could suffer if things went wrong. After what happened to Sister Eloise, I can’t put any more of the sisters’ lives at risk.”

“I see that is a danger,” said Adelaide, “but if we can implement the plan I have worked out, none of the other sisters need know anything about it.”

“No, Adelaide, I’m sorry. I don’t even want to hear it.” Mother Marie-Pierre was firm. She told her niece about the threats Colonel Hoch had made. “He will carry them out, you know. He is an evil man. He enjoys what he does.” She reached out and took Adelaide’s hand. “If it were myself alone, there would be no problem, but I am responsible for the safety of everyone in this community.”

“I understand, Sarah. It is a heavy responsibility. I’ll try looking elsewhere. It’s just that it seemed to London that a convent would be the last place the Germans would suspect of resistance work.”

“Well, they’re wrong. Since they found Simone here, they treat us with great suspicion, me in particular. Colonel Hoch organises spot checks. Searches the place without warning. We were lucky he didn’t do so when Terry Ham was here. There have been three raids since then. I am sorry, my dear, but I really don’t think I can help you.”

“Terry mentioned the convent cellars.” Adelaide wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. “He said there was an outside entrance to them, a metal grille or grating somewhere.”

“Yes, we saw the grille from the inside and Sister Marie-Marc has since found it from the outside.”

“Sister Marie-Marc?”

“She was the sister who found Terry Ham hiding in the shed. When he’d gone she went looking for the grating.”

“Why did she do that?” asked Adelaide. “Where was it?”

“I think she had much the same idea as you,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. “I think she thought we might hide people from the Germans in our cellars, but I’m afraid it is out of the question… and so I’ve told her.” She looked across at Adelaide, her face serious. “Every time the Germans have come the cellars have been thoroughly searched. Anyone hiding in them would be found.”

“Suppose we managed to wall off that section of the cellar?” suggested Adelaide. “The room with the grating.”

“Wall it off?” Mother Marie-Pierre gave a brief laugh. “Adelaide, how on earth would we do that without anyone knowing? The whole convent would know, and the Germans soon after. It would be discovered at once.”

Realising that for the present she would have to concede defeat here, Adelaide changed tack.

“Tell me about this Father Bernard,” she said. “Where does he fit into the picture?”

“He’s the priest at the Church of the Holy Cross in Amiens,” replied Sarah. “I found him quite by accident when I was taking the children to our mother house in Paris.” She explained how Father Bernard had helped with the children. “He was the only one I could think of to turn to when we were trying to get Terry Ham away.” Sarah paused. “There is one other person who might be prepared to help you with what you are trying to do. Madame Juliette, who runs the café in the square. At least she did… in the last war. Her daughter has it now, I believe. Anyway, when I rescued Margot, one of the Jewish children, she hid us both for a while. I don’t know if she is involved with your resistance group, but I do know she is a good-hearted woman who was prepared to risk her life to save a little girl. You might find her ready to—”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. They looked at each other in alarm for a moment before Mother Marie-Pierre crossed the room and sat behind her desk. Adelaide stood in front of her, and then the reverend mother rang her bell. The door opened and Sister Marie-Paul came into the room. Entirely ignoring Adelaide, she spoke to her superior.

“Colonel Hoch’s car is at the door, Mother. I thought I should let you know.”

Mother Marie-Pierre rose to her feet. “Thank you, Sister, I’ll come at once.” She turned to Adelaide and addressed her in a tired voice. “It’s time you went, Mademoiselle. As I said, I’m afraid there are no jobs in the convent at present. Should the position change I will contact you at your aunt’s.”

Adelaide lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Mother,” she muttered. She followed the two nuns out of the office and back into the hall. Colonel Hoch was already standing in the hallway, admitted by a clearly terrified Sister Celestine.

“Ah, Reverend Mother,” he began, and then caught sight of Adelaide. “Who is this?”

Reverend Mother shrugged. “A girl from the village looking for work.”

“You, girl.” Hoch looked Adelaide up and down as if she were a horse he might buy. “What’s your name?”

“Adèle Durant, sir.”

“What are you doing here? Papers!” He held out his hand and Adelaide took her papers from her coat pocket and passed them to him. He glanced at them. “Why are you here?”

“I came to ask Reverend Mother for work,” Adelaide answered. She kept her eyes lowered, not challenging him in anyway. She knew that this might be the end of her mission before it had really started.

“I might find you work in the Kommandatur,” he said, his eyes resting appreciatively on her neat figure, incompletely hidden by the old grey raincoat.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” interjected Mother Marie-Pierre, before Adelaide had time to speak, “but I have just given Mademoiselle Durant a job in our kitchens.” Quelling Sister Marie-Paul, who had overheard her refuse the girl any work, with a frown, she went on. “There is too much for Sister Elisabeth to do on her own and Sister Marie-Marc is getting too old to be of much help.” She smiled at Adelaide. “Another pair of hands for a few hours each day will be most welcome. Please present yourself to Sister Elisabeth on Monday morning at 7.30, Adèle, and she will tell you what you are to do. Off you go now.”

It was a definite dismissal and Adelaide gave a little bob and spoke demurely. “Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.”

17

When Alain Fernand discovered where the Auclon family was hiding, he was elated. There had been a big search for them when the other Jews from the village were rounded up, but they’d never been found. Finally it had been assumed that they had somehow managed to get out of the area.

Fernand found them by accident. One evening he was collecting firewood in a stand of woodland beyond the village, when he thought he’d heard voices. Always alert for anything unusual, he put down his sack of sticks and made his way stealthily between the trees, trying to follow the sound. Before he found anyone, the voices had died away, but he had found the cottage. It was deserted and derelict, its doors locked and barred. When he pressed his nose against its dirty windowpanes Fernand could see no sign of life. Disappointed for the moment, he collected his firewood and went home, but his curiosity was not satisfied.

He’d heard voices again a few days later and crept forward to spy. He found a courting couple lying on the ground, the girl with her skirt hiked up about her hips, the man almost on top of her as they kissed. Fernand watched them for several moments before they noticed him. It excited him to watch; he’d like a girl like that. Suddenly the couple realised he was there and they broke apart. The girl burst into tears, and the man looked about to explode, but after a sharp exchange, they had gone off, leaving Fernand alone in the twilight to wonder if they had been the people whose voices he had heard before.

It was the third time he heard voices that he struck gold. He stole silently between the trees and there they were, a man and a woman, with two little boys, sitting outside the cottage. They were very thin and pale, their clothes almost rags, but they sat on an old bench, their faces held up to the last rays of the sun. The two little boys were playing with some sticks in the dust at their feet. Even as he watched, the parents gathered up the children and disappeared round behind the house. Fernand waited for several minutes and then crept stealthily from his hiding place and darted across to the cottage. There were no voices now; and the eerie silence of dusk enveloped the place. He edged to a window, and peering in found himself looking into a gloomy kitchen. It seemed empty, except for a large old kitchen table, a stove and a stone sink. He moved quietly round the corner of the house to look in through the next window. This showed him a bedroom, but there was still no sign of the family. He went on to the back of the house where there was a lean-to shed.

They must be in here, he thought, but when he pushed the door, it opened easily and revealed only a few logs stacked against one wall, some sacks in a heap in the corner and an old canvas bag hanging on the back of the door. His eyes rested greedily on the logs. Fuel was at a premium and he could sell these for a tidy amount. Leaving them for the moment, he returned to the cottage. He circled it again, trying each door, and peering in through all the windows, but with no luck. The family seemed to have vanished.

Fernand knew well who they were. He had immediately recognised Joseph Auclon, the barber, and his wife Janine. Jews. He remembered the round-up of Jews last summer. These must have escaped somehow. Well, they wouldn’t escape this time. Fernand hated Jews. Everyone knew that they always ganged up together against real Frenchmen. Everyone said so. Fernand had, himself, been thrown out of Joseph’s little shop off the village square because he had complained that Joseph had cheated him. Everyone knew that Jews charged more to their non-Jewish customers, and when Fernand had accused Joseph of this, the barber had told him to get out and not to come back. Fernand left the shop, angry. But he’d had the last laugh, he realised. He hadn’t paid at all! Let the money-grubbing Jew put that in his pipe and smoke it.

He went back into the shed, filled a sack with some of the logs and set off home with his loot. He’d come back for more logs, he promised himself, and when he did, he’d bring a crowbar to break into the cottage and see what he could find.

He was back the next evening, and hearing nothing, he crept up to the cottage and again peered in the windows. All looked as it had the evening before. He examined the front door. It was still locked and there was no way he could break it open without a good deal of noise. If the Jews were hiding inside he didn’t want to alert them, so he went round to the back door. This was closed with a heavy wooden bar, locked in place with a stout padlock. Fernand was about to try and lever the padlock away from the bar when he noticed something. He put the crowbar on the ground and ran his hands along and behind the wooden bar. A gleam of understanding showed in his eyes and he smiled. The bar was separate, not attached to the door at all. From a distance it looked as if bar and padlock kept the door firmly locked, but on closer inspection he saw that the door could be opened with the bar still in place. He lifted the latch and pushed. The door didn’t move. It must be locked on the inside. He went back to the window to have a look, but it was at the wrong angle and it was impossible to see. He tried the door again, but it wouldn’t budge.

But the Jews must be in there somewhere, he thought, excitedly. All I have to do is wait for them to come out again.

He made his way back to the shelter of the trees, and finding a sturdy oak at the edge of the clearing climbed into its branches. From this vantage point he had an uninterrupted view of the back door, and he settled down to keep watch. He waited until it was full darkness before he gave up.

Perhaps they don’t dare come out every night, he thought. I’ll just have to keep coming back until they do. I must be sure they really are here before I go to Thielen, or better still, Hoch. Yes, Colonel Hoch was the one who hunted Jews. Fernand’s eyes glittered at the thought of the bounty there might be on a whole family of them.

It was four nights later that he struck lucky. Ensconced in his tree Fernand heard a soft creak and saw that the back door was being opened from the inside. Joseph Auclon’s head appeared, and, having decided that it was safe, he emerged, followed by his wife and the two boys. Once outside, Joseph crossed to the shed and moments later returned carrying a heavy bag. He went straight back into the cottage, only to re-emerge moments later. He still carried the bag, but this time it was empty and he returned it to the shed.

Fernand was exultant. Not only were the family hidden somewhere in the house, they were being supplied with food by someone. He remembered seeing the empty bag in the shed when he had looked in the first time, but it hadn’t dawned on him that it had any significance. He remained in the tree for the twenty minutes or so the family allowed themselves in the fresh air, but as soon as they went back into the cottage and he’d heard the bolt on the inside of the door scrape home, he scrambled down and hurried back to the village.

He was just coming out of the woods when he met a local farmer, Étienne Charbonnier, walking his fields, his dog at his heels.

“Evening, Charbonnier.” Fernand tried to sound casual, and kept walking.

“Hey, Fernand, what are you doing on my land?” demanded Charbonnier, suspiciously eyeing the sack Fernand carried. The dog, hearing the tone of his master’s voice, flattened his ears against his head and growled.

Hearing the growl, Fernand stopped and looked back at the dog nervously. He had never liked dogs. “Keep that dog under control, Charbonnier,” he snarled.

“What are you doing on my land?” asked Charbonnier again, making no move to quieten his dog.

“Just walking,” replied Fernand, his eyes fixed on the dog, whose lips were curled back menacingly. “Collecting firewood.” He indicated the empty sack over his arm.

“Any firewood on my land is mine,” snarled Charbonnier. “Clear off. You’ve no right to be here.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” muttered Fernand, and turning his back on the farmer and his dog, hurried off down the track that led back to the village.

Étienne Charbonnier watched him until he had reached the road before turning back to his own house.

Fernand had returned to the village and by the time he’d reached the German HQ he’d decided his information was definitely too important for Major Thielen and asked for Colonel Hoch. He was made to wait, but at last he was summoned into the colonel’s office.

Hoch was working at his desk when he was told that Fernand wanted to see him, and was surprised. Thielen usually dealt with the likes of him. He wondered what information Fernand was bringing him. He despised him, a snivelling weasel of a man, but useful. He had eyes and ears where Hoch’s men could never go, and the information he had brought in so far had been reliable, if not particularly important. Now he was demanding to see the colonel, saying that he had something very important to tell him. Hoch had kept him cooling his heels for nearly an hour; he had no intention of letting the little collaborator get ideas that he could simply demand the colonel’s time, but he was intrigued all the same.

There was a knock at the door and Hoch picked up a paper from his desk before bellowing, “Come.” The door opened and Fernand came in. Hoch continued to read the paper without looking up, and Fernand was forced to stand in front of the desk, his cap in his hand, waiting for the colonel’s attention. When at last Hoch did look up, he ran his eyes over the man standing before him with distaste.

Fernand was small, with a narrow face, his watery blue eyes set close together over his sharply pointed nose, his hair wispy and thin, combed over a balding pate. He shuffled now, his eyes not quite meeting the colonel’s.

“Well?”

“I think I’ve found some more Jews,” Fernand said. “The Auclons. They slipped the net in the round-up last year.”

“I see, and where are these Jews?” Hoch spoke without any apparent interest, but he remembered that the Auclons had never been found and his eyes sharpened.

“I’ve found their hiding place,” Fernand said. “I’ve been watching them for some time.”

“Have you now? And why didn’t you report this immediately?”

“I wanted to be sure, Colonel. Didn’t want you to come on a wild goose chase.”

“I see. And now you are sure?”

“Yes, sir. Quite sure.”

“So, I ask you again, where are these Jews? How many of them?”

“Four, sir. Parents and two kids. Twins.”

Hoch smiled. “The whole family, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“There’s a derelict cottage over in the woods, beyond Étienne Charbonnier’s farm. There used to be a farmhand lived there, but he didn’t come back from the last war.”

“Show me!” Hoch crossed to the large map of the district that hung on the wall. “Point out where this cottage is.”

Fernand looked at the map for a moment before placing a grubby finger on the woods beyond Charbonnier’s farm. “About there, sir,” he said. “There’s a clearing, and the cottage is there. The trees have grown up round it over the years. You don’t see it until you reach the clearing.”

“And this family…”

“The Auclons, sir.”

“The Auclons… are living in this cottage?”

“Yes, sir. Well, not in the cottage itself. I think there must be a cellar.”

“And you’ve seen them?”

“I’ve seen them go in and out of the cottage.”

“So why haven’t they been found before?”

“There must be a hiding place inside the cottage, sir.”

“And you think it’s a cellar?”

“Yes, sir.” Fernand nervously ran a finger round the inside of his grubby collar. “They sometimes come out in the evening, for a bit of fresh air, like.”

“And how have they survived, four of them in this cellar, for so long?” Hoch wondered.

“Don’t know, sir. Someone must have been bringing them food and stuff.”

“Who?” asked Hoch.

“Don’t know, sir. But I saw Joseph Auclon fetch a bag from the shed. It must have had food in it. Don’t know who left it, sir.”

“Then you’d better go and find out,” snapped the colonel. “I want to know who’s been helping them. We’ll have them as well. Go and find out. I want to know who’s been sheltering them. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Fernand nodded vigorously.

“In the meantime,” Hoch said thoughtfully, “we’ll pick up the Jews tomorrow. A dawn raid.” He glowered at the little man in front of him. “Report back to me as soon as you know who it is.” When Fernand hesitated the colonel growled. “Well, get on with it.”

“Yes, sir.” Fernand beat a hasty retreat out of the office and onto the square. Once outside he drew a deep breath and allowed himself a moment for his heart rate to slow, then with a satisfied smile he set off through the village. He had a shrewd idea who had been feeding the Auclons, and he was sure it wouldn’t take long to confirm his suspicions.

Even better, he thought. The bounty for a whole family of Jews should be worth having, and something for the fools who’d been giving them shelter.

Hoch thought it was important too, and called in Lieutenant Weber.

“A sighting of that missing Jew Auclon and his family,” he said. “We’ll pick them up tomorrow.” He pointed to the map. “I’ve information that they’re here, in this wood.” He explained about the derelict cottage. “Organise a raiding party to move up there before dawn. Get the place surrounded and then break the door down. They may be hiding in a cellar. Bring them all back here.”

Weber saluted. “I assume you want them alive, sir?”

“Certainly I do,” snapped the colonel. “I need to find out who’s been sheltering them. The parents’ll talk soon enough if we’ve got their children.”

Fernand went home and collected a torch, which he slipped into the pocket of his jacket, along with his sheath knife. He wanted to be there when the Germans captured the Auclons. He wanted to see the fear on their faces. He wanted Joseph Auclon to know who it was who had found him. He wanted the barber to know that he couldn’t cheat decent, real Frenchmen with impunity.

It was beyond midnight as Fernand crept from his house and headed to the wood once more. The village, under curfew, lay silent in the darkness as he threaded his way between the houses and onto the track across the fields. It was pitch black in the woods and several times he had to risk shining the pinprick of light from his masked torch. He was certain no one would see it out here, but even so he only flicked it on and off for a moment each time, just long enough to show him the path. Once he thought he heard something. A footfall? The crack of a twig? He ducked quickly into the shadows. He waited for several minutes, crouching in the shelter of some bushes, but no one passed his hiding-place and he heard nothing more. Must have been an animal of some sort, he thought, and, straightening up, he continued his stealthy approach to the cottage.

As Fernand emerged from the trees into the clearing the starlight provided faint light, enough for him to make out the shape of the building, its roof and tumbled chimney dark against the night sky. He went across to the barred door, and, as he always did, lifted the latch to make sure it was still locked from the inside. This time it wasn’t. To Fernand’s amazement the door opened with a creak, the bar and padlock still barring the way in. Flicking on his torch, he ducked down beneath the bar, and pushing the door gently went into the kitchen. He paused on the threshold, listening. The silence was absolute. The thin beam of his torch revealed nothing except the table and the stove he had seen through the window, a deep stone sink and an old range, which had not been visible from the outside. Cobwebs curtained the ceiling above the door that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house. There was no sign of anyone. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. Flummoxed, Fernand crossed to the other door, and lifting the latch went through. Cobwebs clung to his face and he swatted them angrily, dashing them from his eyes, and even as he did so he realised that no one could have used this door for ages, or there would have been no cobwebs. Still, he went on through to the other part of the house. There was a tiny hallway, which smelt damp, and another door also draped with thick grey spiders’ webs. Fernand swung his torch through these to clear a path and opened the door. Beyond it was the cottage’s only bedroom, and this too seemed exactly as he had seen it from the outside, an old iron bedstead, a single chair, a cupboard built into the corner and a fireplace full of cold, black soot. Fernand wrenched open the cupboard door. Empty. No one here. No sign of anyone ever having been here.

Fernand felt a cold finger of fear down his spine. He had told Hoch the Auclons were definitely here and now not only were they not here, there was no sign that they ever had been. He shone his torch into the fireplace and up the chimney, more in desperation than in the hope of finding anything. Nothing. Colonel Hoch was sending an arresting party here at dawn, and there was no one for them to arrest. The colonel would be furious at being made to look a fool, and Fernand shuddered at the thought of his rage. He shone the torch round the floor. Stone flags with no covering to soften them. Close to despair, Fernand returned to the kitchen. Again his torch revealed nothing, there was nowhere to hide. The floor in here was also stone flagged. He shone the torch under the sink. It had been fed by a pump and emptied into a pipe, which drained to the outside. He crawled under the table, running his fingers over the stones in the hope of finding some sort of trapdoor. Nothing.

He sat back on his heels, his mind racing feverishly. He had seen the family come into the house only a few hours ago. He had heard the door being bolted on the inside, but now there was no one there.

Damned, bloody Jews! The thoughts raged through his head. Where the hell had they gone? He turned on his torch again, and pulling the masking tape from the front shone the full beam round the room, yet again.

It was then that he saw it. A footprint. On the table. Someone had stood on the table and left a scuffmark in the dust. Fernand pointed his torch up at the ceiling. The rafters ran the width of the kitchen, blackened beams supporting the roof above, and between the two that passed over the middle of the big old table was…? Fernand was not sure what he could see. He scrambled up onto the table, and shining the torch directly upward peered at the ceiling. There, he found what he was looking for. Carefully contrived, between the rafters, was a trapdoor. Fernand reached up. He could touch the ceiling but he was not tall enough to raise the trapdoor. He jumped down from the table and fetched the old chair from the bedroom. Placing this on the table he climbed gingerly onto it and lifted the trapdoor. It was hinged and once it was upright crashed open. Fernand stuck his head through gap and stared in amazement at what he saw. There was a loft in the roof space that covered the whole area of the house. Its floor was boarded and though there was no furniture as such, the space had been kitted out with a few things to make life possible there. Blankets and pillows were piled against the chimney breast, a mug and a couple of plates stacked in a tin bowl. There was a candle end on a saucer, and a box was upended to serve as a table. A galvanised bucket stood in a corner. Someone had been living here, and, from the smell emanating from the bucket, had been there very recently.

Fernand felt relief wash through him. The Auclons weren’t here, but they had been. When Hoch’s men arrived in the morning they wouldn’t find the family, but they would find where they had been hiding, and it would be only a matter of time before they ran them to earth. Hoch would be angry that they’d given him the slip once more, but if Fernand worked fast he could probably find them again before the Germans did, and turn them in as planned. However, he was not keen that the arrest party should find him at the cottage when they arrived. It was time to go. He left the trapdoor open and the chair on the table so that the soldiers would find what he had found, and then pulling the door to behind him beat a hasty retreat into the woods.

There were two families who Fernand thought might have been sheltering the Jews; the Launays and the Charbonniers. Both families had more than a normal grievance against the Germans. Both had lost a son during the invasion, and Fernand had been wondering about them for some time. He’d had no occasion to visit either farm, but his encounter with Étienne Charbonnier earlier this evening made him very suspicious. Had Charbonnier been on his way to the cottage with more supplies? Fernand tried to think back as to whether the man had been carrying anything with him. He thought not, but he couldn’t be sure. Had Charbonnier suspected him, Fernand, of anything? He might have and come to warn the Auclons, to get them away to another safe place. But where? To his own farm? Unlikely. It was the nearest and the first place that would be searched.

What would I do if I were him, wondered Fernand—where would I take them? To friends? They’d have to be very good friends to take that risk, very good friends… or family. Family. Isn’t Étienne Charbonnier related to Marie Launay? Cousins or something? Worth going to both farms and having a snoop round, he decided, and wondered which to visit first. He was about to set off in the direction of the Charbonniers when he remembered the sounds he’d heard on his way to the wood. Could that have been the Auclons actually making their escape? If so, they weren’t going towards the Charbonniers. Changing his mind, Fernand set off along a different path, heading for the Launay farm.

There was already the grey light of a false dawn creeping into the sky when he reached the farm and crept into the farmyard. To his surprise there was a thread of light at one edge of the blackout over the kitchen window. He crossed the yard and put his eye to the crack. Marie Launay was sitting at the kitchen table, her head resting on her arms, apparently asleep. Fernand stared at her for a moment, then turned and went to the yard door. Taking his knife from his pocket, he eased the door open and went inside.

18

“Adèle, wake up! You must come, quickly.”

Adelaide sat up with a jolt as Marie Launay shook her awake. The room was still in darkness, but she could hear the urgency in the Marie’s voice.

“Aunt Marie! What is it? What’s happened?” She reached for the bedside light, but Marie caught her hand.

“No lights,” she hissed. “Come downstairs, Adèle, we need you.” Marie was already out of the door and on the stairs. “You must get dressed.”

“I’m coming.” Adelaide swung her legs out of bed and threw on some clothes. However, before she followed Marie downstairs, she slipped the garter, on which she carried her razor-sharp knife, up above her left knee, where it nestled hidden by her skirt. It was the first time she had taken the knife with her, but as she had no idea what the problem downstairs was, she wanted to be prepared.

In the kitchen she found not only the Launays, but five other people, two of them children. A couple were seated, pale faced, at the table and the children were standing beside them. The little family turned fearfully as Adèle came into the room, and she saw to her surprise that the children were identical twins, young boys, their faces pinched and pale, their eyes wide and dark, one clinging to his father’s hand, the other within the circle of his mother’s arm.

A second man, standing by the window, was speaking. “Albertine will clear up as best she can,” he said. “I must get back to help her now. Anyway, if I’m seen near here, it’s the end for all of us.”

Gerard nodded and shook the man’s hand. “You’re right, Étienne. Be careful… and good luck.”

The woman at the table caught at Étienne’s hand as he moved to the door. “God bless you, Étienne,” her voice cracked with emotion, “you and Albertine. We shall never forget you.”

Étienne patted her hand awkwardly. “Sorry we can’t help any more,” he said gruffly. Gerard turned off the light and Étienne slipped through the scullery and out into the darkness, the back door closing softly behind him.

Gerard switched the light on again and the woman turned to him. There were tears in her eyes. “And now we put you in danger.”

“Don’t worry,” Marie Launay said quietly. “We’ll do our best to get you all away.” She turned to Adelaide and went on. “This is the Auclon family. Joseph and Janine and their sons, Jacques and Julien. They’re Jews, but their family has lived round here as long as I can remember. They managed to escape the Gestapo roundup last year, and Étienne, my cousin, and his wife Albertine, have been hiding them in a derelict cottage on their farm ever since. But today Étienne saw that scum, Alain Fernand, sniffing about in the woods nearby. He thinks that Fernand has somehow got wind of the hiding place. If he has, it won’t be long before he reports it to his German masters. Étienne had no choice but to move them, for everyone’s sake.”

“Where shall we hide them?” asked Adelaide, though she thought she already knew the answer. “There’s nowhere here.”

“In your safe room,” answered Gerard. “It is the only chance they’ve got. If Étienne’s right about Fernand, the Germans will be swarming everywhere tomorrow. We’ve nowhere to hide four people here.”

“I don’t know how safe the room really is,” warned Adelaide. “It’s not been tested yet. There hasn’t been a German raid since it was finished.”

Gerard shrugged. “It’s the best we can do for now. They must be hidden before morning. Then we can try and work out some long-term plans.” He gestured. “This is Antoinette.” He used her resistance code name, though she doubted that it was of much protection in the circumstances. “We’ll try and get you to a safe place, but you’ll have to stay hidden there until we can make some plan to move you further away.”

He turned to Marie. “Can you put up some food and water for them to bring?” he said. “We may not be able to get back to them for several days.”

Marie nodded, and went into her pantry to see what she could find.

“You’ll have to make sure the children stay quiet,” Adelaide warned the mother. “We’ve got to move round the village, and there may be patrols.”

Madame Auclon smiled wearily. “It has become their life, to be quiet,” she said. “They won’t make a sound.”

Marie returned with two baskets of food, and having filled two bottles of water from the tap, handed them to Monsieur Auclon.

“Ready?” said Gerard. “Let’s go.” He smiled reassuringly at the Auclons. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you safely hidden.”

They collected a length of rope from the barn, which Adelaide coiled round her waist, and Gerard tucked a short crowbar under his jacket. Thus equipped, Gerard led the little group out of the farmyard and along the river path towards the convent. Monsieur Auclon carried the baskets of food, with Madame holding each child firmly by the hand, following behind. Adelaide brought up the rear. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and faint starlight lit their way. As their eyes adjusted to the night, they made steady progress and Gerard found his way to the copse below the convent without any difficulty. There had been no sound in the darkness as they had edged round the village, their ears strained for the slightest noise that might warn them of approaching danger. The night remained still as they followed the path up through the trees to the convent wall.

“Wait here,” Gerard whispered, as they reached the edge of the copse. “Stay back in the trees, and don’t move. We’ll come back for you in a minute or two, all right?” He didn’t warn them again to be quiet; there was no need.

Leaving the little family deep in the shadows, Adelaide and Gerard moved out into the open ground beside the convent wall.

“How far along?” Gerard murmured as they reached the wall.

“At the edge of the field,” whispered Adelaide. “Ten paces beyond the courtyard gate.” They reached the gate and then counted their steps until they found the stunted bush, its roots thrust through the iron bars of the grille, which both marked and masked the grating.

“Here,” murmured Adelaide, and they set to work with the crowbar.

When Adelaide had presented herself at the convent kitchen door that first morning at exactly 7.30, Sister Elisabeth, large and red-faced with the sleeves of her habit tucked up to her shoulders, was expecting her.

“So, Adèle,” she greeted her briskly. “Mother says I’m to use you to relieve Sister Marie-Marc from some of the heavier work.” She surveyed Adelaide for a moment and sniffed, as if she found her wanting.

“I’m stronger than I look, Sister,” Adelaide ventured. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Well, first thing, you can get to work on those dishes,” Sister Elisabeth said, waving her hand at a stack of plates on a trolley being wheeled through the kitchen into the scullery beyond by another, older sister.

“Sister Marie-Marc, this is Adèle,” Sister Elisabeth announced in the sort of voice reserved for the hard of hearing or the stupid. “She’s come to help with the work here in the kitchen. When you’ve finished the dishes between you, she can bring up potatoes and onions from the cellar and you can prepare them for lunch.”

“Yes, Sister,” Sister Marie-Marc replied mildly. She smiled at Adelaide, her eyes bright amidst the wrinkles of her face, and piled the plates into the deep stone sink. “Hello, Adèle. We’re very glad to have you helping out.” She pointed to the huge black range, which occupied one wall of the kitchen. “There’s a pot of hot water on the stove, will you bring that through here? Then you can wash and I’ll dry.”

Adelaide fetched the heavy pot and poured hot water into the sink while Sister Marie-Marc turned on the single tap, to add the cold.

When the dishes were done, Sister Marie-Marc nodded to a door behind them. “That’s the way down to the cellar. You’ll find a sack of potatoes down there, and some onions.”

Adelaide had spent some time the previous evening wondering how she was going to be able to get into the cellar and assess its possibilities as a hiding place. Despite Reverend Mother refusing her permission to use the convent, or its cellar, as a safe house, Adelaide had not yet given up the idea. If she could find a way of using a part of the cellar without putting the nuns at risk, she could either go back to Sarah and put it to her again, or, and this was an option she was loath to take but was probably the more likely, she could make use of it without her aunt’s knowledge.

Now was her chance to have a quick look. She opened the door and peered down into the darkness below.

“Be careful,” Sister Marie-Marc warned her, handing her a pot for the potatoes. “Those steps are steep.”

“I’ll be careful,” Adelaide promised, and with a tight grip on the single handrail descended the stone stairs into the cellar. By the light that filtered down from the open door, she could see the racks of stored vegetables in the first cellar. A slatted table held apples, spread in neat rows, above which were several shelves lined with preserving jars, all labelled with their contents, soft fruits, jams and honey. Several rounds of cheese wrapped in cotton cloth were standing on a marble slab, and there were stone butter jars just like those in Marie Launay’s pantry. Below the apple table were bulging sacks, which, when she investigated them, Adelaide found to contain carrots, turnips and the potatoes. Strings of onions hung from hooks in the ceiling and there were more large stone jars standing on the floor, marked flour and rice. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could see that there were other cellars beyond, rooms opening off each other. She looked into the first and saw a heap of coal, but beyond that there was no light.

I’ll have to come down with a lamp or a candle or something, she thought as she peered into the darkness. I must look at the place properly.

Afraid she would occasion comment if she were too long fetching the vegetables, she filled her pot with potatoes from an open sack, took a string of onions from one of the hooks and scurried back up the steps. Later she was determined to find a way to explore the cellars beyond.

When she emerged back into the kitchen, Sister Elisabeth was nowhere to be seen, and Sister Marie-Marc was standing at the range stirring a stockpot with a huge iron spoon.

“You found them? Good. I’ll get on with those.” She took the vegetables from Adelaide and laid them on the table. “Sister Elisabeth has been called away, but she says you’re to bring up some coal from the cellar, to fill those.” She indicated three iron containers set in a recess beside the range. “That really is a job for a younger back.”

“Yes, Sister,” Adelaide replied, moving to pick up one of the huge buckets.

“I doubt if even a youngster like you will be able to carry one of those full,” said Sister Marie-Marc. “We usually bring the coal up in a smaller bucket which is in the cellar, and fill the big ones where they stand. Come with me, I’ll show you.” Giving the stew a good swirl with the spoon before she left it, the old nun led the way back down into the cellar.

“There’s no electric light down here,” she said cheerfully, as she picked up an oil lamp Adelaide hadn’t noticed before. “So, look where you’re going.” She lit the lamp and led the way into the first side cellar. “The coal, what’s left of it, is over here, and there’s the small bucket for carrying.”

“Fine, Sister, I’ll bring some up for you.” Adelaide smiled. “Don’t forget your stew,” she added, as the little nun seemed inclined to linger.

With a cry of dismay, Sister Marie-Marc disappeared up the stairs, and Adelaide was left in the cellar, with the lamp.

Quickly she shovelled coal into the first bucket, and then leaving it ready to bring up to the kitchen took the lamp and began to explore. She held the light high as she walked through the musty rooms that made up the cellars. One had garden implements stored in it, two spades, a garden fork, a hoe and a rake; another was stacked with old furniture, a third had some empty packing cases, an old ladder with several rungs missing and a bicycle without a front wheel. Finally she reached the last, and saw the faint daylight filtering through the grille in its ceiling.

This must be the one, Adelaide thought, where they hid Terry Ham.

She considered it for a moment. It had distinct possibilities. It had a sturdy door to close it off. There was no lock, but that could be rectified. The grille above was just about big enough for a man to squeeze through… if he could climb up to it. The only things in the cellar were some old shelves and a heap of rags in the corner.

Yes, Adelaide decided, it does have possibilities. But first I must find out where that grating comes out.

She had no more time now, Sister Marie-Marc would wonder why she was taking so long with the coal, so she hurried back to the coal cellar, picked up the waiting bucket and carried it up to the kitchen. When she’d emptied it into one of the large scuttles at the side of the range, she returned to the cellar for more. On each journey she took a few moments to learn the geography of the cellars, to try and work out where the grille might emerge. Before she carried the last bucket up the stairs, Adelaide held the lamp to the ceiling of the coal cellar, and there sure enough was what she had half-expected to see; a coal chute which must open into the yard above.

If I can find that, she thought excitedly, I can probably work out roughly where the grating must be.

When Adelaide carried the final bucket up to the kitchen, she found Sister Elisabeth was back. The nun looked at the full coalscuttles with approval.

“Very good, Adèle,” she said. “That should be enough to last us right through until tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow I’ll fill them again,” Adelaide promised.

Adelaide went to the convent each morning for four hours, and gradually fell into a routine. She knew what was expected of her, and, once the nuns realised it, they let her get on with it.

On her second day she had found the grating from the outside. It had been easy to see the coal chute in a corner of the courtyard and from there to guess where the grating might be. Almost buried in a patch of scrub at the edge of the field, it was just outside the convent wall. Clearly it had not been lifted for years. Thickly covered with weeds, it lay concealed and forgotten. Adelaide knelt down and pretended to do up her shoelace while she inspected the grille more carefully. Was it the one, or simply some sort of drain? She picked up a twig and pushed it through the iron bars. Next time she visited the cellar, her twig was on the floor.

Each day Adelaide collected coal for the kitchen range, and each day she worked on the end cellar, Terry’s cellar. Under her skirt, she smuggled in a bradawl, a screwdriver and metal bolt, all provided by Gerard Launay, and while she was supposed to be shovelling coal, she gradually equipped the door with a bolt on its inside, so that anyone hiding there might lock himself in, perhaps buying enough time to make a break for it through the ceiling grille.

It was when she had just finished this job she turned round to find Sister Marie-Marc standing watching her.

“Sister!” Adelaide held the screwdriver in the fold of her skirt, hoping the nun hadn’t actually seen what she’d been doing. “Did you want me? Is there something I can do?”

Sister Marie-Marc smiled. “No, I just wanted to see what you were up to down here.”

“Up to? I’m not up to anything,” Adelaide smiled. “Though I have to admit to curiosity. I was just exploring the cellar, that’s all.”

“No it isn’t,” replied Sister Marie-Marc conversationally. “Over the last few days you’ve loosened the grating, you’ve brought a chair in from the other cellar and now you’ve put a bolt on the door… on the inside.” The nun’s bright eyes studied her. “So, who are you, Adèle, and what are you doing here? Does Mother know?”

Adelaide thought fast. How much, if anything, should she admit to this elderly nun? Sister Marie-Marc had already helped a British airman to escape from the Germans, but was she really prepared to risk her life and the lives of her sisters to go on helping men to escape? Whatever happened, they couldn’t spend any more time down in the cellar now, without causing comment or suspicion.

“Sister, we must go back upstairs. Sister Elisabeth will be wondering where we are.” She moved towards the main cellar, but Sister Marie-Marc put out her hand to stop her.

“No, she won’t. She’s been called over to the hospital to discuss something with Sister Marie-Paul.”

“But we must finish making the pastry for lunch,” pointed out Adelaide.

“Indeed we must,” Sister Marie-Marc agreed, “and while we do it, you can tell me why I shouldn’t tell Sister Elisabeth what you’ve been doing down here when you’re supposed to be bringing up the coal.” She turned back towards the cellar steps, speaking over her shoulder as she did so. “I should leave your tools down here, they’d be hard to explain to Sister Elisabeth.”

Sister Marie-Marc had turned out to be a born conspirator. Adelaide decided she had to trust her with at least part of the truth.

“I’ve come from England,” she said. “Your friend Terry made it back.”

Sister Marie-Marc’s face lit up. “Terry is safe?”

“Yes.” Adelaide smiled at the nun’s obvious delight at the news. “And he told us how you and Mother Marie-Pierre had helped him escape. I’ve been sent to try and arrange an escape route for other airmen who are shot down.”

“Does Mother know?” asked Sister Marie-Marc.

“She knows why I’m here.” Adelaide paused, not quite sure how to explain.

“But not what you are doing.” Sister Marie-Marc nodded her understanding. “It’s better she shouldn’t know. I will not tell her.”

“Thank you,” murmured Adelaide, slightly amused at this.

“Because if I do,” Sister Marie-Marc went on cheerfully, “she might not let me help you.”

“Help me?”

“Of course, you need someone on the ‘inside’ hein?” The eyes were bright with excitement.

“I thought you were bound by a vow of obedience,” remarked Adelaide.

“Of course. But I am not disobedient. Mother has not told me I should not help you.”

They continued work on “Terry’s room”, equipping it with a few necessities, most of which Sister Marie-Marc produced from other parts of the convent. There were some candles and matches, a couple of old blankets, two jars for water and the bucket Sister Marie-Marc had provided for Terry Ham’s use. Together they carried in the broken ladder, which was tall enough to enable anyone hiding there to reach the grating in the roof. As they propped it against the wall, Adelaide looked round the room. “Well, I think that’s the best we can do. Let’s see if we really can hide the door.”

They closed the door, and between them dragged an old bookcase in front of it. This hid the door from any casual glance, and in front of this they gradually stacked all the other disused and broken furniture. Each time one of them came down to the cellar for something, she put another piece of the old furniture in front of the bookcase, until it was almost impossible to see anything beyond the stack. They had spread some of the other rubbish into the cellar where the furniture had been, sweeping smooth the scuffmarks they had made while dragging the heavier pieces into place, and to the unsuspicious eye the cellar still looked very much as it always had, a succession of rooms filled with an accumulation of junk.

“If the Boche do see the door, they’ll have to move all this stuff before they can get inside,” Sister Marie-Marc remarked with satisfaction, looking at the old furniture. “That should give time to escape.”

“So it should,” Adelaide agreed, “but once they have broken in that will be an end to it. It will put the whole convent at risk, so I shan’t use it except in an emergency.”

And this, thought Adelaide, as she and Gerard bent in the darkness to prise up the grating, is an emergency. The clink of iron on iron sounded incredibly loud to her but, with their combined strength, the grating lifted easily enough, and was laid aside.

Wedging the crowbar across the opening, Gerard knotted the rope to it and dropped the other end down into the hidden room below.

“I’ll keep watch here,” murmured Gerard. “You go and fetch them.”

“All right,” whispered Adelaide, and, leaving him beside the hole, hurried back to the family. She found them waiting patiently where they had left them, crouched in the deep shadow of a tree. Even as she reached them, Monsieur Auclon grabbed her hand and dragged her deeper into the shadows. He put his mouth to her ear. “Someone is coming!”

Adelaide strained her ears and then she, too, heard something. The sound of a twig cracking, followed by a stifled oath, made her freeze, her back pressed against the tree so that she was lost against the darkness of the trunk. Standing perfectly still, Adelaide strained her eyes into the night to see who was coming so stealthily up the track through the copse. The Auclons were as stone, the little boys pressed against their mother, their faces buried in her skirt, the father standing protectively in front of them. Adelaide could feel that they were poised for flight, and knew that it would be fatal to them all if their nerve failed now. She heard another sound, a foot against a stone, and the murmur of a voice. Adelaide felt a cold chill run down her spine as she realised that there were at least two of them and that they were speaking German. She gripped Monsieur Auclon’s arm, and, pressing her lips to his ear, murmured. “Don’t move unless I say!” Her hand slid under her skirt and grasped the handle of the little knife. The feel of it in her fingers was reassuring; despite its size its honed blade would slit a man’s throat. She waited, poised, in the darkness. At least she had the element of surprise, but the last thing she wanted to do was to kill German soldiers here, where there was nowhere to hide their bodies, where they would be immediately missed. She held her breath… and waited.

The Germans passed within four feet of them, unaware of the trembling group, and continued up the path until they reached the convent wall.

“Stay back,” Adelaide murmured, and moving silently between the trees, her senses straining, she crept after the Germans. Her mind whipped into action. How could she warn Gerard of the men’s approach? At once she dismissed the idea. She couldn’t warn him without giving them all away. She’d have to hope he was on the alert and had heard them coming. Surely he would take cover.

The sky was beginning to lighten now, and, as she reached the edge of the trees, Adelaide could make out the men standing beside the convent wall, two darker shapes against the grey stone. They were edging along to the gate. It was clear they did not want to be heard, so they were not a regular patrol.

So what the hell are they doing? Adelaide’s mind was racing. And what shall I do? If they go much further they’ll not only find the hole, they’ll fall into it! If that happens it’s all over.

Make a noise and run? I should be able to lose them in the dark of the copse, and, if they’re following me, Gerard should be able to get the Auclons safely into the hidden room.

She was about to reveal herself, to draw them off, when they stopped. They had reached the closed wooden gate that led into the convent courtyard. Even as she watched, Adelaide saw one cup his hands as a step and hoist his mate up and over the gate. The man waited for a moment and then the small side gate was opened and he disappeared inside.

The sound of an angry squawk from the henhouse told Adelaide what they were up to; stealing chickens. Moments later the gate opened again and the two men came out, stifling laughter, and each with a hen under his arm. With no attempt at stealth now, the two of them set off down the hill at speed, and Adelaide could hear them crashing through the bushes as they made their escape with their prizes.

Poor Sister Marie-Marc, thought Adelaide as she heard them go. That’s the third raid on her henhouse.

The men’s noisy flight told them they were safe for a moment, and Adelaide collected her charges from their hiding place and led them out across the open ground to where Gerard was coming to meet them.

“What was all that about?” he hissed as they reached him.

“German soldiers stealing chickens,” she replied briefly. “Too busy thieving to notice us.”

“Thank God for that!” Gerard turned to the Auclons. “Come on, nearly there!” He led the way along the wall, past the wooden gate, to the open entrance to the hidden cellar. “You first, Madame.” He held out his hand to Madame Auclon. “Sit on the ground, hold onto the rope and lower yourself down.” Madame Auclon did as she was told, and the children, one after the other, followed her into the comparative safety of the cellar. Adelaide hauled up the rope and lowered each of the baskets of food Monsieur Auclon had been carrying. She leaned down and placing her face through the opening spoke softly. “The sisters won’t know you are here. You must keep the children as quiet as you can, your lives may depend on it. Any sound in that room could well be heard from out here. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Good luck.”

“God bless you, Mademoiselle,” came the whisper from below.

Adelaide moved away from the opening so that Monsieur Auclon could slip down into the cellar, but he paused on the edge. “Thank you, Monsieur Launay, Mademoiselle Antoinette.”

“You shouldn’t be too uncomfortable if it’s only for a few days,” Adelaide said softly, taking his extended hand. “When one of us comes to you, we’ll push two twigs down through the grating so you’ll know it’s us. You may hear noises in the cellar, but don’t panic, just keep the children quiet. You can bolt the door on the inside and you should be safe. If someone tries to break in through the door, get out this way. The grating should move fairly easily if you push hard enough. Remember, at most you’ll have three or four minutes to escape.”

Jean Auclon nodded, and taking a grip on the rope slid down into the cellar below. Gerard and Adelaide replaced the iron grille, its marker bush still protruding through its bars. A few dead branches completed the camouflage, and leaving the little family concealed there, they crept away, stealing through the grey light of dawn back to the farm.

Gerard hurried into the house to reassure Marie that they were safely back, while Adelaide put the crowbar and the rope back into the barn. As she reached the back door, left ajar for her, she heard raised voices. Gerard was shouting.

“What the hell’s going on? What are you doing here? Marie?”

Adelaide edged round the back door and paused in the scullery, out of sight of anyone in the kitchen. Another man spoke, a voice that Adelaide did not know.

“All I want is some information,” the voice said. “Then no one will get hurt. Your wife here refused to tell me what I need to know, so I waited for you. I’m sure you don’t want me to take her eyes out, do you? Life’s difficult enough just now without having a blind woman to look after.” The voice was soft, almost cooing as it spoke, and was all the more sinister for its lack of emotion.

“All you have to tell me is where the Auclon family is hidden. No skin off your nose. They’re Jews after all… scum.”

“You’re the scum,” exploded Gerard, “collaborating with the Germans.”

There was a muffled cry of pain and Gerard cried out. “No, no!”

Adelaide moved softly to the scullery door, putting her eye to the crack of the hinge so that she could see part of the kitchen without being seen. Marie was sitting on a chair, her back to the window; a rope lashed her firmly in place, her mouth was stuffed with a handkerchief. Her eyes wide with fear, she strained away from the man who stood behind her. Adelaide recognised him at once as Alain Fernand, the man she and Marcel had seen in the wood; the man snooping round Étienne’s farm. He held a knife to Marie’s face, the blade caressing her skin. His threats were clearly not idle, she already had a stark red line across the pallor of her cheek, from which blood oozed and trickled down her neck.

“Just tell me where you’ve hidden the Jews and you’ll hear no more about it. I won’t tell the Germans that you helped to hide them.” His voice hardened and he went on. “Don’t make me have to cut your wife any more, Launay. You’ll tell me in the end… why put her through the pain first? And don’t even think of rushing me, or my knife goes straight through her eye… and into her brain.”

Adelaide couldn’t see Gerard, but she guessed he must be just inside the door. There was no way he could reach Marie in time if Fernand was prepared to carry out his threat, and from the sound of his voice Adelaide knew Fernand was enjoying himself; enjoying the fear he induced, enjoying the power he wielded.

“I know that fool Étienne must have been hiding them all this time.” Fernand’s voice returned to the conversational. “How he managed it for so long I can’t imagine! Still, I sniffed them out and here we are. Now, don’t waste any more of my time, Launay, or your wife will suffer.” Even as he spoke he flicked the blade carelessly across Marie’s other cheek.

Adelaide’s thoughts were racing. A diversion! She must cause a diversion. She couldn’t reach Marie either, but she could perhaps cause a diversion so that Gerard had some chance to attack Fernand. Grabbing one of the stone jars Marie kept butter in, Adelaide stepped out into the yard and hurled it with all her strength at the kitchen window, which shattered with a crashing explosion of flying glass. Even as the window disintegrated, Adelaide was back through the scullery and into the kitchen. There was glass everywhere. Fernand had spun round as the window exploded behind him and Gerard had launched himself across the room, knocking Marie and her chair to the floor. He was grappling with Fernand, trying to grab the knife. But Fernand was younger and stronger; his grip tight on the knife, he forced Gerard down to the floor, the blade thrusting ever closer to the older man’s head. Adelaide was across the room in a flash, her own knife already in her hand. With a swift and merciless blow, she drove it hard between Fernand’s shoulder blades. Fernand gave a grunt, stumbling forward and Adelaide jerked the knife free, only to drive it once more into the collaborator’s back. Fernand collapsed onto the floor, a dark stain spreading across his jacket; the knife he had been grasping skittering away across the flagstones. Gerard took one look at him and then catching up the dropped knife rushed over to Marie, still lashed to the overturned chair. Swiftly he cut her bonds and pulled the grubby handkerchief out of her mouth, gathering her into his arms as she began to sob.

Rocking her gently back and forth, Gerard looked over his wife’s head. “Is he dead?”

Adelaide had pulled her knife free and was standing with it in her hand, looking down at the body on the floor. “I think so,” she whispered. She stared at the crumpled heap of humanity lying at her feet and felt cold. She had killed a man. She had been trained to kill with a knife, but she had never imagined that she would actually have to do so.

“If it’s him or you,” Sergeant Grant had impressed upon her as he taught her to handle a knife, “don’t hesitate. If it’s kill or be killed, you do the killing!”

Not him or me, thought Adelaide as she stared down at Fernand, but him or Marie, Gerard and the entire Auclon family.

“Yes,” she said abruptly. “So now we must deal with his body. He probably hasn’t been to the Germans yet, but we can’t rely on that. Come on, Gerard, we have to get him out of here, and fast.”

“But Marie…” Gerard began.

“Marie is fine,” said his wife bravely, pulling away from him. “Adèle is right. We must move the pig out of here and get rid of him.” She got unsteadily to her feet and Gerard stood up beside her.

“Will people be looking for him?” asked Adelaide, as she ran the blade of her knife under the kitchen tap. “Family? Friends?”

Gerard shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said, “I don’t know. He probably won’t have told anyone else about the Auclons yet. He’d want the credit for finding them himself.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Adelaide. “Come on, there’s no time to waste. We must make sure that there is no sign that he was ever anywhere near here. We’ll have to bury him. Where do you suggest? We can’t move him far.” She looked from one to the other. “Where can we bury him?”

Marie, calm now, had a suggestion. “In the old well. It’s very deep and unless someone climbed down to the bottom, they would never find him there.”

“Right.” Adelaide took charge. “Let’s get to it. Gerard, you take his legs.” But now the immediate danger was over, Gerard’s strength seemed to have deserted him, and he shook his head.

“Come on, Gerard,” Adelaide urged, “we’ve got to move him now. Where’s the well?”

“In the yard, I’ll show you.” Marie led her out into the yard and pointed to the corner where there was a large, flat stone, with a ring set into it. “When we stopped using it, we had it capped. We’ll have to lift that stone.”

“Then we need the crowbar again,” Adelaide said and went to fetch it from the barn. “Call Gerard to help.”

The ring was stiff to lift, but Adelaide worked on it with the crowbar and at last managed to get it upright so that they could use it to manoeuvre the stone. The stone itself was very heavy, but between them, using the crowbar and a garden fork, they were able to lever it up and slide it clear of the top of the well. Adelaide peered down into the shaft that had opened at her feet. Marie was right, it was unlikely that anyone could see to the bottom of the well even with a powerful torch.

“Let’s do it,” she said tersely, and went back into the kitchen. Fernand was heavy, but they rolled him onto the hearthrug, which was already stained with his blood, and dragged him out into the yard and over to the gaping well shaft.

“Head first,” instructed Adelaide, and they swivelled him round so that his head was over the edge of the shaft, then she lifted his feet and with surprising ease slid him into its darkness. With a slither he was gone, and moments later the faintest splash announced his arrival at the bottom of the well. Adelaide rolled up the bloodstained hearthrug and dropped it in after him.

“Let’s get the stone back.” Adelaide reached for the crowbar and together they edged the capstone back over the shaft. When it was in place, Adelaide knelt on the ground and pushed the ring back into place.

“We need a broom,” she said, and Marie scurried off to find the yard brush. Adelaide took it from her. “You start on the kitchen floor,” she said, “I’ll finish up here.”

Gerard and Marie disappeared indoors and Adelaide swept away the telltale marks left by the dragged hearth rug. She brushed the dust back over the capstone, treading it down into the cracks, pressing it round the ring with her fingers so that there was no sign that the stone had been moved. Once the cattle came into the yard for the morning milking, all traces should be obliterated.

When she returned to the kitchen she found Marie on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Fernand had fallen forward, and though his wound had bled, a little of his blood had pooled on the floor, and she was managing to remove the stains. Gerard was collecting up the glass from the shattered window. The force with which Adelaide had hurled the butter jar had sprayed glass all over the kitchen. Adelaide helped him pick up the larger pieces and then they swept up the remaining shards and carried them outside.

It was full daylight before they had cleared away all signs of their night’s work, and when they had finally finished, they all three of them slumped into chairs round the kitchen table.

Gerard buried his head in his hands, the last vestiges of his strength ebbing away. Marie, surprisingly the stronger of the two, looked across at Adelaide and gave a weak smile.

“Adèle,” she said, “you saved our lives. If that pig had got what he wanted, he would have turned us into the Gestapo, and if he hadn’t, he would have killed us both. Thank you. You’re very brave.”

Adelaide smiled back at her. “You too,” she said. She knew that she had been running on adrenaline and now she too felt exhausted. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was not long after you’d gone. Fool that I was, I hadn’t locked the back door. I heard someone in the scullery and I thought one of you must have come back for some reason.” Marie grimaced. “I went to see what you wanted and”—she drew a deep breath as the fear struck her again—”and there he was, with his knife at my throat.

“I tried to scream, but he hit me across the face. I staggered against the wall and he grabbed at me, threatening to stab me if I made any more noise. Then he tied me up to the chair. He asked about the Auclons, and when I said I didn’t know anything about them, he said we’d wait for Gerard.” She looked across at Adelaide. “I don’t think he knew you lived here too, and thank God for it.”

Adelaide squeezed her hand. “We should bathe your face, Marie,” she said, looking at the long gash across Marie’s cheek. The bleeding had stopped, but it was a nasty cut. “It really needs stitches—you should go to the doctor.”

“And how will she explain it?” demanded Gerard, suddenly looking up.

“The broken glass from the window,” suggested Adelaide. “We are going to have to account for the broken window somehow. You’ll have to try and get some glass to mend it.”

“What will we say?” Gerard said wearily.

Adelaide thought for a moment. “If you’re asked, you say you were using the axe to chop wood in the yard and the head flew off and smashed the window.”

Gerard looked at her blankly as she went on. “Come on, Gerard, it could have happened like that. We have to have a story ready in case we are asked. If we aren’t, fine, but if we are, we must all say the same thing.” She reached across the table and took the hand of each of the Launays in hers. “You’ve both been so brave tonight, sheltering the Auclons and then standing up to Fernand. You were amazing, but we have to see it through. If Marie doesn’t go to the doctor to have that gash stitched, it will look more suspicious than if she does. If you’d had an accident with the axe, you’d have taken her straight over.” She squeezed their hands gently. “You’ve kept the Auclons safe, and we’ll find a way to help them escape.”

Marie nodded. “Adèle is right, Gerard, we must look as normal as possible. I will go to Dr Monceau in a little while. You must do the milking, and Adèle must go to the convent. All must be as normal.”

All must be as normal, Adelaide thought as she pedalled her way up the hill to the convent. What is normal in these dreadful times? A family hiding in a cellar, a man threatening torture and ending up at the bottom of a well? Me killing someone, plunging a knife into his back?

The memory of the knife jarring into the man’s body flooded through her and Adelaide tumbled off her bicycle and was sick in the hedge. But although her body had reacted against her action, her mind did not. Him or us, she reminded herself as she re-mounted the bike. Him or us.

19

The Germans raided the convent while the nuns were at early Mass. The thundering on the front door could be heard all over the building, and Father Michel’s reedy voice faded away as the pounding continued. Sister Celestine, the portress, stumbled to her feet, her face ashen with fear, but Mother Marie-Pierre also stood. She murmured to Sister Celestine that she would deal with whoever was at the door, and quietly left the chapel. She was in no doubt as to who was demanding entrance; only the Germans knocked that way, the Germans under Colonel Hoch.

When she reached the door, she flung it wide, so that the soldier hammering with the huge knocker almost fell in. Colonel Hoch was standing on the steps, at the head of a group of men, but Mother Marie-Pierre could see soldiers already trampling the bushes along the drive, and she had no doubt that there would be other men in the courtyard, searching there.

She drew a deep breath. “Good morning, Colonel Hoch. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Reverend Mother,” he looked her up and down, “how unusual that you should open the door yourself.”

“My sisters and I were at Mass,” Mother Marie-Pierre said coolly. “I came, so that they shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“You will all be disturbed,” remarked the colonel, “if I choose to disturb you.” He waved a hand at the men waiting beside him. “Carry on, Sergeant,” he said. “And make it a thorough search.”

The men flooded into the hallway and dispersed throughout the convent building. Mother Marie-Pierre saw several head up the staircase while others made for the kitchens.

“Perhaps you could tell me what you are looking for,” she suggested to Hoch who had followed his men into the hall and now stood, his cold eyes roving in every direction.

His gaze returned to her, but he did not answer her question. “Go and tell your nuns to stay in the chapel until I say they may come out.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and turned to go back to the chapel. As she did so, one of the soldiers came back from the kitchen, pushing Adelaide in front of him.

“Found her in the cellar, sir. Says she’s the maid.”

Mother Marie-Pierre didn’t understand what had been said, but she did recognise the word “keller” and guessed where Adelaide had been found.

Colonel Hoch looked at Adelaide for a moment and then spoke in French. “Name?”

“Please, sir, Adèle Durant, sir.”

“I’ve seen you here before,” Hoch said. “What were you doing in the cellar?”

Adelaide had no need to pretend she was afraid; her voice shook as she answered. “Bringing up the coal for the range, sir. It’s my first job in the mornings.”

Her hands were black with coal dust and the colonel seemed to accept this answer. He directed his next question to the man who had brought her. “Have you searched the cellar, Schultz?”

“Not yet, sir. I was about to when I found the girl. Thought she might be one of the ones we were looking for, sir.”

“Well, go back and search. You, girl, wait in the kitchen.”

Schultz took Adelaide by the arm and pushed her in front of him down the passage to the kitchen. Two men were already searching here, but Schultz ignored them. “You, girl, bring a light.”

“I don’t understand,” Adelaide wailed, wringing her hands in agitation.

Schultz repeated his order, this time in heavily accented and ungrammatical French. “Find light. Come with me.”

Ignoring the searching men, he moved straight towards the cellar door. It was clear to Adelaide that this man knew his way about, that he must have searched the place before.

Would he remember exactly how the cellar had looked last time, she wondered? Would he notice that all the furniture had been moved, that it was now stacked in a different place?

He flung open the cellar door and then turned round. “You,” he shouted at Adelaide again, “bring lamp.”

“It’s at the bottom of the stairs,” Adelaide told him, pointing down the steps. “An oil lamp.”

Again he gestured with the rifle. “Go, make light.”

Adelaide did as she was told, gripping the handrail of the cellar steps tightly as she made her way down. Her heart was pounding as she struck a match to light the lamp, but her mind was racing. You’ve got to stay cool, she told herself. You’ve got to decide what to do if he finds the hidden room.

Nothing, she decided ruefully. There was nothing she could do if he actually found the room, but she might be able to distract him in some way, before he did so.

Schultz followed her down, and, pausing at the bottom of the steps, looked about him. His eye fell on the jars of preserves standing on the shelf. Without comment he reached up and took two jars of honey, stuffing them into his pockets. He ran an eye round the cellar for anything else that he might be able to purloin, but seeing nothing easily portable, he turned his attention to the rest of the cellar.

“Bring light,” he ordered. Obedient to a jerk of his head, Adelaide preceded him through the remaining cellars. He peered into each until he came at last to the pile of furniture. Adelaide found she was holding her breath and forced herself to breathe again as he gave it only a cursory glance.

“What a load of junk,” he said, reaching out for an old three-legged stool. There was a scuffling sound and he leapt back, jerking his hand away, as a large brown rat emerged from the heap and scuttled away across the floor. Adelaide gave a loud shriek, clutching her skirt about her.

His attention diverted from the furniture, the man gave a harsh laugh. “Stupid woman!” He pushed her ahead of him to light his way back to the stairs. As he passed the apple store he helped himself to a couple of apples, pushing them down into his pockets, his eyes daring Adelaide to comment on the theft. She lowered her own, as if afraid to meet his challenge, exulting inside that his greed should have blinded him to anything in the cellar that he could not steal.

When they returned to the kitchen, it was clear that his men had found nothing. The sergeant threw open the back door and they stalked out into the courtyard to join in the search there.

Adelaide slumped onto a chair, relief flooding through her that the safe room had so far escaped detection. If the Germans left empty-handed they would concentrate their search somewhere else, and perhaps the Auclons would be safe enough for a few days. But it worried her that the Germans were already looking for the little family. Alain Fernand must have told them about the Auclons before he came searching at the Launays’. That meant, before long, they would realise he was missing. Had he mentioned the Launays as well? Would they come searching there? Adelaide shuddered to think what would happen to them if his body was discovered in the well.

When the Germans had finally departed empty-handed, Mother Marie-Pierre went back to the chapel where the entire community was waiting. Father Michel sat in the carved oak chair to one side of the altar, his head in his hands. Soldiers had burst into the chapel, searching the Lady Chapel, disappearing behind the high altar, jabbing at the velvet hangings with rifle butts and banging about in the vestry, peering into the confessional box before slamming out again. Thoroughly shaken by this invasion, Father Michel had hastily muttered the final prayers of the Mass, and, having divested himself of his vestments, simply sat down to wait. The nuns were all in their stalls, some on their knees, others seated reading their office. No one spoke. All looked up, some expectantly, others fearfully, when the door opened again and Reverend Mother came in.

“Thank you, Sisters, for your patience,” she said briskly. “The Germans have now gone, so I suggest we all get back to our normal duties as quickly as we can.” The sisters began to file out of the chapel, each genuflecting as she passed in front of the altar.

Father Michel hurried down the aisle, his face pale. He did not return Reverend Mother’s greeting, but simply nodded to her and hastened away, as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

Mother Marie-Pierre waited by the door and as Sister Marie-Marc came past her, she spoke quietly. “Sister, would you be kind enough to ask young Adèle Durant to come to my office, please.”

Sister Marie-Marc bobbed her head, murmuring, “Yes, Mother, of course.”

Reverend Mother waited until all but the sister on watch had left the chapel, and then she slipped into a seat near the back. She needed a few moments of silent peace to draw her thoughts together. She prayed for strength, and she prayed for wisdom, that she might know what to do. The German raid had left her both angry and afraid.

Colonel Hoch had been as cold as always, his chilly eyes completely lacking emotion, but she knew he had expected to find something… or someone.

The search had been thorough. Every room entered and searched, furniture moved, cupboards emptied. The chapel, the kitchens, the cellar, the sisters’ cells, even her own office, each had a detail of soldiers to carry out the search. Hoch had stood in the hallway, waiting for each group to report back to him, and Reverend Mother had returned from the chapel defiantly standing with him, determined to remain unintimidated, but she almost sagged with relief when the final report came in. Nothing to be found.

“Now the hospital,” he barked, and led his men out through the courtyard gate to the hospital beyond the wall. They swept into the wards, leaving Sister Marie-Paul, Sister Jeanne-Marie and Mother Marie-Pierre to watch helplessly, as the colonel and his men searched every cubicle, every cupboard, every storeroom.

“What are they looking for?” murmured Sister Marie-Paul, as one of them upended a basket of dirty linen.

“Some escaped prisoners, I think,” replied Reverend Mother softly. “He seems to think they are in the convent.”

Every name above a bed was checked against the ward list, medical reports scrutinised and papers inspected. At last, satisfied that all the patients were genuine and accounted for, Hoch had got back into his car and his men had disappeared to search elsewhere.

As usual, the incense-scented silence of the chapel worked its cure. Reverend Mother had always laid her problems at the feet of her Lord, and the moments of peace spent with Him now calmed and strengthened her, and when she left the sanctuary of the chapel she returned to her office with renewed resolve.

Within moments someone tapped on the door, and she knew it must be Adèle. Mother Marie-Pierre seated herself behind her desk and rang the bell to summon her into the office.

“Ah, Adèle,” she said coolly as the girl came in. “Come in and shut the door.”

Adelaide closed the door firmly and then turned back to face her aunt.

Mother Marie-Pierre came straight to the point. “You know the Germans were here, searching the convent this morning, Adèle. Was that anything to do with you?” Her eyes were steely as she looked at Adelaide. “Have you hidden your escaping prisoners in the convent in spite of what I said?”

Adelaide, taking in Reverend Mother’s serious tone, addressed her formally. “No, Mother. Not exactly.”

“What do you mean? Not exactly? Have you put the convent at risk?”

Adelaide returned her gaze levelly. “I have, yes, but…”

“How dare you!” The anger in Mother Marie-Pierre’s voice was barely controlled. “After I expressly told you that it was out of the question?” She stared at her niece for a moment and then spoke more calmly. “You may be prepared to put the whole convent at risk, Adèle, but I am not. Where are these prisoners? Where have you hidden them? They should be handed over as prisoners of war. They’ll be locked up, yes, but no harm will come to them.”

“Sarah…”

“Mother,” corrected her aunt, icily. “You will no longer presume on our relationship.”

Adelaide inclined her head, accepting the rebuke, but she spoke firmly. “Mother… look, it’s not what you think. I have hidden people in the convent, yes, but not escaped prisoners of war.”

“Then who?”

“The Auclon family.”

“What?” Mother Marie-Pierre stared at her in disbelief.

“The Auclon family. They’re Jews and…”

“I know who they are,” interrupted Reverend Mother, still disbelieving. “They’re here? In the convent?”

“Well, they’ve been in hiding, hidden by some good people for months, but now that hiding place has become unsafe. They were brought to our farm last night and we were asked to hide them. We had nowhere they could be hidden, so I brought them here. Father, mother and the twin boys.”

“But where did you put them?” asked her aunt faintly. “Where are they now?”

“I hid them in the cellar.”

“But the Germans searched the cellar… “

“And they didn’t find them. I put them into the room where you hid Terry Ham. The one with grating to the outside.”

“But why didn’t the Germans find them?”

“I pulled all the old furniture over in front of the door. You can’t see it unless you move all the furniture away. The sergeant who searched the cellars insisted on searching alone because he wanted to raid your stores. His search was only cursory; he was more interested in stealing food from your store cupboard than looking for Jews he didn’t expect to find.”

“But when?”

“Last night. Gerard and I brought them up. We moved the outside grating and got them in that way.”

“No, not that. When did you move all this furniture?”

“I did it several days ago,” admitted Adelaide with a wry smile. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I had to have a safe place for people to hide in case of emergency. Last night I decided this was an emergency. I was remembering what you told me Sister Eloise had said to you, ‘You have to fight evil wherever you meet it.’ “

“Don’t use poor Sister Eloise to justify what you did,” snapped Reverend Mother.

“Why not?” Adelaide would not give ground. “It’s what she said and it’s what I did.” The two women stared at each other for a moment before Adelaide spoke more gently. “It’s what you’d have done, Mother. What was I to do with those children? They’re only four years old. They’ve been living in a derelict cottage for the last six months and now they’re underground, in a cellar. We couldn’t just let the Germans ship them off to some camp. Don’t worry, Mother, I promise you it’s just a short-term measure. I’m going to get them away.”

“How?” asked Reverend Mother. “There are four of them to move. They will be extremely noticeable, especially Monsieur Auclon. He has typical Jewish features, and he’s well known around here. He’ll be spotted a mile off.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Adelaide said. “I have the beginnings of a plan, but the less you know of it the better. I have to work out the details and it will take a few days to put into action, but I think we should be able to get them safely out of the area.” She looked earnestly at her aunt. “I need to get this family to your friend Father Bernard. No one will be looking for them in Amiens. It’s here they are known, it’s here they were betrayed.”

“Betrayed?” Reverend Mother was shocked. “Who by?”

“A local man. He’s a known collaborator. We guessed he’d discovered their hiding place and he must have tipped off the Germans.”

“He must have seen you bringing the family here, and that’s why they came to search.”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t,” Adelaide said firmly, knowing for certain that he hadn’t. For an instant she saw Fernand’s body on the kitchen floor, her knife protruding from his back, and her stomach turned somersaults but, forcing the image from her mind, she dragged her thoughts back to the present. “We were very careful. We did see two German soldiers come and raid poor Sister Marie-Marc’s henhouse, but they didn’t see us. They were too interested in taking the hens.”

“And what about the people who gave them shelter?” asked Mother Marie-Pierre quietly. “What’s happened to them?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Adelaide. “The Germans may have been there already. We’ll try and find out later, but if they haven’t, we don’t want any attention drawn to them.”

“It makes no sense,” replied her aunt. “The Germans would have gone straight there. Why did they come here?”

“When they found the family weren’t where he’d told them, I imagine they’ll be searching everywhere,” Adelaide said, and heard again the splash as Fernand reached the bottom of the well. She could only pray that when there was the inevitable search of the Launays’ farm, he would not be found. “You sheltered Jews in the convent before, it was the obvious place to start.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded, accepting this. “So, how will we get them away?”

Adelaide noticed the use of the word “we”, and smiled. “I will arrange everything,” she promised. “Do you think your mother house in Paris would give the children a home if necessary?”

“I think so, but not the parents.”

“Never mind about them for the time being. Let’s start with the children. I may need your help when the time comes.”

“What sort of help?”

“I’ll explain nearer the time. The less you know, the safer you are, really. All I need from you now is where to find Father Bernard.”

“He’s the parish priest at Holy Cross in Amiens. His house is opposite the church.” She described how to find Father Bernard’s church, and Adelaide memorised the directions carefully. “You can tell him you come from me.”

Adelaide smiled. “Thank you, Mother. I’m sure that will reassure him.”

“What about the Auclons in the meantime?” asked Reverend Mother. “Have they got food and water? How will you let them know what is going to happen?”

“Leave it all to me; they’ll be fine.” Adelaide tried to sound reassuring. “But I will have to be away for a couple of days. I’ll send a message to say my Aunt Marie is sick and I can’t come to work.” She got to her feet. “I’d better go back to the kitchen now though,” she said.

Reverend Mother stood as well. “Just one thing, Adèle, I am assuming that you, I and the Launays are the only people who know about this hidden room. Yes?”

Adelaide smiled ruefully. “And Sister Marie-Marc,” she admitted. “She followed me into the cellar and found out what I was doing.”

“Sister Marie-Marc,” repeated her aunt. “I might have guessed. She is incorrigible. Does she know the family are in the room?”

“No,” replied Adelaide. “We may need her help when the time comes, but in the meantime it would be better if she knew nothing of what’s happening.”

Reverend Mother could only agree. Coming round the desk she held out her hands to Adelaide and her eyes softened. “I know you felt you had to do this, Adelaide,” she said, “but you have put the convent and its community in grave danger. Please get them away from here as soon as you can.”

When she had finished her work at the convent, Adelaide went straight to Le Chat Noir, wearing the blue headscarf, the sign that she needed immediate help. She had no idea who would respond to the signal, all Marcel had said was that if there was an emergency she should sit in the café, wearing the blue scarf.

“Someone will come and speak to you. They will say, ‘You should wear that colour more often, it suits you,’ and you may trust that person implicitly.”

The café was almost empty when she arrived, and she took a table outside so that she could easily be seen. The waitress came out and she ordered a cup of coffee, then she sat in the afternoon sun, reading a newspaper and sipping the bitter brew. How long would she have to wait, she wondered? After a quarter of an hour, anxious not to make herself conspicuous, she got up to leave. She would come back later and hope the contact would be made. There was little else she could do. She had no idea who Marcel really was, or where he lived. She had never seen him in the village, and so assumed he must live elsewhere. She went inside to pay for her coffee. Two old men were playing dominoes at one of the tables, and two German officers were sharing a bottle of wine at a table by the window, but none of them even glanced at her as she went up to the bar to pay. There was no sign of the girl who had brought the coffee, but an elderly woman sat at the till. She looked up and smiled. “You’re Marie Launay’s niece, aren’t you?” she said as she took the money. Adelaide said she was and the woman went on. “You should wear that colour more often, it suits you.”

Relief flooded through Adelaide. “Thank you, it’s one of my favourites.”

“I’ve got some wool for your aunt,” the woman went on conversationally. “I know she’s a great knitter and I can’t knit anymore.” She displayed fingers twisted with arthritis. “Come through to the back and I’ll find it for you.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” Adelaide followed the old lady through a door behind the counter and found herself in a small parlour. The old lady closed the door behind them and turned to face her.

“You’ve got a problem,” she stated in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Yes, I have to speak to Marcel as soon as possible.”

“The red scarf would have done for that,” snapped the woman. “Blue is for emergency only.”

“This is an emergency,” Adelaide retorted. “I have to see Marcel at once.” She paused, wondering how much to reveal to this old lady, but remembering Marcel saying that she could trust the contact implicitly, she went on. “I have the Auclon family in a safe house, but they can’t stay there. We have to move them on and soon. I must see Marcel. If he can’t come to me, I must go to him.”

“He’ll come.” The woman relaxed a little. “They’re safe, you say? The Auclons?”

“For the moment,” Adelaide replied. “But there are other complications. It’s vital I speak to Marcel today.”

“I understand. I will get a message to him straight away. Will you meet him at the usual place?”

“No, too dangerous. The Germans are everywhere, looking for the Auclons. They’ve already searched the convent. Better to meet somewhere out of sight.”

“Come back this evening,” said the woman. “Come to the side door in the alley at eight. Marcel will be here.” She picked some balls of wool out of a basket by the stove and handed them to Adelaide. “Go back through the café now,” she said, and opening the door led the way.

“It really is most kind of you,” Adelaide was saying as she emerged into the café. “Aunt Marie will be delighted to get her hands on some more wool. Thank you so much.”

Adelaide headed straight home, anxious to pass on the good news that the Auclons had not been found when the convent was searched, but the moment she rode into the farmyard she knew there was something wrong. Gerard should have been bringing the cows in for milking, but the yard was empty. Her eyes immediately flicked to the stone that covered the well, but it was still in place, and there were no signs that it had been moved. She parked her bike against the wall and went into the kitchen.

Marie and Gerard were at the table, talking, both looking pale and anxious. The cut on Marie’s face had been stitched, the sutures a dark cobbled seam against the pallor of her skin. The window behind them was boarded up, leaving the kitchen in a gloomy half-light, despite the sunshine outside.

Marie jumped to her feet. “Adèle, thank God you’re back safe.”

“What’s happened?” Adelaide asked as she joined them. “Trouble?”

“We don’t know,” replied Marie. “Gerard went over to see Étienne and Albertine this afternoon, to let them know the Auclons were safe for now and… well, you tell her, Gerard.”

Gerard took up the story. “When I reached the farm, there was no one about. I looked round the yard, but no sign of anyone. Then I noticed the back door was open so I went in, calling to them, you know. No one there either, the place was empty; but there was a meal on the table, bread and cheese and a bottle of wine. One chair was tipped over, the other pushed back as if someone had just got up. I called again and then I searched the whole house, but there was no one there. Then, when I went back out to search the yard properly, I noticed heavy tyre tracks in the mud.” He sighed. “Only the Boche have trucks heavy enough to make those, so I think we have to accept that Étienne and Albertine have been arrested.” His voice was tight with hatred. “That scum Fernand must have told the Germans before he came here.”

“He may have,” Adelaide agreed, “but that doesn’t really make sense. If he’d already told the Germans where to find the Auclons, why did he turn up here?”

“Because he’d lost them again.” Gerard got to his feet and began to pace the room. “Don’t you see? He finds out where the Auclons are hiding, and goes back to tell his masters. In the meantime, Étienne’s got suspicious of him hanging about the place, so he moves the family here. Fernand goes back to watch the arrest, only to find that the birds have flown. When his friends the Germans arrive they aren’t going to be pleased with him, are they? So he sets out to find them again, and, knowing Étienne’s Marie’s cousin, he comes here.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Adelaide said doubtfully.

“It’s the only thing that fits what we know,” Gerard said warming to his idea.

“But why didn’t the Germans act at once?”

“Dawn raids,” Marie said. “They tend to raid at dawn to catch people before they’re properly awake.”

“That’s right,” Gerard agreed. “They would have crept up to the ruined cottage in the dark and surrounded it, but they wouldn’t go in until it was daylight… to make sure no one got away under cover of darkness.”

“And now they’ve got Étienne and Albertine,” said Marie bleakly.

“And they’ll be looking for Fernand,” pointed out Adelaide.

“I suppose so,” said Gerard.

“Of course they will,” Adelaide said. “They have to find him. If there’s no Fernand, and Albertine did manage to clear the cottage in time, they’ve no proof the Auclons were ever there.”

“Since when do the Germans need proof?” asked Gerard bitterly.

“Adèle’s right, Gerard,” said his wife. “They may have no evidence. They may have just taken them in for questioning.”

“And we all know how the Germans question people!” muttered Gerard.

“Which means they may come looking here,” said Marie.

“They’re already looking for the Auclons, or for somebody,” Adelaide told them. “They searched the convent this morning.”

“They didn’t find them?” whispered Marie.

“No. The secret room held. But we do have to get them out as soon as we can. I’m seeing someone this evening to make plans.” Adelaide got up. “We may need to go to the market in Albert tomorrow,” she said. “Can Sunshine take us in the cart? We could all have a day out.”

At exactly eight o’clock Adelaide knocked on the side door of the café, and it was opened immediately by the old lady.

“Come in,” she said, glancing quickly up and down the alley to see if anyone had noticed Adelaide’s arrival. It was not yet dark, but a damp drizzle had drifted in with the evening and there was no one about.

Marcel was sitting at the kitchen table and he got to his feet as Adelaide came in. “Antoinette, what on earth has happened?” His eyes glowed with suppressed anger. “It puts us all at risk for me to come here.”

“I know,” responded Adelaide as she sat down opposite him, “but we would be at even more risk if I hadn’t been able to speak to you straight away.” She glanced across at the old lady who had seated herself in a chair by the stove.

Marcel followed her glance. “You can talk in front of Juliette, she’s with us.” He picked up a bottle of wine from the table and filling a glass passed it over to her. “Here, have a drink, and then for God’s sake tell us what has happened.”

Adelaide took a sip of the wine and then putting down her glass began. “Well, firstly,” she said, “Alain Fernand is dead.”

“Dead! Christ, what happened to him?”

“I killed him,” Adelaide said. “He was threatening to kill Marie to get some information out of Gerard. He didn’t know I was there. I stabbed him.”

“Stabbed him?” echoed Marcel.

“In the back,” said Adelaide. “He had a knife to Marie’s face and was threatening to blind her.” Her eyes held Marcel’s. “He was trying to make Gerard tell him where a Jewish family were hidden.”

“The Auclons,” put in Juliette.

“Yes, the Auclons. They had been brought to us in the hope we could hide them. Gerard and I managed to get them to a safe place, but when we got back Fernand had Marie tied to a chair in the kitchen.” She explained what had happened when they’d come back and found Fernand in the kitchen.

Marcel listened until she had finished and then, with a look of new respect on his face, he addressed her quietly. “I wouldn’t have thought you had that in you.”

Adelaide gave a shaky laugh. “I wouldn’t have thought so either,” she admitted. “I was sick afterwards. But it wasn’t just him or me, was it? It was to save a family with small children, as well as the three of us.”

“You don’t have to justify your actions to me,” Marcel said cheerfully, “I applaud them. But it has left us with a problem. What have you done with his body?”

Adelaide explained how they had tipped it down the well. “It was the only place we could think of in a hurry.”

“Well, he’ll be safe enough there I should think,” Marcel said, tasting his wine and pulling a face. “It’s most unlikely they’ll find him, unless they have some idea where to look. Do you think anyone else knows he was coming to the Launays’ farm?”

Adelaide shrugged. “He may have told someone, but we doubt it, or they’d have been round already.” She then explained Gerard’s theory. “He could be right,” she added. “The trouble is Étienne and Albertine have disappeared, so we have to assume that they’ve been arrested. That means we could get a visit from the Gestapo as well.”

“Yes, probably,” Marcel agreed. He lit a cigarette, looking thoughtful.

“But there’s nothing to find,” Adelaide continued with more confidence than she felt. “In the meantime, I want to get that family moved out of the area. Apart from their own safety they’re endangering too many other people.”

Marcel shook his head. “Almost impossible with the activity there’ll be in the next few days. You’ll have to wait until the heat dies down.”

“To make the move, maybe, but I want to set the plans in motion, so I’m ready when the time comes.”

She outlined her plan for getting the Auclon family away from the area. Marcel listened carefully and when she’d finished he pinched out his cigarette, putting the remains into a small tin to save for another time. “Well, it is the basis of a plan, but it leaves an awful lot to chance.”

“I know, but provided this priest”—she was careful not to name him even to Marcel—”will take the children, I think they can be got to safety. The parents are another matter. We shall do our best, but they will find it more difficult to get through.”

“The Boche will be looking for a family,” pointed out Juliette, speaking for the first time. “Moving the children separately will cut down the risk for them, but double the risk for you.”

“I can’t move them together for two reasons,” Adelaide reminded her. “One, they are identical twins and that makes them too noticeable, and two, I have only room for one on my bicycle at a time.”

They continued chewing over the plan, discussing possibilities, trying to foresee the problems that might arise. But there were few preparations they could make until Adelaide had been to see Father Bernard.

“It’d be safer if I had some sort of papers for them,” Adelaide said. “Difficult to get identity cards, we can’t get photos, but perhaps if I had ration cards for them…? They’d still be J1s. Can you help there? I’d only need one if I’m moving them separately.”

Marcel shrugged. “I’ll try,” he promised. “Give me a day or two. Anything else? What about the parents?”

“Ration cards would help there too,” Adelaide said, “but we’d have the same problem with identity cards. Just do the best you can. And Marcel, I really need those inner tubes or the whole plan could fail because of a puncture!”

“I’ll get them,” he promised. He looked at his watch and got to his feet. “I’d better get moving,” he said. “Don’t want to be caught out after curfew. I’ll be in the café two nights from now. You come to the side door and if it’s safe Juliette will come and fetch me.” He shook hands with Juliette and then coming round the table embraced Adelaide, kissing her on both cheeks. “You’re a brave girl,” he said. “We’ll get them away.”

“And Fernand?”

“They’ll be looking for him,” Marcel said, “that’s certain, but they won’t find him, will they? Oh, they’ll guess what’s happened to him, but they won’t know where to look.”

“They might make reprisals,” Adelaide said in a small voice.

“If he was a missing German they might, but not for a Frenchman, even if he was a collaborator.”

Marcel had slipped out of the side door and disappeared into the darkness, and Adelaide waited another ten minutes before she followed him into the night.

Next morning Gerard put old Sunshine between the shafts of the cart and they were on the road for Albert before most of the village had opened its eyes. It was a glorious summer morning, the sun sparkling in the dew and teasing out the hidden colours of the hedgerows. Birdsong filled the air, and Adelaide was struck by the beauty around her as if seeing it for the first time. How could there be a war going on in such a stunningly beautiful world? The countryside spread away on either side of her; meadows with cattle grazing peacefully, a meandering river, way-marked with willows; fields showing the tender green of new crops.

She thought of the Auclon family, confined to the hidden cellar, as much in prison as if they had been in a dungeon. She wondered how they were coping with so little space and only the daylight filtering through the grating to see by. How long could they keep two four-year-old boys quiet? Children their age should be out playing in this glorious early summer sunshine, not entombed underground, fearful for their lives. Anger rose like bile in her throat at the evil that forced them to remain there, and the day lost its brilliance.

During the previous afternoon, she had returned to the convent kitchen to tell Sister Elizabeth that her aunt was ill and that she would not be able to come to work for the next few days. The nun had been sympathetic and had accepted her story. Sister Marie-Marc had looked at her speculatively, but Adelaide greeted the query in her eyes with a bland smile. “I hope to be back in a few days.”

As she left the courtyard through the back gate, she had paused by the grating, and with the pretence of removing a pebble from her shoe she had stuffed a note down between the bars of the grille. It had told the prisoners below little more than that she would return soon, and her plans were underway, but at least they knew they were not forgotten.

Her thoughts were jolted back to the present by the sound of an engine coming up behind them. Gerard pulled Sunshine into a gateway, to allow a black Citroën, flying the swastika on its front wings, to sweep past them, and disappear in a cloud of dust. It had been impossible to see who was travelling in the car, but Adelaide recognised it as one she’d seen outside the German headquarters in St Croix. “Colonel Hoch?” she suggested.

“Maybe,” Gerard said, as he shook up the reins and Sunshine lumbered out into the lane once more.

At least whoever was in the speeding car wasn’t interested in a country cart on its way to market, Adelaide thought. She could only hope that no one would be interested in a woman on a bicycle with a child in the seat behind her.

When they reached the edge of town Adelaide slipped down from the cart and made her way to the station, while the Launays trundled on into the centre, with the few items of produce they had brought to sell, or exchange, at the market.

Adelaide went to the station and found that there was a train for Amiens due within the hour, so she got herself a ticket, bought a newspaper from a stand and sat down to wait. Surprisingly the train was almost on time, and along with a crowd of others she scrambled gratefully into a carriage. As the train pulled out of the station some minutes later, she found herself crammed into a compartment with seven other people. Opening her paper she hid behind it, only emerging to show her ticket to the ticket inspector. There were no spot checks of identity cards, and when they reached Amiens Adelaide was able to get off and leave the station unchallenged. Following Sarah’s directions, she had little trouble in finding the Church of the Holy Cross.

The notice board outside proclaimed the parish priest to be Father Bernard Dupré. Mass was at eight o’clock every morning, and confession daily between two and four o’clock.

Adelaide had been going to knock on the door of the priest’s house and ask to see Father Bernard, but now a better idea came to her. She looked at her watch. It was half-past two. He would already be in the church ready to hear confessions. How much better it would be if she approached him in the confessional. She could speak to him privately without giving rise to comment or suspicion.

She pushed the church door open and slipped inside. She could see the confessional box in one of the transepts. There was an old lady kneeling in a pew outside, but the door of the box was open to show that the priest was ready to receive his next penitent. Adelaide knelt for a moment or two, her head bowed, then she rose and went inside, pulling the door closed behind her. It was so long since she had been to confession that she had almost forgotten the words.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

She heard the murmur of a voice from the other side of the curtain and spoke softly. “Father Bernard, is that you? Mother Marie-Pierre sent me.”

For a moment there was silence and then the curtain twitched aside and the priest looked through at her.

“I’m sorry, my child,” he said, “but I think you must be mistaken. I don’t think I know a Mother Marie-Pierre.”

“I understand, Father… but even so she sends you this message. Sergeant Terry Ham reached home in safety. That’s what she asked me to say.”

The priest looked at her from under hooded brows. “I am always glad to hear that people are safe,” he said cautiously.

Adelaide held his gaze, and then took the plunge. “There is a family who need your help, Father. May I bring them to you?”

“What could I do for them?” he asked.

“They need to get away to somewhere they aren’t known,” replied Adelaide. “You have contacts.” When the priest didn’t answer she went on. “There are two little boys, twins, only four years old. Jacques and Julien. If I don’t get them away soon, they will surely be found.”

“Where are their parents?” asked Father Bernard. He seemed to have come to some decision.

“With them at present, but they will be safer not moving as a family. They will travel separately.”

“How would you bring the children?”

“One at a time, on the train. They’re identical. They would be too conspicuous if we moved them together.”

“It doubles the risk for you,” pointed out the priest.

“Yes,” agreed Adelaide, “but it’s the only way.”

“And the parents?” Father Bernard asked again.

“They will travel in disguise. Mother Marie-Pierre will provide a nun’s habit for the mother, I was hoping you could give me a cassock to take back for the father. With luck, dressed like that they won’t be challenged.”

“And if you are stopped while bringing the boys to me, what will you say?”

“I’ll have a letter from a doctor saying that the child needs to see an eye specialist at the hospital here in Amiens. I hope that will be explanation enough.”

“We’ve talked long enough here,” said the priest. “When you leave the confessional, stay kneeling in the church for a while as if doing penance, then go over to the house and tell Madame Papritz that I said you were to wait for me there. I’ll come across as soon as I’ve finished here.”

It was some time later that Father Bernard was able to join Adelaide in the priest’s house. In the meantime she had been left in the parlour by Madame Papritz, who, on hearing she had had nothing to eat, brought her some bread and a teaspoonful of jam.

“I am sorry there is not more to offer you,” she apologised, “but you know how things are.”

Adelaide certainly did; food was scarce everywhere, but in the cities it was far worse than in the rural areas, where people could supplement their diet with home-grown produce. She thanked the housekeeper, and having eaten the bread and jam she settled back to wait for Father Bernard.

When the priest came in he took Adelaide into his study and closed the door.

“Now then, Mademoiselle.”

“Antoinette.”

“Antoinette. You’d better tell me the whole story, and then we’ll see what I can do to help.”

20

Adelaide returned to Albert carrying a small cardboard suitcase. Again her train journey was trouble-free, and it was with relief that she met the Launays as arranged in a café close to the market. They did not ask her where she had been, or whom she had met. They all knew that it was safer for them to know nothing. Gerard simply put Sunshine between the shafts and they set off home together through the early twilight.

By the time she kept the appointment with Marcel at Madame Juliette’s, Adelaide had her whole plan mapped out. Marcel greeted her with a kiss on either cheek, and, having poured them each a glass of wine the three of them sat round the table in Madame Juliette’s kitchen. Adelaide told them how she had got on.

“The priest is prepared to take the children and has provided a cassock for Joseph Auclon’s disguise. As soon as I can get the twins to him, he will move them on. As far as the parents are concerned, if they can reach him safely, he will do his best for them. He’ll tell them where the children are, but they won’t be reunited with them in the foreseeable future. It’s too dangerous.”

“Supposing the parents won’t let the children go?” suggested Marcel.

“I’m sure they will when they realise that it may be the only way to save their lives,” Juliette said. “They’ll put their children first.”

“I’m going to tell them this evening, after I leave here,” Adelaide said. “And then I hope to take the first child tomorrow. How did you get on with the ration cards, Marcel? Any luck?”

“More than I’d expected,” Marcel said. “If you can call it luck. A little lad called Olivier Costeau died of diphtheria a couple of weeks ago. He was only four. When I explained what we needed, his parents gave me his identity card and his ration card. The picture probably isn’t very like the Auclon boys. What colour is their hair?”

“Dark,” replied Adelaide.

“Good. So was Olivier’s, so it may be better than nothing.” Marcel held out the documents and Adelaide took them, looking carefully at the photograph. She forced from her mind that she was looking at the picture of a dead four-year-old, and concentrated on the use to which his papers could be put.

“It’s a grainy picture of a little boy,” she said, passing it across to Juliette. “If we part the Auclon boys’ hair on the same side and make the front stand up in that little quiff, they might pass muster provided the papers are only given a cursory glance. It’s worth a try anyway.”

Juliette nodded. “Best we can do,” she said, “and certainly better than being without any.”

Marcel then produced a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “I’ve got these, too,” he said. “Some of Olivier’s clothes.” He passed them over to Adelaide. “His parents said that they hoped they would be of use to some other boy now.”

Adelaide unwrapped the parcel. There were two sets of good sturdy clothing and two pairs of shoes. She remembered how ragged the twins had looked as they sat in the Launays’ kitchen, and her heart went out to the parents of little dead Olivier.

“Thank them for us,” she said to Marcel. “And for Madame Auclon. She’ll be so grateful. Those boys are dressed in rags.”

“Now I have something for you,” Madame Juliette said. She crossed to a little desk at the side of the room, and, opening it, produced a piece of paper. “I went to see Dr Monceau this morning,” she said, “and while his receptionist was in with him I managed to get hold of a piece of his headed paper. Only one, though, so we need to do a practice run before we write on it.”

Adelaide beamed at the old lady. “Madame Juliette,” she said in admiration, “you are amazing!” She looked at the paper with Dr Monceau’s name, address and qualifications across the top. “This is perfect.”

Together they worked out the wording they would need in the doctor’s letter, and then, having practised the doctor’s spidery hand from a prescription Juliette had, Marcel carefully wrote the letter on the stolen paper.

Dear Doctor Aristide,

I am sending this boy, Olivier Costeau, to you because I am gravely worried about his deteriorating sight. Though his eyes seem clear enough much of the time, on occasion they cloud over and the child loses his peripheral vision. This is happening with increasing frequency and as it is not something I have come across before, I would appreciate you taking a look and recommending some treatment before this loss of sight becomes permanent.

I remain, yours faithfully,

Denis Monceau

“That should cover us if we’re stopped,” Adelaide said with more assurance than she felt. Would a German soldier, or a French gendarme for that matter, accept the letter at face value? She could only pray that they would.

“With the identity card, a ration card and the child in reasonable clothing, and the doctor’s letter, you should get through safely enough,” Marcel agreed. “Now all we have to do is to convince the Auclons to let the boys go.”

“And convince the boys to leave their parents,” added Madame Juliette.

This problem had been vexing Adelaide too. How would the little boys react to being taken away from their mother and father? They were only four years old after all, and for much of their short lives had been living in fear. How would they behave when she took them, one at a time, from the security of their parents? It was vital to the whole plan that they went with her without fuss, that they did nothing that would draw attention to themselves.

“We shall have to rely on the parents for that,” Adelaide said now. “It’s all we can do. And I’d better go and get on with it.”

“I’m coming with you,” Marcel announced, adding as Adelaide was about to veto the idea, “we’ll be far less suspicious if we are seen as a courting couple.” He gave her a grin. “It worked before!”

Adelaide gave a reluctant smile. “All right then, but I don’t want to put you at risk when this really has nothing to do with you.”

“Anything thwarting the Germans has to do with me,” Marcel retorted. “Come on, it’s time to go.” He hid the parcel of clothes under his jacket, and Adelaide took charge of Olivier’s papers, hiding them in her underwear.

“I have some food here for them,” Madame Juliette said, passing over a packet for Adelaide to stow in her shoulder bag. “Just some bread and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. Not much I’m afraid, but it may keep them going for another few days.”

She gave each of them a hug. “Be very careful, both of you,” she said. “There are spies everywhere.” She opened the back door and checked that the alley was empty, before Adelaide and Marcel slipped out into the night and made their way to the copse below the convent. It was full darkness, but a sliver of moon hung in a cloudless sky, allowing them to see—and be seen. It was not yet curfew and so they walked together, arm in arm, a courting couple; they met no one, but you never knew who might be watching. Once in the shelter of the copse, they moved silently between the trees up the hill towards the convent wall. Here they waited for several minutes, listening. The night around them seemed empty and still and so they ventured along the track to where the little bush marked the grating.

Adelaide pushed the two twigs through the grille and then after a moment she and Marcel levered it up, allowing Monsieur Auclon to poke his head up from below.

“We must talk to you,” whispered Adelaide. “We can’t risk you coming out here, we’ll have to come down.”

Joseph Auclon nodded and disappeared. Adelaide lowered herself through the hole, followed by Marcel, who drew the grille down over their heads once more. The atmosphere in the cellar was fetid, the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and faeces combining with the stale air to make an almost tangible miasma.

We have to get these people away, Adelaide thought even as she greeted the family. They can’t stay in these conditions much longer.

Joseph lit a candle end and sheltered it in a box so that its glow was concealed from above. In the flickering light Adelaide could see the anxious faces of the parents and the wide eyes of the children, all afraid of what she was going to say.

“We’ve brought some more food,” she said, handing the packet to Janine Auclon. The woman’s hands shook as she opened it and passed out a piece of bread to each of her children, folding the rest back into the bag and setting it aside.

“This is Marcel,” Adelaide told them. “He’s going to help me get you away from here. He has some things for you, too.” Marcel handed the bundle of clothes to Madame Auclon who stared in a mixture of disbelief and gratitude when she saw what they were.

“We have a plan to get you away,” Adelaide continued, “but it has to be done in stages. We have only one set of documents for the boys, so they will have to travel separately.”

“Oh no!” Madame Auclon gave an involuntary cry, but her husband hushed her with a hand on her arm. “Let Antoinette finish.”

“I will take one of them with me this evening,” Adelaide said. “He’ll stay at the farm overnight and then first thing in the morning I will ride into Albert on my bike with him in the child seat on the back. Once in Albert, we shall take the train. There is a priest who will take him in and look after him until I bring his brother, transported in the same way.” She went on to explain about the letter from the doctor.

“I shall only use that if I absolutely have to. They might check. Then, once both the boys are safely with the priest, he will move them on to a place of greater safety.”

“Where?” asked Madame Auclon, unable to remain silent any longer. “Where will he take them?”

“I will tell you in time, Madame,” Adelaide promised. “But for the moment the fewer people who know the better. It is safer for us all.”

“We understand,” Joseph said. “But if these people are risking their lives for us…”

“You will know in time,” repeated Adelaide. “But their risk is greater if you know who or where they are. If you were captured—” She let the sentence hang in the air.

“And us?” asked Janine Auclon quietly. “What are you going to do with us?”

“When the boys are safe, I will come back for you, and try and get you to the same priest. After that it is out of my hands. I don’t know his contacts any more than he knows mine.” She took Janine’s hand in hers. “I’ll come back and I’ll bring disguises for you both. We’ll have an arranged signal for you to open the inner door. Then we’ll get you out through the convent.”

“What disguises?” asked Joseph suspiciously. “How will we be able to travel without papers?”

“You will be disguised as a Catholic priest,” replied Adelaide calmly, “and Janine as a nun. Travelling together, as priest and nun, you may not be troubled for your papers. I might even have some for you by then, I don’t know.”

“Must we really split up?” asked Janine. “The boys are too young to go without us. What will happen to them? How will I bear it?”

“The Germans are still searching for you,” Adelaide told her, “and they’re looking for a family. If we move you all together, we shall fail. You’ll all be caught. This way you all have a chance to escape and survive. Once you reach the priest you will be out of the immediate area and so, probably, out of immediate danger.”

“But must you take the boys tonight?” asked Janine in a querulous voice, hugging them both to her.

“I must take one of them when I leave now,” Adelaide said firmly. “It is the only way. And whichever it is, he must understand that he must be quiet and do exactly what I tell him. I know he’s only four, but it is imperative that he does as he is told.”

“I will talk to him,” Joseph said. “They may only be four years old, but they have learnt that their lives depend on their instant obedience.” He turned to one of the boys and held out his hand. “Julien, come here.”

One of the boys detached himself from his mother and took his father’s hand.

“This is Antoinette, Julien,” Joseph said. “She has brought you some new clothes. In a minute we are going to get you out of those dirty old ones and let you put them on. Then Antoinette is going to take you to her house for the night. You will ride on her bicycle… won’t that be exciting! Tomorrow you’re going on a train and then you are going to stay with a very kind gentleman until Maman and I come and fetch you.”

“Can I go, too?” came a little voice from across the room. “I don’t want Julien to go by himself.”

“You can go the next day, Jacques,” promised his father with a smile. “Mademoiselle Antoinette only has one seat on her bicycle. Julien and the kind gentleman will be waiting for you when you get there. Then you’ll be together until Maman and I can come and find you.” He held out his other hand and the second boy came to him. “You must both be very brave and do exactly what Mademoiselle Antoinette tells you. She will look after you on your journey.”

“We must go,” Marcel said suddenly. “We’ve been here too long. Please get the child changed and ready to come, Madame.” His voice was harsh, but Adelaide was glad he had taken control. It was breaking her heart to take these children from their parents with no guarantee that they would ever be reunited.

She, too, became businesslike, and while Janine Auclon stripped off Julien’s old clothes and dressed him in Olivier’s, Adelaide spoke urgently to Joseph. “If for any reason I don’t come back tomorrow night at about the same time, don’t panic. It could be for any number of reasons. Just have Jacques ready to go with me at the same time the night after. Once they are safe, I will come back for you.” They agreed the signal for him to unlock the door that led in to the convent cellar, and there was a final failsafe. “If anything happens to me and I don’t come back within a week, Marcel will try and contact you. If you hear from neither of us after ten days, then you are on your own and must do whatever you think is best.”

“If that happens how will we find our children?” demanded Janine, who had been listening to this last exchange.

“Once both are safe and you are out of here and on your way I will give you your next contact.”

“And if something happens to you in the meantime?”

“Madame… Janine.” Adelaide was adamant in her reply. “This is the only way we can do this. If you want your children to stay with you that is your decision, but in that case I can’t help you any more and you will have to leave here.”

“Won’t you even tell me just the town where they are going?” pleaded Janine. “I must know where to begin looking if we lose them.”

“If I don’t return at any time,” Adelaide said reluctantly, “you can ask Reverend Mother. She will set you on the right road. Now, we must go.” She got to her feet and held out her hand to the little boy now dressed in clean and tidy clothes. They were a little on the large side, but Adelaide decided that didn’t really matter. Any prudent mother would buy a size too big to make the clothes last as long as possible, especially as clothes needed coupons.

For a moment the boy held on to his mother, clinging to her waist, his head buried against her, then gently she put him away from her and spoke softly. “Go with Antoinette, Julien. We’ll be with you again very soon, I promise.” She reached down and kissed him and then turned away before he could see the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Joseph took the boy’s hand. “Be a good boy for Antoinette, Julien.”

Marcel already had the grating lifted away and had slithered through to the open air above. He stuck his head back down to give the all-clear. Joseph gave his son one last convulsive hug, handing him up into Marcel’s waiting arms, before turning away to comfort his wife and Jacques, both of whom were sobbing. Adelaide climbed the ladder and hauled herself out onto the grass, then together she and Marcel replaced the grating, checking the marker bush was in place and scattering the loose twigs around it.

The little boy was shivering in the darkness and Marcel scooped him up into his arms. “Now, mon brave,” he said encouragingly, and setting the boy on his shoulders he strode off down the hill.

“It must be past curfew,” Adelaide warned as they reached the edge of the copse.

“I know,” Marcel agreed. “You take him now.” He lowered the child to the ground. “As we go along the towpath, I’ll go ahead, in case of trouble. You follow behind. If necessary, I’ll cause a diversion and you get him safely back to the farm. All right?”

“All right.” Adelaide took Julien’s hand and crouched down beside him. “We have to be very quiet now, Julien, OK? If we meet someone just do what I do.” She could just see him nod in the faint light of the moon. “Good boy. Come on then.”

They walked along the river path until they reached the track that led to the Launays’ farm. From there it was only a matter of moments before they were safely in the big kitchen with the door shut and bolted.

Marcel did not come in with them. “I’ll see you tomorrow, when you get back.”

“No,” Adelaide said firmly. “Don’t come. I don’t need you and it’s pointless to take the risk. I can go and fetch Jacques. They’ll let him go now.”

“You’ll need help getting the parents out,” he said.

“If all goes well with the boys,” Adelaide said, “I’ll meet you at the café in two days’ time. If something goes wrong, stay clear. There’ll be nothing you can do for me.”

Marcel knew it was true, but he also realised that this girl, so brave and independent, had slipped into his heart without him noticing. He held her briefly in his arms. “All right, two days. Be very careful, Adèle. What you are doing is very dangerous.”

Adelaide smiled up at him. “My just being here is dangerous,” she said.

He kissed her then, a hard possessive kiss, before he let her go, and turning away disappeared into the night.

Marie Launay sat Julien at the table and gave him a bowl of warm soup. The little boy took the bowl in his hands and, tilting it to his lips, didn’t put it down again until it was empty. Then he took the piece of bread she had put beside him and wiped the bowl round and round until it was spotless. Adelaide, watching, realised just how hungry the family must have become shut away for days in the cellar. No wonder the child was so small for his age, small and filthy. Marie filled a tin bath with warm water and sitting him in it she scrubbed his skinny body from head to toe, and when he was clean Adelaide took him into the bed beside her. To her surprise he fell instantly asleep and as she lay next to him, listening to his quiet breathing, she thought about the coming day.

Soon after dawn the next morning, Adelaide slipped Julien into the child seat of the bicycle and they set off. As Julien had devoured the egg and milk Marie gave him for breakfast, Gerard had replaced the two worn inner tubes on the bike with two slightly less patched ones Marcel had managed to find, and Adelaide had studied Olivier Costeau’s papers, memorising his address and date of birth. She had parted Julien’s hair on the right and combed it forward into the quiff shown in the photograph.

“There’s some similarity,” she said, showing the picture to Marie, “if you don’t look too hard!”

She had impressed upon Julien that today he was going to be called Olivier. “I shall call you Olivier,” she told him, “and if anyone asks you your name, you must tell them it’s Olivier. We’ll make a game of it. Every time I say, ‘OK, Olivier’ you must say ‘Yes, Auntie’. OK, Olivier?”

He looked at her for a moment and then responded hesitantly. “Yes, Auntie.”

Adelaide beamed at him. “Bravo, Olivier.”

“Take something for later,” Marie said, and Adelaide took two apples from the Launays’ meagre store and put them in her shoulder bag.

Adelaide pedalled along the track that skirted the village. Even though he was small, Julien’s weight made it hard going along the bumpy track. Adelaide was soon puffing, but she dare not stop. The further away they were before anyone saw them, the better. Once they were clear of the village and on the road to Albert the going got easier, and they began to make better time. The country was comparatively flat, and though on occasion she had to get off and walk, pushing the bike up a slope, the hills were not steep. There was no traffic at first, but as they began to get closer to Albert, they met farm carts, other bicycles and even an occasional car.

On reaching the railway station, Adelaide dismounted and lifted Julien out of his seat. She bent down to him and spoke softly. “OK, Olivier?” He looked at her for a moment, his big eyes solemn in his pale face, and then whispered back, “Yes, Auntie.”

“Good boy,” she said. “Come on, let’s find the train.” She chained her old bike to a railing and headed to the ticket office.

A train came steaming in just as they reached the platform, and Adelaide was able to lift Julien into a compartment, clambering aboard behind him. She sat in a corner and put the small boy on her lap. With her arm protectively round him, she whispered, “OK, Olivier?” and the child snuggled against her, murmuring, “Yes, Auntie.”

Today the train was nothing like as full as it had been last time Adelaide had travelled to Amiens. To her dismay a German officer also got into the compartment, who, from his insignia, Adelaide knew to be a captain in the SS. It was enough to deter others from joining them and when the train finally pulled out of the station they were the only people in the compartment.

For a while they all sat in silence, and then, trying to sound natural, Adelaide began to talk to Julien, pointing out things from the window as they chugged along.

“Look, Olivier,” she said, “there’s a market down there. Can you see all the people? Olivier, look at the man fishing! Look, Olivier, there’s a dog chasing some sheep. What a bad dog he is!”

“Would your little boy like some chocolate?”

The question jerked Adelaide’s attention from the world beyond the railway carriage, back to the officer, sitting opposite.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur?” Adelaide kept her voice even and polite.

“I said, would your little boy like some chocolate? I have some here.” He held out a bar of chocolate, still in its wrapping.

“You’re very kind,” Adelaide began, “but…”

“Please, Madame, take it for him.” The captain smiled, still holding out the chocolate.

“Thank you,” Adelaide said. “You’re very generous.” She took the chocolate and broke a piece off. As she handed it to the child she reminded him to be polite. “Say thank you, Olivier.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Julien replied dutifully, but he didn’t say thank you. Adelaide popped the piece of chocolate into his mouth so that he wouldn’t say anything else, before speaking herself. “I’m sorry, he’s very shy.”

“I know how it is,” the man agreed. “I have a son of my own about the same age, Kurt. When you want him to be quiet he never stops, prattling on about anything and everything, but when you want him to speak up he goes all shy.”

Adelaide tried to hand back the rest of the chocolate bar, but the soldier shook his head. “No, keep it. Give him some more later… or have some yourself.”

Adelaide smiled. “Thank you. I’ll keep it for him. It’ll be a special treat.” She settled Julien more comfortably on her lap, and turned her head again to the window.

“Are you going to Amiens?” asked the German.

“Yes.” Adelaide was extremely unwilling to be drawn into conversation with the man, but neither did she want to arouse his suspicions. “Yes, we are.”

“To visit family?”

Adelaide hesitated, better not to invent family and come unstuck somehow, better to stick with the cover story. After all it was perfectly feasible, and she need not show him the letter.

“No,” she replied. “I am taking my nephew to the hospital. He has something wrong with his eyes.”

“Oh, poor child, he does look very pale. My son Kurt is very strong, and big for his age.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a creased photograph showing a woman smiling into the camera, a young boy held in her arms, reaching out towards the photographer with one hand, the other firmly round his mother’s neck. “He will have a brother or sister very soon.”

It was clear to Adelaide that the German was homesick for his family and she encouraged him to talk about them, thus directing the conversation away from her and Julien. When at last the train steamed into Amiens Station she felt she knew almost all there was to know about the man’s family and was very relieved that they had arrived.

She got to her feet, keeping firm hold on Julien’s hand. “OK, Olivier?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

The officer got up as well. “I have a car waiting for me here,” he said. “I will drive you to the hospital.”

“Oh, no, really, please don’t trouble,” Adelaide began, “we’ll be fine…”

“It’s no trouble, Madame,” he insisted, and getting down from the train ahead of her turned back to lift Julien down. The boy clung to Adelaide, his face buried in her skirt, and she could feel that he was rigid with fear. Very gently she reassured him. “It’s all right, Olivier. It’s all right.” She glanced up at the captain who still stood with his arms extended to take the boy.

“Thank you, Monsieur, but I can manage.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, the German reached up and pulled Julien out of her grasp and then set him down on the platform, before extending his hand to help her down as well.

“My car will be waiting outside,” he said. “Come along.”

Adelaide was about to protest again when she saw that there was a documents check at the barrier, so she simply gathered Julien up into her arms. “You’re very kind.” They followed the officer to the barrier and, when it was obvious that she was with him, followed in his wake when he was waved through. As they came out into the open she saw a sleek black car, similar to the one Colonel Hoch drove around in, and a chill ran through her. The waiting driver was leaning on the bonnet, but the moment he saw the captain he leapt to attention with a smart “Heil Hitler!” and opened the door.

The captain ushered them in ahead of him, and, unable to do anything else, Adelaide slid into the back seat and drew Julien safely into her arms. She broke off another piece of the precious chocolate and put it into his mouth, the wondrous taste silencing him. Adelaide could only pray that he stayed silent until they were set down. The captain gave some instructions to the driver and then got in beside them. As they drove through the streets, people averted their eyes from the car flying swastika flags. No one wanted to see who had been picked up this time.

“You really have been most kind,” Adelaide said when they reached the hospital and the car came to a halt. She opened the door and put Julien out onto the pavement. Slipping out herself, she turned back and smiled at the captain, still sitting, she thanked God, in the back of the car. “Thank you very much, Monsieur.”

It was with profound relief that she shut the door and saw the car slide away to disappear round the corner. Taking Julien’s hand she moved quickly away from the hospital doorway, and turned into a side street, for fear that the car could simply be turning round and might come back the same way.

“Not far, Olivier,” she said brightly as they set off along the narrow street. “OK?”

“Yes, Auntie,” came the dutiful reply.

And he’s only four, thought Adelaide despondently.

Father Bernard greeted them warmly, and Julien was soon ensconced in Madame Papritz’s kitchen.

“Any problems?” asked the priest quietly as they watched the little boy tuck into yet more food.

Adelaide told him about the German who had been so kind to Julien.

“They’re not all monsters,” Father Bernard said with a sigh. “Many of them are perfectly decent men who’d rather be at home with their families.”

“Well,” replied Adelaide, “I was thinking how ironic it would be, if we’d been caught because of a German officer’s kindness.” She thought of the dark, ruthless face of Colonel Hoch and shuddered. They were two very different men. “But he’d have changed his tune if he’d realised that he had an escaping Jew in his car.”

Though she had not eaten all day, Adelaide refused food from Madame Papritz. “I’ll eat when I get home again,” she said, loath to take any more of the household’s precious rations. “Here, you’d better have these,” and she handed over the two apples and half the remaining chocolate for Julien. The rest of it she kept to give Jacques, the next day.

“I should be back again tomorrow, if all goes well,” she promised the priest as she took her leave. “I can’t leave you the papers I have for Julien as I need them for Jacques tomorrow, but once he is safely here you can keep them.”

Father Bernard blessed her and wished her God’s speed, and she set off back to the station.

She reached the Launays’ farm without any problem and sat in the kitchen to eat the bean stew that Marie had made. She wished that she’d been going to see Marcel; to tell him how the journey had gone, about the captain and the chocolate. She had told the Launays nothing except that Julien was safe.

They, however, had plenty to tell her. As they’d thought, Étienne and Albertine had been arrested by the Germans, but had since been released. Gerard had met Étienne in the village and heard what had happened to them.

“The Germans came and searched the farm,” Étienne had said, “and then they dragged us up to the cottage. Virtually taken that apart they had, but we’d been back and cleared the loft, so there was no sign it had been used lately. They took us to their headquarters and that Major Thielen asked us some questions, whether we’d seen anyone near there, that kind of thing. We said we hadn’t seen anything, and eventually he let us go.”

“You can thank God it was Major Thielen who asked the questions,” Gerard said. “Different matter if it had been Hoch!”

“Have they been to you?” asked Étienne.

“Not yet,” replied Gerard glumly. “But no doubt they will.”

When he got home Gerard found German soldiers in the process of searching his farm and outbuildings. Marie was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, watched over by a young soldier holding a rifle. She leapt to her feet as Gerard came in and the young man shouted at her to sit down again.

“It is my husband,” Marie explained. The soldier motioned with the rifle to the other chair at the table, and Gerard sat down.

“How long have they been here?” Gerard asked softly.

“Not talk!” shouted the soldier, waving his rifle at them. “Not talk!”

The search of the farm revealed nothing, and with a warning that they should report any strangers they saw in the area, the soldiers departed to look elsewhere.

“But they’ll be back,” sighed Gerard. “And next time they’ll be looking for Fernand. It won’t be long before they realise he’s gone missing.”

As darkness fell, Adelaide was again crouched above the grating. She dropped the signal twigs through the grille and it was raised at once from below.

“He’s safe,” she said as Joseph Auclon’s head appeared. “Is Jacques ready?”

“Yes, he’s ready,” replied Joseph with a sigh. He ducked down into the cellar and moments later lifted his tearful second son out of the hole. With the admonition, “Remember, do what Mademoiselle Antoinette tells you,” he lowered his head again and Adelaide was able to slide the grating into place. The little boy stood beside her, shaking, as she hid the entrance again. Then she took his hand and led him quickly away. As they hurried past the convent, a pale face looked down from a window. Intent upon reaching the shelter of the trees, Adelaide didn’t look up, didn’t see the eyes watching her from its shadows.

“We must be very quiet, Jacques,” Adelaide whispered once they were hidden among the trees. She crouched down so her face was at his level and murmured to him. “Don’t be scared, Jacques. Just be a good boy and hold my hand.”

“I want Maman,” wailed the child, his voice reedy and thin, but oh so loud in the darkness.

Adelaide put her arms round him and hugged him tightly. “I know you do, chéri, and you’ll see her very soon, I promise. But now you have to come with me so we can go and find Julien.” She reached into her pocket and found a small piece of the chocolate she had saved for him. “Here, try this.” She slipped the square into his mouth and at once his crying ceased as he tasted the sweetness. “Come on, now,” she whispered.

They reached the farm without meeting anyone and it was with relief that Adelaide handed the little boy over to Marie who gave him hot food, something he hadn’t had for months, before they bathed him and put him to bed, where, like his twin the previous night, he fell asleep at once.

In the morning Adelaide dressed him and did his hair. She taught him the “OK Olivier?” game, and although he still had a tendency to be tearful, she put him onto the back of the bicycle and set off. When they reached the station in Albert, they found there was a check being made on all papers. Adelaide bought their tickets and then waited well clear of the barrier in the hope that the checkpoint would be closed before she needed to go through. She was out of luck. The man in the ticket office had said that a train was due very soon, and she couldn’t risk missing it. Heaven only knew when there’d be another.

She knelt down and spoke to Jacques. “We’re going onto the platform now, Olivier,” she said gently, and when the child didn’t react she paused. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Jacques,” he replied.

“No, chéri, not today. Your name is Olivier, remember? Olivier.”

“Olivier,” the child repeated obediently. Then he looked across at the gendarmes who were checking the papers. “I don’t like those men.”

Adelaide felt her heart beat faster, but she soothed as calmly as she could. “They’re nice men. They won’t hurt you… but if they ask you your name what will you say?”

“Jacques,” replied the boy, a note of surprise in his voice.

Adelaide was at her wits’ end. They had to pass the barrier and the checkpoint, she could only hope they wouldn’t speak to Jacques at all. She gave him another piece of chocolate.

She joined the queue and when at last her turn came she was faced with a bespectacled, elderly man who looked at her and addressed her gruffly. “Well, who have we got here?” He took her proffered papers and glanced at them.

“Hold my hand, Olivier,” she said sharply, as she felt the little boy move behind her. “We don’t want you to get lost.”

The man looked up, still holding their papers. “Where are you going, Mademoiselle?”

“To Amiens, Monsieur,” Adelaide answered, and when he appeared to be waiting for more knew she must explain. “Olivier has to go to the hospital there.”

“Why the hospital there? Why not the one here?” The man peered at her through his thick spectacles.

“He has something wrong with his eyes,” she replied. “He has to see the eye specialist there.” She waited. The man still held their papers, but she could hear the train chuffing into the station behind her. When he didn’t hand them back she pressed him. “Please, Monsieur, we shall miss the train.”

The man grunted and handed the papers back. “Go on,” he said, and removing his glasses rubbed his own red-rimmed eyes. “Get him to his eye doctor, or he’ll end up with eyes like mine.”

Almost weak with relief, Adelaide dragged Jacques across the platform and bundled him into a carriage already full.

“There’s no room for two,” someone grumbled, but Adelaide responded immediately. “That’s all right, Olivier can sit on my knee.”

The journey to Amiens was uneventful. Adelaide sat crammed in between an old woman with a huge basket on her lap and a young thin man, whose elbow dug into her for much of the time. People got on and off at various stations, and by the time they reached Amiens, Adelaide had managed to secure a window seat and was able to amuse Jacques as she had Julien, pointing out things through the window. When the train pulled into the station, she clambered down with Jacques in her arms and moved towards the exit. There was no checkpoint there today and she was just breathing a sigh of relief that she was on the last step of her journey when a hand touched her arm. “Good morning, Mademoiselle. Here again?”

Adelaide spun round to find herself facing the German captain she’d met the day before. She felt the colour drain from her face, but the captain was bending down to speak to Jacques. “Hello, young man. And how are you today?”

Jacques simply stared at him, and the German went on. “Still too shy to talk, I see.” He turned his attention back to Adelaide, who was struggling to regain control of her features. “What did the doctor say yesterday?”

“He… he... er… had a look and then he put some drops into Olivier’s eyes. We have to go back again today so that he can look again.”

“I see, well let’s hope he can discover something this time, it’s a long way for you come each day.” He broke off, his attention diverted to someone or something behind Adelaide’s back. “Excuse me,” he murmured and strode off across the platform. Adelaide took Jacques by the hand and hurried him out of the station, only glancing back as they turned into the street. The captain was greeting another SS officer who had just got off the train. It was Colonel Hoch. He didn’t appear to have seen Adelaide, would probably not have recognised her at this distance anyway, but it was all she could do not to gather Jacques up into her arms and make a run for it. The same sleek black car was outside the station, the same driver leaning against it. Adelaide, walking as unhurriedly as she could, turned down the first side street she came to, fighting the urge for a backward glance, a glance that might have revealed her face to Hoch as he emerged from the station.

Once he was reunited with Julien, Jacques became a different child. He became animated, smiling and chatting in some sort of private language.

Perhaps, thought Adelaide as she watched them, they miss each other more than they do their parents. The close bond of twins. She hoped they did for she was pretty sure that they weren’t going to see their parents for a very long time… if ever.

“I’ll get them moved on to the convent in Paris as soon as I can,” Father Bernard said. “I have contacts who can do that for me.”

“I’ve only the one set of papers,” Adelaide reminded him.

“I know, but they’re a start and I can probably sort out another set, given time.”

“And when the parents come? If they come.”

“I’ll get them moved to a safe house,” said the priest. “We’ll try and get them there right away, but really nowhere’s safe for them these days.”

Adelaide slipped away without saying goodbye to the boys. They were sitting up at the table, prattling away to each other and she left them to Madame Papritz.

“Here’s something for them,” she said to Father Bernard, and handed over the last of the precious chocolate.

21

Adelaide approached the station with extreme caution. She could not afford to be seen either by the captain, without “Olivier”, or by Colonel Hoch. It was early evening and the station was busy with people going home from work. There were plenty of German uniforms among the crowds on the platform, and so she slipped into a ladies-only waiting room, out of sight. She prepared a story about how Olivier had been kept in the hospital in case she had the misfortune to meet the captain yet again, but in the event she didn’t need it. When the train finally steamed into the station, she hurried out, keeping among the crowds, and although she kept a sharp eye out for either of the German officers, she saw neither. She reached Albert in safety, despite a document check on the train, and collecting her bicycle pedalled slowly to St Croix. The nervous energy she had expended taking the two little boys to Amiens left her feeling exhausted, and it was all she could do to make it back to the farm.

“Safe?” asked Marie.

“Safe,” replied Adelaide. “For the moment.”

That evening she went to meet Marcel as planned. When she tapped on the back door of the café, it was Madame Juliette who let her in.

“He’s in the bar,” Madame Juliette said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” She disappeared through the connecting door into the café. Moments later there was another tap on the back door and Marcel was there.

“Safe?” he asked. And when Adelaide nodded, he gathered her into his arms. “Thank God. Thank God you’re safe.”

For a moment Adelaide allowed herself to rest against him, feeling the strength of his arms around her, and then she pulled away and dropped into a chair.

“The children are safe,” she said, “but we still have to get the parents away.”

“Tell me how it went,” Marcel said, sitting down across the table from her. “Any problems?”

Adelaide had longed to tell Marcel the details of the two journeys, to share the relief of having succeeded, but now she held back. It was safer for them all if he didn’t know exactly where the children had gone. He knew they’d been on a train, so she contented herself with telling him how she had had to share a compartment with an SS captain.

“They’ve been searching the village,” she added. “Taken people in for questioning, but so far they haven’t kept anyone.” She looked across at him gravely. “They’ve been out to us, but they didn’t find the well. Surely they’ll be looking for Fernand by now. They must realise that he’s disappeared.”

“I shouldn’t worry too much about him,” said Marcel reassuringly. “They may guess what’s happened to him, but I doubt if they’ll pursue it. They’ll soon recruit someone else to take his place.”

Madame Juliette reappeared with a carafe of wine and two glasses, which she set on the table before she left them alone again. Marcel poured them a glass each, and then, tasting his, pulled a face.

Adelaide laughed at his expression of disgust, and took a sip of hers. “It’s better than nothing!”

“I’m not sure it is,” Marcel groaned.

“I’ll go back to the convent tomorrow,” Adelaide told him, “and make the arrangements to get the parents away. Reverend Mother will be glad when they’ve gone. She wouldn’t give them up, of course, but she doesn’t want them there. After Sister Eloise was arrested, Hoch threatened the convent with reprisals if he finds them hiding anyone else.” Adelaide was silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Will you get a message to London? Tell them I think I’ve done all I can here and ask what they want me to do next. I don’t mind staying if there is something else they need me to do, but we shan’t be able to use the convent as a safe house as we’d hoped.”

“I’ll get Bertrand to send that on his next transmission,” Marcel promised. “Now, tell me what you need me to do.”

“I’m not sure yet,” replied Adelaide. “I have all the help I need while they are in the convent, it’s getting them to Albert so that they can catch the train that is the difficult bit. I know they could walk, but they’d almost certainly be picked up. We really need some sort of transport to get them out of the village.”

Madame Juliette came in and they told her their problem.

“You can bring them here,” she said. “If you can get them to me under cover of darkness, they can catch the weekly bus into Albert in the morning. No one will look twice at a nun and a priest on the bus.”

“That’d be very dangerous,” Adelaide said dubiously.

“It is better to be bold, as you were with the children,” Madame Juliette asserted. “You’re less suspicious if you’re moving about in the daylight, with nothing to hide.”

“But hiding them here overnight?”

Madame Juliette shrugged. “Who will look here?”

“It’s probably the best we can do for them,” Marcel said, and Adelaide reluctantly agreed.

On her way to meet Marcel, Adelaide had been to the convent. Entering by the courtyard gate she stopped by the grating, and while retying her shoe had pushed a note through the grille, telling the Auclons that their children were safe. She also warned them to wait for her signal on the inner door the following evening.

Sister Marie-Marc was in the kitchen when Adelaide arrived at the back door, and was delighted to see her.

“Are you coming back to work?” she asked. “Is your aunt better?”

Adelaide smiled at this enthusiastic reception and said that she was. “That’s what I’ve come to say. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, but Sister,” Adelaide lowered her voice, “please could you tell Reverend Mother that I would like to speak to her when I get here.”

Sister Marie-Marc nodded conspiratorially. “Yes, I will tell her.”

Next morning Mother Marie-Pierre sent to the kitchen and summoned Adelaide to her study. When Adelaide entered the room in answer to the bell, Mother Marie-Pierre had one simple question. “Have they gone?”

“The children, yes. The parents, tonight if you’ll help me.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Reverend Mother.

Adelaide outlined her plan. “When the sisters are all in bed, I will come to the back door and you must let me in. We’ll go down to the cellar and move the furniture away from the door so that the Auclons can come out that way. I will bring the cassock that Father Bernard has given me, and you said you could provide a nun’s habit for Madame.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded. “Yes, I can do that. Then what?”

“Then we get them dressed and I take them out of the back door and they’re gone.” Adelaide smiled across at her. “Then you can relax, the convent will be safe.”

“Where are you going to take them in the middle of the night? How will they get to Amiens?” asked her aunt.

“Better you don’t know. We’ll try and get the habit back to you later.”

“I’ve still got these.” Mother Marie-Pierre opened the door of her desk and produced some documents. “These are Sister Marie-Joseph’s papers. Of course she is much younger than Madame Auclon, but up until now the soldiers have only looked at the habit and not the person inside it.”

Their plans made as far as they were able, Adelaide returned to the kitchen and finished her morning’s work. Sister Marie-Marc looked at her speculatively, but Adelaide merely smiled at her and went down to fetch the coal. They had agreed they would need someone else to help, and the obvious choice was Sister Marie-Marc.

“I’ll speak to her nearer the time,” promised Mother Marie-Pierre. “She can leave the back gate unlocked for you, and keep watch while we get them changed and ready to go.”

Adelaide knocked gently on the back door of the convent that night and it was immediately opened by an excited-looking Sister Marie-Marc, who beckoned her in and then closed the door behind her. The kitchen was in darkness, except for a crack of light edging the cellar door.

“I’ll go back to keep watch,” the nun whispered. “Mother’s already down in the cellar.”

Adelaide nodded and went down the cellar steps. Below she found Mother Marie-Pierre carefully removing the furniture from the outside of the hidden door. She greeted Adelaide with a tired smile and a kiss on the cheek, the first sign of affection she had shown since she learnt that Adelaide was using the convent cellars for her own purposes. Together they shifted the larger pieces of furniture and then Adelaide tapped the agreed code on the door. They heard the bolt being drawn back and then the door eased open to reveal the two scarecrows that were Joseph and Janine Auclon.

Mother Marie-Pierre drew in a sharp breath when she saw them and the state to which they had been reduced. The Auclons had been in hiding too long. They were half-starved, having given most of any food they’d obtained to their children. Their eyes had sunk into faces that were gaunt and grey. They were dirty, their hair matted, their bodies malodorous and foul, their clothes in rags, and Adelaide and Sarah had to get them clean enough to pass unnoticed in broad daylight.

“Adèle, quickly, fetch hot water from the stove.”

Adelaide nodded and ran back up to the kitchen and drew off some water from the large cauldron that stood, ever ready, on the back of the range. She returned to the cellar to find Mother Marie-Pierre handing out food that she brought down with her. When Adelaide returned with a second bowl of water, Joseph retired to the far corner, and, with a razor Mother Marie-Pierre had brought from the hospital, attacked the full beard that he now had, cutting it back ruthlessly with a pair of scissors before finally shaving it away. Adelaide passed over the cassock she had brought, and leaving him to get cleaned up as best he could, she and Mother Marie-Pierre set about turning Janine Auclon into a nun. It all took time. Too much time, Adelaide thought, as she fetched yet more hot water for Janine to scrub away the grime. It’s taking too long, far too long. Adelaide looked anxiously at her watch as she helped cut Janine’s hair short enough to fit under the wimple, muttering, “We should be out of here by now.”

“Is there soup in the pantry?” Mother Marie-Pierre asked softly, and Adelaide nodded. “Yes, usually.”

“Then go and heat some up. We have to get something warm inside them.”

Adelaide found the soup, and having heated it brought it down to the cellar in two large cups. The Auclons had made some progress, and she found Joseph now clean-shaven, his hair cut short above his ears, dressed in his cassock. It was too short for him, and his feet poked out from the bottom, displaying his bony ankles and worn leather shoes.

But at least his shoes are black, Adelaide thought as she handed him the cup.

Janine was wearing the habit, and the wimple fitted closely round her head and face. She too grasped the cup of soup in her hand and began to drink it down greedily.

Suddenly they heard footsteps coming down the cellar steps. They all froze, knowing there was nothing they could do to escape. Sister Marie-Marc appeared.

“What is it, Sister?” Mother Marie-Pierre said sharply.

“You were so long,” Sister Marie-Marc said. “I was worried something had gone wrong.”

“Nothing’s gone wrong,” snapped her superior. “Go back upstairs and keep watch.”

“Yes, Mother.” Sister Marie-Marc disappeared into the darkness, and Reverend Mother turned her attention to Janine’s hood. She had just put it on when there were more footsteps, running this time, and Mother Marie-Marc reappeared in the cellar, her eyes wide.

“Mother,” she cried, “Germans. All creeping up round the convent. I saw them from the landing window. All round the house.”

Adelaide looked at Reverend Mother. “I must have been followed.”

“Never mind that now,” the nun replied. “Let’s think.”

She stood for a moment, her eyes squeezed closed and then turned to the terrified Auclons. “Come with me. You, Sister Marie-Marc, go back to bed. Adèle, out through the grating.”

“Where are you going?” asked Adelaide.

“To the chapel,” replied her aunt. “It’s our only hope. Now go, both of you.”

Sister Marie-Marc obediently scuttled up the stairs, and Adelaide watched as Mother Marie-Pierre grabbed the dazed couple by the hands and hurried them up into the convent building.

“Go,” she said over her shoulder to her niece. “I’ll look after them.”

Adelaide scrambled up the ladder to the grating, and listening hard heard nothing from the outside. Cautiously she lifted the grille enough to see out, and immediately ducked down again. Standing only a few yards away, his rifle trained on the courtyard gate, stood a German soldier. He didn’t appear to have seen the hidden grating, he was concentrating on the gate. Adelaide lowered herself back into the cellar and looked up at her escape route, now effectively blocked. The soldier hadn’t seen her, but there was no way she could get past him. If she went that way she’d have to kill him, and although she hadn’t seen any others, he wouldn’t be alone. No, there was no escape that way, she’d have to go back through the convent. Quietly she closed the door of the hiding place and stole back up to the kitchen, shutting the cellar door behind her. She didn’t lock it. That would be pointless, a locked door wasn’t going to keep them out.

As she emerged into the kitchen there was a thunderous pounding on the front door, the doorbell pealing and a loud voice shouting. “Open up! Open up!”

Four minutes, or at the most five since Mother Marie-Pierre had hurried the Auclons away from the cellar. What had she done with them? She’d said the chapel, but Adelaide knew that would be as thoroughly searched as anywhere else. She drew back from the hall, her mind racing as she considered the various places she might hide, and finally ducked into the refectory. There was nowhere to hide in the stark room, so Adelaide left the door ajar and stood behind it to watch the hall through the crack.

A minute later lights flooded on and Sister Celestine appeared at the head of the stairs, dressed in an old blue dressing gown, a shawl thrown over her head. She stumbled down the stairs to the door, and, as another tattoo commenced on the outside, began to draw back the bolts and the great chain that secured the door for the night.

The moment she slipped the chain, the door was flung open, and she was knocked backwards as Colonel Hoch strode into the hall, ordering his men to search the building.

“And bring the reverend mother to me,” he roared, as the soldiers who had flooded in behind him fanned out round the building.

“Good evening, Colonel.” The voice was quiet and steady. “What is it you want that you disturb us in the middle of the night?”

The colonel looked round and saw Reverend Mother, standing at the mouth of an inner passage, looking at him, unflinchingly. He strode across the hall.

“Want? I’ll tell you what I want. I want whoever you are hiding here, that’s what I want.”

“Hiding?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, woman,” snarled Hoch. He turned to the men who were at his back, and snapped at them. “Search the place, every cupboard, every corner. Get them all out of bed.” He turned back to Reverend Mother. “Why aren’t you in bed asleep like all the others?”

“I was in the chapel, keeping watch with Our Lord,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied calmly.

“In the chapel.” Hoch’s eyes bored into her. “Right, I’ll start there. Show me the way.”

Mother Marie-Pierre inclined her head graciously, as if she had a choice. “Very well, Colonel. Please follow me.” She turned back down the passage and, with the colonel hard on her heels, led the way through the convent to the chapel. When she reached it, Hoch thrust her aside and flung the door open. The chapel was in darkness except for the flickering candles on the Lady Chapel altar and the red glow of the sanctuary light above the high altar. Hoch turned abruptly. “Turn on the lights,” he ordered, and stepping round him to the switches on the wall Mother Marie-Pierre switched them on. The electric light flooding the chapel seemed harsh after the softer light of the candles, and its brightness revealed one of the sisters, lying face down, cruciform on the floor in front of the altar.

“What’s she doing?” demanded Hoch.

“Penance for her sins,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. “She will remain like that all night in atonement.”

“She will not,” retorted Hoch. He stepped forward and prodded the prone figure with the toe of his boot. “You, nun, get up.”

The nun got shakily to her knees and then to her feet, and stood with downcast eyes, her hands folded into her sleeves.

“What’s your name?” demanded the colonel.

The nun did not reply, and the man shouted. “Answer me! Are you deaf?”

“No, Colonel,” Reverend Mother intervened. “Sister Angelique is under a vow of silence until she has finished her penance. Wait outside the door, Sister,” she added. “The colonel wants to search the chapel.”

Sister Angelique gave a tiny bob and went out into the corridor.

The colonel began his search, and when he reached the vestry he gave a cry of satisfaction as the opened door revealed a priest kneeling at a prie-dieu.

“And who is this, lurking in the vestry? Come out here where I can see you properly. Name?”

“Father Yves Belvoir,” replied the priest.

“And what the hell are you doing in a convent chapel in the middle of the night?”

“Preparing to say Mass for the sisters first thing in the morning,” stammered the priest nervously.

“Father Yves is a visiting priest,” Mother Marie-Pierre said.

The colonel stared at the priest for several moments, taking in the short cassock and the worn-out shoes, then he strode to the door of the chapel and called in the two men who were waiting in the passage.

“Strip this man,” he said, his voice icily calm, “and see if he is a Jew.”

The men grabbed the priest and without hesitation ripped at the cassock, pulling it open to reveal the threadbare trousers and dirty shirt which were concealed beneath it.

“Wait!” Hoch’s voice was a whiplash. The two men stepped back and waited. “Not very well dressed for a priest, are you?” Hoch remarked, touching the grubby shirt with a fastidious finger. “Take off your trousers.”

The priest hesitated and Hoch spoke again, his voice soft and threatening. “Take off your trousers, you snivelling little Jew, and we shall all see the proof of what you are.”

“Colonel, this is the house of God,” protested Mother Marie-Pierre, and then gasped as she saw that the order was being backed up with the colonel’s pistol.

“Then we’ll take him out into the hall. We’ll divest him of his clothing in the recreation room. Then all the sisters will see that they’ve been harbouring a filthy Jew.” He turned to his men. “Take his trousers off and bring him to the recreation room. Let’s give them all a thrill.” He laughed and his men laughed with him, as they ripped off not only the tattered trousers, but the ragged underwear underneath, leaving Joseph Auclon standing clad only in his shirt, his genitals clearly visible.

Mother Marie-Pierre averted her eyes as if to preserve the man’s dignity, but he had none left; his humiliation was complete. Hoch regarded him with contempt and the soldiers sniggered at the pathetic creature they had revealed.

“This is the man you were hiding,” Hoch said to her. “This scum. Don’t look away, Reverend Mother.” Hoch emphasised the word Reverend. “It’s too late for that. All you nuns shall look at this piece of shit before we take him away, so that you know what a Jew looks like. So that you won’t make the same mistake again. So you won’t mistake a snivelling Jew for a Catholic priest. Follow me.”

Hoch strode out of the chapel, followed by the men leading Joseph Auclon, naked below the waist, his arms pulled hard behind his back. Stunned, Mother Marie-Pierre followed, unable to do anything else. She had known there was little chance that Joseph and Janine would not be discovered, but she had done her best in the few moments that she’d had. She saw Janine, Sister Angelique, standing in the shadows, and reached for her hand, pulling her gently along behind her. The best place to hide her now was among all the other nuns. They would know she didn’t belong, of course, but Mother Marie-Pierre thought she knew her sisters well enough to be sure that no one would give the woman up to the Germans.

When they reached the recreation room, they found the nuns already gathered there, rounded up by Hoch’s soldiers. There was an audible gasp as Joseph was led into the room and made to stand on the dais at the front. Almost as one they turned away, covering their eyes, and Mother Marie-Pierre was able to push the terrified Janine into the room beside Sister Marie-Marc.

“Look after Sister Angelique,” she hissed. Sister Marie-Marc, wide-eyed, nodded and stepped in front of her, so that she was concealed from direct view and became just another nun.

Hoch looked round the terrified gathering. “Is this all of them?” he demanded of his sergeant.

“All but one, sir. A bedridden one, who’s off her trolley.”

“Bring her down. I want her here.” He looked across at Sister Marie-Paul. “You,” he said. “You run the hospital, don’t you?”

“I am in charge of it, yes,” Sister Marie-Paul replied, “under Reverend Mother of course.”

“Ah, yes, Reverend Mother. Well, she’s no longer in charge of anything. She will be coming with me.” His eyes roved the frightened faces in the room. “I warned you, all of you, that if I found anyone else hidden in your damned convent I would make an example of two of you. Clearly your reverend mother was well aware that this Jew was hiding in the chapel, dressed in the garb of a priest… a holy priest of God. Where did those clothes come from, I wonder? No doubt Reverend Mother will tell me… in time.” He paused to allow these words to sink in. “And now we have to decide who else will pay for this…”—he gestured to Joseph Auclon who still stood in front of them—”this piece of foolishness. Reverend Mother, you have defied me and have sheltered enemies of the Reich. Another of these nuns must pay the price… so who shall it be?” He walked over to where the novices were cowering together. “One of these young ladies? My men would surely enjoy entertaining one of them. Or this old bag,” he pointed to Sister St Bruno who at that moment arrived carried in by two burly soldiers and was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. “Or what about the one who was doing penance? She could do her penance in prison in Germany. Where is she? What was she called now? Sister Angelique?”

“But we haven’t got…” Sister Marie-Paul’s exclamation, distinctly heard, died away in the silence.

“Haven’t you now?” remarked Hoch. “Well, that is interesting. We’ll have a roll call. It appears to me that there are children missing as well. We understood that there was a whole family of Jews to be found. Where are those children I wonder?” He looked across at Mother Marie-Pierre again. “No doubt Reverend Mother will tell us that… in time… as well.” He pointed again to Sister Marie-Paul. “You,” he said, “you seem to have some commonsense. You will point out this unknown Sister Angelique to me… because if you don’t I will send all your novices down to the barracks in Albert and let my men have some fun with them.” The threat hung in the air, and Sister Marie-Paul’s eyes slid round the room, looking at all the sisters gathered there. Sister Marie-Marc stood firmly in front of “Sister Angelique”, but there was no point. Sister Marie-Paul saw her at once. “She’s over there,” she said softly. Hoch followed the line of her gaze, and then pushing Sister Marie-Marc roughly aside grabbed hold of Janine Auclon and dragged her forward.

“So she is,” he said gently. He ran his eyes up and down her body. “No obvious way to determine if she’s a Jewess,” he said. “Not like with her husband, but we could perhaps have a look anyway.” And he raised his hand to the neck of her habit.

There was an explosion of rage and Joseph ripped himself free of the hands that still restrained him, flinging himself at Hoch, reaching for the colonel’s throat, his fingers grasping, gripping, gouging, until he was dragged away once more, his arm forced so high behind his back that he screamed in pain. Colonel Hoch, shaken by the sudden attack, quickly recovered his dignity and barked out. “Take them away. I’ll deal with them later.” The soldiers dragged both Auclons out of the room, and Hoch turned to face the nuns once again. Several of them were openly weeping, others were white-faced with fear, no one spoke. Sister Marie-Paul stood erect a little apart from her sisters, across the room from her superior, and Sister St Bruno lay in a heap on the floor at her niece’s feet. Ignoring the colonel, Sarah bent down to her aunt and whispered, “Are you all right?”

Sister St Bruno nodded. “Just a little bit bruised,” she murmured. “Don’t worry about me, Sarah.”

Hoch summoned more men and told them to take hold of Mother Marie-Pierre. “And another,” he began.

“Take me,” cried out Sister St Bruno, “I’ll go.”

“Shut up, old woman,” snapped the colonel, aiming a kick at her. “No one would take you anywhere.”

“I’ll go,” said a voice behind him, and Sister Marie-Marc stepped forward. “If you are determined to arrest two of us, I’ll go. I knew they were here.”

Hoch gave a contemptuous laugh. “You’ll do. Take them away.”

Two soldiers grasped the two nuns by the arms and unceremoniously hustled them from the room. As she was forced out into the hall, Sarah heard her aunt cry out, “Courage, Sarah, God is with you. Evil shall not prevail!” She began to chant, “‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff comfort me…’.”

Some of the other sisters began to murmur the psalm with her, and Hoch, who was following them out of the recreation room, turned back to where Sister St Bruno still lay crumpled on the floor.

“I told you to shut up,” he growled, and with great deliberation he kicked at her head. His jackboot connected with her skull with a sickening crack. The murmuring of the psalm ceased abruptly as, without even glancing down, he turned and once again strode from the room.

Hoch deposited all his prisoners in the cells at the gendarmerie, where Mother Marie-Pierre had visited Sister Eloise before she was taken away. The nuns were put in a cell together, but they had no sight of the Auclons.

“What will happen to us now?” asked Sister Marie-Marc fearfully.

“We shall be questioned, I expect. They’ll want to know where the children are.”

“Do you know?”

“No.” Reverend Mother knew it was vital that Sister Marie-Marc should think that neither of them knew where the children had gone.

“Where is Adèle?” asked Sister Marie-Marc, a little querulously.

“I don’t know, Sister. Safe, I pray. All we can do now is commend them all to the Lord’s care.”

Together the two nuns knelt on the floor of the cell and began to pray, their voices in unison as they, too, began chanting the psalms. A bellow for silence from the guard outside went unheeded as they continued to call on their Lord.

22

Adelaide had known there was very little chance of evading capture, but she had remained behind the refectory door in the hope that she might be able to slip out through the hall if it were left empty. She almost made it. Two soldiers had pushed the door wide, striding into the refectory and switching on the lights. One began searching beneath the tables that stretched the length of the room, while the other had climbed up onto the dais and peered behind the lectern where the nun on duty would read during meals. Neither was watching the door, and Adelaide edged her way round it. She was almost into the empty hallway when the man on the dais looked up and saw her. With a shout he was after her, chasing down the length of the room, knocking chairs aside as he came, his mate right behind him. As they pelted out into the hall, Adelaide sprinted down the corridor. A soldier emerging from another door reached out to grab her, but with a short, sharp punch to his solar plexus that left him doubled up and gasping, Adelaide evaded him and dashed into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. It gave her the few seconds’ respite she needed.

The back door, left open for her earlier by Sister Marie-Marc, was still unlocked, and now she flung it wide, before darting down the cellar steps, closing that door softly behind her. She raced to the secret room, closing and bolting its door before climbing the old ladder once again. She listened intently through the grating. She heard the two soldiers storm out into the yard, heard them shout to the guards at the gate and heard an answering call. She risked raising the grille enough to peer out.

The guards outside had run towards the convent gate, calling back to the men who had chased after her and were now searching the courtyard.

It was now or never. Adelaide eased the grille aside and hoisted herself up through the hole, sliding as quietly as she could on her belly away from the gate into the sheltering darkness of the bushes beyond. She knew she had to get away quickly; it wouldn’t be long before they found the hidden room; the locked doors wouldn’t hold them; they would realise she was away and the search would be on.

Once round the corner of the wall she was out of immediate view, and she risked coming to her feet, running at the crouch away from the convent, and to begin with away from the village. Half a mile further on she circled back, crossed the footbridge over the river, and taking the towpath hurried to the end of the twisting lane that led to the back of Juliette’s café. In the distance she heard shouting and guessed they had found her escape route. There was little moon as she crept up the lane and one knock on the door had it open. Seeing Adelaide, white-faced and alone, the old lady hauled her inside.

“It’s all gone wrong,” Adelaide said breathlessly. “German raid on the convent. Don’t know if they’ve caught the Auclons, but they’re certainly looking for me.”

“Into the cellar,” Juliette said, and together they rolled back the rug to open the trapdoor. “I’ll watch to see what happens,” the old lady promised as Adelaide slipped down into the space below. “Remember, no light!” hissed Juliette as she looked down. “There is a small window, and the light would show. I’ll be back.”

Adelaide nodded, and ducked down as Juliette lowered the trapdoor over her head. The darkness in the cellar seemed complete, but as her eyes grew accustomed, she realised she could make out the slightly paler rectangle of a window high up in the wall. Hands outstretched, she edged across the small room, feeling her way around some furniture she encountered on the way. She reached the window, but it was too high. She felt for a chair and, dragging it under the window, stood up on its seat and tried to see out. The window, at ground-level outside, was coated in grime, and, she realised, faced out into the alley at the side of the house, giving her a view of absolutely nothing. Frustrated, Adelaide sat down on the chair and waited. It was all she could do. As she sat alone in the darkness wondering what was going on at the convent, whether the Auclons had been found, whether Sarah was safe, she realised a fraction of the living hell that must have been the Auclons’ life for the past year, and more extremely, for the past few days. Not knowing what was happening. Not knowing if loved ones were safe. The silence was deep and unbroken. She could hear nothing from the outside world, and had no clue as to what was going on.

How could they have lived weeks and months in this sort of limbo, she wondered? Not knowing. Did they get used to it? Would I get used to it?

She felt exhausted, and she tried to relax back into the chair, but she was too strung-up to sleep. The events of the night played over and over in her mind. Could they have got the Auclons clean away if they had been able to take them straight from the cellar? Should they have brought them here before trying to get them cleaned up? Why had the Germans come? Had she been followed to the convent? Was it she who had triggered the raid? The more she thought about the evening, the more she was sure that she had not been followed. So what had made Hoch raid the convent on that particular night? Had he found the Auclons? She was sure that he must have done, and if he had, what had happened to Sarah and the other nuns? She thought of Sister Eloise and shuddered. Surely Hoch wouldn’t take a reverend mother from her convent? But she knew, of course, that he would if he wanted to; and he would want to, to make an example, to keep people in line. If the local populace defied him in any way, Hoch would make reprisals, and the local populace knew it. It was what made them, despite their grumbling, tolerate the German occupation with comparatively little resistance.

Adelaide gave some thought then to her own position. What was she going to do next? She couldn’t stay here, that would put Madame Juliette at risk. Did Sarah need her help? Could she, in fact, help Sarah, or would she simply put her in yet more danger? Should she go back to the farm? Would any of the soldiers who had chased her be able to recognise her again? If so, not only would her cover be blown, but it would bring the Launays into more danger, too. Could Marcel get her away, out of the area?

Everything churned round in her mind as she sat entombed in the silent cellar, and she came to no conclusions. “If you’re in a tight spot, stay calm and think” had been drummed into her during her training. Well, she was in a tight spot now… so, stay calm and think. It all depended, she decided, on what Juliette had discovered. When she knew exactly what had happened, she could begin to make plans.

It was more than an hour before she heard the trapdoor opening and light seeped into the little underground room.

“Adèle, you can come up now,” whispered Madame Juliette, and Adelaide gratefully climbed the steps out of the darkness. Blinking in the dim light Juliette had on in the kitchen, Adelaide rubbed her eyes.

“They’ve taken prisoners to the German HQ,” Madame Juliette told her. “Four of them. Almost certainly the two Auclons, and two sisters. I think it was Reverend Mother with another sister. I watched from the upstairs window with the binoculars, but it was very dark and I’m not sure. Poor Joseph, he was stripped naked from the waist down. Janine was wearing a nun’s habit, but her head was bare.”

“You’re sure it was Reverend Mother?”

“Almost,” replied Madame Juliette. “But the other sister… well, I don’t know. Poor Reverend Mother, once they discover she is English, it will be even worse!”

Adelaide stared at the old lady. “How did you know she was English?” she asked.

Madame Juliette shrugged. “I have always known. She came here during the war… the last war… to nurse with her maid. They came to my café for cakes and tea.”

“But who’d tell the Germans that she is English?” demanded Adelaide.

Madame Juliette smiled sadly. “Almost anyone in St Croix,” she replied, “if they think it is worth their while. People here want a quiet life. They know there will be reprisals if the Germans are attacked in any way. Few will resist, because they want no bloodshed.”

“It doesn’t mean that they will inform.”

“That is naïve, Adèle. In war everyone looks out for number one. It is human nature. If someone thinks Reverend Mother will cause more trouble, they will tell. The Germans take her away and pouf! The problem has gone.”

The two women discussed what Adelaide should do next.

“You must stay here for the rest of the night,” asserted Madame Juliette. “They will still be searching for you out there. Did they get a good look at you?”

“I don’t know,” answered Adelaide. “The corridor isn’t well lit and I was running.”

Madame Juliette ran her eye over Adelaide’s black slacks and jersey. “A change of clothes would help, something bright, and a scarf to cover your hair.” She disappeared for a moment or two and then reappeared with a cotton dress, pale blue spattered with daisies, a white cardigan and a white cotton headscarf.

“My daughter’s,” she said briefly. “In the morning, you will look nothing like the girl in black trousers who ran away. But now,” she said firmly, “you must go to bed and sleep. If they come here before morning, we will say you were helping me, were too late for curfew and stayed over. Give me your clothes and I will deal with them. Get up in Rose’s dress in the morning.”

To her surprise, Adelaide did fall asleep in the little room above the café. Its one tiny window looked out onto the square, and before she slept, Adelaide turned off the light, pulled back the blackout curtains and looked out. Across the square she could see the dark shape of the town hall, but there was no activity there now. Where had they put the prisoners, she wondered? Were they still in the German HQ, or had they been locked up in the police cells for the night, like Sister Eloise had been?

She woke early as the rising sun forced a ray between her curtains to dance on her pillow and finger her face. Once again she peeped between the curtains and looked across the square. The town hall stood silent, its once proud façade draped with two swastika flags, and beneath these, one either side of the door, stood two sentries, rifles in hand, on guard.

Adelaide and Madame Juliette had decided that the first thing to do was to get her safely back to the farm, where she could tell the Launays what had happened. If questioned they had to be telling the same story. Once there, she could change again and go back to the convent, turning up for work as if she knew nothing of the night’s events. It would be a risk, but as far as she knew, apart from the three soldiers of course, no one but Sarah and Sister Marie-Marc had seen her the night before. No one there would know she had been involved, and she could find out exactly what had happened. So, half an hour later, dressed in the cotton frock and with the scarf tied over her hair, Adelaide slipped out of Madame Juliette’s back door, walked down the alley and headed for the Launays’ farm.

“Will you contact Marcel? Get him to come to the farm?” Adelaide asked as she paused inside the kitchen door. “I need to see him soon, so we can decide what to do next.”

“I will,” agreed Madame Juliette. “Now go… and good luck.”

The Launays greeted Adelaide with relief, but listened with horror as she related the events of the night.

“You must get away from here,” Gerard said. “We will say that you found the country too quiet and have gone to live with relatives in Paris.”

“No,” Adelaide shook her head, “I must go to the convent as if I know nothing. It’d be more suspicious if I didn’t turn up, and anyway, I have to find out what happened there.”

“They were arrested,” Gerard said. “You know that from Madame Juliette.”

But Adelaide was adamant. “I don’t know for sure that it was Reverend Mother and I must find out.”

They didn’t agree; they knew nothing of the close bond between their “niece”, Adèle, and the reverend mother, but they accepted her decision and once she had changed into her normal working clothes, Adelaide set off to the convent.

She found Sister Elisabeth in the kitchen. The nun looked relieved to see her. “Where’s Sister Marie-Marc?” Adelaide asked innocently.

Sister Elisabeth shook her head. “Not here today. Sister Marie-Joseph is helping me this morning. Now, Adèle, please bring up some coal. The range is nearly out.”

“Of course, Sister,” Adelaide replied and picked up the buckets. Once down the cellar steps, she hurried through to the hidden room. The door, which had been battered open, now hung drunkenly from one hinge, and the old ladder lay on the floor.

The grille had been pulled down into place and was covered with something on the outside, so that there was no daylight. It was obvious that they had discovered how she had escaped… but did they know who she was?

When she carried the bucket of coal up to the kitchen, Sister Elisabeth was nowhere to be seen, but Adelaide found the novice, Sister Marie-Joseph, washing up the breakfast plates in the scullery. She picked up a tea towel and started on the drying.

“Is Sister Marie-Marc ill?” she asked innocently.

The novice shook her head. “She went with Mother,” she whispered.

“With Mother? Where?” Adelaide tried to keep her tone light.

“The Germans took them.” The girl’s voice shook and Adelaide saw that there were tears running down her face. “And Sister St Bruno, she’s dead!”

“Dead!” Adelaide didn’t try to hide the horror in her voice. “How did she die? Did she have a heart attack?”

“No,” whispered Sister Marie-Joseph. “That German colonel, the one with skulls on his uniform”—her eyes were wide with remembered horror— “he kicked her in the head and she died.”

Disbelief and rage hit Adelaide with equal force. She stared at Sister Marie-Joseph incredulously. “What did you say?”

“She was praying… out loud… the Twenty-third Psalm. He kicked her in the head and then he just walked out. The soldiers took Mother and Sister Marie-Marc and they all left.”

“And then what?” demanded Adelaide. “What happened then? Nobody said anything? Nobody did anything?”

“Sister Marie-Paul told us to say and do nothing. She said we didn’t want any more trouble from the Germans. She said that from now on we must keep ourselves to ourselves.”

“And Sister St Bruno?”

“She’s in the chapel. Her funeral Mass is tomorrow.”

“Sister!” Sister Elisabeth’s voice was sharp as she addressed them from the kitchen doorway. “You’re not gossiping, I hope! You know what Mother said.” She glowered at Sister Marie-Joseph. “You will remain silent for the rest of the morning,” she ordered. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sister.” Colour flooded the novice’s face and she busied herself with the washing-up, plunging her arms into the sink to her elbows and scrubbing the plates as if they were coated in grime.

“Mother would like to see you, Adèle,” Sister Elisabeth continued, “in her office.”

Stunned by the news of Sister St Bruno’s violent death, Adelaide turned, pale-faced, to look at the nun. “Mother…” she began.

“Is waiting for you in her office, Adèle. Make haste!”

Knowing that Mother Marie-Pierre was being held in the village, Adelaide approached what had been her office with great unease. When the bell summoned her inside and she opened the door, she was still half-expecting to see Sarah, but her worst fears were realised when she saw that it was Sister Marie-Paul who now sat, grim-faced, behind the desk.

Adelaide allowed her surprise to show. “I’m sorry, Sister,” she said, “but Sister Elisabeth said that Mother wanted to see me.”

“And so I do,” Sister Marie-Paul replied smoothly. “I am Reverend Mother, now, Adèle…”

“But Mother Marie-Pierre…?” began Adelaide.

“Mother Marie-Pierre is no longer living in the convent. In her absence, the sisters have chosen me to carry on her work.” There was the faintest pause, as if Adelaide might comment, then she went on. “Now, I’ll come straight to the point, Adèle, with regard to your position here. I am afraid that is terminated from today. We no longer require your help. I am sure Mother Marie-Pierre warned you that the job would only be temporary.” She reached into a cash box that stood on the desk. “Here is what you are owed for this week,” she said, handing Adelaide some folded notes. “Please leave the convent now, straight away. I wish you good day, Mademoiselle.” Sister Marie-Paul picked up a paper that was in front of her and began reading it; the interview was clearly over.

Being dismissed suited Adelaide very well, but she gave a heavy sigh as she put the money into the pocket of her skirt, and with a quiet “Good day, Mother”, she left the room.

As the door closed Sister Marie-Paul looked up again, thoughtfully. Sister Celestine, so often Sister Marie-Paul’s eyes and ears within the convent, had reported to her that she had seen Adèle wandering about after curfew. Clearly the girl was up to no good, and Sister Marie-Paul wanted no further trouble with the Germans. Better to get the girl out of the way and arrange other help for Sister Elisabeth in the kitchen. The sooner she was out of the convent, the better.

Adelaide did not, however, leave the convent, not immediately. She went quietly along the passage to the chapel. When she opened the door she was hit by the smell of incense and the warm glow of candles. Despite the wartime shortage of the latter, the nuns had not stinted for Sister St Bruno. Her plain wooden coffin stood on a trestle before the altar with candles at her head and feet and more burned on the altar. Sister Danielle was the sister kneeling and keeping watch, but she did not look up when Adelaide quietly took a seat in a pew near the door. The silence lapped round her, seeping into her mind and her heart. She thought of Joseph and Janine who had been taken from this very place the night before; and what would happen to them. She thought of her aunt, Sarah, who with the faithful Sister Marie-Marc had been arrested too. What would become of them? And she thought of her Great-Aunt Anne, lying in the wooden box in front of her, dead, simply because some German soldier had casually kicked her in the head.

She thought of Marcel and hoped that he could get her out of the area very soon, but before she went, she had one thing she needed to do. Her hatred of Hoch flooded through her veins like melt water, turbulent, icy cold and powerful. Before she left she would do her damnedest to make sure he hunted down no one else.

Chapel was not the place to plan revenge, so Adelaide said silent goodbyes to her great-aunt, and getting quietly to her feet slipped out of the chapel and out of the convent.

Once outside, Adelaide hurried back to the village. It was a risk appearing in the village itself, but she had to discover what had happened to Sarah and poor Sister Marie-Marc. As she came into the square she heard the sound of an engine behind her, and turned to see a covered lorry, swastikas emblazoned on the sides of its canopy, grinding down the hill behind her. She stepped hastily out of its way and watched as it swept up in front of the town hall. A little crowd of onlookers gathered as people paused to watch what was happening. When the lorry came to a halt one soldier jumped down and went into the town hall while another circled to the back of the truck, his rifle trained on the tied-down flaps.

Adelaide joined the group watching as four prisoners were brought out from the cells beyond the town hall. More guards followed, and, covered by their comrades, two of them untied the flaps that sealed the lorry. There were shouts and cries from inside, and as the flaps were raised, Adelaide could see the pale faces of the men and women who were already crammed into the truck. Some covered their eyes at the sudden sunlight, others reached out, begging for water, calling for help.

One of the guards jabbed at them with his rifle, shouting. “Get back! Get back I say, or I’ll shoot.”

Adelaide stared in horror at the prisoners being brought to the lorry. The Auclons, dressed only in their ragged underwear, staggered forward prodded by the rifles of the guards, their arms round each other for support. They were followed by the two sisters. Mother Marie-Pierre was almost carrying Sister Marie-Marc, who stumbled along beside her on unsteady legs, her eyes glazed with incomprehension. Both were battered and bruised, their faces swollen and blood-smeared, and although they were still dressed in their habits, neither had her head covered. Colonel Hoch, Adelaide realised with another flood of ice through her veins, had spent the night interrogating them.

Hoch had indeed had a busy night. He had come to the cell into which the two nuns had been unceremoniously tossed, and flung wide the door, crashing it back against the wall. Stepping inside he had filled the tiny room with his presence. The sisters, sitting together on the single narrow cot that served as a bed, looked up fearfully. He saw the fear in their faces and he smiled. Fear he enjoyed; fear would get him what he needed to know.

“Stand!” he barked. The two nuns obeyed, the older of the two swaying a little unsteadily on her feet. Reverend Mother reached out a hand to steady her, and Hoch, watching the instinctive gesture, knew on whom he should concentrate, who would crack.

He turned to the soldier who had followed him to the door. “Shut the door, lock it, and wait outside.”

The man saluted and pulled the door closed with a clang. Hoch waited until he heard the bolt drawn across before giving his attention to his prisoners.

On his orders they had been taken through the German HQ to the police cells, and there he had let them stew for over two hours. It had given them time to consider their fate before they were interrogated, which, he knew, made interrogation more fruitful.

Hoch was angry. His raid on the convent had only been partially successful. He had received information that a family was being hidden there. A young woman and a child had been seen after curfew near the convent, and it was suggested that it might be the Auclon family. He had hoped the raid would deliver the whole family into his hands, and although he now had the parents locked up, the children seemed to have eluded him. He had hoped to arrest the young woman, whoever she was, at the same time. He’d been right, she had been there, but his idiot, incompetent men had allowed her to slip through their fingers. The cellar had quickly been discovered, disclosing where the Jews had been hidden, how they had been supplied with food, how the children had been removed and finally how the young woman had made her escape from the convent. He had sent men after her, but searching the countryside in the dark had been a waste of time. The woman had vanished, and the men concerned had only been able to furnish the sketchiest of descriptions. Good enough though for Hoch to recall seeing a young woman with the mother superior on a previous visit to the convent, a young woman who might fit. It was one of the things he intended to learn now, one way or another.

Looking at the two nuns standing before him, he realised that their habits gave them psychological protection. Somehow they would feel safe while still dressed in their black robes and white hoods; their dignity would be preserved, their feeling of self.

“You can start by taking off that ridiculous headgear,” he said sharply. “Now!”

Sister Marie-Marc began to protest, but Mother Marie-Pierre simply reached up and began to remove the offending hood, encouraging mildly, “Come along, Sister. Do as the colonel asks.”

Sister Marie-Marc was used to obeying Reverend Mother and without further protest, but with shaking hands, she did as she was told.

“And that cap thing!” snapped Hoch when they stood there, hoods removed, but heads still encased in the tight-fitting wimple and wide starched collar.

“Is that really necessary?” Mother Marie-Pierre asked. She remembered how Sister Eloise had looked, diminished and vulnerable with her cropped hair standing in a spiky halo about her head, and she knew it was part of Hoch’s intimidation tactics. She had no illusions about his interrogation methods and she was afraid. But she had to be strong for Sister Marie-Marc, to give her the courage they would both need from now on.

“Don’t make me ask twice, Reverend Mother.” Hoch spoke softly, menacingly. “Remember, I have men outside who would be only too delighted to discover if a nun was the same as any other woman under all that black bombazine.”

Mother Marie-Pierre undid the wimple, but left her collar in place, and Sister Marie-Marc did the same. Their heads were revealed, Mother Marie-Pierre’s hair in tiny cropped curls, Sister Marie-Marc’s scalp almost bald, with only wispy hair above her ears.

Hoch smiled at what he saw, two women, one of them old and scrawny, one in middle-age, the mystery of their calling shed with their hoods. Two very ordinary women, both afraid.

“Now I can see you properly,” he began, “I’m going to ask you some questions… and I expect some answers.” He fixed his eyes on Reverend Mother. “Where are the Auclon children?”

“I have no idea,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre.

He moved so quickly and unexpectedly that she received the full force of the back of his hand across her face. Almost knocked to the floor, she staggered backwards, and it was only Sister Marie-Marc’s grasping hands that kept her on her feet.

“Wrong answer! Where are the Auclon children?”

“I don’t know.” This time she was ready for the blow, but this time he used a clenched fist to her cheek and nose. Blood spouted and a cut opened up under her eye. Mother Marie-Pierre cried out, her hand flying to her face as the blood poured unchecked down onto her collar. Sister Marie-Marc screamed, and sat down hard on the bed, her legs having given way beneath her.

“Who brought the family to you?” Hoch demanded, ignoring the older nun’s sobs. Mother Marie-Pierre pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and tried to staunch her bleeding nose, but she made no reply.

“You!” he roared at Sister Marie-Marc. “Stand up.”

Sister Marie-Marc struggled to her feet, her face ashen, her eyes wide with terror.

“Who brought the family to the convent?”

Sister Marie-Marc shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

Hoch raised his hand again and Sister Marie-Marc flinched away, but it was not her that he hit, but her superior, another stinging blow across her other cheek.

“Turn the other cheek!” he mocked. “Isn’t that what you do, you holy nuns? Not so holy now, though, are you? Telling lies. Telling lies to save a family of filthy Jews. Well, let me tell you, you holy sisters, your lies won’t save them. Nothing you can do will save that family. They’ll never see their children again, and when I find them they’ll follow their parents to Germany. But I need to know where they are, and you are going to tell me.” This time he did hit out at Sister Marie-Marc, knocking her to the floor and then aiming two sharp kicks at her body. The old nun moaned, curling herself into a ball and flinging her arms up to protect her head.

“Stop it! Stop it!” shrieked Mother Marie-Pierre. “She doesn’t know anything!”

“Possibly,” agreed Hoch, “but you do, and if you don’t tell me what I want to know, it will be her who suffers.” He delivered another kick, this time to Sister Marie-Marc’s shaven head.

“Stop it! You’ll kill her!”

Hoch looked down at the figure now lying still on the floor. “Yes, I may. But that is entirely up to you. As soon as I have the information I need, I shall leave you in peace. Now, where are those children?”

Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts raced. Sister Marie-Marc couldn’t take much more of Hoch’s brutality. More kicks to the head and she would indeed die. Save her life and risk the Auclon twins? She had seconds to decide. She opted for partial truth.

“I don’t know where the children are,” she said reluctantly, “they were taken away.”

“Who took them?” Hoch’s eyes gleamed as he watched her face, searching out the truth.

“I don’t know. A man came for them.”

Hoch aimed another kick at Sister Marie-Marc’s head, his boot connecting with a sickening thud. “You’re lying!” he said almost conversationally. “It was a young woman. She was seen. Who was she?”

Mother Marie-Pierre paled, but held her nerve. “I don’t know. A man brought them, a woman took them away. I’d never seen either of them before.”

“Oh, I think you had,” said Hoch. “I think it was that girl who was at the convent when I came before. She was seen running away tonight. I have a good description. I think it is the same girl. If you don’t tell me who she is, I shall simply ask up at the convent. There’s a sensible nun up there. I’ve dealt with her before, she doesn’t want any more trouble.” He waited for some reaction, but although Mother Marie-Pierre was shaken at the thought that Adelaide had almost been captured, she was relieved to know she had got away. Surely she would make good her escape from the area as fast as she could. She must know there was no future for her in these parts now her cover was blown.

“So,” he said, “you might as well tell me her name now and save me the trouble of going back to the convent.” Again his hand whipped out across her face, the signet ring on his finger ripping a gash across her chin. Then he glanced down at Sister Marie-Marc still and silent on the floor, and prodded her with his toe. She moaned softly. “She’s still alive… just,” he remarked. “So, now, Reverend Mother, let’s start again, shall we? And this time don’t try my patience any longer. Who brought the Jews to the convent? They’d been hiding in a derelict cottage, and then someone brought them to you. Who was that?”

Sister Marie-Marc moaned again. Hoch said, “Please answer my question, or your sister will die.”

“A man from the resistance. I don’t know his name. I’d never seen him before.”

“If you didn’t know him, why did he bring the family to you?”

“The convent is a Christian house,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. “I suppose he must have thought we would give shelter to any family in danger.”

“Because you’d done it before!” snapped Hoch. “That’s why he came to you! A secret room was prepared in the cellar. I saw it with my own eyes. You knew they were coming… or someone in the convent did. Someone prepared that hiding place… if not you, who? The girl? She worked in the convent. She came in each day. You had to have help from the outside. Who is she… the one that prepared the room?”

“I did it.” The words were scarcely more than a croak. Sister Marie-Marc had opened her eyes and was staring up at the colonel. “I made the room. Mother didn’t even know about it until the Auclons were there.”

Mother Marie-Pierre dropped to her knees beside her sister. “It’s all right, Sister,” she said, “you don’t have to say any more.”

“Oh, I think she does,” Hoch said, pushing Reverend Mother aside. “Go on, Sister, what about the girl? The young woman who took the children away and then came back for the parents tonight? Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Sister Marie-Marc, her eyes closing again.

Hoch bent down and lifted Sister Marie-Marc’s head from the floor, peering at her swollen face before letting her head drop with a sharp crack onto the stone floor. “I don’t think she’ll survive tonight,” he remarked, glancing up at Reverend Mother. “I shall leave you to consider now,” he went on. “We shall resume in the morning. I shall bring another of my men who is specially trained in interrogation. Perhaps he will be more persuasive than I am.” He walked to the door and then glanced back at the figure on the floor. “It’s a pity you weren’t more helpful. You could have saved her a lot of pain.”

Mother Marie-Pierre held his gaze. “Will you send in some water so I can bathe her face?”

“No, Reverend Mother, I will not.”

“And a bucket, or something… for our needs?”

“You can squat in the corner,” he replied cheerfully, pointing to an open drain hole. “Something you’ll have to get used to, I expect. There’ll be few conveniences at the camps where we send enemies of the Reich.” He rapped sharply on the door three times and Mother Marie-Pierre heard the bolt being drawn back. The door opened, the colonel left, and as the door closed behind him, the light went out.

Mother Marie-Pierre bent down in the darkness and tried to ease Sister Marie-Marc from the floor onto the narrow bed. As she did so, the elderly nun murmured. “You didn’t tell him did you? About Adèle and the children?”

“No, Sister, I didn’t tell him.”

“Thank God.” She groaned as she tried to move. “Don’t tell him to save me. I’m old, they’re young. Don’t tell him. Evil! Evil man!”

“It’s all right, Sister, stay still,” soothed Reverend Mother. “When it gets light we’ll have a look at your bruises. It’s all right.” She rested the nun’s head in her lap. There was little else she could do for her until she could see, except pray.

It’s all right, she’d said, but it wasn’t all right at all. Mother Marie-Pierre knew that Hoch would be back in a few hours, and the interrogation would start again. Would he use Sister Marie-Marc again to try and make her talk? Would he reverse the process and attack her, Reverend Mother, in an effort to make Sister Marie-Marc tell what she knew? So far they had been subjected to Hoch’s bullyboy tactics, but there were other ways of extracting information from an unwilling prisoner. And so she prayed, through the darkest hours of her life, prayed for strength and guidance, for deliverance for them all. Truly, she thought, we are in the valley of the shadow of death.

As the dawn light crept in through the grubby window, Mother Marie-Pierre was able to see the damage Hoch had done with his boot. Sister Marie-Marc lay in an uneasy doze, her face was swollen, her nose broken with one eye almost closed. Damping a corner of her own blood-soaked handkerchief with saliva, Reverend Mother wiped away some of the blood that had crusted round the old nun’s nose. Sister Marie-Marc’s breathing was uneven, and even in her fitful sleep she moaned and muttered with pain. Mother Marie-Pierre’s own face ached appallingly. Her right eye had swollen from Hoch’s punch, and she, too, was finding it difficult to breathe through her nose.

Outside she heard the sounds of a new day, men’s voices and the heavy tread of boots. She urgently needed to relieve herself, and unwilling to have an audience for this, she gently eased the sleeping Sister Marie-Marc off her lap and went to the drain in the corner. When she returned to the bed she realised that Sister Marie-Marc was not asleep, but had drifted off into unconsciousness. Mother Marie-Pierre hammered on the door, trying to attract the attention of a guard, to get help, but if anyone heard her hammering, it was ignored. No one came. No one brought food or water. They were left in the cold silence of the cell. Occasionally there were sounds from outside; once she heard a piercing scream and the slamming of a door. Again she hammered on their door, but to no avail.

It was several hours before the bolts were again drawn back and Hoch strode in. He had not been idle in those hours and he was delighted with the results of his labours. He had begun by interrogating the Jews. Using the same technique, as with the nuns, he had them brought together in a cell. There Joseph was handcuffed to the wall, forced to watch as Hoch began to work on Janine. First he stripped her and then forced her to lie on her back, naked on the narrow bed, tying her wrists and ankles to the bed legs so that she was stretched out like a sacrifice. She had struggled against him, but she was no match for his strength, and a sudden punch to her head had sent her flying. She had screamed with fear and Hoch had shrugged. “You can scream all you like,” he said. “No one can hear you… and if they can, they won’t come.”

He glanced across at the pale-faced man. “You only have to answer my questions, Jew, and her pain will be over.” He had few of the more refined instruments of torture that were available at the Gestapo headquarters in Amiens, but Janine’s shrieks of pain as cigarettes were applied to her breasts and genitals soon had her husband singing like a nightingale. Within an hour Hoch had all the information he needed. His only failure was that the children were lost to him. Even the threat to put out his wife’s eyes had not produced the required information from Joseph, screaming frantically that he didn’t know. Hoch had come, reluctantly, to believe that he really didn’t know where his children had been taken. But Hoch now knew about everything else. About the Charbonniers, how they had let the family hide in the loft of the derelict cottage and kept them supplied with food; about the Launays, who had some connection with a girl called Antoinette who had brought them to hide in the convent; about a man called Marcel who had arrived with Antoinette to collect the children, one at a time, and taken them away. Hoch had not even needed the services of his “specialist” interrogator. He and he alone had this information. He would be the one to round up this little group of résistants. He would get the credit; none for the mealy-mouthed apology for a major, Thielen. He would stamp his authority on this place once and for all. And then maybe, just maybe, he would be moved from this godforsaken area to a more prominent job, in Paris perhaps. He had proved that the dreadful truth that his grandmother had been a Jew did not stop him from hunting down Jews wherever they hid, and sending them to the camps where they belonged.

This information culled was all he needed. Returning from the Jews’ cell, he sat down in his office to consider just exactly what he did know. The information about the fugitives at the convent had come in an anonymous letter. Hoch got it out of his desk now to look at it again. Written on cheap, lined paper, it was scrawled in pencil and simply said, “She’s hiding them in the convent! The girl had one of the children.” Of course it was unsigned, and the writer gave no clue to his or her identity, but Hoch, guessing who had sent it, had decided to act on it.

The information had proved correct, and Hoch was in no doubt now that the “she” must be the mother superior. Someone in the convent did not like her, the letter having been sent for private purposes; an informer who wanted some sort of reward would surely have made herself known. This fitted his theory that the letter had come from the nun he had dealt with before, Sister Marie-Something. She wanted to run the convent and was content to co-operate with the Germans if necessary, to do so. She might want to be rid of Reverend Mother, but so did he. He would tolerate no subversives in his area, and Mother Marie-Pierre was certainly that. The other nun, whoever she was, had been taken simply to implement his earlier threat. His point had been made, and emphatically made at that—there would be no further participation for the nuns in this war.

Hoch contacted the HQ in Amiens and arranged for one of the lorry transports on its way to Drancy, the transit camp outside Paris, to be diverted to pick up the prisoners. He had no further need of any of them. The Jews would be off to Drancy in a couple of hours, and the nuns could go with them.

That still left the question of Antoinette. Who was she? Was she the young woman at the convent? Almost certainly she was, so he could get her name easily enough. There would be no problem bringing in the Charbonniers and the Launays, they’d soon be made to talk. The only one he had little information on was the mysterious Marcel. No doubt Antoinette could furnish that information, and who knew where that might lead to?

There was also the mysterious disappearance of the weasel informer, Fernand. Since tipping them off about the Jews in the first place, he had made no contact. Where was he? Fernand, or rather his disappearance, had irritated Hoch. He wanted to know what the man was up to, so he’d sent Weber to Fernand’s house, either to bring Fernand in, or find out where he was. Weber had returned with Fernand’s landlady.

“Where is Monsieur Fernand, Madame?” Hoch had asked, almost civilly.

Martine Reynaud was terrified to find herself in the German headquarters and her voice shook as she answered. “I don’t know, Monsieur.”

“When did you last see him?”

“I don’t know, Monsieur. A few days ago. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

“But you must know when he’s in the house.”

Certainly Martine knew when the brute was in the house, with his demands for cooked meals, washing and mending to be done, boots to be cleaned. She had relished the peace of the last few days when he had made no appearance at all. She had not dared to hope that he might never come back and she might regain the use of her own home, but now this German officer with the skulls on his shoulder was glowering at her… and he was far more frightening than Fernand.

“Sometimes, sometimes not. He’s always out and about, Monsieur,” stammered Martine.

Hoch knew there was nothing more to be learned from her and he dismissed her. “When he comes back, you’re to let me know. But remember, Madame, there will be no need to tell him you have been here today.”

“Yes, Monsieur, I mean no, Monsieur,” gabbled the woman, and scurried out of his office.

Hoch considered what he had learned. Fernand had obviously disappeared. He, Hoch, would look into the matter later on. If Fernand were dead he wasn’t going anywhere, and if he wasn’t, well, he’d turn up sooner or later. He could be lying low, afraid, because his information proved to be out of date. Or perhaps something had happened to him? Hoch realised that he must be known locally as an informer, and probably a lot more besides. Had he met with an accident? It was more than possible that he had been silenced by one of his neighbours. Hoch did not particularly care whether the man was alive or dead, but if he had been murdered by the cell of résistants he was seeking now, the murder of a Frenchman would more than justify their arrest and execution when the time came.

Today, however, Hoch was concentrating on the girl and Marcel. Once he had them he’d have time for everyone else.

When he returned to the nuns’ cell, he found that the older one was in a bad way. She lay on the bed, moaning softly as Mother Marie-Pierre tried to soothe her. She had removed Sister Marie-Marc’s starched collar and cleaned her face as best she could with her handkerchief. As Hoch walked in the reverend mother appealed to him again. “For pity’s sake, Colonel, let them bring me some water. Sister Marie-Marc is feverish, she needs water to drink, and I need to bathe her face.”

Hoch looked down, unperturbed, at the old woman on the bed. “You can have some water,” he said, “and then get her ready to go.”

“Go!” Mother Marie-Pierre leapt to her feet. “Go where? She’s in no state to go anywhere. Let her be taken back to the convent so her sisters can care for her.”

“You are being taken to a prison camp,” he told her, “and she will go with you.”

“In the name of God, have you no pity?”

“For enemies of the Reich, no, Reverend Mother, I have not.” He walked to the door and then paused. “By the way, the Jews gave me the information I needed. I shall soon arrest all the others concerned in this little affair. You will be brought out when the transport arrives.” Hoch stared at her for a moment. “You are a meddlesome woman, nun, and you have brought this on yourself… and on her.”

“And you are an evil man, Colonel,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied quietly. “May God have mercy on you and forgive you, for I never will.” She turned back to Sister Marie-Marc. For a moment she thought he might strike her, but he simply gave a harsh laugh and left the cell slamming the door behind him and ramming home the bolt. Not long after that the soldiers had come for them.

Adelaide watched with mounting anguish. What right had anyone to treat another human being as Hoch had clearly treated his prisoners, as the desperate men and women in the truck were being treated? Her fury threatened to boil over, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing to avert what was happening. She willed Sarah to look in her direction, so that Sarah would know that she, Adelaide, was safe; so that Sarah would know she and Sister Marie-Marc had not been deserted. Sister Marie-Marc, her face almost unrecognisable, was clinging to Sarah, muttering incoherently.

As they reached the back of the truck, one of the soldiers grabbed Janine Auclon and simply tossed her over the tailgate. There were more cries from inside as she landed on top of those already aboard. Joseph Auclon was thrown in after his wife, and then the soldiers turned to the two waiting nuns.

Sarah began to sing in English, her voice clear and loud, a bell ringing out across the square. “In death’s dark vale I fear no ill, with Thee dear Lord beside me. Thy rod and staff my comfort still, Thy Cross before to guide me!” For a fleeting moment her eyes met Adelaide’s, and then she shouldered Sister Marie-Marc’s weight once more, and reverting to French she said gently, “Come, Sister, it’s time to go…”

As the soldiers still hesitated, she turned to them and spoke. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to help us into the lorry.” Two of them moved forward, and clearly uncomfortable at laying hands on a nun, lifted first Sister Marie-Marc and then Reverend Mother up and over the tailgate into the crush of humanity already on the inside.

At that moment Colonel Hoch emerged from the town hall, his face dark with rage. “What the hell’s going on here?” he roared and the soldiers snapped to attention. “Get those flaps closed and get on the road.”

The soldiers leapt to do his bidding, but as the flaps were hauled closed and roped into place, Adelaide heard Sarah’s voice, raised loud one last time. “God bless you!” and she knew that the blessing was for her.

23

With the arrival of Hoch on the scene, the crowd who had been watching melted away. Adelaide moved with them, fighting the tears as she watched the lorry and its miserable cargo prepare to leave. She should not be in the square at all, she knew that. She couldn’t afford to be conspicuous, but neither could she bring herself to walk away from Sarah. She could do nothing for her but be there, and so she had stayed.

The German soldiers returned to their HQ, as the lorry rumbled out of the place, and Hoch, with a final glance around the square, followed them inside. Once back in his office, he called for Lieutenant Weber. The lieutenant found him standing by the window that overlooked the square.

“You wanted me, sir?”

Hoch looked round. “Come here, Weber. Look out there. You see that girl crossing the square now? I want to know who she is and where she goes.”

“Shall I have someone bring her in, sir?” asked Weber.

“No,” snapped Hoch. “I just want her followed. I want to know where she lives, who she meets, who she talks to, where she goes. But discreetly, Weber. I don’t want her to suspect she is being watched. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get someone on to it.”

“And Weber, when you’ve done that, come back. I need you to go up to the convent and speak to the new reverend mother.”

“Yes, sir!” The lieutenant snapped a salute and left the colonel watching Adelaide walking slowly away. Hoch was almost certain she was the young woman who had been working at the convent, but was she the one who had escaped his men last night? If she were the young woman, Antoinette, who had taken the Auclon children away, then she was the important one now. She clearly had links with a wider network. Hoch needed her to lead him to this Marcel, whoever he was, and anyone else she had been working with; maybe to the whole network. With enough rope, he would hang them all. He would leave the minor players, the Charbonniers and Launays, for the time being. They weren’t going anywhere; he could round them up later on. If he arrested them too soon, it might alert Marcel, he would go to ground and Hoch would never catch him.

Unaware of this scrutiny, Adelaide made her way slowly across the place. With the departure of the lorry, people began to drift back onto the square once more, carrying on their everyday business. A queue of housewives formed outside the boulangerie for the daily ration of bread, workmen called to each other as they repaired a fire-damaged shop. Two young women pushing prams across the square paused to perch on the edge of the fountain and chat; a woman was cleaning her front window, another sweeping her step. An elderly car chugged in from a side road, a man with a briefcase hurried along, consulting his watch as he went; the priest came out of the church. Life went on.

How could everything seem so normal, Adelaide wondered bleakly as she watched them? How could life go on as usual when there was such an evil presence in their midst? She wanted to weep. Impotent fury and grief boiled up inside her, knotting together, a visceral pain. Her heart and mind were in that dreadful lorry, transporting its desperate human cargo to God alone knew where, and though she knew her own situation was precarious, she couldn’t give it her attention.

Hardly looking where she was going, Adelaide almost cannoned into a young German soldier heading the other way. He put out a hand to steady her, and smiled. “Enschuligen!”

Adelaide was jolted back to the present and with a duck of her head she muttered, “Pardon!” and hurried away.

Horrified at her own stupidity, she forced herself to continue at an even pace, though her mind reeled. The soldier watched her appreciatively for a moment before going into the café. He had not recognised her, but, Adelaide realised with a sudden chill, he could so easily have been one of those who had given chase last night, and she, too, could have been gathered into Hoch’s evil web.

Focus! Focus on what needs to be done, she admonished herself. There’s no time to think about Sarah now. You must put her out of your head and focus your mind on what to do next.

But try as she would, she could not banish the battered and bruised faces of the two nuns from her mind’s eye. And she was responsible; it was as simple as that. If she hadn’t hidden the Auclons at the convent, Sarah and Sister Marie-Marc would be safe and Aunt Anne would be alive.

A tiny voice inside reminded her that she had saved the children. She thought of the two little boys she had passed on to Father Bernard and wondered where they were now. Were they safe or had that been in vain as well? What about Father Bernard himself? If she were to be caught now, he too would be in jeopardy. The colonel had obviously been brutal in his questioning of the four prisoners, and Adelaide knew she must be in acute danger. She had no idea what he had been able to extract from them, but she guessed that they would not have been sent on their way had they still held information that Hoch needed. She had to assume that they had told him everything.

Now, more than ever, she needed to see Marcel. She had no direct means of contacting him, she had to rely on Madame Juliette. That was a security cut-out. Indeed she realised, as she didn’t even know Marcel’s real name, he would be safe if she were caught, but even so, she knew that she had to get away. Madame Juliette. She was another who would be at Hoch’s mercy should Adelaide fall into his hands, for if she were caught, she knew that she would be unlikely to withstand Hoch’s questioning for long. If there was no message from Marcel, or if he didn’t or couldn’t come to the farm, Adelaide decided that she must use the fallback rendezvous he had given her in Albert.

The longer I stay in the area, the more I endanger everyone concerned, Adelaide thought. Pull yourself together, woman, and get yourself away from here.

The first thing to do was to get out of sight. There were off-duty German soldiers sitting at tables outside the café. Any of them could be among those who’d been at the convent, any of them might recognise her. Whatever happened next, she had to warn the Launays and the Charbonniers. Adelaide quickened her pace and took the alley along the side of the café down towards the river. If Marcel did not come quickly she must contrive her own escape.

As she walked she considered her options. She thought about Madame Juliette’s cellar. Perhaps she could hide there until Marcel did come, until he brought news from London, but the idea appalled her. She knew she couldn’t survive in that claustrophobic underground room for long, and she would yet again be putting the old lady at risk. No, that would truly be a last resort. Marcel had told her that in an emergency she should head for Albert and he would look for her in the Café Rousseau every morning at eleven. Better to go there, she decided, than put Juliette at further risk.

As she reached the end of the lane, a young man in workman’s overalls came pedalling along the towpath on an elderly-looking bike. He raised a hand in greeting as he passed, and as she watched him riding on along the path, she thought about the bike she had used to carry the children. Perhaps she could simply get on her bike and ride away. She hadn’t used it today. After some discussion they had decided that Gerard should take the child seat off the back before she used it again, in case someone remembered seeing her with one of the boys up behind her. Still, the bike was a possibility. She might simply ride out of the area… if the Germans weren’t already on the lookout for her. Could she get as far as Albert without being picked up? And when she got there, where should she go until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?

Adelaide reached the old stone barn and turned down the track that led to the Launays’ farm. Further up the towpath, she saw that the cyclist had stopped and was energetically pumping up his back tyre. He must have got a puncture, Adelaide thought sympathetically. The path was rough enough, jagged stones bedded in rutted mud. If she did decide to use the bike to get away, she must remember to take the puncture kit and pump with her. She couldn’t afford to get stranded at the side of the road.

As Adelaide turned onto the farm track, Horst Braun stood up from his bicycle wheel and looked back. Pushing the bike, he walked back to the end of the track and glanced along it. The girl was walking briskly, striding out, almost running. In the distance Braun could see farm buildings among some trees, obviously her destination. He climbed onto his bicycle and rode quickly back to the town hall, taking the direct route rather than the circuitous one he had used to disguise his approach.

“She’s gone to the farm in the river bend,” he reported to Hoch.

Hoch’s eyes gleamed. “By the river, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.” Hoch thought for a moment. Weber had been up to the convent and spoken to Sister Marie-Paul, the new reverend mother. He’d come back with the information that the girl Hoch was looking for no longer worked there, she had been sacked just that morning.

“Her name’s Adèle Durant,” the reverend mother had said. “She lives with her aunt and uncle at a farm out along the river. The Launays.”

The Launays. Hoch had smiled with grim satisfaction at this. Launay was one of the names given by Joseph Auclon in his efforts to save his wife. So, there definitely was a connection. Joseph had said the girl’s name was Antoinette, but he could have been wrong. Adèle? Antoinette? Hoch was certain in his own mind that Adèle and Antoinette were one and the same; the girl Hoch had seen and recognised in the square today. And now young Braun had watched her heading down the lane that led to the Launays’ farm. The problem was going to be how to keep watch on her without being seen. Hoch had no doubt now that she was the link and must eventually lead him to the man Marcel, and Hoch was sure that Marcel was a key figure in the emerging local resistance movement. He wanted them both: the girl, Antoinette or Adèle, and Marcel.

“Shall we bring her in?” Braun asked.

“No!” snapped Hoch. “I’m waiting for someone to contact her. For now I just want her watched.”

“It will be difficult to get near and keep watch without being seen.”

“What’s it like there?” demanded Hoch. “Is there no cover?”

“Very little, sir, until you reach the farm buildings. There are a few trees round the house, but the fields are pretty open, just some low hedges. Oh, and there’s a derelict barn at the end of the track. But that’s not very near the farmhouse itself. You wouldn’t see much from there.”

“But you could watch the track itself? The approach to the farm?”

“Yes, sir. That would be easy enough.”

“For the moment that’s all that’s necessary,” replied Hoch. “I’m looking for someone. Take two men and watch from the barn. If anyone goes to that farm, or anything suspicious happens, you’re to report back. Use one man as a runner to keep me up to date.” He thought for a moment. “Who’s watching the place now?”

“No one, sir. There was no time for backup.”

Hoch cursed under his breath and then snapped. “Well, get back there, man. Get back to that barn and keep watch. And Braun, remember, don’t stop anyone going into the farm, but let me know at once if anyone does.” He thought back to Joseph’s description of the man Marcel. “I am looking for a man, thirtyish, quite tall with dark hair and eyes. If someone who fits that description approaches the farm, send word immediately.” Hoch gave a malevolent smile. “And I shall come myself.”

“Suppose he tries to leave again, sir? Before you get there?”

“If possible follow him, if not, arrest him. And the girl too, if she is with him. But I want them alive, Braun. Injured if necessary, but alive.”

“Yes, sir.” Braun saluted smartly and left the room.

When Adelaide reached the farm, Marie came running out to meet her.

“Adèle, are you all right? What’s happened?”

“It’s bad,” Adelaide replied. “Where’s Gerard?”

“In the top field, mending a fence.”

“Quick, Marie. Go and get him. We have to talk.”

With scared eyes, Marie nodded and set off, out of the farmyard. Adelaide went into the house and gathered up her few possessions. She was calmer now. She knew that she was on her own. The Launays could do nothing for her, and if the Auclons had talked, they would have problems of their own soon enough. If Marcel did not come in the next half-hour, she would strike out alone. She slipped her knife into her garter where it nestled comfortingly against her leg. She knew there would be no escape if she were cornered, no point in being unarmed and innocent. She had no gun, but the feel of the knife against her flesh gave her an illusion of security.

Marie and Gerard came back into the yard as Adelaide was pushing the old bicycle out of the shed. Gerard had already removed the child seat, and there was now just a small parcel carrier behind the saddle, to which she had strapped her small suitcase.

“Adèle!” cried Marie. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

Adelaide quickly told the couple what she had seen that morning. “We are all in danger now,” she said. “The Auclons must have talked, so it’s almost certain Hoch knows about me. So, it’ll be better for you if I’m not here. You can say that I got the sack from the convent this morning, so I’ve gone to Paris to look for work.”

“But where will you go?” asked Marie.

Adelaide smiled at her. “To Paris, to look for work. That’s all you need to know. What’s more important for you is to know nothing about the Auclons. Hoch will know I was involved, but you must plead ignorance. You had no idea what I was doing. Innocence and ignorance. Just stick to the fact that I came to help you out on the farm and earned some extra money working up at the convent. You had no idea that I was involved with anything else.”

“You think that Hoch is going to buy that?” asked Gerard scornfully.

Adelaide shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends what the Auclons were made to tell him. But you’ll just have to stick to that and hope he does. We must warn the Charbonniers, too. He’ll know about them as well.”

“If he knows all this, why isn’t he here already?” wondered Marie. “Why hasn’t he arrested us yet?”

“I don’t know,” conceded Adelaide. “Let’s just be grateful he hasn’t, and take advantage of the time he has given us. One of you should go over to the Charbonniers and warn them. In the meantime, I’ll leave. If a man called Marcel comes, tell him I will be at the fallback rendezvous tomorrow.”

The sound of a vehicle coming along the track made all three of them spin round, and for a moment Adelaide thought it was a German staff car edging into the yard. It had, indeed, the familiar long bonnet and inverted chevrons of a Citroën similar to the one that Hoch had requisitioned, but instead of a German at the wheel, Adelaide saw, with an explosion of relief, that it was being driven by Marcel. On the windscreen was a large sign saying “Doctor”. Leaving the engine running, he jumped from the car, slamming the door behind him.

“I got your message,” he said. “Time to go.”

Adelaide looked across at the Launays who stood staring at Marcel. “What about them?” she asked. “They’re in as much danger as I am.”

“Nothing we can do for them,” Marcel snapped. “They can’t leave their home. They’ll have to brazen it out. The only thing they know about is you… right?”

“Yes, and the Auclons.”

“Hoch already knows about the Auclons. They can tell him nothing more.”

“He may think they know more,” cried Adelaide.

“Adèle, there’s no way we can protect them if he takes it into his head to arrest them. But it will be far worse if you are taken too… for everyone. Now get in the car!”

“He’s right, Adèle,” Marie said. “We’ll be safer when you’ve gone. The only other thing we know is about Étienne and Albertine, and if Hoch knows about us, he’ll know about them as well. It’s a risk we all took, but please, go now before things get worse. Don’t worry, we’ll warn them too.”

Adelaide looked at her for a moment. As always it was Marie who was the stronger of the two Launays, Marie who had defiantly fought death for her man and nursed him back to health, Marie who had faced Fernand’s knife and given nothing away. Adelaide hugged her tightly, loving her for her courage.

“Hurry,” Gerard urged, taking her case off the bike. “There’s no time to lose.”

Adelaide broke away and climbed into the car. “Thank you both,” she said, “and good luck.”

Marcel turned the car in the yard and then drove slowly back along the track.

“Message from London,” he told her. “They want you home again. There’s a plane bringing someone in tomorrow night. It’ll pick you up.”

He was driving up the track as he spoke, but before Adelaide could answer a man in workman’s overalls stepped into the road, barring his way, and flagging him down.

“What the…? Christ!” exploded Marcel as he saw two others in German uniform step out behind the first, training machine-guns on the car. “Hold tight,” he rasped. “Get down when I say.”

He continued towards the three men, slowing down and raising an acknowledging hand, as if complying with their signals, but as he reached the end of the track he bellowed “Down!” and slamming his foot on the accelerator the car leapt forward and he drove straight at them. As the three Germans dived clear, Marcel wrenched the wheel and took the corner onto the towpath at full speed. Adelaide ducked below the dashboard clinging to the seat, as she was nearly thrown across the car into Marcel’s lap. A machine-gun rattled behind them, the bullets thudding into the ground around them as they sped away. The back window shattered showering them with glass, and Adelaide wrapped her arms round her head and face in a belated effort to shield herself from the flying shards. Even as she did so the windscreen disintegrated. Marcel grabbed a pistol from between the seats, and using the butt as a hammer smashed away the remains of the glass. They careered along the path and out into the lane, and there were several thuds and bangs as more bullets pounded into the body of the car. At one moment the car slewed drastically to one side, as a tyre burst, but Marcel, wrestling with the steering wheel, managed to keep them moving, the car slumping heavily on the flattened rim.

“Stay down!” he yelled as Adelaide shifted in the seat beside him. The machine-guns continued to blaze behind them but the turn in the road hid them from view, and for the moment they were safe. They reached the main road and Marcel swung the car towards Albert.

“You all right?” he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

“Yes.” Adelaide’s voice was shaky. “Yes, I think so.” She sat up cautiously. “Ouch! There’s broken glass everywhere and it’s vicious!” Blood seeped from cuts to her face, hands and arms, but otherwise she was uninjured. She looked across at Marcel. Blood was streaming down his face and neck, but he continued to grip the steering wheel, keeping the damaged car limping along the road.

“Marcel, you’re bleeding,” she cried. “Are you hit?”

“Only glass, I think,” replied Marcel through teeth clenched in pain. “They’ll be after us, Adèle, we must dump the car. It’s had it!”

“They haven’t got a car,” Adelaide said, “or a motorbike. If they had, they’d be here by now. Keep going until we find somewhere better to ditch the car.”

Even as she spoke, Marcel slumped down across the wheel, his foot slipped off the accelerator and the car shuddered to a halt.

“Marcel!”

Marcel groaned, and shifted in his seat. “My shoulder!”

“Quick, swap places. I’ll drive!” Adelaide leapt out of the car and rushed to the other side. “Come on, Marcel!” She opened the driver’s door and hauled him out. His jacket was soaked and sticky with blood and Adelaide realised it was not just from the gashes on his face and neck. He must have been hit in the shoulder.

“Come on, Marcel,” Adelaide urged. “Get in the back!” She managed to heave him into the back seat, slamming the door shut to hold him inside. A glance behind her showed her no Germans in hot pursuit, but it also showed her a thick slick of oil on the road; the car had definitely been hit.

With a curse she clambered into the driver’s seat and tried to start the engine again. It coughed and died, refusing to catch.

“Come on! Come on, damn you!”

Her mind raced. They had to find some sort of cover. If the car would go no further they would have to go on foot, and, with Marcel in the state he was, that truly would be a lost cause. Capture would be inevitable. Adelaide gave one last despairing pull on the self-starter, and miracle of miracles, the engine spluttered into life. Carefully she eased the clutch and the accelerator and the Citroën began to edge forward, its blown tyre thumping and bumping on the road. They moved slowly, but at least they were moving.

We shan’t be able to go far like this, she thought, and they’ll be right behind us. She glanced into the back of the car. Marcel was slumped as she had left him on the back seat.

“Marcel! Are you awake? Can you hear me? Marcel! Marcel!”

The only reply from behind her was a grunt and the sound of rasping breath.

As the car limped forward, Adelaide considered their options, and there appeared to be none. She pressed hard on the accelerator, and despite the shredded tyre the car picked up some speed.

“Come on! Come on!” she muttered, willing the car forward, but as they rounded a bend in the road, a second tyre blew and the car slewed sideways. Adelaide wrestled with the steering wheel, but the car did not respond and they cannoned into a tree at the side of the road with a resounding bang, and the engine died.

“Christ!” Adelaide was flung forward, hammering her ribs against the steering wheel, leaving her winded. For a moment she sat still, fighting the stabbing pain in her chest, trying to regain her breath. An ominous ticking came from the engine and there was a strong smell of petrol. Adelaide heaved herself out of the car, and jerking the back door open she struggled to pull Marcel clear. He tumbled out onto the road, and she saw that his shoulder was bleeding steadily now. This was no wound caused by flying glass, and Adelaide knew that it was bad. He was dazed but he was conscious as she reached under his arms to drag him away from the car. He was heavy, a deadweight, and she struggled to move him.

“Come on, Marcel,” she snapped. “Help me! We’ve got to get away from here. They’ll be here any minute!” She pulled him to his feet and, as he took some of his own weight, supported him against her as they made their way slowly along the road towards a gate leading into the adjacent field. Pursuit could not be far behind and Adelaide knew that they must, at least, get out of sight. For a moment Marcel rested on the gate, regaining his strength, and then they moved into the field.

“We must find somewhere to hide,” Adelaide said, “while we do something about your shoulder. You’re losing blood.”

“Copse over there,” Marcel rasped, pointing to a stand of trees on the further side of the field.

“Too far. They’ll be here in a minute.”

“Leave me here,” Marcel said. “You could make it on your own.”

“Shut up and let me think,” snapped Adelaide.

Even as she spoke she heard the sound of an approaching car. Too late to do anything but hide and pray. Adelaide looked round and saw the dry ditch that ran along the back of the hedge.

“Into the ditch!” She rolled Marcel into the ditch and giving him the pistol she had brought from the car pushed him down under cover of the overhanging branches.

“Stay here,” she hissed. “I’ll be back.”

The sound of the engine told her it was only one car, not a convoy of troops come searching. Pray God it was only a civilian car and not the Germans at all. She slipped along the field side of the hedge until she was level with the wreck of their car, then she too dropped into the ditch, and watched through the hedge as the approaching car came to a halt.

As the Citroën had disappeared drunkenly round the bend in the lane, Braun bellowed at the other two. “Hold your fire. They’re out of range!” He looked round to discover only Schilde on his feet. Taube lay motionless on the verge where the lurching car had tossed him. Braun checked for a pulse. “Out cold, but alive. Right. I’ll go back to HQ and tell Colonel Hoch what’s happened. You do what you can for Taube, make him as comfortable as you can and I’ll send help.”

Leaving Schilde to attend to his comrade, Braun grabbed his bicycle from inside the barn and set off to the village. He was not looking forward to making his report. He had failed, and Colonel Hoch did not tolerate failure.

“Well?” Hoch growled when the unfortunate Braun came into his office.

“They’ve made a break for it, sir,” Braun said. “Two, in a car. A man and, I think, a woman.”

“What!” the colonel bellowed. “And you let them go? What car? Why didn’t you report to me when the car arrived?”

“We didn’t see it arrive, sir. It must have been at the farm before we set up in the barn.”

“Why the hell didn’t you stop it, as it came out?”

“We did, sir. We flagged it down as it drove up the track. It had ‘Doctor’ displayed on the front windscreen and it was slowing as it reached us. Schilde and Taube had them covered and I stepped forward to speak to the driver.

“What did he look like?” demanded Hoch.

“Difficult to tell, sir. I only saw him briefly. Dark hair. Not an old man, probably somewhere in his thirties.”

“Marcel!” Hoch leapt to his feet. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“We thought he was stopping, sir, then at the last minute he put his foot to the floor and simply drove us down. Taube was knocked unconscious, he’s still out. We opened fired and the car took several hits.”

“But they’ve got away,” growled Hoch.

“I don’t think they’ll get far, sir,” Braun replied. “One of the tyres blew, and the car took a definite hit.”

“Weber!” Hoch’s bellow could be heard all over the building, and the lieutenant appeared at the run.

“Colonel?”

“Get the car!” barked Hoch, and as Weber rushed to fetch the car Hoch turned on Braun with a tirade of invective, damning him for his stupidity, incompetence, cowardice. “You should have stopped the car at any price!” Hoch roared. “Doctor indeed! It was a wanted resistance leader!”

Braun did not remind the colonel that his orders had been to take prisoners, to take them alive. He valued his own skin too much for that. “They drove straight into us, sir. By the time we were on our feet again they were away. But the car was damaged. They won’t get far, sir.”

“And the girl was with him, you say?”

“There was a passenger.”

“Which road did they take?” Hoch interrupted impatiently.

“They headed north-east, sir, towards Albert. You should easily catch up with them; the car sounded in a very bad way. Shall I call for reinforcements, sir?”

Weber and the car appeared on the square, and the colonel strode out to join him. “Twenty men!” he snapped over his shoulder. “Find Major Thielen and send him after me with twenty men, along the Albert road. Warn him I want no more cock-ups. Tell him to bring the dogs. And you,” he added ominously, “I’ll see you when I get back.”

He scrambled into the car. “Drive!” he ordered, and Weber, revving up the engine, roared out of the square.

Braun went in search of Major Thielen, but it took him a little while to find him, as he was off duty and had returned to his billet.

“Résistants, you say?” The major listened to Braun in surprise. He thought Colonel Hoch was only interested in searching out Jews, and the way he had gone about it the night before had sickened him. Thielen had heard about the night-time arrests at the convent, and although he was not unduly worried that two more Jews had been shipped out, he was concerned that two nuns, one of them the reverend mother no less, had been sent with them. Thielen had not seen them go, but he had heard the gossip that had described the state in which they had been loaded into the lorry. Making war on a convent full of nuns was not acceptable to Major Thielen, but there was little he could do about it. Hoch outranked him, and even if he had not done so, Thielen would have thought long and hard before he crossed swords with any SS officer. But résistants? They were another thing, and when he heard from Braun what had happened at the farm, Thielen gave brisk orders. Within minutes a truck was drawing up in the square and twenty men piling on board.

“You stay here and see to your wounded,” he ordered Braun as he swung himself up into an armoured car beside two dog handlers and their dogs. “Let’s go!”

The little convoy swept out of the square and headed at speed along the road to Albert.

“Looks like trouble up ahead, sir,” the driver said. Thielen looked up to see thick smoke swirling up into the sky.

“Foot down, Sergeant,” he ordered and braced himself as the armoured car swung round a corner.

Hoch and Weber had quickly reached the main road leading from St Croix to Albert. Although it was the main road, all of it was narrow and much of it was twisting, and Weber slowed instinctively as he approached the corners.

Hoch snapped. “Get a move on, Weber!”

“There’s oil on the road, sir,” said Weber. “They must have taken a hit.”

As they rounded another sharp bend Weber hit the brakes and they skidded to a halt. There, in front of them, its bonnet crunched against a tree where it had slewed off the road, was the Citroën. Its doors were open, as if its occupants had fled the car in haste.

“Come on,” Hoch said, “let’s take a look.” He drew his pistol, and easing open the car door stepped down onto the road.

Weber did the same. “Shouldn’t we wait for some backup now, sir?” he suggested uneasily. “We don’t know what we’re going to find.”

“We’re going to find an empty car,” snapped Hoch. “Whoever was in it isn’t going to hang about waiting for us. Come on.”

Cautiously they approached the car. There was the drip, drip, drip of oil, and Hoch could see it pooling under the car. The rear offside tyre had completely disintegrated, with the rim buckled and bent; the front nearside tyre was flat. Clearly the driver had lost control of the vehicle as he had rounded the corner too fast and slammed into the tree. Slowly Hoch edged his way round to the driver’s door, gesturing with his pistol that Weber should take the other side. The car was full of broken glass, vicious shards scattered over the floor and the seats, more in the road. The inside of the car was spattered and smeared with blood, and on the back seat was a dark stain, clearly blood and far more than a smear.

“Be careful, sir, it might be booby-trapped!” Weber was not enjoying this. He felt himself over-exposed. Here they were, just two of them, in pursuit of desperate fugitives, résistants, who had already mown down those who stood in the way of their escape. Weber felt it was time to await the coming reinforcements. Let them scour the area and catch or kill these dangerous fugitives. “It might blow up, sir!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man,” scoffed his colonel. “They’ve had no time for that. Look at the blood, here on the back seat. One of them at least is wounded. They won’t get far.”

“They may be armed, sir,” ventured Weber. He looked nervously round him, but all was quiet; there was no sign of the résistants. Where had they gone? Were they lurking in the hedgerow waiting to pounce? A rustle in the bushes made him spin round, his pistol levelled at the sound, but it was merely a bird, hopping from twig to twig.

“What a coward you are, Weber.” Hoch’s voice was icy with contempt, but even so he moved aside from the car and looked round. The road curved away in front of them, low hedges on either side, punctuated by tall poplar trees.

“They went this way,” he said. “Look, one of them is bleeding.” Pistol in hand, he followed the trail of blood along the road to an old gate leading into the adjacent field. He jerked his head for Weber to follow him, and reluctantly the lieutenant did so, his eyes swivelling nervously as he continued to search for any sign of the fugitives.

They edged along the hedge towards the old wooden gate. It was almost closed, hanging askew on its ancient hinges as if it had been dragged across in a hurry. The trail of blood stopped there, but there was another smear on the top bar, as if someone had leaned on it for a moment to regain his breath. Before going through the gate, Hoch surveyed the field beyond it. In the distance was a small copse, the trees standing tall from the bushy undergrowth that covered the ground beneath.

“Over there.” Hoch pointed at the copse. “They’ll be holed up in that wood.”

Weber looked where he pointed. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. But we can’t flush them out on our own, not just the two of us. We need men to saturate the place.”

Hoch eyed him grimly. “I know that, Weber. I’ll wait by the car. You stay here and keep watch on those trees. Shout if you see any movement.”

Adelaide had watched as the car pulled up beside theirs. It was a German staff car, but there were only two men in it, and as they got out to have a look, the inkling of an idea twitched into her mind.

Given enough time and a little luck, she thought, we might yet get away.

She watched as the two officers got out of their car, pistols drawn and ready for trouble. Hoch she recognised at once; the other, a younger man, she had seen before, but did not know his name. He was obviously ill at ease, his pistol unsteady in his hand as he stared round him. The two men stood talking for a moment before Hoch pointed to something on the ground and they moved slowly up the road.

Adelaide wormed her way under the hedge and out into the lane. The staff car had been pulled off the road just behind their crash. Adelaide peered from behind it and saw the two men making their way cautiously towards the field gate. A quick glance into the staff car showed her the keys still dangling in the ignition. She snatched them away and stuffed them into her pocket, before ducking back into the safety of the hedge.

The two men had reached the gate now and were looking over into the field. It would probably be moments only before they found Marcel, but she had to assume they wanted to capture him, not kill him, and she made no move.

Keep a cool head! she told herself. Wait your chance!

She watched as they went through into the field, and the moment they were out of sight she sped after them, hidden by the hedgerow, her feet soundless on the grass verge. As she reached the gateway she heard their voices and then the sound of someone coming back. Pressed into the shelter of the hedge, she waited, poised, her knife in her hand. Surprise must be her ally.

The man came through the gate; it was Colonel Hoch. As he turned back towards the cars Adelaide launched herself at him, bringing her knife up, hard and strong towards his chest. In the moment that she moved, he saw her and twisted away, striking out at her. Her knife rammed home into his shoulder, and he gave a bellow of pain, staggering away, dropping his pistol, but still on his feet. Wrenching the knife free she attacked again, aiming at his groin and this time her knife found its mark. With an agonised shriek, Hoch doubled up and Adelaide gave the final thrust deep into his side. Shots rang out, and she lurched sideways as Lieutenant Weber hurtled out through the gate, his pistol in an unsteady hand, firing as he came. The shots went wide, and Adelaide sprang to her feet, diving forward as another bullet zinged over her head. Her knife still clutched in her hand, she twisted violently, rolling away, coming again to her feet, but Weber shouted, “Halt!” A glance showed her that he had her covered. He was afraid… his hands were shaking, but they held the pistol out in front of him, and at that distance he could not miss.

“Now, drop the knife!” He spoke first in German and then in schoolboy French. “Drop the knife and lie on the ground.”

Adelaide did as she was bidden. For the moment she had no alternative… maybe later, if she complied now. Her eyes flicked to where Hoch’s pistol had fallen, several yards away, measuring the distance and gauging her chances of reaching it before Weber shot her. They were nil.

“You are a résistant,” the lieutenant was saying. “You will stay where you are till my men arrive, or I will shoot you dead.” Weber stood well clear of her as she lay spread-eagled on the ground. He held his pistol at arm’s length, clutched in two hands and pointing at her. He was taking no risk that she wouldn’t attack again. His eyes flickered across to the inert body of Colonel Hoch. “And a murderer. For this killing, you will be shot.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Marcel’s voice was a drawl, and as Weber spun round two bullets thudded into his chest. The lieutenant fell where he stood and Marcel leaned awkwardly against the gate. “Takes care of those two,” he said. “Time to move before the rest get here.”

“We’ll take their car,” Adelaide said. “Come on, let’s get you into it.”

“All in good time,” Marcel said. “Let’s get them into ours first.”

“What! Come on, Marcel! They’ve got troops coming!”

“So, let them find a car crash. The cars are the same. They’ll realise in the end, but it will give us more time.”

“The cars are the same…?”

“Use your eyes, Adèle,” snapped Marcel. “Come on, we have no time. Get them into the wreck.”

Together they dragged the two bodies along the road to the crashed Citroën, and heaved them into the front seats. It wasn’t easy. The bodies were a deadweight and Marcel was struggling with the wound in his shoulder, but somehow they managed, heaving the two men into the car and slamming the doors against their sagging bodies.

“Move their car up the road,” ordered Marcel, and, retrieving a jerry can of petrol from the boot, he splashed it generously over the bonnet and inside the crashed car, before striking a match and tossing it in through the open driver’s window. The petrol ignited with a whoosh and Marcel leapt backwards, almost falling over before staggering to the waiting staff car. Adelaide had the engine running, and as Marcel hauled himself into the passenger seat she let in the clutch and pulled away.

“I’ll direct you,” Marcel said, his voice weak as he collapsed back against the seat.

Even as they accelerated away, Major Thielen was thundering along the road from St Croix in his armoured car, the truckload of men behind him. He saw the black smoke pouring into the sky and as he rounded the corner he almost ran into the burning Citroën. His car and the following truck screeched to a halt. Men jumped down into the road and the two dog handlers with their dogs jumped out of the armoured car. There were yells of “Keep back! Keep back!”, but Major Thielen ran towards the burning car. He could see two bodies inside, could make out the insignia on the burning jacket of the driver. The heat was intense, driving him back, his hands held up to shield his face.

“There are people inside!” he yelled. “Give a hand here!”

There were indeed hands, but they dragged him back from the burning car. “There’s nothing you can do, sir,” one of his junior officers shouted. “It’s too late, they’re gone. Keep back!”

Even as he dragged the major clear, the petrol tank of the burning car exploded and they were all thrown backwards as a fireball erupted into the air, raining burning debris down on their heads as they dived for cover. Pandemonium reigned for a few moments as the troops beat out the sparks that smouldered on their clothes and burned in their hair. Patches of dry grass ignited along the roadside, and the tree against which the car had been wedged flamed like a torch above the burning remains.

Later, when the fire had been doused and the car had cooled enough to be approached, Major Thielen peered into what remained of its blackened shell. The explosion and subsequent conflagration had incinerated the two bodies he had seen, but he had no doubt who they were. Braun had passed on orders from Colonel Hoch to follow him in pursuit of two résistants, and this Thielen had done.

It was clear to him, he told his men gravely, that in his haste to apprehend the résistants, the colonel’s driver had taken a corner too fast and crashed into a tree. There was oil on the road, which must have made him skid.

He didn’t believe it, of course, but whatever the cause of the accident, Thielen was glad to be rid of Colonel Hoch. He considered him a disgrace to the Fatherland. Thielen was fighting a war, but he had no time for thuggery, torture and murder, practised on civilians, and he knew that Hoch had committed all three. Life without him would be a welcome relief indeed. He was glad Hoch was dead and he was not going to look particularly hard at the circumstances; he had no intention of suggesting that the colonel’s death was anything more than a dreadful accident, happening in the course of his duty. Such would be his report.

“Should we search the area, sir?” demanded Hartmann, the young officer who had dragged him back from the burning vehicle.

“Certainly,” agreed Thielen. “Let the dogs loose and see if they pick up a scent.”

The dog handlers did as they were ordered, and the dogs ran round in excited circles, as they discovered patches of blood in the dust of the road.

“Blood, sir,” reported one of the handlers. “Looks fairly fresh.”

“See if they pick up a trail,” ordered Thielen. He might still find the résistants that the colonel had been chasing. The dogs were released again, but apart from nosing about in a dry ditch at the edge of the field for a while, they found nothing to take their interest, and after a while they were returned to the armoured car.

“I wonder how they came to crash,” Hartmann said, studying the remains of the Citroën. “I suppose this is Colonel Hoch’s car.”

“Of course it is,” snapped Thielen. “We’ve seen him in it a hundred times. Please see to the removal of the bodies, Hartmann, and arrange for the burial of the remains. I will report back to SS Headquarters in Amiens.”

Hartmann appeared to be about to speak, but thinking better of it he snapped a salute and turned to give the orders to his men. Hoch had been feared almost as much by his own men as he had by the local population. A sadistic and ambitious man, he would be mourned by no one.

Thielen realised that the knowledge Hoch had gained from the torture of his most recent prisoners had died with him, but even so, he didn’t despair of catching the résistants. Braun had actually seen them, so he could give a description, and Thielen himself already had one contact in the locality. He could be tapped for more information. No, Thielen didn’t despair of catching them at all… and the credit would be his.

“Get the road cleared,” he ordered Hartmann, “then report to me at HQ.”

Unaware that pursuit, for the time being, was over, Adelaide and Marcel turned off the road to Albert, and, with Marcel navigating, took the lanes and by-ways, travelling across country until they bumped along a dirt track and through the gate into a farmyard. As they turned in, Adelaide recognised it as the farm Marcel had taken her to on the night she had landed. She pulled up in the yard and the elderly woman, Maman, who had looked after her the last time, came out. When Maman saw Marcel slumped in the front seat of the car, she began issuing orders to Adelaide, and between them they managed to get him out of the car and into the house.

“Put the car in the barn for now,” Maman said as she took hot water from the kettle on the range and set about removing Marcel’s shirt. “We’ll hide it properly later. Now,” she said, turning her attention to Marcel, “let’s have a look at you.”

Adelaide did as she was told, driving the car into the open-ended barn so that it was not immediately apparent to anyone who came into the yard. The front seat was covered in blood, and she realised that Marcel had been bleeding steadily ever since they had made their break. His wound was worse than she had realised, and the effort he had put into moving the two German soldiers into the wrecked car, and his determination to get them both to a safe house, had made it worse. She found a bucket in the yard and filling it at the pump set about trying to remove the bloodstains from the leather seat. She got the worst off, but the stain needed more than clean water and a cloth to remove it completely. Next, she found a screwdriver in a box of tools and carefully removed the number plates. There was no point in making identification of the car easy. Someone had lost his car; the German staff car was almost identical; with a little careful work it might be a replacement.

When she finally went back into the kitchen she found Maman bandaging Marcel’s shoulder. Marcel was pale, his face drawn with pain, but he managed a weak smile as she came into the room.

“Where’s the car?” he asked.

“Taken care of, for now,” she replied, putting the number plates on the table beside him. “All we have to do is get rid of these and replace them.” She spoke to Maman. “How bad?”

“Not good,” replied the old lady, tipping the bowl of bloodied water down the sink. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll live. Now, what about you?”

“Me?” Adelaide sounded surprised.

“Sit down and let me look.” Maman poured clean water into the bowl, and taking Adelaide’s hands washed them thoroughly. The water made the cuts from the flying glass sting, but none was very deep, and Adelaide had been almost unaware of them in their flight.

“And your face. Hold back your hair.”

Adelaide did as she was told and the old lady washed and anointed the cuts to her face and neck. “You’re lucky, there’s only one bad one here on your chin. It really needs stitching or you’ll have a scar.” She turned to Marcel. “Perhaps when the doctor comes…?”

“No doctor until we’ve got Adèle away,” Marcel said firmly. “Too risky.”

“But you…” began Maman.

“I will wait until Adèle has gone.”

“Surely you can trust Dr Clabot.”

“Of course, I still have his car…” he laughed, “well, one just like it. But there are other eyes and ears, and I won’t take any unnecessary risks until Adèle is safely away.” He tried to stand up, but his legs seemed to buckle under him and he sank back onto the chair. “I have to contact the reception group,” he said. “There’s another drop coming in tomorrow night, and we have to be ready. The same plane will take Adèle out. Will you contact Rousseau for me? I need to talk to him.”

“In the morning,” Maman promised. “What you need now is some hot food and a good sleep… and no argument,” she said fiercely as he began to protest. “Time enough for Rousseau then.”

Adelaide was given the same bedroom she’d occupied before. As she lay in bed trying to sleep, she considered all that had happened since she was last in that bed ten weeks ago. Ten weeks! Was it really only ten weeks since she had parachuted into France, into the war of occupation? She thought of the people she would be leaving behind, everyday people who were trying to live normal lives; and the others who were living anything but normal lives as they fought against those who had taken over their towns, their homes, and in some cases their families. She thought of Sarah, quietly courageous, and the valiant little Sister Marie-Marc. She thought of Sister St Bruno, hiding a fugitive Jew under her bed; of Father Bernard sheltering those hiding from the Germans, those on the run and in fear of their lives. She thought of the Auclons, the parents prepared to give up their children in an effort to save them; of the twin boys so wary of anyone but each other. Madame Juliette, the Launays and the Charbonniers, simple folk prepared to put their own lives at risk to fight against the evil that had overtaken their country.

And then she thought of Colonel Hoch, the embodiment of that evil. She had plunged her knife into him without compunction. The memory of Sarah, battered and bruised, and of Sister Marie-Marc, almost unable to stand, flooded through her, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. She had made sure that the monster would never torture and murder again, but for so many that was too late. She had been trained to kill, to be prepared to kill, and she had done so. Fernand, rotting at the bottom of the Launays’ old well, and Hoch, whose eyes gleamed as he inflicted pain; Adelaide felt no more remorse than she would have destroying any other vermin.

Next day Marcel, though still pale and weak from loss of blood, seemed a little better. Adelaide was sitting with him in the farm kitchen when a young man arrived. He was introduced to Adelaide as Rousseau.

“We have to be prepared for a landing tonight,” Marcel told him. “Incoming, another wireless operator, outgoing, Antoinette. Can you make the arrangements?”

Rousseau nodded. “Of course, leave them to me.” He looked gravely across at Marcel. “I must tell you though, Marcel, I am concerned about young Benoit. He’s been acting very strangely these last few days. I think I won’t include him in the reception party. You need to talk to him. To find out what’s wrong.” Rousseau grinned suddenly. “I saw him today. He came into the café and gave me one bit of news to brighten my day.”

“Oh?” Marcel looked up with interest. “And what was that?”

“He said two German officers were killed yesterday in a road accident over St Croix way.” He laughed. “Don’t care how they die as long as they do!”

“How did he hear that?” asked Marcel sharply.

Rousseau shrugged. “He didn’t say, just said he’d heard it. May not be true of course.”

“Keep an eye on that young man,” Marcel warned. “He’s too free with his tongue. Does he know about the drop tonight?”

“I haven’t told him, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know. To be honest, Marcel, the whole group chat too much among themselves. You should talk to them all.”

Marcel nodded. “I’ll have a word,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Surely you’re not coming tonight!” exclaimed Rousseau. “Not with your arm useless and in a sling. You won’t be any help and it’s an added risk.”

“I shall be there,” Marcel said in a voice that brooked no argument, and Rousseau shrugged:

“You’re the boss,” he said and took his leave to go and make the arrangements.

When he had gone Adelaide asked, “Who is this Benoit? Is he a security risk?”

Marcel shrugged. “Everyone is a security risk,” he said. “Benoit is probably no worse than anyone else, except that he’s young and can be careless.” Marcel smiled across at her. “Don’t worry, chérie, the risks are there every time, they are no greater tonight than any other.”

The night was dark with only patchy moonlight between the scudding clouds. Adelaide stood with Marcel in the shelter of a hedgerow at the side of the field that would be the landing strip for the incoming aircraft. His arm was in a sling, but he insisted, as he had to Rousseau earlier, that he was coming with her to see her safely away.

During the afternoon they had talked, sitting side by side at the big kitchen table, left on their own as Maman had made a discreet withdrawal.

“When you arrived I wondered why on earth they had sent someone so young and inexperienced,” Marcel admitted. “I reckoned you were a tremendous risk to us all.”

Adelaide grinned at him. “Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “You made that abundantly clear!”

He took her hand in his and held it against his cheek. “How wrong I was! You’re the gutsiest girl I’ve ever come across… and the most beautiful.”

Adelaide felt the colour flood her cheeks and she pulled her hand away. “Come on, Marcel. We both know there’s no future in talk like that.”

“Isn’t there? This bloody war isn’t going to last forever, and when it’s over I’m going to come over to England and find you.” His eyes were intent upon her face. “I love you, Adèle. Didn’t think it could happen to me… falling in love at my age… far too cynical… but it has. I love you and when we’ve kicked the bloody Boche out of France, I shall come and find you.” He reached out to her with his good arm, pulling her to him. Adelaide allowed herself to rest against his heart, for a precious moment feeling safe within his embrace, and each of them had drawn comfort from the closeness of the other.

“I mean it,” he said. “When this war is over, I shall come and find you, wherever you are.” He spoke in English, his accent, as he spoke her language rather than his own, imbuing the words with added depth. “Look for me after the war, for if I survive I will come.” He kissed her then, holding her a little awkwardly with one arm, the passion in his kiss reinforcing the passion in his words.

The sound of the Lysander throbbed in the air and the reception party switched on the bicycle lamps set out to illuminate the makeshift runway.

The pilot made a single pass overhead, and then the engine note changed as he throttled back and made the approach to land. Marcel pulled Adelaide into his arms one more time and kissed her as if he would never let her go, and she, responding, returned his kiss with equal passion.

“Remember,” he said fiercely, “and never doubt it, I shall come and find you, chérie.”

The plane touched down, and almost before it had come to a halt the door was opened and the incoming wireless operator was scrambling down the ladder. Reaching back, he heaved his wireless suitcase from the plane.

For a moment Marcel stared down at Adelaide’s face as if to imprint it on his memory forever, and then he gave her a little push. She ran across the grass and scrambled up the ladder into the plane. The moment the door slammed behind her, as she was scrambling into the observer’s seat, the pilot revved the engine and taxied round to take off again.

As he did so, there was a rattle of machine-gun fire from somewhere outside.

“Christ!” bellowed the pilot. “Ambush!”

One glance sideways through the canopy, and the pilot’s face became a mask of grim determination. The plane was gathering speed and Adelaide was flung against the fuselage as the Lysander lumbered across the field before lifting into the air. The sound of gunfire continued, and as the Lysander banked away, Adelaide looked down to see muzzle flashes from the field below. The moon sailed out from behind the clouds, and in its pitiless light Adelaide saw figures running in all directions, some stumbling and falling, others diving for cover in the surrounding woodland. And then they were gone, as cloud enveloped the plane and she could see nothing.

“Just got you out in time,” shouted the pilot above the roar of the engine. “Sorry for the poor bastard we just took in! He’s probably bought it!”

Adelaide huddled against the throbbing fuselage of the plane, the tears flowing, unchecked, down her face. For the first time she allowed herself to acknowledge what Marcel had come to mean to her. Strong and brave, he came to the drop to make sure she got away safely… because he loved her, and she had seen him mown down by machine-gun fire. His words echoed in her ears. “Look for me after the war, chérie, for if I survive I will come.”

As the Lysander droned its way home across the Channel, Adelaide knew with a despairing, aching heart that Marcel had not survived and that he would not come.

Epilogue

Summer 2006

Adelaide Talbot leaned back against her pillows and sighed. “So there you have it,” she said. “I came back to England and when I’d been debriefed, I was given wireless training and then sent back. Different area of course, where I was completely unknown. Normandy. I worked with the local resistance as a courier and liaison until the Allies landed.”

She smiled at Rachel Elliott, journalist from the Belcaster Chronicle, who had come to interview her. “I was lucky to survive, hundreds of us didn’t.”

The old lady fell silent and closed her eyes. Wondering if she had fallen asleep, Rachel glanced across at James Auckland, sitting on the other side of the bed holding his grandmother’s hand.

“What a sad story,” Rachel murmured. “Sad and brave. I wonder what happened to them all, Sarah, Sister Marie-Marc, Marcel and the children.”

She was just reaching forward to switch off her tape recorder when Adelaide’s eyes opened again and she said softly, “It was all so long ago, so long ago.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to Sarah?” Rachel asked gently, sitting back again and letting the tape continue to run.

“Yes, I did,” replied Adelaide. “It took some time, of course. Everything was in chaos at the end of the war. The Allies discovered places like Bergen-Belsen and Auschwitz. Hundreds of thousands of people had disappeared and those that had survived were refugees; no homes, no families and nowhere to go. We traced Sarah to Ravensbrück, the concentration camp for women. Some of the survivors remembered her, and spoke of how she did all she could to alleviate the suffering of those around her. One woman said that ‘Mother’ was always wherever she was needed, nursing, encouraging, keeping her faith strong to strengthen others. Even most of the German guards treated her with some sort of respect, occasionally giving in to her demands for an extra ration of food to be shared among those too weak to collect their own portion.” Adelaide gave a rueful smile. “She died as she had lived, always caring for those around her, putting their needs first. She finally caught typhus, which in her weakened state carried her off very quickly.”

“And Sister Marie-Marc? Was she with her?” asked Rachel. She had been completely caught up in Adelaide’s story and felt she had come to know the people who had played their part.

Adelaide shook her head. “I asked, of course, but no one I met remembered her. I think she probably died en route to the camp. She was in a dreadful state when she was loaded onto that lorry, and it’s unlikely she survived the journey. I imagine they went first to Drancy, the transit camp outside Paris, where the conditions were said to be absolutely appalling.” Adelaide gave a rueful smile. “Dear Sister Marie-Marc, she was so determined to outwit ‘Les sales Boches’ who stole her chickens.”

Silence settled round them and the old lady again closed her eyes. Rachel didn’t speak; her mind was teeming with everything she’d heard. There was such a story here; far more than she had ever anticipated when, at the suggestion of James Auckland, she’d asked the old lady for an interview. James had sent the book he had written about his grandmother’s exploits in the war to the Chronicle for review, and Drew Scott, the editor, had given it to Rachel to read.

Rachel had been fascinated and had rung James up to arrange an interview.

“It’s not me you need to talk to,” he said. “It’s my grandmother. I’ll introduce you if you like.”

Rachel had accepted the offer with alacrity, and here she was hearing the story, first hand, from the woman whose story it was.

“You didn’t think of writing the book yourself?” Rachel had asked her.

With a laugh, the old lady shook her head. “No, I’m far too old. I’ll be ninety in September. No, it was James who suggested it. I didn’t think anyone would be interested, but he said they would, so I left it to him.”

“And you simply told him what had happened.”

Adelaide shrugged. “I told him what I knew. I don’t know exactly what did happen when Sarah was arrested and questioned, but,” she added grimly, “having seen her and Sister Marie-Marc and the Auclons when Hoch had finished with them, I could guess.” She sighed and again lapsed into a silence broken only by the summer sound of someone mowing the grass below the window.

Already Rachel’s journalistic mind was sorting and cataloguing what she had heard, the story she would write already taking shape in her head. The details of the fear and the courage that had emerged as she’d spent the afternoon with Adelaide were safely trapped on tape, ready to be replayed as Rachel worked on her story. No simple book review now; but an in-depth piece of journalism.

“But of course I did find the twins,” Adelaide said suddenly as if there had been no lapse in the conversation. “Jacques and Julien.”

“Did you?” Rachel was startled back to the present. “How marvellous! Where were they?”

“In the convent in Paris. Father Bernard had managed to get them there and Mother Magdalene kept them. She gave them new names and managed to get them new identity papers. When I went back to try and find Sarah, I went to the mother house in Paris in case they had news of her. They hadn’t of course, but Mother Magdalene mentioned that the boys were still there and I asked to see them. They didn’t remember me, but I knew them at once.”

“And their parents?”

“Enquiries had been made about them, but nothing was known about either of them. Almost certainly they were sent to one of the extermination camps, but there was no record. They simply disappeared among the thousands of others.”

“What happened to the twins?” wondered Rachel.

To her surprise both James and Adelaide laughed. “Well, that I can tell you,” Adelaide said. “I adopted them and brought them home to England. We anglicised their name, Auclon, to Auckland. James is Julien’s son.”

“What?” Rachel stared at James in disbelief. “You’re joking!”

“Never more serious,” he grinned. “My dad, Julien Auckland, is a doctor, and my uncle Jacques is a solicitor, or they were before they retired.”

“And they’re both still alive?”

“And kicking!” James agreed cheerfully.

“It really is the most amazing story,” Rachel said. She turned back to Adelaide. “And Marcel? Did you ever discover who Marcel really was? Did you ever find out what happened the night you made your escape?”

Adelaide smiled. “Oh yes,” she said. “He told me himself.”

“But I thought he was…” began Rachel.

“So did I,” admitted Adelaide, “for the rest of the war. But he wasn’t. Because he wasn’t working with the reception party, he wasn’t out in the field when the Germans opened fire. Only he and Rousseau survived that attack. It turned out that Benoit, the young man they had been discussing, had turned traitor.” Adelaide’s voice hardened. “Like Fernand, Benoit wanted to be on the winning side and had been selling information to the Germans.” A shadow passed across her face as she added, “Needless to say, he did not survive the war. Anyway, Marcel managed to get away, and to gather another group round him. He continued his fight until France was liberated and the war ended. And then he came to find me.” Her face lit up at some private memory. “He was a lawyer. His name was Antoine Talbot, we were married for forty years.”

The End

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Castlehaven Boooks

This eBook edition first published in the UK in 2015 by Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Diney Costeloe, 2004

Jacket Design © KS Agency

Author Photo © Helen Faubel

The moral right of Diney Costeloe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (E) 9781784972592

Head of Zeus Ltd

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London EC1R 0HT

www.headofzeus.com

THE THROWAWAY CHILDREN

Diney Costeloe

Gritty, heartrending and unputdownable – the story of two sisters sent first to an English, then an Australian orphanage in the aftermath of World War 2.

Rita and Rosie Stevens are only nine and five years old when their widowed mother marries a violent bully called Jimmy Randall and has a baby boy by him. Under pressure from her new husband, she is persuaded to send the girls to an orphanage – not knowing that the papers she has signed will entitle them to do what they like with the children.

And it is not long before the powers that be decide to send a consignment of orphans to their sister institution in Australia. Among them – without their family’s consent or knowledge – are Rita and Rosie, the throwaway children.

Start Reading

Table of Contents

Contents

Cover

Welcome Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Diney Costeloe on Finding the Throwaway Children

Copyright

1

Belcaster 1948

Raised voices again. Rita could hear them through the floor; her mother’s, a querulous wail, the man’s an angry roar. For a moment she lay still in bed, listening. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that they were arguing.

Rosie, her sister, was peacefully asleep at the other end of their shared single bed, the stray cat, Felix, curled against her. She never seemed to wake up however loud the shouting downstairs. Rita slid out from under the bedclothes and tip-toeing across the room, crept out onto the landing. Limpid green light from a street lamp shone through the small landing window, lighting the narrow staircase. A shaft of dull yellow light, shining through the half-open kitchen door, lit the cracked brown lino and cast shadows in the hall. The voices came from the kitchen, still loud, still angry. Rita crouched against the banister, her face pressed to its bars. From here she could actually hear some of what was being said.

‘…my children from me.’ Her mother’s voice.

‘…another man’s brats!’ His voice.

Rita shivered at the sound of his voice. Uncle Jimmy, Mum’s new friend. Then Mum began to cry, a pitiful wailing that echoed into the hall.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ His voice again. ‘Cut the caterwauling, woman… or I’ll leave right now.’

A chair crashed over, and the shaft of light broadened as the kitchen door was pushed wider. Rita dived back into her bedroom, making the door creak loudly. She leaped into bed, kicking a protesting Felix off the covers and pulling the sheet up over her head. She tried to calm her breathing so that it matched Rosie’s, the peaceful breathing of undisturbed sleep, but her heart was pounding, the blood hammering in her ears as she heard the heavy tread of feet on the stairs. He was coming up.

‘Rita! Was you out of bed?’ His voice was harsh. He had not put on the landing light, and as he reached the top stair, Felix materialized at his feet, almost tripping him over.

‘Bloody cat!’ snarled the man, aiming a kick at him, but Felix had already streaked downstairs.

Jimmy Randall paused on the landing, listening. All was quiet in the girls’ room. Softly he crossed to the half-open door and peered in, but it was too dark to see anything, and all he could hear was the steady breathing of two little girls asleep.

Must have been the damned cat, he thought. Don’t know why Mavis gives it houseroom, dirty stray. If it was my house…

It wasn’t. Not yet. But it would be, Jimmy was determined about that. A neat little house in Ship Street, a terrace of other neat little houses; well, not so neat most of them, unrepaired from the bombing, cracked windows, scarred paintwork, rubble in the tiny gardens, but basically sound enough. Jimmy wouldn’t mind doing a bit of repair work himself, provided the house was his at the end of it. His and Mavis’s, but not full of squalling kids. All he had to do was get his name on the rent book, then he’d be laughing.

Rita heard him close the door but lay quite still in case it was a trick, in case he was standing silently inside the room waiting to catch her out. It was a full two minutes before she allowed herself to open her eyes into the darkness of her room. She could see nothing. Straining her ears she heard his voice again, not so loud this time, and definitely downstairs.

For a while she lay in the dark, thinking about Uncle Jimmy. He had come into their lives about two months ago, visiting occasionally at first, smiling a lot, once bringing chocolate. It was for Mum really, but she’d let Rita and Rosie have one piece every day until it had gone. But Rita was afraid of him all the same. He had a loud voice and got cross easily.

Rita wasn’t used to having a man in her life. She hardly remembered her daddy. Mum said he had gone to the war and hadn’t come home. He had gone before Rosie was even born, fighting the Germans. Rita knew he had been in the air force, flying in a plane high over Germany, and that one night his plane hadn’t come back. There was a picture of her daddy in a silver-coloured frame on the kitchen shelf. He was wearing his uniform and smiling. Wherever you moved in the kitchen, his eyes followed you, so that wherever she sat, Rita knew he was smiling at her. She loved his face, his smile making crinkles round his eyes and his curly fair hair half-covered with his air force cap. Rosie had the same sort of hair, thick and fair, curling round her face. Rita’s own hair was like Mum’s, dark, thin and straight, and she always wished she had hair like Rosie’s… and Daddy’s.

Then, a while ago, the photo had disappeared.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Rita demanded one morning when she sat down and noticed the photo had gone. ‘Where’s Daddy gone?’

Without looking up Mum said, ‘Oh, I took him down for now. I need to clean the frame.’

Daddy had not reappeared on the shelf, and Rita missed him. ‘I could clean the frame,’ she offered. ‘I’m good at cleaning.’

‘It’s being mended,’ explained her mother. ‘When I came to clean it I found it was broken, so I’ve took it to be mended.’

Rita didn’t ask again, but she somehow knew that the photo wasn’t coming back and that this had something to do with the arrival of Jimmy Randall.

Jimmy Randall had changed everything. He was often there when Rita and Rosie came home from school. Mum used to meet them at the school gate, but since Uncle Jimmy, as they were to call him, had become part of their lives, Mum was too busy, and it became Rita’s job to bring Rosie home safely.

‘You must hold her hand all the way,’ Mum said, ‘and come straight home.’

So every school day, except Thursdays, Rita took Rosie’s hand and crossing the street very carefully, walked them home; almost every day when they got home, Uncle Jimmy would already be in the kitchen with Mum.

On Thursdays Gran met them at the school gate and gave them tea. Sometimes she let them play in the park they passed on the way.

‘I don’t like Uncle Jimmy,’ Rita confided to her grandmother one Thursday when they were having tea. ‘He shouts. I dropped a cup yesterday, and he sent me upstairs with no tea. It didn’t even break, Gran. It’s not fair.’

Gran gave her a hug. ‘Never mind, love,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he won’t be around for long.’ But Lily didn’t like him either.

Lily Sharples was Mavis’s mother. A widow herself, she still lived in the small brick house in Hampton Road, where she had lived all her married life. It had been spared by the Luftwaffe, when others in the vicinity had been flattened, and despite further raids, Lily remained, stubbornly, in occupation.

‘It’s been my home for nigh on thirty years,’ Lily told Mavis, ‘and when I leave it’ll be feet first.’

Lily was worried about Mavis and her family. Mavis had been on her own for five years now, and Lily wasn’t surprised that she had found herself another man, it was only natural, and anyway, the girls needed a father. It was just that she wished that the man wasn’t Jimmy Randall. She could see why Rita was afraid of him. He wasn’t used to children and his temper was short. On one occasion, Lily had seen him slap Rita across the face. The child had run to her, burying her burning cheek against her grandmother, and, holding her close, Lily turned on him, saying, ‘There was no need for that!’

Jimmy glowered at her and snarled, ‘They need a bit of discipline. They’ve got to learn their place.’

‘This is their place,’ Lily had snapped. ‘It’s not yours!’ But Lily was increasingly afraid that it was going to be. She decided to speak to Mavis. ‘You know the girls are scared stiff of that Jimmy, don’t you?’ she said. ‘It’s not right that they should be afraid in their own home.’

‘What about me?’ complained Mavis. ‘I need someone. Now Don’s gone, have I got to stay on my own for the rest of my life?’

‘No, of course you ain’t,’ replied her mother, ‘but you do have to think about yer kids. If they’re scared of Jimmy, is he really the right bloke for you?’

‘It’s only ’cos he makes them do what they’re told,’ Mavis said defensively. ‘It’s only ’cos they ain’t used to having a dad around. They’ll get used to him. He’s just got a short temper, that’s all.’

‘He don’t love ’em,’ said Lily mildly.

‘Course he don’t,’ Mavis said. ‘They ain’t ’is. But he’ll look after them, same as he looks after me.’

‘Are you going to marry him?’

Mavis shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Maybe.’

Lily gave her daughter a long look and then said, ‘He stays here, don’t he? He sleeps here, when the girls is in the house. It ain’t decent, Mavis. Your dad wouldn’t ’ave stood for it.’

‘Things is different now, Mum,’ Mavis replied. ‘The war’s changed everything. Too many men didn’t come home. Jimmy did and I’m going to hang on to him.’

‘He ain’t even got a job,’ Lily pointed out. ‘How’s he going to look after you?’

‘He’s getting a job,’ answered Mavis. ‘He’s out looking for work now. He’s heard they’re looking for people on the building sites. His mate, Charlie, says he can get him a job where he works. You’ll see.’

The day after Rita had heard the row downstairs, she and Rosie went to school as usual. Uncle Jimmy had not been there at breakfast but poor Mum had a bruise on her face.

‘So silly of me,’ Mum had said when Rita had reached up and touched the bruise. ‘I turned round too quickly and bumped into the door. Silly Mummy!’

‘Silly Mummy,’ echoed Rosie, beaming at her. ‘Silly Mummy!’

All day the raised voices rang in Rita’s ears. Uncle Jimmy shouting, Mum crying, the sound of the overturned chair. Rita thought of little else and was scolded for wool-gathering, but by the end of school she’d made up her mind what to do. She’d go and see Gran. She didn’t live far and there were no roads to cross; she would hold Rosie’s hand all the way.

When school was dismissed she collected Rosie from the yard and led her out of the gate, turning away from home. Rosie trotted happily along beside her. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘Round Gran’s,’ answered Rita, keeping a firm grip on her sister’s hand.

‘Oh goody,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you think she’ll give us our tea?’

‘Expect so,’ said Rita, and moments later they were knocking on Gran’s door.

When Gran opened the door she was surprised to see them. It wasn’t Thursday. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘What are you two doing here?’

‘We don’t want to go home,’ began Rita.

‘We want some tea!’ broke in Rosie, grabbing at her grandmother’s hand. ‘Can we have some tea, Gran?’

Lily opened a tin and gave them each a biscuit. Then she turned to Rita. ‘Now what’s all this about not going home? Course you must go home. Your poor mum will be wondering where you are.’

‘I don’t want to go home,’ repeated Rita. ‘Uncle Jimmy might be there.’

‘So what if he is?’ said Lily. ‘He’s Mum’s friend.’

‘They was fighting,’ Rita said. ‘Uncle Jimmy was shouting and Mum was crying, and I didn’t like it.’

Lily put her arms round the little girl. ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t, pet. But even so you have to go home, you know, or Mum’ll be very worried about you. Wait while I get my coat and I’ll come with you.’

They walked back to Ship Street, Rosie skipping along holding Gran’s hand on one side and Rita walking silently on the other. Lily knew that Rita thought that she, Lily, had let her down. She had come to her for refuge and she was being taken back home. But what else could she do? Mavis would be out of her mind with worry when the girls didn’t come home. She had to get them back as quickly as possible.

When they reached the house and opened the door, Mavis was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a pot of tea in front of her. She looked up as they came in and her eyes widened with surprise when she saw her mother was with the girls.

‘Hallo, Mum,’ she said. ‘What you doing here?’

‘I’ve brought the girls home,’ replied her mother.

‘Oh.’ Mavis looked vaguely at the kitchen clock. ‘Did you meet them in the street?’

‘They came to see me,’ said Lily carefully. ‘Look, Mavis, we need to talk. Why don’t you give them their tea and then we can have a chat.’

Mavis shrugged. ‘It ain’t ready yet. You two go and play out.’ She nodded at the door. ‘I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’

Rita grabbed Rosie’s hand. ‘Come on, Rosie. I saw Maggie outside.’

When the girls had gone, Lily pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘What have you done to your face?’ she asked as she noticed the darkening bruise on Mavis’s cheek for the first time.

Mavis coloured. ‘Bumped into the door.’

Lily gave her a long look but then decided to let it go. ‘Reet brought them round to me, after school. She didn’t want to come home. She said you and Jimmy was fighting.’

‘Not fighting, no!’ snapped Mavis. ‘We was arguing a bit last night, that’s all. Nothing in that!’

‘Rita heard you,’ said Lily. ‘It upset her.’

‘She don’t have to be upset. It was only an argument.’

‘Like the one you had with the door.’

‘Look, Mum,’ Mavis exploded, ‘you ain’t got no right to come round here, interfering in my life. What I do is my business. Who I see is my business and how I look after my kids is my business.’

‘Mavis, they’re scared of Jimmy,’ Lily persisted.

‘Well, they’ll just have to get over it,’ snapped Mavis. ‘He’s here to stay, and they’ll have to get used to him.’ She looked across at her mother and all of a sudden her face crumpled. ‘I’ve been to the doctor today, Mum. Oh, no, not about the bruise. Jimmy’s already said he’s sorry for doing that. It won’t happen again, he’s not like that really. No, I went ’cos, well, ’cos I’m in the family way.’ She pressed her hands against her stomach. ‘About four months.’

‘And it’s Jimmy’s?’

‘Course it’s Jimmy’s! What do you take me for?’

‘Is he pleased?’ asked Lily, wondering if this had caused last night’s row.

‘He don’t know yet,’ admitted Mavis. ‘I only went to the doctor today… though I knew really. Haven’t had the curse for five months, and I’m beginning to show.’

‘So, when are you going to tell him?’

‘Don’t know. Maybe tonight. Have to pick my moment.’

‘And the girls? You’ll have to tell them.’

‘They don’t need to know,’ muttered Mavis, ‘not for ages yet… and you’re not to tell them, Mum. Right? I got to get on with the girls’ tea so’s they’re done before Jimmy comes home.’ Mavis went on, and cutting two slices of bread began to spread them with marge. ‘You want to go and call them in?’

Lily went to the front door and looked out. She saw the girls further down the street playing hopscotch on the pavement. She watched them for several moments, smiling as she saw Rita flailing her arms as she balanced on one leg, trying to pick up her stone, but her smile faded as she thought about what Mavis had just told her. The lives of her two granddaughters were certainly going to change, but even in her wildest dreams Lily could not have guessed just how much.

Jimmy did not come back to Ship Street that evening until well after the children were in bed, though Mavis had made his tea in the expectation that he would be home by about six as usual. Jimmy actually lived with his widower father, but came round for most of his meals and expected them to be ready on the table when he arrived. Today, however, he had been out drinking with his mate, Charlie, celebrating the fact that he now had a job labouring on a building site. It was not the sort of work Jimmy would have chosen, but at least it brought in some money, cash in hand, and he was short of cash. There was plenty of labouring work about, what with all the bombsites to be cleared and the rebuilding. Then there was stuff you could pick up there, too, if you were careful and didn’t let the foreman see you. Clearing the rubble from the bombed-out houses, Charlie told him, you never knew what you might find. On sites reclaimed by weeds and other vegetation, you could often find something worth having, something you could sell on, down the pub. Celebration was in order, so Jimmy and Charlie celebrated.

It was late when he finally staggered into Mavis’s kitchen. Mavis was sitting at the table doing her mending, but she did not put down the jersey she was darning; she simply looked up and smiled. That made Jimmy suddenly angry. She ought to jump up to welcome him home and put his tea on the table, especially as he’d got the job, especially as he’d have money in his pocket now, especially as the stupid woman would expect him to contribute to the food bills. Things were definitely going to change around here.

He dropped down onto a chair. ‘Where’s my tea?’ he growled.

‘In the oven,’ Mavis said, hastily laying aside her darning and getting up. ‘I’ll get it for you. It may be a little bit dry… I was expecting you a bit earlier than this.’ She reached into the oven and brought out a plate of sausage and mash. There had been onion gravy, too, but it had dried into a brown mass on the side of the plate.

Jimmy looked at the food she set in front of him and then turned furious eyes on her. ‘What d’yer call this?’ he demanded. ‘Looks like a plate of shit!’ He swept the plate aside and it crashed on the floor. Mavis took a step back as Jimmy got unsteadily to his feet, and glowered at her across the table. ‘Get that mess cleared up,’ he shouted, ‘and get me something to eat!’

As she knelt down to pick up the broken plate and to scrape the food off the floor, she felt him towering over her. Instinctively she cringed away from him, squeaking as she did so, ‘Don’t hit me, Jimmy! I’m pregnant. I’m expecting your child.’

It made him pause, made him grip the table to steady himself. ‘Fucking hell! That’s all I need,’ he said, and slumped back down onto the chair. Then he put his head onto the table and went to sleep.

Somehow Mavis had managed to rouse him and get him upstairs. Somehow she manoeuvred him onto the bed. She pulled off his shoes and, throwing a blanket over him, left him to sleep it off. She crept out of the bedroom and peeped in at her daughters, asleep in their room. At least, she supposed they were asleep. There was no sign of either of them being awake, but you never knew with Reet. She was a deceitful kid; she must have heard them the previous night and sneaked off to her gran’s to tell tales and bring Gran round to interfere. She stood for a long minute outside the door, but nothing stirred.

Mavis went back downstairs, cleared up the mess on the floor and making herself a cup of tea, sat down, exhausted. Would Jimmy remember in the morning? she wondered. It wasn’t how she’d meant to tell him about the baby, not blurt it out like that, but the words had burst out all by themselves. Would he remember? Would he react better when he’d thought about it, or would he walk out on her, leaving her to cope with three children?

He’d like the idea of being a dad, wouldn’t he? Especially if it was a boy. Surely he’d want a son; all men wanted a son, didn’t they?

For a moment she thought of Don. He hadn’t minded what they had. ‘As long as it’s got all its bits, love,’ he’d said, patting the bulge of her belly, ‘that’s all right with me!’ And it had been. He’d adored Rita, and would surely have felt the same about Rosie, if he’d been around when she was born.

Surely Jimmy would love his own child, once he got used to the idea he was going to be a father. Then they could get married quickly, so that the baby wasn’t a bastard.

2

In the morning, leaving Jimmy still snoring, Mavis got the girls ready for school.

‘You’re to come straight home today,’ she instructed Rita. ‘Do you hear me, Reet? No going round your gran’s and bothering her.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Rita was very subdued. She had heard the crashing plate last night, and she’d heard Mum helping Uncle Jimmy up the stairs. She’d stayed still and quiet in the bed and at last drifted off to sleep. But in the morning she remembered it all, and it frightened her. She was pleased when she and Rosie set off for school before he came downstairs.

It was some time later that Jimmy pushed open the kitchen door and peered in.

‘What’s for breakfast?’ he asked by way of greeting.

‘Can make you some toast,’ Mavis suggested cautiously.

‘That’s not much for a man to go to work on,’ he grumbled, flopping down at the table. There was a pot of tea made and Mavis quickly poured him a cup, before putting a couple of slices of bread under the grill.

‘You got the job, then?’ she ventured.

‘Course I did. Told you that last night when I come home. Start on Monday.’ He hadn’t, but no point in upsetting him now when he seemed in an affable mood. He drank his tea as he watched her turn the toast and then slide it onto a plate. He reached for the marge and spread some thinly on the toast before taking a huge bite.

The last of my marge, Mavis thought bitterly. We’ve no more till next week.

‘I need your ration book,’ she said, as she watched him scrape the last smears onto his second piece of toast. ‘I can’t cope without it no more.’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘It’s not as if I’m here all the time.’

‘Enough that I need your rations,’ she said, surprising herself with her own temerity. ‘Jimmy, I can’t let the girls go short and now, in my condition…’ She let the words hang in the air, waiting.

He looked up. ‘Your condition? Oh yes, I remember, you’re up the spout.’

‘It’s your baby, Jimmy!’ she said. ‘Our baby. I’m having our baby.’

Jimmy said nothing.

‘Jimmy,’ she ventured again. ‘We’re having a baby. You’re going to be a dad.’

‘I heard you,’ growled Jimmy. ‘What do you want me to do about it? Dance a jig? How do I know it’s mine?’

‘Oh, Jimmy, of course it’s yours. Whose else would it be? You’re the only man I’ve… been with… since Don died.’

‘So you say.’

Tears filled Mavis’s eyes. ‘Jimmy, you know it’s true! You know you’re the only man in my life.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so. It’s our baby, and it’ll be born late June, a summer baby.’

‘Well, if it’s mine, it’s mine,’ Jimmy said grudgingly.

‘It is… but Jimmy, I don’t want… I mean it wouldn’t be right… I mean we need to think…’

‘For Christ’s sake, woman, spit out.’

Mavis drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t want it to be a bastard, Jimmy.’

When he said nothing she took her courage in both hands and went on, ‘I want us to get married, Jimmy. Before it’s born. That’s what I want.’

‘Married?’ Jimmy sounded incredulous. ‘Married?’

‘I don’t want it born a bastard, Jimmy.’

‘Married,’ he said again, as if tasting the word.

She waited, knowing if she said the wrong thing, he would say no, walk out and leave.

At last he said, ‘I’ll think about it. It’s a big step, getting married.’ He looked across at her. ‘If we get married and I move in here, them girls are going to have to go. I told you, I ain’t taking on someone else’s brats.’

‘What do you mean, the girls must go? They’re my daughters. Why must they go? Where must they go? Their place is with me! This is their home!’

Jimmy shrugged and got to his feet. ‘If it’s their home, it ain’t going to be mine,’ he said. ‘It’s up to you, Mav. If you want me to stand by you, to marry you, make you respectable like, well, I will, but I won’t take on another bloke’s kids. Right? Not with my own kid to think of. You got to find them somewhere else.’ He reached for his coat and putting it on, went to the door. Looking back at her he went on, ‘It’s your decision, Mav. I ain’t going to change my mind.’ And with that he left, closing the door behind him.

Mavis stared after him bemused. What did he mean, the girls had got to go? They were her girls and belonged with her. She thought of Rita and Rosie as she’d seen them that morning, setting off to school, Rosie with her hand trustingly in Rita’s as they walked along the street. It was Rita who was the problem. Reet could be difficult, especially recently. She’d been moody, not the sunny little girl she used to be. It was Reet who annoyed Jimmy, who wouldn’t do what he told her. It was Rita’s fault that Jimmy didn’t like her. She was being obstinate and rude and it wouldn’t be long before Rosie started to copy her. She always copied Rita. But Rosie was lovely. She looked so like Don.

Mavis hadn’t thought of Don much for quite a long time. She got to her feet and went to the drawer in which she had hidden his photograph. Jimmy had ‘accidentally’ knocked it off the shelf and taking the hint, she had hidden it in the drawer. She got it out now and looked at Don. He smiled back at her as he always had done, as trustingly as Rosie, trusting her with his children. She looked at his face for a long time. He’d never forgive her if she didn’t look after his girls. But he wasn’t there to forgive her, was he? He was lost, exploded, burned to ashes somewhere over Germany. He hadn’t come back and she’d been left to bring up the girls on her own. Now she had a chance to start a new life, with a new man. Surely Don wouldn’t begrudge her that. Surely he would say, ‘Go for it, girlie. Be happy! Go for it, girlie.’ Girlie, his pet name for her. She blinked back the tears that had crept into the corners of her eyes. She had to be strong. Don wasn’t here, he never would be again, and she had to get on with her life. She had the new baby to think of. She had to provide for the new baby. She couldn’t let it start out life as a bastard.

Mavis didn’t have to go to her cleaning job with Mrs Robinson today, and walking through the park on her way to the grocer’s she sat down for a rest on a bench, watching a family of tiny ducklings dashing through the water behind their mother. Mavis smiled as one went astray, swimming in the wrong direction. Mrs Duck wasn’t at all concerned; she simply swam on, leaving the lost duckling to cheep pitifully behind her.

Not such a very good mother, thought Mavis, then her smile died. I’m not a good mother either. I want this new baby and Jimmy more than I want my girls. And even as she tried to push the dreadful thought from her mind, crush it before it could take root, she knew, in that instant, that it was true. However fiercely she pushed it away, it crowded back. She needed a man, she wanted the baby, and Rita and Rosie were standing in her way.

No, she shook her head hard as if to clear the thought away, no of course they weren’t. Of course Jimmy didn’t mean it. She could talk him round. As for the girls, they’d get used to the idea that they were going to have a stepdad and a little brother or sister.

She left the peace and quiet of the park and walked along the street to Baillies Grocery. Just as she reached it she met her mother coming out, carrying her shopping bag.

‘Hallo, Mum,’ she said.

‘Mavis.’ Lily looked at her daughter carefully. ‘You all right, love?’ she asked. ‘You look a bit peaky.’

‘I’m fine, Mum. Just a bit tired, you know how it takes me.’

Lily nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, used to take me in the same way. D’you want a cup of tea? You look as if you could do with one.’

Mavis was about to refuse, and then she thought, why not? ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’d be nice.’

They turned away from the shop and walked the two streets to Hampton Road. Once inside Lily put the kettle on. Mavis dropped onto a chair in the kitchen, watching as her mother put away her shopping. She said nothing. Mavis felt safe in the kitchen of her childhood, in the silence that surrounded them. Lily didn’t chatter, or ask awkward questions. She simply put her food away, put cups out on the table and then made a pot of tea. She poured it and waited.

‘I told him, last night,’ Mavis said, at last breaking the silence. ‘About the baby.’

‘And?’

Mavis shrugged. ‘And he was fine about it.’ She sipped her tea. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her, and she went on, ‘A bit surprised, of course, but he likes the idea of being a dad.’ She raised her eyes to meet Lily’s. ‘We’re going to get married… so the baby’ll be OK, you know?’

‘D’you want to marry him?’ asked her mother. ‘Really want to marry him? Jimmy, who knocks you about?’

‘It’s only happened once,’ replied Mavis defensively, ‘and he was ever so sorry. It was only ’cos he’d had a bit to drink. Won’t happen again.’

‘Till he’s had a bit to drink again,’ said Lily wryly. ‘What about the girls? What about Rita and Rosie? What do they think?’

‘They don’t know yet, but they’ll be all right.’

‘You know they’re scared of Jimmy.’

‘So you keep saying,’ snapped Mavis, ‘but they’ll get used to him. They’ll have to.’ Her tone softened a little as she added, ‘They’ll like having a baby in the house, a little brother or sister.’

‘So when are you going to get married then?’ Lily knew it was no use tackling the question of the girls at this stage. Mavis had made up her mind. Maybe as the days passed…

That evening Jimmy arrived at the house carrying a suitcase. He dumped it at the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door. The children were sitting at the table having their tea, and as he opened the door, they fell silent, watching him with wide eyes. He reached into his pocket and slapped his ration book onto the table.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Now perhaps I’ll get a decent tea. I’ll put my stuff upstairs.’ He turned back at the door and added, ‘And I want my name on the rent book. Right?’ Picking up his case, he marched upstairs to Mavis’s bedroom.

‘Is Uncle Jimmy coming to stay?’ Rosie asked.

‘Yes,’ Mavis replied. ‘He’s going to be your new daddy.’

‘I don’t want a new daddy,’ cried Rita, jumping up from her chair. ‘I don’t want him. I don’t like Uncle Jimmy. He’s horrid.’

‘That’s enough of that, young lady,’ snapped her mother. ‘He’s coming to live with us, and that’s that.’ Mavis reached over and shook Rita hard. ‘And I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head.’

‘Why’s he coming to our house?’ asked Rosie.

‘Because we want to be a family,’ Mavis answered. ‘You’ll grow to love him, like I do.’

‘I shan’t,’ stated Rita. ‘I shan’t love him. He doesn’t love me.’

‘Well, he certainly won’t love you if you talk like that,’ said Mavis. ‘Now, finish your tea and go out to play.’

Rita crammed the last of her bread into her mouth and without another word went outside.

‘Can I play out, too?’ demanded Rosie, slipping down off her stool.

‘Just for a little while,’ agreed Mavis, and Rosie darted out to join her sister in the street.

Mavis was glad to see them go. She wanted them out of the way when Jimmy came back downstairs. She could hear him moving about in the bedroom and wondered what he was doing, but even as she got up to find out, she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

‘I’m going out,’ he said as he met her in the hallway.

‘What about your tea?’ she ventured as he opened the front door.

‘I’ll have it when I come in.’

When he had gone, she went upstairs to her room. The wardrobe door stood open and half her clothes had been pulled out and dumped on the bed. His were still in his case, but Mavis realized that she was expected to hang his up for him in the space he’d made, and she set about doing so, sorting and rehanging her own meagre wardrobe to accommodate his.

While she was busy upstairs, Rita came in from the street. She had seen Jimmy leave as she and Maggie had been trying to teach Rosie to skip.

‘Back in a min,’ she’d said and leaving Rosie with Maggie, she’d darted back into the house. She could hear Mum upstairs so she crept into the kitchen. Quickly she opened the drawer of the dresser, and there he was. Her daddy, smiling out through the cracked glass of his frame. She’d discovered the photo some days earlier, when looking in the drawer for a pencil. Quickly Rita pulled the frame open and slid Daddy out from under the glass. She looked round for somewhere to hide him. She could still hear Mum moving about upstairs, so she couldn’t risk taking him up there. There was nowhere in the hall to hide him, so she opened the door to the front room. They never used the front room, well, only at Christmas when Gran came, so he wouldn’t be found in there. She picked up the cushion from what had been her daddy’s armchair and slid the photo inside its cover. Then she put the cushion back and slipped out into the street again. Daddy was safe now. She didn’t want another dad; her daddy would always be her daddy. If Uncle Jimmy moved into the house, well, let him, but he would never, ever, be her dad.

A few weeks later there was a loud hammering on the front door and Mavis, opening it, was surprised to find her mother on the doorstep.

‘How did that child get that cut on her forehead?’ demanded Lily. ‘How come Reet’s got a black eye?’

‘She… she fell off her stool last night,’ faltered Mavis. ‘She hit her face on the gas stove.’

‘Hit her face on the gas stove,’ echoed Lily scornfully. ‘I don’t believe you. There’s much more to it than that.’

‘She fell off her stool…’ Mavis began again.

‘Knocked off it more like,’ asserted Lily. ‘By that Jimmy, I bet. You shouldn’t have him in the house, Mavis. I’ve told you before. He’s bad news. He knocks you about—’

‘No! No, Mum,’ Mavis burst out. ‘Who said that? Has that Rita—’

‘He knocks you about,’ repeated Lily, ignoring her interruption, ‘an’ he knocks the girls about, and whatever you say, he’s going to go on doing it. Men like him always go on doing it.’

‘Mum, it wasn’t like that. Reet fell off her stool. You know what she’s like. She was fidgeting… she’s always fidgeting, you know she is. An’ she fell off and hit her face, poor little kid.’ Mavis’s eyes challenged her mother to disbelieve her and Lily looked a little less certain.

‘That’s what she said—’ began Lily.

‘Because that’s what happened, Mum. Did you see her on the way to school?’

‘Yes, they were just going in.’

‘Look, Mum, I was just leaving. I got to be at Mrs Robinson’s in twenty minutes. Walk with me to the bus, eh? I must go or I’ll be late.’ She edged her mother towards the front door, and Lily allowed herself to be eased out of the house and into the street. Mavis closed the door behind her and, taking her mother firmly by the arm, began walking towards the bus stop.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ she said, ‘but I mustn’t be late. The cleaning takes me a bit longer these days and I don’t want Mrs Robinson to turn me off. I was going to come and see you when I’d finished. Jimmy’s going to the registry office today to get the wedding sorted. You have to put your name on a list for three weeks or something… not sure quite what, but Jimmy knows and he’s going to do it in his dinnertime.’

‘You really want to marry him, Mavis?’ asked Lily, trying to walk more slowly. She wanted to talk to Mavis, to have things out with her, but knew that here in the street wasn’t the place.

‘Yes, I do,’ Mavis asserted. ‘He’ll make a great dad.’

‘Oh, Mavis, you know—’

‘Sorry, Mum, here’s my bus.’ Mavis stuck her hand out to hail the bus and scrambled aboard as soon as it stopped. She turned back, looking at her mother still standing on the pavement. ‘I’ll come in and see you tomorrow, Mum. Tell you the wedding date and that.’

The bus began to draw away, and Mavis moved inside, waving to her mother through the window.

Lily watched her go with distinct misgivings. She remained unconvinced that Rita had simply fallen off her stool. No, Jimmy Randall had something to do with it. Jimmy Randall was not good news, not good news at all.

3

On the bus, Mavis sat back against the seat for the five minutes it took to reach her stop. She realized that all her muscles were tense and she made a conscious effort to relax. She wasn’t sure she’d convinced her mother about Rita’s black eye, but for now, she’d avoided her questions. She had breathing space to decide what she was really going to do. Tomorrow she’d have to face her questions, but by tomorrow she’d have a wedding date and with luck Lily would be carried along on the tide of preparation.

Last night had been awful. Rita had refused to eat liver for her tea and Jimmy had lost his rag and knocked her off her stool. She’d smashed her face against the corner of the cooker, opening a cut on her forehead, and with a slam of the door, Jimmy had stalked out, leaving Mavis to deal with the blood and two screaming kids. She’d sent them both to bed, furious with Rita for provoking yet another row, and subsided into a chair, burying her face in her hands in despair. She was six months pregnant, always exhausted, and Jimmy still hadn’t kept his promise to marry her. He’d moved in, but no wedding date had been set.

When Jimmy finally came back home Mavis was slumped in her chair, half asleep. She started awake as he came in and plonked himself down opposite her. Now he looked across at Mavis. ‘Right,’ he said, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation, ‘tomorrow I’ll go to the registry office and you can go to the council and tell them you need a home for your kids.’

Mavis looked at him blankly for a moment and then echoed faintly, ‘Registry office?’

‘To sort out a date for our wedding. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, oh Jimmy, yes, of course.’

‘And you can go to the council and get your girls took in.’

‘Took in where?’

‘How do I know? They have orphanages, don’t they? They have to now, with this new welfare.’

‘But they’re not orphans.’

‘Half orphans, they are. They ain’t got no dad.’

‘But I want you to be their dad.’

‘Well, I don’t want to be, do I?’ rasped Jimmy. ‘And what’s more, they don’t want me to be, neither!’

‘They don’t know what they want,’ began Mavis, ‘they’re too young to understand—’

Jimmy cut her off. ‘Your Reet understands all right. She don’t want me in the house, and I don’t want her. Simple as that. She’d be happier living somewhere else. I expect she’ll get adopted, and she’ll be far better off adopted than living with us.’

‘Adopted!’ croaked Mavis.

‘Well, Mav, there it is. We’ll get married just like you want to, and you, me and the baby’ll be a family.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘God, I’m tired. Heavy work on the building site. Come on, upstairs.’

In the morning Jimmy’s parting words had been, ‘I’ll go to the registry office in me dinnertime. All right?’ He gave her a hard stare and added, ‘An’ you’ll do your bit, right?’ Mavis had nodded. She knew she couldn’t cope on her own any longer. She needed a man, a man who came home with a wage packet every Friday. A man to take care of the things men do take care of about the home. A man so she wasn’t lonely any more. She had Jimmy. And if the price of having him was sending her daughters away for a while… well, it wouldn’t be forever, would it? Increasingly it was becoming a price she was prepared to pay… for the sake of the baby. She hadn’t quite decided, she told herself, but it couldn’t hurt if she went to the council offices to see the welfare after she’d finished at Mrs Robinson’s, just to ask. Nothing definite.

At half-past twelve, Mavis left Mrs Robinson’s and walked the half mile or so to the Market Square. There, on the far side, were the council offices, housed in a grim, grey stone building, but today, with the sun shining on its windows, it seemed to Mavis to be more approachable. A sign, she thought to herself. A sign she should go in.

She crossed the square and taking a deep breath, mounted the steps and pushed her way through the heavy glass doors into the entrance hall. To one side was a reception desk, manned by a harassed-looking woman, typing. Mavis approached and the woman paused long enough to say, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for…’ Mavis gulped and tried again. ‘I’m looking for the children’s department.’

‘Second floor, on the right at the top of the stairs. Room 21.’

The woman returned to her typing, and Mavis turned away. As she looked round to find the staircase, she glanced back through the glass doors at the sunlit square beyond.

I don’t have to do this, she thought. I can walk out of them doors, and everything’ll be like always.

Like always. No man in the house. A baby coming. No regular money. Reet behaving like a sullen little brat, fighting with Jimmy; Rosie starting to copy her. Shouting and screaming and hitting. If Rita wasn’t in the house there’d be peace. If Rita wasn’t in the house Jimmy couldn’t hit her. Rita would be safer somewhere else. And if Rita wasn’t in the house Jimmy wouldn’t get so angry and take it out on her, Mavis. It would be better for everyone if Rita wasn’t in the house… including Rita. Mavis turned and went up the stairs to find Room 21.

Room 21 turned out to be a sort of waiting room. It was very small, furnished with a couple of old wooden chairs, and on the far side was another door and a glass window with a sort of sliding hatch. Beside the hatch was a bell. Mavis rang it. There was a scuffling behind the glass panel and then the hatch slid open and a pale-faced woman peered out.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to see someone about having my kids took in,’ Mavis said.

‘I see,’ came the matter-of-fact reply. ‘Name?’

‘Mavis Stevens.’

The woman made a note. ‘Take a seat, please.’ The glass hatch slid closed again.

Mavis sat down on one of the chairs. She stared for a moment at the glass hatch. Is that all there is to it? she wondered. Give your name and take a seat?

Mavis waited… and waited. After half an hour she went back to the window again.

‘How long have I got to wait?’ she asked when the whey-faced woman reappeared.

‘It’s dinnertime,’ the woman replied. ‘Miss Hopkins’ll be back in a while. She’s the one you have to see.’ The glass hatch closed.

Mavis knew it was dinnertime, her own stomach was rumbling. She should have guessed the welfare lady might be out for dinner. She wished she’d thought of bringing a sandwich with her. She sighed and began re-reading the notices on the wall.

Miss Hopkins came back into the office a few moments later. She was a heavily built woman, broad in the hips and broad in the shoulders. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in a rather untidy heap and secured with what looked, to Mavis, like two hat pins. She was puffing from climbing the stairs, and she paused on the threshold to get her breath. She looked across at Mavis, but gave no greeting, simply crossed to the door beside the hatch and pushing it open, spoke to the woman inside. ‘I’m back, Miss Parker.’

It was another quarter of an hour before Miss Parker appeared at the door and said, ‘Miss Hopkins can see you now, Mrs Stevens.’ She indicated a glass-panelled door on which were written the words, Children’s Officer.

Mavis tapped on the glass and opening the door cautiously, went in. Seeing the formidable Miss Hopkins sitting behind a desk covered with papers, Mavis almost turned and fled. But it was too late. She’d had all that waiting time to change her mind, and now, now it was too late. She edged into the room and Miss Hopkins, looking up from a paper she was reading, pointed to the wooden chair that stood in front of her desk.

‘Please sit down.’

Mavis sat.

‘Name?’

‘Mavis Stevens.’

‘Address?’

Mavis gave her address and Miss Hopkins made a note on a pad in front of her.

‘Husband’s name?’

‘I haven’t got a husband,’ stumbled Mavis, unnerved by the woman’s brisk efficiency. ‘I mean, I’m a widow. He was killed in the war.’

‘I see.’ Miss Hopkins eyed the well-defined bulge of Mavis’s stomach. ‘Children?’

‘Yes, two girls, Rita’s nine and Rosie’s five.’

‘And another on the way,’ stated Miss Hopkins.

‘Yes, well, me and Jimmy, we’re getting married soon, and…’

‘And…?’ prompted Miss Hopkins, though she thought she knew what was coming.

‘And there ain’t room for us all in the house, not with the new baby. We need somewhere for the girls to go, just for a little while, while we get settled, like. Be difficult for us all being crammed in together… with the new baby an’ all.’

‘I see.’ Miss Hopkins sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. ‘I see, so you want to move the girls out to make way for the baby.’

‘Just for a little while,’ Mavis reiterated, ‘just while, you know…’ Her words tailed off. Silence.

‘And where do you want them to go?’ enquired Miss Hopkins at last. ‘Why have you come to me?’

‘Well,’ Mavis looked a little confused, ‘well, you’re the welfare, ain’t you? I mean, you’re the children’s department. You have to look after children that don’t have no homes.’

‘But your children do have a home,’ pointed out Miss Hopkins.

‘Well, they do and they don’t,’ said Mavis, and when Miss Hopkins made no comment to this rather cryptic statement, she went on, ‘They do just now, but they won’t when Jimmy and I get married.’

‘You mean he won’t give them a home,’ stated Miss Hopkins bluntly.

‘He will, but it ain’t easy. They ain’t his family, are they? Not like the baby’ll be.’ Mavis leaned forward earnestly in her chair. ‘They ain’t his kids. He don’t feel about them the way I do.’

And you’d rather have him than them, thought Miss Hopkins. Aloud she said, ‘I see.’

She did see too, a woman at her wits’ end. Needing to get married to have support for the new baby, and for herself, but knowing that this was not going to happen unless her daughters were removed from the household. Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Miss Hopkins knew of a place that would happily accept such children. Perhaps…?

‘Do the girls get on all right with… your fiancé?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, yeah… mostly… well, not all the time. Rita gives him a bit of cheek sometimes and he don’t like it.’

‘Does he strike her?’

‘No! Course not!’ Mavis filled her voice with indignation, but when Miss Hopkins’ eyes bored into her, Mavis dropped her gaze and said, ‘Well, not often. But I mean, she cheeks him… says he’s not her dad and that.’

‘Well, he isn’t, is he?’ pointed out Miss Hopkins. Silence again. Mavis stared at the floor. ‘So he doesn’t love them… the girls?’

‘Well, they’re not his, are they?’ Mavis demanded. ‘I mean, it’s natural that he don’t love them like he’ll love the baby. He ain’t never going to love them like he’ll love the baby, is he? ’Cos the baby’s his, ain’t it?’

‘You’ll have to fill in a form,’ Miss Hopkins said, ‘requesting assistance with housing your daughters, that’s if you’re serious about asking for them to be fostered for a while.’

‘Just till we’re sorted,’ Mavis said. ‘Shall I fill it in now? The form?’

‘It’s quite complicated,’ replied Miss Hopkins. ‘I think you should take it away and look at it very carefully. Go through it with your… fiancé. It’s not a thing to be rushed, you know. Once you’ve made your application it will be considered, but I must warn you this doesn’t mean that it will be granted. The decision will take time, but if accepted, places will be found for your daughters.’ Miss Hopkins rose to her feet. ‘It’s too important to be hurried.’

Mavis stood as well, clutching her handbag in front of her, a barrier between her and the formidable woman behind the desk.

‘No,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ll take it with me and bring it back tomorrow.’

‘Very well.’ Miss Hopkins rang a bell and Miss Parker appeared at the door.

‘Ah, Miss Parker. Please give Mrs Stevens application forms for temporary foster care and adoption.’

‘Adoption!’ exclaimed Mavis.

‘I think that’s what you’re actually asking for, Mrs Stevens, isn’t it? Someone to take Rita and Rosie off your hands so that you can start a new life with your new husband?’

Mavis didn’t reply, and Miss Hopkins continued, ‘In that case, please fill in both sets of forms and bring them back with the children’s birth certificates. We can take it from there. Good afternoon, Mrs Stevens.’

As the door closed behind her visitor, Miss Hopkins put down the paper and looked thoughtful. It was clear to her that the two little girls weren’t wanted at home. But she knew someone who wanted them, and if the mother returned with the right documentation, she was sure that she could hurry the application through. As the newly appointed acting Children’s Officer, with several years’ experience in welfare work, she was the dominant person on the new Children’s Committee and decisions she made were normally rubber-stamped by those who deferred to her experience. She reached for the telephone and asked the operator for the number she needed.

4

Emily Vanstone stared out of the window. It was raining and the garden beyond looked damp and depressing. On the desk in front of her was a brochure showing a wide and open landscape, basking in warm sunshine. At the top were the words, EVER-Care taking children to a better world and a better life.

It was ten years since she, Emily Vanstone, spinster daughter of the late George Vanstone, sister-in-law of Sir Edward Sherrington and pillar of the Crosshills Methodist Church, had set up a charity to rescue children whom she described as ‘Guttersnipes’ from their poor and feckless families.

When her father, George Vanstone, mill-owner and philanthropist, died, he left his money in four equal parts. One quarter went to each of his three daughters, Amelia, Emily and Maud. The last quarter of his substantial estate was in a trust to be administered jointly by Emily and by Maud’s husband, solicitor, Martin Fielding, ‘for the benefit of those in need’. And who could be in more need than children who lived in the gutter?

Emily had visited Amelia and her brother-in-law, Sir Edward Sherrington, to tell them of her grand scheme. Not to ask them to contribute financially, that would have been a pointless exercise, but to use them in an entirely different way. What was the use of having an aristocratic brother-in-law if you didn’t take advantage of the fact on occasion? She had told Amelia she wanted to discuss something with them and Amelia had, rather reluctantly, asked her to dinner.

‘My orphanage will give these girls a home,’ Emily explained.

‘Girls only?’ interjected Amelia.

‘Certainly girls only,’ replied Emily. ‘It’s girls who need rescuing before they are dragged into prostitution… or worse.’

‘Is there anything worse?’ wondered Amelia vaguely.

Emily ignored her and went on, ‘They will be fed and clothed, but more importantly, they’ll be taught good Christian values. They will learn to work and they will learn to pray. They will learn to behave as a good citizen should. They will learn their place in life. They will not slide into a life of crime like their parents. The home will be run on strict principles, there’ll be no laxity, only strict discipline will turn these street Arabs into upright and worthwhile citizens. Early rescue is the key. Haul them out of the gutter before it’s too late.’

Sir Edward looked at the middle-aged woman in front of him, her greying hair swept back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, her eyes holding a fanatical gleam, and thought, Emily’s a real chip off the old block.

Despite his superiority in education and social standing, Edward Sherrington had been in awe of his father-in-law, and though he would never admit it, even to himself, he was a little afraid of his formidable sister-in-law as well.

George Vanstone had had no sons, but Emily was as shrewd a business woman as ever her father had been. The mills still turned and produced increasing profits, and Emily had refused to hand over the reins to either of her brothers-in-law. This suited them all. Neither man wanted to be linked to ‘trade’ and provided their wives received their share of the profits, they had little inclination to interfere, leaving Emily able to do much as she pleased. She had invested in numerous projects, and now, Sherrington thought, she’s investing in children.

‘I’ve talked to Martin about it,’ Emily continued, ‘and he agrees that I can set up an orphanage with the money Father left in the trust. I’ve already heard of a suitable house. It’s in Russell Green, just over Russell Bridge. Martin and I are going to see it tomorrow.’

Edward Sherrington shrugged. ‘Well, you’re the trustees,’ he said. ‘Just as long as you don’t expect me to put money into it.’

‘No, Edward,’ Emily said smoothly, ‘not your money.’ Not that it is your money, she thought, it’s Amelia’s, but she won’t put any in either. ‘Not your money, Edward, your name.’

‘My name?’ Edward looked startled.

‘I want you to be the patron. You know, with your name as patron on the headed notepaper.’

‘Well, I don’t know…’

‘A baronet would look very well on a letterhead, don’t you think?’ remarked Emily, turning to her sister. No harm in reminding Edward that he had traded his title for their money.

‘Indeed,’ Amelia agreed. She was far too clever to remind Ned what he owed her; she was quite happy with the bargain. Moving in the upper echelons of society as Lady Sherrington, she wanted reminders of her lowly origins as little as Ned did. However, she also enjoyed playing Lady Bountiful, and the thought of the Sherrington name on the letterhead of a charitable foundation was a tempting one.

‘You know, Ned,’ she went on, ‘Emily’s right. It would look very well.’

Edward actually agreed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you invite me to be your patron, I can hardly decline, can I? But,’ he looked at Emily over the rim of his wine glass, ‘it’s all I will do. I’ll have no other part in this venture. Is this understood between us, Emily?’

‘Oh, absolutely, Edward,’ replied Emily, suppressing a smile. The last thing she wanted was Ned meddling in her affairs. ‘I’ll ask you for nothing else, I promise.’

The next morning Martin Fielding collected Emily and they drove out to Russell Green to look at the house she had found. Laurel House. As soon as she saw it, Emily was sure it would suit her perfectly. It was a substantial, rather ugly Victorian house standing in a large garden, the front of which was surrounded by the high laurel hedge that gave the house its name. Built in grey stone, its bleak exterior was made even more austere by a squat tower at one end. In the 1920s someone had added a brick-built wing, making the house an ‘L’, and providing some much needed kitchen space. At the back was a much larger garden, with a shaggy lawn and overgrown kitchen garden, beyond which was an orchard, surrounded by a high stone wall. Clearly it hadn’t been lived in for some time.

The heavy door creaked open reluctantly and they stepped inside. Immediately Emily began assessing Laurel House’s possibilities. Taking a notebook and pencil from her handbag, she began to make notes, already seeing the house as it would be, once it was furnished ready for the children.

The entrance hall was wide and high with a staircase that rose to the floor above in a broad sweep. Downstairs there were several reception rooms, including a morning room and a study. The old kitchen had been turned into a laundry, and from it a door led down into a large cellar that ran the length of the house. Emily did not venture into the cellar, merely opening the door and peering down into the gloom, but she was pleased to know it was there, offering plenty of storage space. The kitchen in the new wing was adequate and as she wandered through the empty rooms, Emily became certain that this was the house for her orphanage.

‘We’ll buy it,’ she announced to Martin. ‘It’s perfect. We can easily accommodate at least thirty children in here. Maybe more.’

‘My dear Emily, we can’t rush into this, you know,’ Martin said, concerned. He thought it a dreadful house, grey and forbidding. Much time, effort and money would have to be spent on it to make it habitable. ‘We need to consider long and hard before we decide. There may be other houses that would be even better. It would be stupid to buy the first one we saw.’

Emily turned on him at once. ‘Martin,’ she said briskly, ‘we’ve agreed to use the trust money for an orphanage. This house provides all we need, there is no point in waiting.’

‘It will take a while… all the legalities of setting up a charity,’ Martin pointed out.

‘That’s your job,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You sort out the legalities, and all the other paperwork. That’s why Father made you a trustee. You arrange the purchase of the house, I’ll get the work started.’

It had all taken longer than Emily had envisaged, but she spared no one in her determination to get the orphanage up and running. She did not squander money on furnishing the place. She had the walls painted, but kept to dark colours that wouldn’t show the dirt. She bought metal beds with thin mattresses, which were now crammed, six to a room, in the five bedrooms upstairs. Long wooden tables and hard wooden chairs furnished the dining room, the erstwhile drawing room, and two second-hand sofas and some ancient easy chairs were in the newly designated ‘playroom’. In the kitchen were a heavy duty kitchen table, a deep Belfast sink and a solid fuel range. There were several cupboards set against the walls and some shelves which housed an assortment of pots and pans.

Emily proudly showed Martin a new gas cooker standing in the corner. ‘Two stoves, you see? Plenty of room to cook for thirty children.’

‘Who’s going to do the cooking?’ Martin asked.

‘Oh, the children will prepare their own meals,’ Emily said. ‘Under supervision of course. But the whole point is that it will be part of their training, you see. We’re going to teach these creatures to become useful citizens.’

The orphanage had opened a few weeks later, with fourteen children and a live-in staff of four. Three, the matron, the cook and a housemaid, lived in bed-sitting rooms built into the loft above the kitchen, and the superintendent in a small flat at the top of the tower. The children were sent from an overflowing home several miles away.

Over the years the home had been run with strict discipline and at minimal cost. The children cooked, cleaned, mended and tended the garden. They were fed and clothed and went to the local schools until they were fourteen, when they were found a job and expected to hand in their pay packet at the end of each week. At sixteen, if they had a job, they were allowed to leave the house, and most of them did. Many of them went into service, where they lived in, all found, and were only paid minimal wages. A few chose to stay at Laurel House and go out daily to jobs in shops, or as live-out domestics, but they were expected to hand over half their pay packet to the orphanage for their keep.

The numbers grew, the home always full, and Emily Vanstone considered buying another house. She was actively looking for something suitable, when she received a letter that turned her attention to Australia. Her cousin, Daphne, had married an Australian service man, Joe Manton, after the war, and gone to live in Carrabunna, a small town north-west of Sydney. It was she, writing to Emily, who mentioned a nearby farm school that took children from the slums in England and taught them to be farmers.

I thought you might send some of your orphans here, Daphne wrote. It’s a beautiful country and it would be a new start for them, away from evils of the city.

‘Australia?’ snapped Edward when she told him.

‘Yes. Fairbridge and Dr Barnardo’s have been doing it for years.’

‘Yes,’ scoffed her brother-in-law, ‘but they are large and well-known societies, not a small orphanage like yours.’

‘We may be small, Edward, but we are well respected,’ retorted Emily, adding in a more conciliatory tone, ‘due, doubtless, to your patronage.’

‘But, Emily,’ Amelia said, staring at her sister in amazement, ‘will the parents let you send their children to Australia?’

‘Most of my children don’t have parents,’ replied Emily, ‘and the parents of those who do signed legal guardianship over to me when they put their children in my care. Martin drew up all the papers, and we made sure they were watertight. I am their legal guardian. I can send whoever I want wherever I want. It’s all arranged. The house is bought and I’m going over to get it all set up.’

‘You’re going to Australia?’ Edward was incredulous.

‘Certainly,’ agreed Emily, ‘I leave next week.’

Emily Vanstone had sailed for Australia, and when she returned six months later, the EVER-Care migrant home was ready to receive its first children. Though she’d had to change her ‘farm school’ idea, something she had realized that Daphne and Joe were in no way equipped to run, she had set out the principles on which the Australian home was to be organized. She had no doubt that the children who were sent there would benefit from the same firm regime as at Laurel House. Law-abiding, hard-working citizens would emerge… and be a credit to her and the EVER-Care name.

Laurel Farm, Carrabunna, was established. Though not a farm as such, it sought to feed itself as far as was possible, and the labour was supplied by its inmates. For three years Emily had, without any consultation, sent children from her orphanage twelve thousand miles across the world to a new country and a new life. She had never again visited the Australian EVER-Care home, leaving the running of it to Daphne and Joe Manton, in whom she had complete confidence. However, she liked to have her finger on the pulse of all her enterprises and she kept in close contact by letter. Then Hitler intervened and the child migration scheme was put on hold.

The war changed everything. There were even more children needing a home, children orphaned by the war, and EVER-Care accepted them all. The flow of children continued, not least because Emily Vanstone had a new admirer: a new member of the congregation at the Crosshills Methodist Church. Miss May Hopkins. Miss Hopkins was the social worker for the local council in charge of children’s affairs. She admired the zealous and philanthropic Miss Vanstone greatly, and whenever she had children to place in care, it was to the EVER-Care home at Laurel House that she turned first.

The end of the war had also brought a change of government and with it plans for a new welfare system. Things began to change. There was a shift in public thinking and the new Children’s Departments were expected to explore other ways of providing care for needy children. Different arrangements were to be made and the newly appointed Children’s Officers were placing such children with foster families rather than residential homes like Laurel House. Miss Hopkins was expected to do the same. Public opinion on the child migration scheme had changed too. People began to think that perhaps children as young as three should not be plucked from all that was familiar and shipped off to the other side of the world. English children should be brought up in England. Sir Edward Sherrington’s thoughts that the riff-raff should be sent somewhere else, preferably as far away as possible, were no longer publicly expressed.

Miss Hopkins did not agree with the changes, and whenever possible she still sent girls in need of care to Laurel House. From what she’d just said on the phone, it sounded to Emily as if she might soon have two new inmates for Laurel House.

5

Rita lay in bed, listening. She could hear the sound of Mum’s voice downstairs, high and excited. There was the rumble of Uncle Jimmy’s voice as he replied, but Rita couldn’t hear what they were saying.

When Uncle Jimmy had come home, Mum had put a plate of sausage and mash on the table and said, ‘Here’s your tea, love. We must talk later. Got things to tell you… you know.’ She nodded her head. ‘You know,’ she repeated.

‘What things?’ asked Rita. Why was Mum nodding and smiling like that?

‘Nothing to do with you, Miss Nosey Parker,’ said her mother. ‘Now, you girls go out to play till bedtime.’

Listening to the voices downstairs now, Rita knew they were talking about the things that had nothing to do with her, and she wondered what they were. She crept out of bed and edged halfway down the stairs. She dared not go any further or she’d have no hope of escaping if Uncle Jimmy came out unexpectedly. She strained to hear what was said, but she could only hear snatches… something about the baby.

Mum was asking about going to an office. Had he been as he promised? Rita couldn’t hear Uncle Jimmy’s answer, but her mother sounded pleased. Then he said something else, and Rita heard Mum say, ‘Yes, I went, I said I would.’

Uncle Jimmy’s voice again and then Mum said, ‘The welfare woman said just fill in the forms, and I…’ then the clatter of china drowned her next words. Rita strained to hear but the scrape of a chair on the kitchen floor made her scurry upstairs. She was just in time as the kitchen door opened and Uncle Jimmy came out.

‘Jimmy, where are you going?’ Mum’s voice was quite clear now.

‘Out for a pint.’

‘But what about the forms? I need your help with them. We’ve got to decide.’

‘We have decided,’ answered Uncle Jimmy. ‘You fill them in. I’m going for a pint.’

Rita heard the front door slam and her mother’s plaintive ‘Jimmy!’ to the empty kitchen.

Rita lay in bed thinking about what she’d heard. The baby. Well, she knew Mum was having a baby. It was growing in her tummy and making her very fat. She wasn’t at all sure how the baby was going to get out. When she’d asked, Mum had said that when the time came the nurse would come and the baby would be born. Rita knew there must be more to it than this and she talked to Maggie down the street, who had a new baby brother.

‘The nurse came,’ Maggie told her, ‘and she pulled him out through Mum’s belly button.’

‘Did you see him come out?’ asked Rita in wonderment.

‘No,’ Maggie admitted. ‘I was sent round my nan’s.’

Rita had given Maggie’s answer a lot of thought since. She couldn’t quite believe that a baby could get out through a belly button, but what other explanation was there? Now, she wondered, was it something to do with the welfare woman Mum had mentioned? Did you have to go to the welfare office and fill in forms for the baby to be able to come out? Mum had decided it was time to fill in the forms so that the baby could be born.

As Rita finally drifted off to sleep, she thought, I’ll ask Gran. She’ll know.

The opportunity to ask came the next afternoon. It was Thursday, and Gran was waiting for them at the school gate in Capel Street as usual. On the way home Gran let them stop at the playground where they went on the swings, laughing as she pushed them higher and higher. Rita loved the tall slide and was soon scrambling up the ladder to the top.

‘Look at me, Gran,’ she called. ‘I’m very high!’

‘So you are, love,’ Gran cried, ‘and too high for you,’ she said to Rosie as she ran to climb up behind her sister. ‘Come on, love. I’ll push you on the roundabout.’ Moments later Rita was there too, clinging to the bars of the little roundabout and scooting it with her foot to make it go faster.

Lily stood back and watched the two little girls shrieking with excitement, carefree on a warm afternoon and love for them welled up inside her, threatening to spring as tears from her eyes. Her beautiful granddaughters, growing up like so many after this dreadful war, with no father in their lives.

Does that matter? wondered Lily. Of course it matters! she admonished herself. Every child needs a dad, but must it be Jimmy Randall?

As they walked on to Gran’s house Rosie skipped trustingly beside her, swinging their joined hands.

‘What’s for tea?’ she asked.

‘Have to see what we can find, won’t we,’ answered Gran. ‘How does bread and dripping sound?’

‘Yippee!’ cried Rosie twisting away and dancing backwards along the path. She beamed at her grandmother and said, ‘I love coming to your house, Gran. I wish it was always Thursday.’

When they were sitting at Gran’s kitchen table eating the promised bread and dripping, Rita said, ‘Gran, when it’s time for Mum’s baby to be born, how does it get out of her tummy?’

‘Well,’ said Gran, ‘when it’s time, the nurse will come and the baby will be born.’

‘But how does it get out?’ persisted Rita. ‘Does Mum have to fill in forms for the welfare woman?’

‘Welfare woman?’ Gran sounded puzzled. ‘What welfare woman?’

‘Mum said the welfare woman had said she just had to fill in the forms.’

‘Start again, Reet,’ said her grandmother, frowning.

‘I heard Mum and Uncle Jimmy talking about the baby. Mum said she’d been to see the welfare woman, and all she had to do was fill in the forms. She asked Uncle Jimmy to help, but he said they’d already decided and that she could do it.’

‘When was this?’ asked Gran, a frightening suspicion invading her mind. She immediately pushed it away. No, it was impossible. Mavis would never… would she? No, certainly not. Rita must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. ‘When did you hear all this?’ she asked.

‘I was in bed, and I heard them talking down in the kitchen,’ Rita said, ‘only I couldn’t hear properly so I went out onto the stairs, and that’s what I heard them say.’

‘You shouldn’t have been out of bed,’ said Gran sternly. ‘Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.’

Rosie looked up from her dripping sandwich. ‘What’s an eavesdropper, Gran?’

‘Someone who listens to other people’s conversations when they should be in bed,’ answered Gran. ‘Like your naughty sister.’ She turned her attention back to Rita. ‘I expect your mum was talking about the forms she has to fill in to get a ration book for the baby when it comes. Now, eat your tea and then we’ll have a game of snap.’

‘But how does the baby—’ persisted Rita.

‘I’ll tell you all about it another time,’ Gran cut in hastily. ‘There’s no time now if we’re going to play snap before you have to go.’

That evening, Lily sat in her kitchen and considered what Rita had said. The child was no fool. If she said she’d heard them talking about filling in forms for the welfare, then that’s what they’d been saying. But why on earth would Mavis be talking to the welfare? She didn’t need anything from them. And what had Mavis and Jimmy already decided? Perhaps they’d finally fixed a date to get married. Rita had said that Jimmy was going to the registry office yesterday to find out. They’d certainly need to fill in forms for that. Perhaps that was it. That must be it. Rita had got confused about two different parts of the conversation and misunderstood; after all, she’d said that she hadn’t heard it all.

Still, Lily thought, I’ll talk to Mavis tomorrow and find out what’s going on. I suppose it’s for the best if they get married with a little’un on the way, but I don’t like that Jimmy. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him.

Next morning she went round to Ship Street early to catch Mavis before she went to work. Mavis looked flustered when she opened the door and found her mother, yet again, on the step.

‘Mum,’ she groaned. ‘What are you doing here?’ She didn’t say ‘again’ but it was in her voice.

Lily gave her a broad smile and said as she eased herself into the hallway, ‘I just came to see how Jimmy got on with the registry office. You said he was going on Wednesday, and I wondered if he’d got a date. Have you got the kettle on, love? Let’s have a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’

Mavis sighed, led her mother into the kitchen and topped up the teapot. When she’d poured tea for each of them, she sat down across the table from Lily and forced a smile. ‘Jimmy went, like he said he would,’ Mavis said. ‘We have to fill in the forms and then I have to show them Don’s death certificate.’

‘So lots of forms, then?’ suggested Lily, relief in her voice. That’s what Rita overheard, she thought.

‘Well, we tell them we want to get married and they put the form up on the noticeboard outside the registry office. Then after three weeks we can get wed. We want to get married next month, before…’ Mavis laid a protective hand on her bump. ‘Jimmy’s taking the forms back and he’ll book us in for a date then.’

‘The girls’ll be excited,’ Lily said. ‘Have you told them yet?’

‘No, not yet,’ answered Mavis, looking away. ‘Not till everything’s sorted, for definite, you know.’

‘You’ve got to get Jimmy to go easy on them, Mavis,’ said her mother. ‘It’ll be hard for them at first, having to share you with him… and the baby. Reet, particularly, is going to find it difficult.’

‘Mum…’ Mavis began and then stopped.

‘What?’ Lily looked at her, and saw the anguish in Mavis’s eyes. She reached a hand across the table and said, more gently, ‘What’s the matter, Mavis? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s the girls,’ Mavis whispered. ‘Jimmy won’t have them here.’

‘Won’t have them here?’ echoed Lily. ‘What d’you mean, won’t have them here? It’s their home. Where else should they be?’

‘He wants them took into care,’ murmured Mavis, not looking up. ‘He don’t want them here, he just wants us to be a family, him, me and the baby.’

‘But the girls, Reet, Rosie, they’re your family.’ Lily stared at her daughter’s bowed head uncomprehendingly. ‘Mavis, they’ve only got you!’

‘He won’t have them.’

‘Then tell him to sod off,’ flashed Lily.

‘I can’t, Mum. He’s the baby’s father. I need him here. I’ve got to choose!’

‘And you choose him?’ Lily was outraged. ‘You choose that violent brute… ’cos he is violent and you know it… you choose him over your own kids? Your own flesh and blood?’

‘I have to,’ wailed Mavis. ‘The baby’s my own flesh and blood too, and I can’t cope on my own, Mum, not any more.’

‘You’re not putting my granddaughters into no home,’ Lily exploded. ‘How can you even think of such a thing?’

‘If you really want to know, I think they’d be happier there,’ Mavis shouted back. ‘Reet would, I know she would. She don’t like Jimmy. She makes no effort to get on with him, and now she’s encouraging Rosie to cheek him as well. Every day it’s getting worse and I can’t stand it no more!’ Mavis burst into a flood of tears. ‘What am I going to do, Mum? I can’t keep them. They’ve got to go and live somewhere else. It’s for their own good.’

Lily watched her as she struggled with her tears, and then said, ‘But a home, Mavis? An orphanage, you mean? They ain’t orphans.’

‘Lots of kids in orphanages ain’t orphans,’ sniffed Mavis. ‘After this bloody war lots of men ain’t come home. Lots of mothers are like me, been left alone with kids and can’t cope with them. It won’t be forever…’

‘Rubbish!’ snapped Lily. ‘If Jimmy won’t have ’em now, when they’re just little kiddies, he won’t take ’em back when he’s got more of his own.’ Lily looked despairingly at her daughter. ‘Oh, Mavis,’ she cried, ‘you ain’t really going to do this, are you? Give your daughters away? What would Don think of you? Him going off to fight, trusting his precious girls to you. Don’t you owe him nothing?’

‘Don’s dead,’ answered Mavis bleakly. ‘He’s gone. He was another part of my life and it’s over. He ain’t coming back, is he? So I’ve got to get on with the rest of my life. I’m another person now.’

‘You certainly are,’ replied Lily tightly, ‘and not one I want to know. I’m ashamed to think you’re my daughter.’ She got to her feet and stared down at Mavis.

‘You won’t tell them yet, will you?’ begged Mavis.

‘I won’t tell them at all,’ retorted Lily, ‘in the hope that you come to your senses and realize exactly what you’re intending to do.’ She went to the door, but as she put her hand on the handle she turned back. ‘Oh Mavis, love, don’t do it! Don’t let him bully you into it. We’ll manage without him, even with the new baby. We’ll manage. You and me and Rita and Rosie will be the baby’s family. We can manage, I promise you.’

‘It’ll be a bastard,’ Mavis said flatly.

‘Well,’ Lily replied, ‘there’s plenty of those around… you’re even planning to marry one!’

‘Get out, Mum!’ Mavis started up from the table, glaring at her mother. ‘Get out. It ain’t nothing to do with you. If you don’t like what I’m doing, get out and don’t bother coming back!’

Lily gave her daughter a long look and then without another word turned and walked out of the house. The brilliance of the day outside made her blink, the heat blasted back from the pavement, but the chill that gripped Lily made her feel as cold as ice.

For the rest of the day and all that night, Lily thought of nothing else. She lay in bed unable to sleep, her mind churning. She could still hardly believe that Mavis was going to put her daughters into an orphanage. Surely she’ll think better of it and change her mind, thought Lily. Mavis loves her kids, how could she bear to be parted from them? How could she even begin to consider sending them away… on the orders of that man?

‘I won’t let her,’ Lily announced suddenly to her bedroom. ‘I won’t let her. If that brute won’t let her keep them in their own home, then they can come here to me. I won’t let them grow up in some dreadful place, thinking no one wants them.’

It was the obvious solution. She’d go and tell Mavis first thing. This decision made Lily fall into an uneasy doze, waking only an hour or so later, unrefreshed but determined.

It was Saturday, the girls would be at home, and so might Jimmy, but that couldn’t be helped. She must speak to Mavis again, tell her the girls should come and live with her, before it was too late.

When Mavis opened the door to find her mother on the step, she immediately tried to push it shut again, but expecting such a reaction, Lily was ready and thrust against it.

‘Go away!’ hissed Mavis. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

‘Mavis!’ Lily’s voice brooked no argument. ‘I have to speak to you.’

‘You spoke to me yesterday,’ snarled Mavis. ‘We ain’t got nothing left to say.’

‘I’ll have them,’ Lily said urgently, still leaning on the door to prevent it from shutting. ‘I’ll have the girls to live with me.’

The pressure on the door eased a little, but still Mavis wouldn’t open it. ‘What d’you mean?’ She spoke softly as if afraid of being overheard.

‘I’ll have the girls to live with me,’ repeated Lily. ‘Mavis, love, listen. Let me in so we can talk about it.’

‘Jimmy’s here.’

‘That’s OK,’ replied Lily. ‘He can be part of the discussion. We all need to agree on what’s to happen… what’s for the best.’

‘You’re not to make him angry,’ warned Mavis. ‘He was mad when he heard what you’d said about him yesterday.’

More fool you for telling him, thought Lily, but aloud she said, ‘No, I won’t make him angry, promise. I’ll simply explain my idea. I’m sure we can work something out that will please everyone.’

Reluctantly, Mavis opened the door and let Lily step inside. She led the way into the kitchen where Rita and Rosie were sitting at the table.

‘Gran!’ cried Rosie in delight, jumping down from her stool for a hug.

Rita stayed where she was, but smiled and said, ‘Can we come to your house today?’ She turned to her mother. ‘Can we?’ she said. ‘Can we go round Gran’s?’

‘Perhaps later,’ said Lily.

‘You girls go and play upstairs,’ said Mavis, ‘and don’t you go waking your Uncle Jimmy.’

‘But I want…’ began Rita, but her mother reached over and took her arm, pulling her roughly from her stool. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, my girl, or you’ll feel the weight of my hand.’

Rita scowled, but she did not reply. She simply took Rosie’s hand and said, ‘Come on, Rosie, let’s go upstairs.’

Mavis flopped into a chair and turned to face Lily. ‘All right,’ she said belligerently, ‘what’s your plan? You can see how difficult Reet’s being.’

‘I thought it might be best if Rita and Rosie came to live with me,’ replied Lily. When Mavis made no response she went on, encouraged, ‘That way you wouldn’t lose them, would you? They’d be just round the corner and you could see them whenever you wanted to. They could go to the same school. They’d still be with their friends. They wouldn’t feel pushed out, they’re happy enough when they’re with me.’ She paused, and as Mavis still said nothing she added, ‘No one would think you’d rejected them, they’d see that you’d simply given yourself a little breathing space… with a new husband and a new baby.’

‘I don’t know,’ Mavis said gruffly. ‘After all you said yesterday.’

‘Yesterday… well, yesterday I was surprised, and upset. You did rather spring it on me, your idea of a home.’ Lily pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Mavis. ‘But it needn’t come to that. If they come to live with me for a bit, they’ll be out of Jimmy’s hair and you’ll be able to concentrate on him and the baby. If they come to me they’ll be going somewhere they know, not to some strange place with strangers to look after them.’ Lily reached out a hand. ‘Mavis, love, I know you love your kids, that you want what’s best for them, and you’re probably right, it is better for them to be out of this house for a little while, but please don’t put them in a home. Let them come and stay with me where you know they’ll be safe.’

Mavis still didn’t answer, but Lily could see that she was giving consideration to the idea, so she allowed the silence to lengthen. It was eventually broken by a cry from upstairs and then a thud, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Mavis came to her feet as the door opened and Jimmy Randall came in.

Unshaven and dressed only in pyjama trousers and a string vest, he stopped dead when he saw Lily at the table. ‘And what the ’ell are you doing ’ere?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve come to talk to Mavis about Rita and Rosie,’ replied Lily, trying not to shrink back as he towered over her.

‘Come to meddle, more like,’ he said. ‘Well, we don’t want your meddling, right? So you can push off. Go on, out.’ He pushed back the door and pointed to the street.

‘She’s only come—’ began Mavis.

‘To bloody interfere. We don’t need her, right?’

‘She says the girls can live with her,’ Mavis said. ‘She says she’ll take them and—’

‘Then get up them stairs and pack their bags,’ snapped Jimmy. ‘She can ’ave ’em, but they go today.’

‘Today…’ stammered Mavis, paling visibly.

‘Why not?’ shrugged Jimmy. ‘She wants ’em, we don’t. They can go today.’

‘Jimmy…’ wailed Mavis, but he had turned on his heel and was stumping back up the stairs.

Lily had been going to suggest that today they tell the girls about coming to live with her, let them get used to the idea, and then move their things the following weekend. She’d have had time to prepare their room, and given herself time to get used to the idea too, but Jimmy’s reaction decided her. She wanted those girls out of this house and out of his way at once. She had felt intimidated by him, and she was a grown woman, well used to looking after herself. What must those children feel when he came into the room? She turned to Mavis, who had buried her face in her hands.

‘Come on, Mavis,’ she said briskly. ‘Call the girls down and let’s tell them they’re coming to me. But tell them, mind, that it’s just till you’ve had the baby and got settled again. All right?’

Mavis didn’t answer, simply moaned into her hands. Lily reached over and shook her roughly by the shoulder. ‘Pull yourself together, my girl,’ she said. ‘This house ain’t no place for them.’

Lily went to the bottom of the stairs and called the girls. They came down into the kitchen and looked expectantly at their mother and grandmother. When Mavis still said nothing, Lily said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you both. Poor Mummy is very tired, what with the baby coming soon, and she needs more rest, so I thought it would be a good idea if you two came and stayed with me for a bit.’

Rita stared at her incredulously for a moment, while Rosie clapped her hands and cried, ‘Are we going to stay in your house, Gran? And sleep the night? Can we have bread and dripping for tea?’

‘Come and live with you, you mean?’ asked Rita. ‘All the time?’

‘For now,’ replied Lily. ‘Just to give Mum a rest, until she has the baby.’

Rita nodded as if she were considering the idea. ‘What about school?’

‘You can go to school from my house,’ answered Lily. ‘Mum’ll come and see you, and bring the baby when it’s born.’

‘Will Uncle Jimmy come and see us, too?’ asked Rosie.

‘No!’ It was Rita who spat out the answer.

‘No,’ her grandmother agreed more softly, ‘he’ll be too busy to come. Now, let’s go upstairs and pack up some of your things, then we can take them to my house.’

Packing took little time. Their few clothes fitted easily into the small cardboard suitcase that Mavis produced, and favourite toys were crammed into a shopping bag. Rosie clutched Knitty, a strange-looking creature that Lily had knitted from an unravelled jumper. He had buttons for eyes, an embroidered nose and smiley mouth, and Rosie loved him dearly, always sleeping with him tucked under her arm. Both girls had their school satchels with their plimsolls for drill, and Rita slipped the photograph of Daddy into the pages of her sum book. She was careful not to let Mum see him, in case she took him away.

Once they were packed and ready, they set out for Lily’s house. Walking along the street, carrying the suitcase, the shopping bag and their satchels, they looked for all the world, Lily thought, like the refugees you saw on the cinema newsreels.

6

As the next weeks slipped by, the girls settled into their new home, and their new routine. Rosie had shed a few tears at bedtime the first few nights. She wanted Mum to come and kiss her goodnight, and when Gran tucked them in and kissed them she whispered on a sob, ‘I want my mummy!’

‘Course you do, lovey,’ soothed Gran. ‘But don’t cry, she’s coming to see you tomorrow when you get home from school. Now you snuggle down with Knitty, like a good girl, and it’ll be tomorrow in no time.’

Rita missed her mother, too, but she was determined not to say so. Mum had sent them to Gran’s so that she could be with Uncle Jimmy. Well, thought Rita, I don’t care. I don’t want to live with Uncle Jimmy, I’d rather stay with Gran.

But she did care. She missed the familiar kitchen with its own peculiar smell, its cluttered shelves and scarred wooden table. Gran’s kitchen, though familiar, wasn’t the same. Rita missed her bedroom, too, with its faded roses on the wall and cracked window pane. She had a bed to herself now, but she missed sharing with Rosie and very often she crept in beside her, curling round her as she always had, so that they were as warm and cosy as two kittens in a basket.

School was just the same and if it wasn’t raining, Gran let them play in the park on the way home most days now, but Rita missed running on home to tell Mum about her day afterwards; she missed Mum as she used to be, Mum-before-Uncle-Jimmy.

Mavis and Lily had gone to school together to see Miss Hassinger, the head teacher. Miss Hassinger had been at the school for over thirty years and had taught Mavis herself when she was eight years old. Walking into her office now, Mavis felt as if twenty years had dropped away and she was still only eight years old, about to be scolded for some misdemeanour. Miss Hassinger offered them a chair each, and when they’d sat down she looked expectantly from one to the other.

Miss Hassinger was a small, bird-like woman, with completely white hair wound into a pleat at the back of her head. She had bright, darting eyes that missed nothing and these were turned on her erstwhile pupil now. Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Mavis looked away and gazing out of the window, left the explanations to her mother.

Lily also turned to Mavis, waiting, but when it was clear that she wasn’t going to speak, she said, ‘It’s about Rita and Rosie.’

Miss Hassinger nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes?’

‘We’ve come to tell you that Rita and Rosie are moving in with me,’ Lily explained. ‘Just for a while. Mavis is getting married in a few weeks…’

Miss Hassinger’s glance flicked to Mavis’s protruding belly and the expression in her eyes said ‘and about time too’.

‘…and when the baby’s born… you know… it’ll be easier for her if the girls are with me for a bit,’ Lily finished.

‘I see.’ Miss Hassinger was one of the old school. Strict she certainly was, demanding instant and unquestioning obedience from the children she taught, but no one ever doubted that she was concerned for the welfare of those children and wanted the best for them. ‘I must say I did wonder if something was happening at home. Rita, particularly, has been very unsettled of late. She’s normally such a happy little soul, bright and outgoing, you know, but recently she’s been… well, difficult. Not disobedient exactly, but not polite and not easy to handle.’ Miss Hassinger looked across at Mavis. ‘I was thinking of asking you to come in for a chat, Mrs Stevens.’

Mavis shifted uneasily in her chair. Miss Hassinger was always punctilious in how she addressed her old pupils, treating them with the courtesy and respect due to their attained adulthood, but Mavis had never felt comfortable with it. She wished that her old teacher would forget about ‘Mrs Stevens’ and call her Mavis as she always had. Even now she did not respond, still leaving the explanations to her mother.

‘Mavis’s fiancé is in and out of the house, as you’d expect,’ Lily went on, ‘and the girls have found it unsettling. They don’t remember their dad, see, and ain’t used to having a man about the place.’

‘I do see,’ Miss Hassinger said, her eyes bright with understanding. ‘I’m sure this arrangement’s for the best, then, just for a while.’ She got to her feet and Lily and Mavis stood up too. ‘I wish you every happiness in your new marriage, Mrs Stevens,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Perhaps,’ she added to Lily as Mavis turned away in embarrassment, ‘you’d be good enough to give Miss Granger your address on your way out, Mrs Sharples, just so we can keep our records straight. We need to know who to contact in an emergency.’

‘She should contact me in an emergency,’ snapped Mavis as soon as they were outside. ‘I’m still their mother!’

‘Of course you are,’ agreed Lily, ‘but to be honest, Mavis, I’m not sure you always remember that.’

Mavis glowered at her mother. ‘You don’t know nothing,’ she spat. ‘I miss them all the time.’ And she did. Mavis did miss the girls, more than she could have believed. The house seemed empty first thing in the morning when there was no rushing round to be ready for school, and at half-past three when they would have come home, the place was too quiet; but life was certainly easier without them. There was only Jimmy to think about; she could devote all her attention to him. They were even able to go out together on a Saturday night because she didn’t have to stay at home with the girls. Without them in the house, Jimmy was less demanding. He came and went as he pleased, but finding Mavis waiting for him, her attention undivided when he did come in, made their relationship much less stressful.

Mavis could relax and be herself; she no longer had to act as a buffer between her lover and her daughters. There were times when she felt guilty that she was happier without them, but as the days passed she managed to convince herself that she had made the right decision, not for herself, but for them.

After all, she kept telling herself, they’re happy at Mum’s… and I do have the baby to consider too.

She had passed over the girls’ ration books and gave Lily eight shillings a week for their keep, but though she went to see them every Wednesday after school, it seemed as if a gap had opened up between them. They were pleased enough to see her, Rosie in particular ran into her arms, but with Rita it was different. She would say hallo and accept a kiss, but it was to Lily she turned and told about her day; of Lily she asked questions; into Lily’s lap she snuggled. Almost, Mavis thought resentfully, as if I was some distant auntie, not her mother at all.

The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear. It was a Friday; the girls had a day off school and that in itself made the day special. They woke early, and when they’d had their breakfast they waited, barely containing their excitement until the time came to have their hair brushed, tied with a white ribbon and then to get dressed. They each had a new dress for the occasion, cotton frocks fashioned from a pair of curtains that Lily had kept in an old trunk in the attic. They were patterned with red roses, and though they still looked like curtains to Lily, the girls were delighted with them, twirling and spinning so that the skirts flew out like parasols.

‘Won’t everyone think we look lovely!’ cried Rosie, as she made a wobbly curtsey to herself in the mirror. ‘I wish I could wear my party dress every day.’

‘Then it wouldn’t be a party dress, silly,’ pointed out Rita as she took her turn in front of the looking glass. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, pouting, ‘we ain’t going to the party.’

‘Never mind, love,’ comforted Lily. ‘We’ll have a party of our own back here.’

Lily was to take the girls to the register office for the actual wedding, and then they were to make themselves scarce and leave the grown-up guests free to enjoy themselves at the Red Lion.

‘It won’t be the same,’ whined Rita. ‘Why can’t we go to the real party? It’s not fair!’

‘You’re not allowed into a pub,’ Gran explained. ‘It isn’t Mum saying you can’t go in, it’s the government.’

‘Well,’ scowled Rita, ‘it’s still not fair.’

Lily rather agreed. She had offered to have the reception at her house, but Jimmy had poured scorn on the idea. ‘Who’d want to come there?’

‘Better in the Lion, Mum,’ Mavis had said, trying to be conciliatory. ‘Far less work for you… and less expense for us all.’

Lily hadn’t thought of that, but she ought to have realized that Jimmy would have. If they all went to the Red Lion, Mavis and Jimmy would provide the sandwiches, and the cake, but everyone would buy their own drinks.

‘But they won’t see our new dresses,’ wailed Rosie.

‘Course they will,’ Gran assured her, as she brushed Rosie’s fair hair, tying it carefully with two white bows on the top of her head. ‘Everyone at the registry office’ll see you. Now for goodness sake, stand still, child, or I’ll never get your hair done.’ She finished Rosie’s hair and started on Rita’s. Straight and dark and fine, it had to be plaited or it wouldn’t hold a ribbon. Rita looked at her sister’s silky, blonde hair, now caught up with the two white ribbons.

‘Why can’t I have hair like Rosie’s?’ she grumbled.

‘You’ve got lovely hair,’ said her grandmother soothingly, ‘dark like Mum’s.’

‘Rosie’s isn’t like Mum’s.’

‘No,’ agreed Lily, still plaiting the fine hair. ‘Hers is like your daddy’s was.’

‘I wish I had hair like Daddy’s,’ Rita said. ‘How did Rosie get it? She didn’t even know Daddy.’

Lily smiled. ‘Well, some children look like their mothers and some like their fathers, you don’t know till they’re born.’

‘Will Mummy’s new baby look like Uncle Jimmy?’ asked Rosie with interest.

‘No!’ Rita snapped. ‘We don’t want a brother or sister who looks like him. He’s fat and ugly.’

‘Now, Rita, that’s enough!’ said her grandmother firmly. ‘This is Mum’s special day, and you ain’t going to spoil it for her by being rude to Uncle Jimmy.’ She took Rita by the chin and looked into her eyes. ‘You understand, my girl? You behave yourself, or I’ll bring you straight home and there’ll be no party tea for you here either. Understand?’

Rita pulled free and muttered, ‘Yes, Gran,’ but her eyes were mutinous as she turned away.

They gathered outside the register office and waited for the arrival of the bride. The girls jumped up and down the steps, their skirts flying round their legs. Gran had made them each a matching pair of knickers, so that there was the occasional flash of rose-patterned underwear.

Jimmy arrived wearing his demob suit and accompanied by his father, his best man Charlie and a couple of his work-mates with their wives. When he saw the little girls playing on the steps, he glowered at them. Lily, seeing his expression, called them over to her and held each firmly by the hand.

Mavis arrived in a car. Her best friend, Carrie, from down the street, was her matron of honour, and she’d asked her brother to drive them both to the register office.

Mavis stepped out onto the pavement, her face alight with happiness. Lily, looking at her, thought she had never seen her looking so lovely, and she had to blink back unexpected tears. Mavis has had a difficult life since her Don was shot down, Lily thought as she watched her, she deserves some happiness now. I just hope she can find it with Jimmy Randall.

Carrie fussed round Mavis for a moment, straightening her dress where it had been crushed in the car. The dress was cream, patterned with tiny yellow rosebuds. Loose and flowing, it floated from Mavis’s shoulders but did little to disguise her burgeoning state. She had found the material in the market and bought it off the ration. Carrie had made the dress for her and she’d used a strip of the material to trim the jaunty straw hat that now perched on Mavis’s head. To complete her outfit, Mavis carried a tiny bunch of yellow roses, tied with yellow ribbons.

‘Mummy!’ cried Rosie, and pulling free of Lily’s hand she darted over to her mother. ‘Mummy! You’ve got a new dress too!’

Mavis held out a hand to her, smiling, and bent to kiss her daughter. Rosie put her arms round Mavis’s neck and hugged her hard. Lily let go of Rita’s hand, and Rita was about to run to her mother as well, when Jimmy strode over to his bride and grabbed her by the hand.

‘Come on,’ he said, pulling her towards the steps. ‘Let’s get married.’

Mavis smiled up at him and gripping his hand tightly, murmured, ‘Oh yes, Jimmy. Let’s.’

It seemed to take no time at all. They all went into the register office and stood round the bridal pair as they made their vows, and then they were pronounced man and wife, and Mr and Mrs Jimmy Randall emerged into the sunlight.

Rita was disappointed. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t just a man asking Mum and Uncle Jimmy questions. The sun streamed in through the windows, and little dust motes danced in the sunlight. Rita watched them disconsolately, wishing she’d hugged Mum before they went in, like Rosie had. When Uncle Jimmy put a ring on Mum’s finger, Rita suddenly wondered what had happened to the one she used to wear, the one Daddy had given her. She looked carefully, but Mum certainly wasn’t wearing both.

Carrie’s husband, John, had a camera, and he took some pictures of Mum and Uncle Jimmy standing on the steps. He took one of Rita and Rosie in their new dresses, and then he asked Gran to take one of him with Carrie.

‘I don’t know how to use one of these,’ Gran protested, but John said, ‘It’s easy, Mrs Sharples. Just make sure you hold it still and press the button.’

Then it was over. Mum and Uncle Jimmy got into the car and were driven round the corner to the Red Lion, the rest of the guests following on foot.

Lily took Rosie’s hand and, calling to Rita, set off in the other direction, back to her own home in Hampton Road. Rosie skipped cheerfully along beside her. She hadn’t been disappointed in the wedding. Several of the ladies she didn’t know had told her how pretty she looked. No one had said it to Rita.

When they reached the house, they found the party tea waiting. Before the girls had got up that morning, Lily had put a white cloth on the table in the front room, and had laid out plates and glasses. On each plate was a piece of chocolate, and in the middle of the table was a jug of orange squash.

‘Now, Rita,’ Lily said, ‘you come and help me.’ They went into the kitchen and Rita was given a plate of sandwiches to carry through. There was a cake as well, and when they had eaten all that, Lily gave Rita a shilling and sent her to the corner shop for ice cream.

Later, when the children were safely in bed, Lily sat in her armchair and thought about the day. The weather had been perfect, the sun shining, and Mavis looking happier than Lily had seen her for years. The tiredness that had left her pale throughout her pregnancy seemed to have left her, and she’d looked blooming with health as she’d taken Jimmy’s hand and walked into the register office. Lily poured the last of the orange squash into a glass and raised it in a toast.

‘Here’s to you, my darling girl,’ she whispered. ‘I wish you every happiness.’ But even as she said it, Lily knew that the life Mavis had chosen was not going to be an easy one. ‘And I’ll keep your girls safe until they can come back to you, however long that is.’

On Monday it was back to school, but the girls had lots to tell the other children. Lily had explained to Rita and Rosie that when two people got married they went away together for a few days to have a little holiday on their own.

‘It’s called a honeymoon, and that’s why Mummy and Uncle Jimmy have gone to the seaside by themselves. They’ll be back on Saturday and I’m sure Mummy’ll be straight round to tell you all about it.’ She was going to say that perhaps Mum would bring them a stick of rock as a present, but she didn’t, in case Mavis didn’t.

After Lily had dropped the children off at school on Monday morning she went round to Baillies, the grocer’s.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Fred’s wife, Anne, emerged from the back of the shop. ‘You had a lovely day for it. I bet the little girls enjoyed it.’

‘They certainly did,’ Lily agreed, ‘it was lovely.’

‘Where’ve they gone for their honeymoon?’ Anne asked.

‘Southend,’ answered Lily. ‘Be nice there if this weather holds.’

‘Anything else I can get you?’ asked Fred when he’d wrapped her ration of cheese and carefully placed three eggs into her shopping basket.

‘No thanks, Fred, that’s all for today.’

Lily never saw the car that hit her. Her mind still on the wedding, she walked out into the street, straight into its path. There was the squeal of brakes, as Lily and her shopping were thrown up over the bonnet and thudded onto the windscreen. She made no sound, but pedestrians in the street shrieked as they ran to help, or simply stood, transfixed with horror at what they had just seen.

Fred Baillie, hearing the commotion, ran out of his shop and found the driver of the car out on the pavement, his face pale with fright, his hands shaking, saying over and over, ‘Not my fault! She just stepped out. Right in front of me. Just stepped out.’

Lily had slid off the car and was now lying face down in the gutter, blood running from a cut on her head, and one of her legs bent back at an alarming angle. Her eyes were closed and, though people were gathered round her, no one moved to touch her.

‘It’s Lily Sharples,’ cried Fred Baillie. ‘Is she dead?’

‘Wouldn’t know, mate,’ said a small man in overalls who had been peering down at her and now drew hastily back. ‘Looks like it.’

Fred Baillie bent down and lifted Lily’s wrist. He’d been an air-raid warden during the war, and he was used to dealing with the injured and the dead. He found a slight pulse and looked up at the circle of faces. ‘She’s alive. I’ll go and ring for an ambulance from my shop. Don’t move her.’

‘Shouldn’t we try and make her more comfortable?’ suggested a woman. ‘I mean, she’s face down in the gutter. If we just try to turn—’

‘No,’ Mr Baillie insisted. ‘Don’t touch her. I’ll call an ambulance and find a blanket to put over her, but then we leave it to the ambulance men. They’ll know what to do.’ When he was sure the ambulance was on its way and knew where to come, he went back outside and gently laid a blanket over Lily’s still form. He couldn’t hear her breathing, there seemed to be no movement of her chest, but he had definitely felt a pulse and could only hope that she would hold on until the ambulance arrived.

A young police constable had appeared and was speaking to the pale-faced driver. ‘If you could just tell me your name, sir,’ he said, ‘and then tell me exactly what happened here.’

‘Sidney Short. It wasn’t my fault, officer, she simply stepped right out in front of me. I hadn’t a chance of stopping… right out in front of me. Just stepped out.’

The constable took out his notebook and licking his pencil, said, ‘Does anyone know who she is? Did anyone else see what happened here?’

‘Her name’s Lily Sharples,’ supplied Fred Baillie. ‘The ambulance’ll be here directly.’

The constable turned his attention to him. ‘Did you see the accident, sir?’

‘No,’ admitted Fred, ‘but she’d just left my shop when it happened.’ As he spoke he reached down and picked up Lily’s basket from where it had fallen, leaving a smear of broken eggs on the pavement. He glanced into the empty basket and then round on the road. The cheese had disappeared.

At that moment they heard the clang of the ambulance bell. Yet again people paused and turned to see what was happening. This was more excitement than the street had seen since the last raid in 1944. The little crowd gathered again as the ambulance men jumped out and hurried across to the still form in the gutter. One bent down and felt for a pulse and when he succeeded in finding the faint throb under her chin, he said softly, ‘She’s still alive, Ernie. Get the stretcher.’

‘Right-ho, Jack.’ Ernie hauled a stretcher out of the back of the ambulance and laid it on the pavement. Gently the ambulance man lifted Lily’s hair and looked at the head wound. It was still bleeding and her hair was matted with blood. Very carefully he placed his fingers onto her neck, feeling the line of vertebrae at the top of her spine. She moaned a little but didn’t open her eyes, drifting off into unconsciousness again.

‘As much as we can do here, Ernie,’ Jack said straightening up. ‘Let’s get her aboard and back to casualty. You, constable, give us a hand. You support her head… don’t let it loll as we lift her onto the stretcher.’

The young constable hesitated and Fred Baillie said, ‘I’ll do it. I know how from the war.’

With extreme care the two ambulance men lifted the inert form of Lily Sharples onto the stretcher, with Fred Baillie holding her head as straight and level as he could.

‘Well done, mate,’ Jack said as they finally slid her into the back of the ambulance and strapped her in. ‘Know her name, do you?’

‘It’s Lily Sharples,’ replied Fred.

When the ambulance had driven off, Fred looked at the shaken Sidney Short and said, ‘Think you’d better come and sit down in my shop, mate. My missus’ll make you some tea. That’s what you need for shock. You come on inside.’ Sidney Short looked at him with gratitude and followed him into the shop.

‘What’s happened, Fred?’ cried Anne as they all trooped inside. Fred explained and Anne said, ‘But we must let Mavis know.’

‘We don’t know where she is,’ Fred said.

‘Southend.’

‘Yes, well, Southend’s a big place. They could be anywhere. How’re we going to find her?’

‘Carrie Maunder might know,’ suggested Anne.

‘I’d better go round and see her,’ said Fred. ‘Ship Street, isn’t she? Number 5?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Anne.

Fred nodded and set off for Ship Street.

Carrie was surprised to see him when she answered her bell. ‘Mr Baillie,’ she said, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Carrie, d’you know where Mavis Stevens what-was has gone on her honeymoon?’

‘Mavis? She’s gone to Southend. Why?’

‘’Cos her ma’s been knocked down in the street and took to the hospital. We need to get hold of her, straight away.’

‘All I know was Southend. I don’t know where they was staying,’ said Carrie in dismay. ‘I think they was just going to find a boarding house when they got there.’

‘There must be some way of getting hold of her,’ Fred said. ‘If she don’t come home quick, she might be too late.’

Carrie shook her head. ‘Poor Mrs Sharples,’ she said. ‘Who’d have thought it.’

‘And then there’s the kiddies,’ Fred said suddenly, as the thought struck him. ‘They was living with her, wasn’t they? Where’re they going to go now, with their gran in hospital and their ma away?’

‘Well, I suppose they could come here for a bit,’ Carrie said. ‘It’ll only be till Saturday, won’t it?’

‘Could they? That’s good of you. You sure?’

‘Yes, it’ll be a bit of a squeeze, but we’ll manage. I’ll go round the school and let them know what’s happened. I’ll tell Miss Hassinger I’ll have them until Mavis gets home. John won’t mind for a few days and Maggie’ll think it great fun having them to stay.’

Carrie was as good as her word and went straight round to the school to explain the situation to Miss Hassinger.

‘There’s nowhere else for them to go,’ she said when she’d told the headmistress about the accident. ‘I’ll have them at mine until Mavis gets home again.’

‘That’s really very good of you, Mrs Maunder,’ Miss Hassinger said. ‘Do you know how Mrs Sharples is?’

‘No, but it doesn’t sound very good. I think Mrs Baillie from the grocer’s is going to the hospital to find out. I’ll let you know when I know anything.’

‘I’ll just get the girls here to tell them what’s happened,’ said Miss Hassinger, ‘and then we’ll explain that they’re going to stay with you till their mother gets home.’ She reached for the bell on her desk and sent for Rita and Rosie.

A few moments later there was a knock on the door and the girls came in, Rita holding Rosie by the hand, looking nervously at the headmistress.

‘Ah, come in girls,’ she said smiling at them. ‘It’s all right, you haven’t done anything wrong. You know Mrs Maunder, don’t you?’

Rita nodded, and Rosie said, ‘She’s Maggie’s mum.’

‘Well, she’s going to collect you from school today. You’re going home with Maggie.’

‘Where’s Gran?’ demanded Rita. ‘Why ain’t we going there?’

‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident,’ Carrie said gently. ‘Your gran is in the hospital, so I thought you could come and stay with us for a few days, just till Mum gets back.’

Rita stared at Carrie for a moment and then said, ‘Is she dead?’

‘No, but she was hurt, so they took her in an ambulance to the hospital. The doctors are looking after her, but she’ll have to stay there for a while, till she’s better.’

Rita nodded, but Rosie’s bottom lip began to tremble. ‘I want Mummy,’ she whimpered. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘She’s on her honeymoon,’ replied Carrie. ‘She’ll be home on Saturday.’

‘So will Uncle Jimmy,’ whispered Rita.

Miss Hassinger looked at her sharply, but decided not to hear the remark. However, when the girls had been taken back to their classrooms by Miss Granger, and their teachers told what had happened, Miss Hassinger sat deep in thought. Just when the two children had a little stability at last, she thought. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

7

‘I know where Gran keeps a key,’ Rita said to Carrie when she met them at the school gate that afternoon. ‘We’ll need our things.’

‘So you will,’ Carrie agreed with relief. She’d been wondering how she was going to clothe the Stevens girls till Mavis got home. ‘Let’s go to your gran’s then and fetch them.’

Once again Rita and Rosie’s meagre belongings were put into the old suitcase, Knitty was retrieved from the bed, and they all walked back to Ship Street.

‘I’ve made you a bed on the floor in Maggie’s room,’ Carrie told them. ‘You’ll have to snuggle up together on that eiderdown, all right?’

Maggie was thrilled that they were coming to stay. ‘Can we play out?’ she asked once the girls had put their things into her room.

‘Just till I get tea ready,’ Carrie said, and shooed them out into the street.

‘I couldn’t do anything else,’ she said to her husband later that evening, when the three girls were finally asleep. ‘They’d nowhere else to go. It’s only till Mavis gets home on Saturday.’

‘You did right, girl,’ John assured her. ‘She’d do the same for you.’

‘Course she would,’ agreed Carrie, but in truth she wasn’t so sure. She’d known Mavis from schooldays, but Mavis had changed since Jimmy had come on the scene.

Mavis and Jimmy arrived back in Ship Street late Saturday afternoon, to find a postcard pushed through the letter box. On it Carrie had simply written, Your Mum in hospital. Come round our house when you get back. Carrie.

She stared at the card for a moment and then, putting her hat back on, said to Jimmy, ‘I’ve got to go round Carrie’s.’

‘What you got to go round there for?’ demanded Jimmy. ‘What about my tea?’

‘Carrie says Mum’s in hospital. I got to find out what’s wrong with her, and what’s happened to the girls.’

‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘if you ain’t getting me tea, I’ll go down the Lion. I’ll get a pie down there.’

Although Mavis knew this meant he wouldn’t be home until late and probably with a skinful inside him, she didn’t want to argue. There had been very few arguments while they’d been in Southend, and she didn’t want them to start again as soon as they got home.

‘All right, love,’ she said. ‘Good idea. I’ll go and find out what’s been happening. I might have to visit Mum in the hospital, but I can probably leave that until the morning.’ Before he could object any further, she let herself out of the house and waddled down the street to number 5. She had become so large that it was almost impossible to hurry anywhere now. She couldn’t wait for the baby to be born and for her body to be her own again.

It was Maggie who opened the door to her and seeing Mavis on the step, called back over her shoulder, ‘Reet, your mum’s here.’

Rita flew to the door and flung herself into her mother’s arms. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she cried, ‘Gran was hit by a car and she’s in hospital and she’s very bad.’

Mavis hugged Rita to her, and then Rosie, hearing Mavis arrive, erupted from the kitchen and she, too, flung herself at her mother, simply saying, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,’ over and over again. Mavis moved into the house, pushing the front door closed behind her.

‘Now then,’ she said as she finally disentangled herself from her daughters, ‘where’s Auntie Carrie?’

‘She’s gone to see Gran,’ Rita said. ‘Uncle John is here.’

At that moment John appeared from the kitchen. ‘Hallo, Mavis,’ he said. ‘You back?’

‘John, tell me quick. What on earth’s happened to Mum?’

‘Quite a lot’s happened since you went away,’ John replied. ‘Come in and take the weight off. I’ll put the kettle on and tell you all about it.’

Mavis followed him into the kitchen, the two girls still swinging on her arms. She sat impatiently at the table while John made tea, and when he’d finally poured them each a cup she could contain herself no longer.

‘John, for God’s sake, tell me what’s happened. What happened to Mum?’

‘Your mother was knocked down by a car,’ he said. ‘The ambulance came and took her to the General, and she’s been there ever since.’

‘But how bad, John?’

‘Pretty bad,’ he admitted. ‘She was thrown up over the bonnet, I heard from Fred Baillie, and then knocked into the gutter. He called the ambulance. She bashed her head and her leg was broke in two places. Outside Fred’s shop. He come round to tell Carrie, and she agreed to have the kids till you come home again.’

‘But how is Mum now, John? Do you know?’

‘Well, Carrie went in that same day, but they wouldn’t let her visit. She weren’t allowed ’cos Lily was unconscious for a bit. She’s come round now, though, and can have a visitor. Carrie’s there now.’

‘I must go and see her,’ Mavis said, heaving herself off the chair.

‘Well, you can try,’ John said, ‘but they’re only letting one person in at a time. The nurse Carrie talked to said she was still in a bad way.’ He looked at his watch and added, ‘Doubt if there’s any point in going now, anyway, visiting’s over. They’re very strict. The nurse said that the matron’s a right tartar. Carrie’ll be home in a minute. I should sit down and wait for her.’

‘But I must see her!’ cried Mavis. ‘Oh, why didn’t you try and find me? You should have sent for me.’

‘How could we?’ asked John reasonably. ‘All we knew was that you was in Southend. It’s a big place. Now, best thing is for you to sit down and wait here till Carrie gets back and she can tell you all the latest.’ He drained the last of his tea and got to his feet. ‘Well, now you’re here, Mavis, I’ll just pop out for a pint. Maggie, be a good girl till your mum gets home, OK?’

Mavis sat down again to wait for Carrie and Rosie clambered up onto her knee. She wriggled, trying to get more comfortable. ‘I can’t sit on your knee,’ she grumbled, ‘your baby’s sitting on your knee.’

Mavis set her down on the floor again as she said, ‘Never mind, pet, it won’t be long before it’s born, then there’ll be room.’

‘When is it coming? Can we come home then?’ asked Rosie hopefully. Rita, still standing close to her mother, stiffened a little as she waited for the answer.

‘Why don’t you girls go outside in the sunshine?’ Mavis suggested. ‘Your mum’ll be home soon, Maggie.’ When the girls had gone, Mavis squeezed another cup of tea from the pot and considered the situation. Rosie had asked if they were coming home again. It was a fair question, but Mavis didn’t know the answer. It wasn’t that she didn’t want them there, not really, Jimmy certainly didn’t, but where else could they go? The baby was due in the next couple of weeks, and would come when it chose. Who would look after the girls then? How long was Mum going to be in hospital?

‘Oh Mum,’ Mavis cried, ‘why did this have to happen now? Why didn’t you look where you was going?’

At that moment the door opened and Carrie came in. ‘Mavis,’ she said with a smile, ‘you’re back.’

‘Yes, we got back an hour ago. How’s Mum? Is she all right?’

‘Well,’ said Carrie. ‘I saw her for the first time, today. She’s as all right as you can be with your leg in plaster, and a cracked head.’

‘At least they let you see her? John said you hadn’t been allowed before.’

‘Only for a little while. I just sat by the bed. She’s not up to much, her leg’s up in a sort of sling thing. She don’t look well, very white. All she could ask was, was the girls all right? I said I’d got them for now, and you’d be home today. Then she fell asleep, so I come away.’

‘But what do the doctors say?’ asked Mavis.

‘They didn’t talk to me, I’m not family, but one of the nurses said that Mrs Sharples was lucky to be alive. She said it’ll take time and they don’t know how well she’ll walk again. She’ll probably need a stick to get about.’

‘Will she be able to manage on her own?’ wondered Mavis.

‘Don’t know,’ Carrie said, ‘but it’ll be some time yet, anyway.’

‘It was very good of you and John to take them in like this.’

‘Well, it was only for a few days, wasn’t it? You’d have done the same for me.’ Carrie got up and put the kettle on the gas. ‘Why don’t we have another cuppa, and then you can pack up the girls’ things and get them settled at home.’ She spoke firmly. She had done her bit and now it was time for Mavis to take responsibility for her own kids.

Seeing the bleak look on Mavis’s face, Carrie softened a little. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any food in the house, have you? Look, leave them with me another half hour and go down Baillies and get some stuff in. Here.’ She opened a drawer and pulled out two ration books. ‘I picked these up when we went round to your mum’s to get their things. I used a few coupons, had to, but you’ll get enough to see you over the weekend.’

When Jimmy finally came home he was several sheets to the wind, and though Mavis immediately put some supper on the table, he simply put his head down beside the plate and went to sleep. When he snorted awake half an hour later, Mavis helped him up the stairs as she had so often before, and he fell into his bed still unaware that his stepdaughters had come home.

The girls were safely asleep in their old bedroom, sharing their old bed, and though Rita hated being back at Ship Street, it was comforting to snuggle down with Rosie in the familiar bedroom. When they woke next morning, the girls crept downstairs, afraid of waking Uncle Jimmy, and shut the kitchen door tightly before looking for some breakfast. There was no milk, but Rita found a packet of cornflakes in the cupboard and they each ate a bowl of these, softened with water.

When Mavis woke she slid out of the bed, leaving Jimmy snoring heavily on his side, and peeped into the girls’ bedroom. The bed was empty, so she went down to the kitchen where she found Rita had made the tea and was now making toast under the grill.

They were eating their toast when they heard the bang of a door upstairs and then the thud of feet coming down. Both girls turned frightened eyes on their mother. The look on her face did nothing to reassure them, and they sat, as if frozen, until Jimmy opened the door and stumbled in.

He stopped in the doorway, glaring. ‘What are they doing here?’ he demanded.

When Mavis did not immediately answer he roared the question again. ‘What are they doing in this house?’

Rosie shrunk against her mother, but Rita simply sat stock still, staring at him. He slouched into the room and, leaning over her, his breath foul in her face, growled, ‘What you staring at, eh?’

‘Nothing, Uncle Jimmy,’ she whispered, and white-faced she looked away.

Jimmy turned his attention to his wife. ‘So, I asked you a question, didn’t I?’

‘I brought them home last night,’ Mavis began, and then broke off, speaking abruptly to her daughters. ‘Go and play out,’ she said. ‘Go round Maggie’s and play there.’

Rita and Rosie were only too glad to escape, and edged past him, through the door, and ran out into the street as fast as they could.

Jimmy slumped down on a chair and Mavis hastily poured him a cup of tea, before spreading margarine on her own piece of toast and sliding it onto his plate.

Jimmy slurped a mouthful of tea and then said, ‘Well?’

‘I had to bring them home, Jimmy. I had to. Mum’s in the hospital and won’t be out for weeks. Carrie’s been minding them while we’ve been away. They have to come home now Mum can’t have them.’

‘No!’ Jimmy bellowed. ‘No, we agreed before, they don’t live here. If they can’t stay with your mother, then they’ll have to go into a home… like we said before.’

‘But Jimmy,’ she wailed, ‘it’s not forever, it’s only till Mum’s out of hospital. Then they can live with her, like before.’

‘Oh yeah? And when’s that likely to be? This year, next year, sometime, never! That’s when.’

‘It won’t be long.’ Mavis was determined that Jimmy should not discover the full extent of her mother’s injuries. ‘The nurse told Carrie that she was doing well. It’ll only be for a little while.’

Jimmy got up from his seat and very deliberately pulled Mavis out of hers. Gripping her tightly by the shoulders so that his fingers dug into her flesh, he shook her hard and long, shouting as he did so, ‘Don’t you understand the word “no”, you silly cow? I… will… not… have… those… girls… in… my… house!’ And with each of these last words he slammed her back against the gas stove. For good measure he gave her a final punch to her stomach, then, letting her go, flopped down onto his chair again.

Mavis sagged against the table, her knees weak, tears streaming down her face, and even as she clutched the back of her chair to steady herself, she felt water draining down her legs.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, staggering again before collapsing onto the chair. ‘Oh my God, me waters have broke!’

‘What?’ demanded Jimmy testily. ‘What’s the matter now, you miserable cow?’

‘Me waters have broke. The baby’s coming!’

‘Coming? Coming now?’ Jimmy was disbelieving. ‘Course it ain’t! It ain’t due for another two weeks.’

‘It’s coming now,’ repeated Mavis, panic in her voice. ‘We have to get the midwife. Fetch Carrie. Jimmy, for God’s sake, fetch Carrie. She’ll know what to do.’

Jimmy gave her one final hard look and then, realizing that she wasn’t making it up to frighten him, ran down the street to find Carrie. Rita and Rosie were playing hopscotch with Maggie outside the house; all three drew back fearfully as he came rushing up.

‘Maggie, where’s your mum?’ he demanded, and when she pointed to the front door which stood ajar, he burst in without knocking, shouting, ‘Carrie! Carrie! You’ve got to come! Mavis is having the baby.’

Rita and Rosie stared wide-eyed as he ran back out of the house, swiftly followed by Carrie. She paused by the staring children.

‘Don’t worry, kids,’ she said, ‘it’s time for your brother or sister to be born, that’s all. You stay with Maggie, I’ll be back in a while.’

She found Mavis doubled up in the kitchen, pale and sweating, her breath coming out in ragged spurts. Immediately Carrie was at her side, her arm round her, murmuring words of comfort, but Mavis didn’t seem to hear her. Carrie looked back at Jimmy who was standing helplessly by the door.

‘How long’s she been like this?’ she asked.

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Not long, just before I come round to you. She said her waters had broke and then told me to get you. Said we need the midwife.’

‘We certainly do,’ agreed Carrie. She reached up for the card that was tucked in beside the clock on the mantelpiece and handed it to him. ‘Here’s the number. You go down the phone box and ring her. Tell her we need her now.’

Jimmy took the card and then hesitated, looking down at Mavis. ‘For goodness sake, Jimmy,’ Carrie urged him, ‘go and ring!’

When he’d gone, Carrie turned her attention back to Mavis. ‘Come on now, Mavis love. Let’s get you upstairs onto the bed. Easy does it.’

Very carefully she eased Mavis up onto her feet and supporting her as best she could, managed to get her to the foot of the stairs. ‘Lean on me,’ she said, ‘and up we go. Come on, Mavis, you’ll be better once you’re lying down. Jimmy’s gone for Sister Hooper, she’ll be here in no time.’

Slowly they made their way upstairs. The bed, unmade as Jimmy had left it, did not look inviting, but Mavis didn’t care, and she collapsed onto it with a moan.

‘Are you having contractions?’ asked Carrie, trying to straighten the bedclothes under her. ‘How often are they coming? We need to get you into your nightie, then once you’re comfy, I’ll make you a nice cup of hot tea. That’ll make you feel better.’ She chatted on as she manoeuvred Mavis into her nightdress, but got no response. As she slipped the nightie over Mavis’s head, Carrie saw some faint bruising on her shoulders. How had Mavis come to bruise herself there? she wondered, but as Mavis was suddenly seized by a contraction, she gave it no more thought, simply held her friend’s hand as the waves of pain flowed over her and then, mercifully, subsided again.

Jimmy was soon back, saying that Sister Hooper was on her way, but it seemed to Carrie an age before she heard the midwife’s bicycle bell and her cheery voice on the stairs.

After that things moved very quickly. Sister Hooper examined Mavis and said the baby was a breach. ‘Hospital for you, my girl,’ she said briskly and sent Jimmy back to the phone box to summon an ambulance. As they got Mavis ready, Sister Hooper also noticed the bruises on Mavis’s shoulders, and Carrie saw they were more distinct than they’d looked earlier. The two women exchanged glances, and then went on with what they were doing.

When the ambulance arrived, a small crowd gathered outside in the street to see Mavis carried down the stairs and driven off. Jimmy had climbed into the ambulance as well, and Carrie was left with Rita and Rosie, standing forlornly on the pavement.

She looked at them and said, ‘You’d better come back and have your dinner with us. Uncle Jimmy’ll come and find you when he comes back with news about the baby. Won’t it be exciting to have a new baby brother or sister!’

By the time Jimmy returned from the hospital to say that he had a son, Carrie had given up waiting for him and had again put the girls to bed on the eiderdown in Maggie’s room.

The next morning she sent them off to school as usual, and assumed Jimmy would make arrangements for them at home-time. Jimmy did not, and the girls, not knowing what to do, walked home to Ship Street and let themselves in. And that was where Jimmy found them, eating cereal and toast when he came home from work.

‘I can’t look after them,’ he said to Mavis at visiting time that evening, sounding more reasonable than she’d ever heard him. ‘I got to go to work. I can’t be there to make their tea when they come in from school, can I? I got to earn our living. Can’t afford to lose me job now that we’ve got another mouth to feed, can I?’

Mavis, still tearful after a difficult birth, agreed that he couldn’t.

‘So,’ he went on in the same reasonable voice, ‘I’ve brought them forms you had from the social. The ones you was going to sign before they went to Lily’s place. I think you’d better sign them now, and we can get things settled.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Got to get things settled before you come home with our Richard.’

‘But I don’t want them to go into a home,’ pleaded Mavis.

‘Course you don’t, but it ain’t going to be forever,’ Jimmy said encouragingly, ‘just till your mum gets out of the hospital and can have them back. I saw the doctor,’ he lied. ‘Once her leg’s out of the plaster she’ll be right as ninepence. Only a month or so.’

He put the documents that he’d retrieved from the kitchen drawer onto the bedside locker. ‘Look, I’ve filled them in for you, so you don’t have to bother with any of that. All you have to do is sign them at the bottom, right?’

With a delicacy entirely foreign to him, he reached over and kissed her forehead lightly. ‘I’d better get back to them,’ he said. ‘You get some sleep, love. Just think about what I’ve said, and you’ll see it’s for the best.’ And with these gentle words, he left the ward and headed for the Red Lion, delighted with his strategy. Softly, softly!

Mavis did think about what he’d said. She was exhausted, she couldn’t remember ever being as tired as this, not after Rita, not after Rosie, and she’d had Mum to help her then. There’d be no Mum this time, she’d have to cope on her own. She thought about coming home, with baby Richard. Life after the girls had moved in with Lily had been so much easier, so much more peaceful. She’d missed them, she knew she loved them, they were her kids after all, but she also knew, if she were honest, that life was easier when her daughters lived somewhere else. Jimmy said Mum would be home soon and if she signed these forms, they could be properly looked after in the meantime.

Mavis reached for the forms and without reading through the several pages they contained, signed her name at the end of them both. Then with the quietness of mind that comes from having, finally, made a difficult decision, she turned over and went to sleep.

8

‘I beg your pardon?’ For a moment Miss Hassinger seemed to have lost her habitual restraint. She stared incredulously at the woman who sat across the desk. ‘You have authority to do what?’

‘I am May Hopkins, the local Children’s Officer, and I have written authority,’ she emphasized the word ‘written’, ‘to remove two of the children currently at your school and take them with me to their new place of accommodation.’

‘But why are you taking them? Where are you taking them?’ Miss Hassinger looked perplexed. ‘Where is their mother? Where is Mrs Stevens… I mean, Mrs Randall?’

‘I understand she is in hospital, having just given birth,’ came the reply. ‘The children’s stepfather is unable to look after them at home and Mrs Randall has requested places for her daughters in the EVER-Care children’s home. I have documents signed by Mrs Randall, asking for her children to be accommodated at EVER-Care, and assigning legal guardianship to the EVER-Care Charitable Trust. It is EVER-Care who are now the legal guardians and Mrs Randall has given up her rights as their parent.’

‘She’s what?’ Miss Hassinger was incredulous. ‘Show me,’ she demanded, holding out her hand for the papers. She studied them for several minutes, reading each clause carefully, and finally realizing that Miss Hopkins had, indeed, all the rights she was claiming. She could remove Rita and Rosie Stevens from the school forthwith and take them to live at Laurel House EVER-Care orphanage, and there was nothing she, Miss Hassinger, or anyone else could do about it. She stared blankly at the typed pages for several more moments. What had that stupid girl, Mavis Sharples, or Stevens, or Randall as she was now, what had she done? Signing away her rights to her own children.

Miss Hassinger had always considered Mavis a good mother. The children had always come to school clean and tidy, with brushed hair and proper shoes. They were well fed, and though pretty little Rosie with her blonde hair and wide blue eyes was the one who attracted notice, Rita had always been the determined one, obstinate her mother had called it, with a strong streak of common sense. Mavis had coped very well since her husband had been killed. It was, Miss Hassinger knew, difficult for a woman on her own, but why had Mavis suddenly given up now? Now, when she had a new husband to help in the task of bringing up her children.

‘Isn’t there any way we can delay this?’ she asked Miss Hopkins. ‘It’s all very sudden. I mean, have Rita and Rosie been prepared for this change? Has it been explained to them?’

‘I think you may safely leave that to us,’ said Miss Hopkins. ‘From now on they are no longer your responsibility, they have become ours.’ She looked steadily at the headmistress. ‘If you will be so kind, Miss Hassinger, to have the children fetched now…’

Miss Hopkins sat back in her chair and waited. Her thoughts drifted back to the day, earlier in the week, when Jimmy Randall had first come to her in her office, and placed the signed papers on her desk.

‘We want these kids took into care,’ he’d said and turned to walk out of the room.

‘Just one moment, Mr… er…’ Miss Hopkins glanced down at the documents in front of her.

‘Randall.’

‘Mr Randall. I’m sorry, but what is all this about?’

‘We want these kids took into care,’ he repeated. ‘There isn’t room for them in our house, and with the new baby, we can’t look after them. My wife did come to see you previous. You gave her the papers.’ He pointed to the sheaf of papers he’d put on the desk. ‘That’s them. The papers. They’re all signed.’

‘Excuse me, Mr Randall. It isn’t just a question of bringing in signed papers, you know. Each case has to receive careful consideration, and then I have to see if I can find a place for these girls… It’s very short notice—’

‘Because it’s an emergency,’ said Jimmy Randall. ‘My wife is in hospital with our new baby and when she comes home with him, well, there won’t be room for them. Anyhow, there’s no one at home to look after the girls now. I’m at work all day, and there’s no one to mind them, to get their tea and that. I don’t get home till late. It’s not right.’

‘Is there no family member who can step in and help?’ asked Miss Hopkins. ‘Surely there must be someone.’

‘No,’ replied Jimmy firmly. ‘No one.’ He looked at the woman who sat opposite him, behind the desk. She was fat and she was ugly, her hair like a bird’s nest with two sticks stuck through it. She was the sort of woman that Jimmy instinctively disliked. He wanted to say, ‘Look, you fat cow, find these kids somewhere to stay, and sharpish. That’s your job, ain’t it?’ But he needed to keep on the right side of her, so that things could be settled as quickly as possible, certainly before Mavis came home again and could change her mind.

He drew a deep breath and after a struggle with his natural belligerence, said in his most reasonable voice, ‘It’s best for the girls to move as soon as possible. It’s not right that they are left on their own. Their mother’s signed the forms you gave her. We need to get this sorted as quick as we can, for their sakes.’

‘Well, yes, I rather agree with you,’ said Miss Hopkins. ‘It certainly isn’t desirable for them to be left at home on their own. I will make some enquiries. Are you on the telephone? No? Well, perhaps you could call in again tomorrow and I’ll be able to tell you then what we can do for the poor little creatures.’

This time when the large and rather frightening man in front of her made to leave the room, she simply bade him goodbye, relieved that the interview was over. Despite his reasonable words, there had been an underlying violence in the way he had said them which Miss Hopkins found quite intimidating.

Carefully she checked the papers he’d left. Yes, all correct. He had brought the girls’ birth certificates as the forms requested, and the mother’s signature was in the right places.

She picked up the phone, dialled the number for the EVER-Care home at Laurel House and asked for Miss Vanstone.

‘I think I have two more children who need a home with you after all, Miss Vanstone,’ she said when the preliminary courtesies were over. ‘You may remember that I had a woman in a few weeks ago wanting to have her children put into an orphanage, and I suggested to you then that they might come to you?’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘What about them?’

‘Well, their stepfather has just brought in the forms, completed and signed by the mother. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t come to you straight away if you have room for them.’

‘I see,’ Miss Vanstone spoke thoughtfully, while in fact her mind was racing. If all the documentation was completed and signed, that made her the children’s legal guardian… and that would mean…

‘Both sets of forms, Miss Hopkins?’ she asked. ‘For guardianship and adoption?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Miss Hopkins happily. ‘Once the EVER-Care name and address are inserted, they’ll be yours.’

‘What about the Children’s Committee?’

‘Oh, my dear Miss Vanstone,’ cooed Miss Hopkins, ‘you can leave the Committee to me. There’ll be no problem with them, I do assure you.’

Jimmy Randall had returned to the Children’s Office the next day and was shown straight in to see Miss Hopkins.

‘I have good news for you, Mr Randall,’ she told him as soon as he was sitting down. ‘I have managed to place your daughters—’

‘Stepdaughters,’ corrected Jimmy.

‘Your stepdaughters, in an excellent home. EVER-Care. You’ve heard of it?’

‘No.’

‘Well,’ Miss Hopkins went on, a little disconcerted by his abrupt answer, ‘it is a charitable trust set up by a lady named Miss Emily Vanstone. The children are very well cared for, and taught to look after themselves, to be good—’

‘When can they go?’ interrupted Jimmy. Mavis had been told that she could probably come home after the weekend, and he wanted Rita and Rosie gone before she did.

‘Once I am certain that it is in the best interests of the children and that their mother isn’t—’

‘Their mother’s already signed the forms, hasn’t she?’ snapped Jimmy, trying to keep hold of his temper. What more did this bloody woman want?

‘Indeed she has,’ agreed Miss Hopkins, ‘but—’

‘So, when can they go? Today? Tomorrow?’

‘I have arranged with the home that they will be brought there tomorrow, if that’s convenient to you.’

‘Tomorrow,’ repeated Jimmy, his eyes glinting.

‘They’ll need their belongings packed into one case,’ went on Miss Hopkins. ‘Then if you’ll bring them here after school tomorrow—’

‘I can’t bring them,’ said Jimmy firmly. ‘I’ll be at work tomorrow afternoon. I can’t just walk out in the middle of the day. You’ll have to fetch ’em. Get ’em from school and take ’em to this EVER-Care place. I’ll drop off the case here in the morning.’ When Miss Hopkins did not answer immediately he added harshly, ‘You got them papers, all signed. My wife’s already passed them kids over to you.’

So here she was, sitting in the headmistress’s office waiting to collect her new charges and take them to Laurel House. She could see that the head was upset, but so what? The Stevens girls would be leaving with her, and she would have done her duty. She would put them safely into Laurel House and they’d be safe, away from that horrible man who was now their stepfather and their ineffectual mother. Miss Hopkins felt the warm glow of righteousness as she waited for them to appear.

There came a knock on the door and the school secretary came in.

‘Rita and Rosie Stevens, Miss Hassinger,’ she said, as if Miss Hassinger had never seen the children before, and pushed them forward with a gentle hand.

The two children stood, silent, in the middle of the room. Rosie looked at Miss Hassinger with anxious eyes, while Rita stared balefully at Miss Hopkins. She had no idea who she was or why she was there, but there was something about her which made Rita mistrust her.

She’s got piggy eyes, Rita thought as she looked at her. Her face is all fat, and her eyes are piggy eyes.

‘Come here, Rita, Rose,’ said Miss Hassinger softly, and surprisingly held out her hand to them. Both girls edged forward, Rita taking Rosie’s hand as they did so.

‘This lady is called Miss Hopkins,’ began the headmistress. Rita flashed another look at the woman sitting in the chair. ‘She’s—’

‘I’m the Children’s Officer,’ interrupted Miss Hopkins, ‘and I’ve come to take you to your new home.’

‘I don’t want a new home,’ Rita said fiercely, looking from one to the other. ‘We’ve got a home, Rosie and me.’

You’re a courageous little thing, thought Miss Hassinger as she watched the child face up to the Children’s Officer. And ready to look out for your sister as well.

‘I’m afraid you can’t live there any more,’ said Miss Hopkins. ‘Your mother is in hospital and can’t look after you.’

‘We’ve got a new baby brother,’ Rosie said conversationally. ‘He’s called Richard.’

‘We won’t go with you,’ Rita said. ‘We ain’t got to. Mum’s coming home.’

‘Come along, now,’ said Miss Hopkins, ignoring Rita’s outburst and getting to her feet. ‘We’ve got to collect your luggage and then we’re being fetched in a car.’

‘Never been in a car,’ remarked Rosie.

‘Well, you won’t go in one now if we don’t get a move on,’ replied Miss Hopkins briskly. ‘Now come along, both of you.’

She held out a hand to each girl. Rosie took one, trustingly enough, but Rita thrust her own hands behind her back and turning her gaze on Miss Hassinger, said, ‘I want to go home. I don’t want to go with her.’

‘I’m afraid you must, Rita,’ said Miss Hassinger gently. ‘She has come to take you somewhere to be looked after…’ She hesitated and then added softly, ‘until your Mum can have you home again.’ Then she took Rita by the hand led her to the door. ‘Come along, Rita, there’s a good girl. You’ve got to look after Rosie, you know. That’s what Mum would want you to do.’

‘Now then, Rita, Rose,’ she said when they reached the street, ‘be good girls and do what Miss Hopkins tells you.’ She turned to the Children’s Officer and said, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hopkins. I hope you are satisfied with this day’s work.’ Then she turned and walked, ramrod straight, back into her school.

9

Rita stared at Laurel House. It was grey and grim and she hated it before she’d even passed through its heavy front door. Why were they here? It must be a mistake. They lived in Ship Street with Mum. But she knew there was no mistake. Uncle Jimmy didn’t want them and somehow he had got this piggy-eyed woman to take them away.

Still, Rita thought, it won’t be for long. When Mum brings baby Richard home from the hospital, she’ll come and find us. While we’re here, decided Rita, I’ll look after Rosie.

Miss Hopkins had led them away from the familiarity of Capel Street with its elementary school and its park, to the centre of town, bustling with people. The sun was beating down from a clear blue sky and the air was hot and sticky. Rita dragged her feet as she was towed through the streets, and though Rosie skipped along cheerfully enough at first, eager for the promised ride in a car, her legs were soon tired and she, too, dragged her feet, making Miss Hopkins snap, ‘Pick up your feet, child, and come along.’

When they finally reached a big building in the middle of the town, the piggy-eyed woman had picked up a small suitcase that Rita recognized at once.

There was no car. Miss Hopkins walked them to a bus stop where they stood in a queue and waited for a bus.

A number 37 bus came at last and the two girls scrambled aboard, followed by a lumbering Miss Hopkins with the little suitcase in one hand and her capacious handbag in the other. She pushed the two girls into a seat near the back and sat behind them.

‘One and two halves to Russell Green,’ she told the conductor as she paid the fares. The bus was a novelty, and Rosie knelt up on the seat, her nose against the window, watching the town pass by.

Rita looked out of the window too, trying to remember where the bus went, but it was impossible, it drove down unfamiliar streets, over a river and past shops that Rita had never seen before. How far they were going? How far from home and from Mum and Gran?

When they finally got off the bus Rita watched it trundle away. Number 37. Mum would come to fetch them on a number 37.

Five minutes’ walk through suburban streets finally brought them to Laurel House. Rita reached for Rosie’s hand as they waited for the front door to open. When it did they were greeted by a pale-faced girl, wearing a black dress and a white cap.

‘Miss Hopkins to see Miss Vanstone,’ announced Miss Hopkins, pushing her way into the hall. ‘Please tell her we are here, Betty.’

‘Yes, mam.’ The girl bobbed a curtsey, and disappeared. As they waited, Rita looked round the hall. It was painted a dull green and sparsely furnished, with a bench along one wall and a chair opposite. A wide staircase led to a landing above and, standing in the curve below it, a tall grandfather clock ticked solemnly in a corner, ticking-tocking the time away.

After a few minutes another lady came into the hall. ‘Ah, Miss Hopkins,’ she said, ‘here you are at last.’ She glanced down at the two girls who edged closer together. ‘And you must be Rita and Rose Stevens.’ The girls didn’t reply and she said sharply, ‘Answer when you’re spoken to.’

‘Yes, miss,’ whispered Rita. This woman was not like the fat, piggy-eyed Miss Hopkins. She was tall and straight, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her eyes were grey and penetrating, drilling into them. Instinctively Rita was afraid.

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone,’ said the lady. She looked at Rita expectantly and Rita murmured, ‘Yes, Miss Vanstone.’

‘That’s better. Now then, follow me.’ Glancing behind her, she called, ‘Betty, ask Mrs Hawkins to come to my office.’

Miss Vanstone led them into her office. It was furnished with a large desk and a filing cabinet on either side of a window which looked out onto the front garden. It was sunny outside, but the room was gloomy and rather forbidding. Miss Vanstone sat down behind her desk, waved Miss Hopkins to a chair in front of her and said to the girls, ‘Sit on the floor and cross your legs.’

Paying them no further attention she addressed Miss Hopkins. ‘You’ve brought the relevant paperwork with you?’

‘Oh, yes, Miss Vanstone,’ Miss Hopkins replied. ‘It’s all here.’ She delved into her handbag and brought out the papers. ‘All signed. All correct.’

Miss Vanstone took the papers and began to peruse them. As she was reading there was a knock on the door. Without glancing up she called, ‘Come.’

The door opened and a small, dark woman came in. ‘You wanted me, Miss Vanstone?’

Miss Vanstone set the papers aside. ‘Ah, Mrs Hawkins. Yes. Here are Rita and Rose Stevens. They’ve arrived today. I’ll pass them over to you now.’ She looked down at the girls. ‘Now you two, up you get and go with Mrs Hawkins. Do as you’re told, and you’ll do very well here. Disobey, and you will be punished. Do you understand?’

Rita had scrambled to her feet, pulling Rosie up as well.

‘Do you understand?’ Miss Vanstone repeated.

‘Yes, miss,’ muttered Rita.

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone.’

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone,’ echoed Rita.

‘Rose?’

Rosie looked across at her. ‘I’m called Rosie,’ she said.

It was as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Do you understand, Rose?’

Rita crushed Rosie’s hand in hers and muttered, ‘Say “yes, Miss Vanstone”.’

Rosie looked at her and then obediently said, ‘Yes, Miss Vanstone.’

‘That’s better. Off you go with Mrs Hawkins, now.’

Mrs Hawkins picked up the small suitcase and they followed her along the passage to a narrow stairway. ‘These are the stairs you use,’ she told them. ‘Not the main staircase.’ When neither girl replied, she looked at them sharply and snapped, ‘You’re to answer when you’re spoken to. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, miss,’ murmured Rita.

‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins,’ corrected the woman.

‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Everyone here has a name,’ Mrs Hawkins said. ‘Miss won’t do. Now then, let’s see where you’ll sleep.’

At the top of the stairs was a long landing with doors opening on either side. Halfway along were the main stairs, and at the far end another staircase led up to the tower. Pointing to it, Mrs Hawkins said, ‘That’s the way to my rooms. You are never to go up those stairs unless I have sent for you. Do you understand?’

Rita had now learned to answer so she said, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

Mrs Hawkins opened a green door and led them into a bedroom. ‘This is Green Dormitory,’ she said, ‘where you’ll be sleeping, Rose.’

It was a small room with six narrow beds crammed into it, and just enough room to walk between them. Each bed had a stool at the end, a wooden locker beside it, with a metal basin on the top. A wide window looked out onto the garden below, but the view was marred by the black iron bars that crossed it. No child could fall… or escape… through that window. The only thing green about the room was the door.

Mrs Hawkins pointed to one of the beds and said, ‘This is your bed, Rose, and that is your locker. That is where you’ll keep your things.’ She opened the suitcase and took out the small washbag that contained their toothbrushes and flannels. She opened the locker and put one of each inside.

‘Please, miss… Mrs Hawkins,’ Rita corrected herself hastily, ‘that’s my toothbrush. Rosie’s is the pink one.’

Mrs Hawkins said nothing, simply gave her a long look and closed the locker door.

‘Sit on the stool, Rose, and wait here until I come back,’ she instructed. ‘Rita, come with me.’

She turned and walked out of the room and Rita whispered to Rosie, ‘Sit on the stool and wait, Rosie. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Rosie’s lip began to tremble, but Rita gave her a push and she sat down.

Rita followed Mrs Hawkins to another room on the opposite side of the landing. Apart from its purple door, it was identical to Green Dormitory.

‘You’ll sleep in here, Rita,’ Mrs Hawkins said, and pointed to a bed under the window. ‘That’s your bed.’

‘Please, Mrs Hawkins,’ began Rita, and then paused as her courage failed her.

‘Well, what is it?’

‘Please, Mrs Hawkins, can’t I sleep in the same room as Rosie? She’ll be scared without me.’

‘No, you can’t,’ replied Mrs Hawkins calmly. ‘Green Dormitory is the baby dormitory, Purple is the under elevens. That’s you.’

‘What about our other things?’ asked Rita. She had seen their new dresses in the case, and some pants and vests and socks. They were wearing their school uniforms, but there should be another skirt each and a blouse and a jersey.

‘They’ll be put away in the general wardrobe,’ replied Mrs Hawkins. ‘You’ll be given what you need to wear.’

‘But we’ve got new dresses—’ began Rita.

‘Everything is shared here,’ replied Mrs Hawkins briskly. ‘Some of the girls here have never had a new dress. You’ll wear it when it’s your turn and not before. Now put your satchel into your locker and come along.’

Rita had been at Laurel House for less than an hour, but she had already learned there was nothing to be gained from arguing, and guessed that there was plenty to be lost. She quickly put her satchel into the locker, her picture of Daddy still safely inside it.

They collected Rosie who was still sitting on her stool, pink and tearful, and Rita hurriedly put her sister’s satchel into her locker. Knitty was inside it and she was determined that Mrs Hawkins wasn’t going to make Rosie share Knitty with everyone else.

Mrs Hawkins showed them the bathroom and then led them back downstairs to a large room at the back of the house overlooking the garden. Several girls were sitting in a circle, sewing; others sat round a large table, doing school work. They were all dressed in faded, blue-checked cotton frocks, all wore black plimsolls, all had their hair in plaits or held back with a hair band. They all stood up when Mrs Hawkins came in.

‘This is the playroom,’ Mrs Hawkins said. ‘This is where you do your homework after school when you’ve finished your chores. Sheila Nevin!’

A large girl wearing wire-rimmed spectacles who had been darning a sock put down her work and stood up. ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins?’

‘We have two new girls come to join us. Rita and Rose Stevens. I have shown them their dormitories, you’re to make sure they are in the right place for the rest of today. Their names are already on the rota board.’ She waved a hand towards a cork noticeboard on the wall, ‘so you can explain what they have to do. Rita, Rose, listen to what Sheila tells you.’

The minute the door closed behind her there was a buzz of conversation. Rita and Rosie stood by the door, Rosie still clutching Rita’s hand. They looked round at the sea of faces staring at them. The girl, Sheila, glared across at them. She was older than either of them, about thirteen, with a big round face and dark hair. She peered short-sightedly at her charges, and scowled.

‘Why do I always have to do the nannying?’ she moaned. ‘Come here, you two, and let’s have a look at you.’

When neither child moved Sheila got to her feet and gripped Rosie by the wrist, jerking her forward and making her cry out. ‘I said, come here.’

‘Let her go,’ cried Rita, ‘you’re hurting her.’

‘And I’ll hurt her some more if she don’t do what I tell her,’ snapped Sheila. Rosie was wailing now and the older girl turned on her. ‘Shut up!’ she hissed. ‘Shut up, you snivelling kid.’

‘Let her go!’ Rita shouted, but Sheila simply laughed, tightening her grip.

‘Make me!’ she jeered and then gave a screech of pain. Without warning, Rita had bent down and sank her teeth into the bigger girl’s arm. She bit hard and Sheila released Rosie, jerking her arm free. Rita grabbed Rosie and pulled her away. There was a burst of laughter from the girls who were sitting in the mending circle, and Sheila rounded on them, her face flaming with humiliation.

‘And you lot can shut up an’ all!’

‘Leave the poor kids alone,’ said a voice from the door. ‘Don’t you remember what your first day was like?’

Rita spun round to see another girl had come into the room. She was older than anyone else in the room, almost grown up. She stood surveying the scene, Rita and Rosie cowering together, Sheila on her feet nursing her arm where the marks of Rita’s teeth stood out, a dark red on her pale skin.

‘Yes, I remember,’ growled Sheila. ‘It was tough. Life is tough here and the sooner these kids learn that the better.’

The newcomer walked over to Rita and said, ‘Hallo, I’m Frances. If you want to know anything you can ask me.’ She bent down to Rosie and taking a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped the little girl’s eyes and helped her blow her nose. ‘Stop crying,’ she said gently, ‘it’s all right. Now, tell me your names.’

‘I’m Rita, and this is my sister Rosie, and she’s only five. I have to look after her.’

‘Of course you do,’ agreed Frances, ‘but you don’t have to bite people. I think you should say sorry to Sheila.’

‘No,’ Rita said fiercely. ‘She should say sorry to Rosie.’

For a moment Frances looked from one to the other and then shrugged. ‘I’ve come for the mending,’ she said. ‘Have you finished? I’ve got to take it up to Matron.’

‘Nearly,’ came a murmur from the sewing group and the girls returned to their mending.

‘Now then, you two,’ Frances said, turning back to Rita and Rosie, ‘let’s have a look at the rota board to see what you should be doing.’ She led them across to the board and looked at the chart.

‘Here’s your name, Rita,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow you are on cleaning Purple Dorm in the morning, and helping in the garden when you get home from school. After breakfast you’re on kitchen duty, so go to the kitchen and you’ll be told what to do. Now, let’s find you, Rosie. You have to help clean your dorm, too, and then after breakfast you’ll be helping to feed the chickens and collect the eggs.’ She smiled down at the little girl. ‘You’ll like that, won’t you?’

Rosie looked back at her, round-eyed. ‘I don’t know where the chickens are,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Frances, ‘someone will show you.’

‘Not her.’ Rosie looked back fearfully at Sheila who was now sitting, head bent over her darning. ‘I don’t like her.’

A bell sounded and at once everyone stood and lined up in pairs at the door.

‘Stand in the line with the others,’ Frances said to Rita as she collected up the finished mending. ‘When you get to the dining room you’ll be told where to sit.’ She walked to the door pausing beside the still crimson-faced Sheila. ‘Go easy on them, Sheila, they’re only kids.’

Frances hurried off to give Matron the mended clothes. She knew it would be tough for the Stevens girls from now on, Rita in particular, for she had made an enemy of Sheila, but they would have to get used to Laurel House, as everyone else had.

Another bell rang, and the line of girls led down the passage into the dining room. Each of three long wooden tables was laid with ten places. Across the top of the room was a smaller table with six chairs, and in a corner on either side of this were two separate chairs with no table in front of them. As the line of girls filed in, each went to her allotted place. Rita and Rosie hesitated by the door, not knowing where to sit. Sheila went over to them. As she approached, Rosie shrank away from her, but Rita, her heart thudding, held her ground.

‘You,’ Sheila pointed at Rosie. ‘You sit at the babies’ table.’ She jerked her thumb towards the table by the door where some much younger girls were standing behind their chairs. Rosie looked across at them and gripped Rita’s hand more tightly, not moving. ‘And you,’ Sheila glared at Rita, ‘you sit over there, at the junior table.’ Having given her instructions she turned away, unconcerned whether the two new girls followed them.

Rita took Rosie over to the babies’ table and whispered, ‘You got to sit here, Rosie. I’ll come and find you after.’

Rosie’s eyes immediately filled with tears. ‘But I want to sit with you!’ she wailed. At the sound of her cries everyone turned to look at her.

‘Shh, Rosie!’ hissed Rita, turning scarlet as she felt the eyes staring at them. ‘You can’t. I got to sit over there. Stay here.’

She pulled her hand free and went across to the next table where some girls she’d not seen before were waiting in silence behind their chairs. She took her place behind an empty one from where she could still see Rosie.

‘Not there,’ hissed the girl opposite. ‘That’s Beryl’s chair. Come round here next to me.’

Rita moved to her new place, listening to Rosie’s continuing wails.

‘What is that disgraceful noise?’

Rita looked over her shoulder and saw that Mrs Hawkins had come into the room. The superintendent strode over to Rosie and with one swift movement, slapped her cheek. The wailing stopped abruptly as Rosie was startled into silence.

‘That’s better,’ said Mrs Hawkins. ‘Now, no more of your nonsense.’ And ignoring the subsequent whimpering, she walked to her place at the top table.

The dining room was full now. Rita saw that there was a senior girl standing at each of the tables. It was with relief that she saw Frances take her place at Rosie’s table. Frances had been kind to them before, surely she would be kind to Rosie now.

The other senior girls sat at the small, top table from where Mrs Hawkins presided. There was one space at Rita’s table, and another at the table where Sheila and her friends were sitting. Rita was wondering who was missing when two girls were brought in and were led to the chairs standing in the corner. Rita, looking over at them, realized they must be punishment chairs.

Mrs Hawkins intoned grace, then, with a scraping of chairs, everyone sat down. A creaking sound heralded the arrival of a fat woman in white overalls pushing a trolley. On it were four large dishes, steam pouring from under their lids. Beryl pointed to the girl sitting next to Rita. ‘Daisy,’ she said.

Daisy got up and went to the trolley and collected one of the dishes. She set it down in front of Beryl and then returned to her place. Beryl picked up a spoon and began dishing food onto the plates piled in front of her and when every girl had her plate, at a signal from Beryl, they all began to eat. All except Rita. She looked at the pale yellow mess on her plate and wondered what it was. The other girls scraped away with their forks, scooping the food into their mouths quickly, as if it might disappear. No one spoke; the only sound in the room was the chink of cutlery on china as everyone ate their cauliflower cheese.

‘Eat your tea, Rita,’ Beryl said, her voice sounding very loud in the surrounding silence.

Rita looked again at the food in front of her. Pieces of cauliflower floated in a pale yellow juice, with occasional lumps of… something. She picked up her knife and fork and cautiously speared a piece of cauli. She put the piece into her mouth and almost gagged. It was warm and soggy, and the sauce tasted of soap. She spat it out again, and heard the intake of breath as the other girls at the table watched to see what would happen.

‘Eat your food properly,’ said Beryl.

‘You’ve got to eat it,’ murmured Daisy, ‘or you’ll get it again at breakfast.’

‘No talking, Daisy,’ snapped Beryl, and Daisy lowered her eyes to the table, but she dug a finger into Rita’s leg to emphasize her point. Rita looked at her plate. If she refused to eat it now, would it really be back for breakfast? She took another forkful forcing herself to swallow it. There was a glass of water beside each place. Rita reached for hers, and by taking a mouthful of water with each mouthful of food, she managed to get it down without being sick. At last it was done. Daisy had collected a plate of bread and marge from the trolley and had put it on the table. Everyone had helped herself, and by the time Rita had finished her cauliflower cheese, there was none left.

‘If you had eaten up properly in the first place,’ Beryl told her, ‘you’d have had your bread and marge, but as you didn’t, someone else has had it. You’ll know another time.’

When the meal was over, Mrs Hawkins got to her feet and so did everyone else.

‘Purples on washing up,’ she announced, and then stalked out of the room, leaving the girls to file out after her.

‘That’s us,’ Daisy said. ‘We’re Purples. Come on. I’ll show you.’ She led Rita out of the room, and with four others went along a passage to the kitchen. The kitchen maid followed, pushing the loaded trolley, and they were all met by the fat woman in the white overalls.

‘Right, you lot,’ she said as they came in, ‘get started. You.’ The cook pointed at Rita. ‘You’re new! Who’re you?’

‘Rita Stevens.’

‘Well, Rita Stevens, I’m Mrs Smith. You do as you’re told and we’ll get on all right. Isn’t that right, Daisy?’

‘Yes, Mrs Smith,’ replied Daisy obediently.

‘Right. Well, get on with you.’

Daisy went over to the deep sink and turned on the taps. ‘You bring them plates over,’ she said to Rita. ‘You and I can wash, Dora and Mary can dry and Joan can put away. I’ll do the plates, you do the knives and forks.’

It took them half an hour to finish the washing up, then they had to wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen and hang the tea towels on the airer over the range before Mrs Smith, having inspected the now tidy kitchen, said, ‘Right, off you go!’

‘Come on,’ said Daisy, and scurried off down the passage. ‘We got quarter of an hour before prayers.’

‘Prayers?’

‘Bedtime prayers, in the playroom. We all got to be there.’

Rita hurried after her, anxious not to lose her new friend. ‘But I got to find Rosie,’ she panted. ‘I promised.’

‘She’ll be going to bed,’ Daisy said.

‘I better go and find her,’ Rita replied. ‘Will she be in her dorm?’

‘’Spect so, but you can’t go in there.’

‘Why not?’

‘Not allowed. No dorm visiting. They’ll be having dorm prayers in a minute. Babies have bedtime prayers in their dorm.’ She caught hold of Rita’s hand. ‘Come on, we can go in the playroom now.’ But Rita pulled free. She wanted to see Rosie, and check she was all right. She darted back and went upstairs. The door to Green Dorm stood open and she peeped in. Most of the girls were in their nighties. Rosie was sitting, fully dressed, on the stool at the bottom of her bed, tears streaming down her face. Her locker door was open and her satchel was lying on the floor. Knitty was nowhere to be seen.

Rita marched into the room and said, ‘Who’s got my sister’s teddy?’

The girls all stared at her, but no one answered.

‘Who’s got Knitty?’ she demanded again. Still no answer, so she turned to Rosie. ‘Who’s got him, Rosie?’

Rosie pointed to a girl with red hair who was sitting on the edge of her bed. ‘Her,’ she whispered.

Rita crossed the room and grabbed the girl by the wrist. ‘Have you got Rosie’s teddy?’

The girl stuck her tongue out.

‘Susan, that’s the girl what bit Sheila!’ muttered the girl on the next bed.

‘An’ I’ll bite you an’ all if you don’t give him back right now!’ hissed Rita, pulling Susan’s arm towards her mouth. Susan gave a squeal and tried to jerk her arm free, but Rita was holding on too tightly. Lowering her mouth to the girl’s arm, Rita repeated, ‘Where’s Knitty?’

‘Under her pillow,’ called Rosie.

With a firm grip on Susan’s arm, Rita reached under the pillow and retrieved Rosie’s beloved toy. She tossed him over to her. ‘You can all remember that I’m the one who bit Sheila, and if any of you touch my sister again, I’ll come back and bite you all over. OK?’

Her words were greeted by silence. ‘OK?’ she repeated, lowering her mouth towards Susan’s arm again.

‘Yes!’ squeaked Susan. ‘OK!’

Rita let her go and turned back to Rosie who was clutching Knitty to her, tears still streaming down her cheeks. ‘Stop crying, Rosie,’ she said. ‘Come on, you’d better get undressed. Put Knitty under your pillow for now.’ She took the teddy from Rosie and hid him quickly under the pillow. She was just in time, for at that moment the matron came into the room. She paused in the doorway, looking at Rita in surprise.

‘And just what do you think you’re doing in here, young lady?’ she demanded.

‘I just wanted to say goodnight to Rosie. She’s my sister and—’

‘Dormitory visiting is not allowed,’ said the matron, as if Rita hadn’t spoken. ‘Out you go, and no coming back.’ She fixed Rita with a steely eye. ‘You should be in the playroom by now for evening prayers, you’ll be in trouble if you’re late.’

Outside Rita stood in the passage for a moment, long enough to hear Matron saying, ‘Come along now, Rose, you haven’t even undressed. Susan, I thought I told you to look after Rose and tell her what she has to do.’

‘Please, Matron, I did, but she…’ began Susan.

Rita didn’t wait to hear any more; she daren’t risk Matron catching her again.

10

Rita was only just in time for evening prayers. When she walked into the crowded playroom Daisy waved at her, and Rita edged her way round to join her.

‘We all have to stand in dorms for prayers,’ Daisy said. ‘Did you find your sister?’

‘Yes, but Matron came in and turned me out.’

‘The Dragon,’ nodded Daisy. ‘Don’t want to get in her way!’

The door opened and Mrs Hawkins stalked in. There was a shuffling of feet as all the girls stood up and waited for the evening roll call.

When the superintendent had finished she said, ‘Step forward, Rita Stevens.’

Rita could feel the colour flood her cheeks, but at a shove in the back from Daisy, she took one pace forward.

‘This is Rita Stevens,’ Mrs Hawkins said to the assembled girls. ‘She and her sister, Rose, have come to live here. It’s up to all of you to teach her how we behave here at Laurel House. Step back, Rita.’

Rita stepped back, her face still flaming. One or two of the other girls smiled. Everyone knew who Rita Stevens was, the new girl who had bitten Sheila Nevin. She’d already made one enemy.

‘Two girls were late getting into croc after school today,’ Mrs Hawkins went on, ‘Joan Cameron and Pamela Wynn. We do not tolerate tardiness here. If anyone is late tomorrow it’ll be dormitory stools on Saturday for everyone.’ She paused and then added, ‘Is that understood?’

There was an answering chorus of ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘What’s dormitory stools?’ whispered Rita to Daisy, but Daisy stood hard on her foot and she fell silent.

‘Ready for prayers, please,’ said Mrs Hawkins, and all the girls put their hands together and closed their eyes. Rita did the same.

‘Oh Lord,’ intoned Mrs Hawkins, ‘teach these poor, weak girls a due sense of gratitude for all Your mercies to them; for their good fortune in being in this place where all their wants are supplied. Teach them to be duly grateful for the generosity they are shown in this house. Let them learn to be obedient to those set in authority over them, each to know her place. Teach them to work hard and keep them from the evils of idleness, laziness and the devil’s work that comes with these sins. Punish those who transgress, oh Lord, that they may learn humility and obedience. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ came the murmured response.

Rita opened her eyes, but on finding Mrs Hawkins glaring at her hastily closed them again.

‘Oh Lord, bless our benefactress, Miss Emily Vanstone. Bless her for her kindness to these unfortunate girls, her generosity in taking them from the gutter and providing them with a home and all the comforts of life. Amen.’

‘Amen.’

‘Our Father…’

They all joined in. Rita kept her eyes shut until she felt Daisy move beside her and heard a low buzz of conversation. When she dared open them again she found that Mrs Hawkins had left the room, and most of the girls had flopped down on the chairs and sagging sofas.

‘We have to go to bed now,’ Daisy said. ‘Juniors go up straight after evening prayers.’

‘What’s dormitory stools?’ asked Rita again.

‘If someone’s late for croc again, we’ll have to sit on our dormitory stools for three hours on Saturday afternoon.’

‘What’s croc?’ asked Rita anxiously.

Daisy stared at her in amazement. ‘Don’t you know nothing? Croc’s how we walk to school. In twos. We line up in croc and then we all walk to school. Same when we come home. You’ll see tomorrow morning.’

‘Go to bed,’ said a harsh voice and Rita looked up to find Sheila standing over her. ‘Or I’ll report you to Matron.’

‘We’re just going, Sheila,’ Daisy said hastily. ‘Come on, Rita.’

The other Purples had already left the room, and Daisy pulled Rita along the passage after them. At the bottom of the stairs they met Frances. Daisy pushed Rita back against the wall to let the senior girl pass, but Frances stopped.

‘Daisy,’ she said, ‘you’d better look after Rita. Make sure she’s in the right place at the right time, especially not late for croc.’

‘Yes, Frances.’

‘And you, Rita, listen to what Daisy tells you, she knows what’s what.’

‘Yes, Frances,’ answered Rita meekly.

Frances nodded. ‘Bed, then,’ she said and walked off down the corridor.

‘She’s nice,’ Rita said as she watched Frances disappearing.

‘She’s all right,’ conceded Daisy. ‘Better than most of them, anyway. Come on.’

In the dormitory Daisy showed Rita where to fill her bowl. ‘Hands, face and teeth at night,’ she explained. ‘Strip wash in the morning. Bath night once a week. You have to look at the list to see which is your night.’

There was supposed to be silence in the dormitory, but the other five girls exchanged whispers as they got ready for bed. Rita watched, doing what they did, but all the time she was fighting a lump in her throat. Tears filled her eyes as she put on the nightie lying on her bed. She blinked fiercely, trying to hold them back. She wanted her own bed in Ship Street, she wanted Mum and Gran, but they didn’t even know where she was. A sob escaped her, and then another.

Matron came in at that moment with a blue-checked cotton frock like the other girls all wore. ‘Here’s your dress for tomorrow, Rita,’ she said, as she placed it on her stool and gathered up the school dress Rita had been wearing. ‘You get clean knickers and socks on Saturday.’ She saw the tears on Rita’s cheeks and added, ‘And you can stop that snivelling. We don’t want cry-babies here.’

The lights went out five minutes later, and the six girls in Purple Dorm settled down to sleep. There was an occasional whisper, but before long there was only the sound of regular breathing as one by one they drifted off to sleep. All except Rita. She lay in bed, her face buried in her pillow, trying to stifle her sobs, but homesickness washed over her, filling her with a misery so deep, she even wished she were back with Uncle Jimmy. Everything at Laurel House was so strange, Rita ached for the familiarity of her own home, her own bedroom, of Rosie curled up beside her.

The thought of Rosie made her tears flow again. Poor little Rosie, alone in her new bed, too. Was she all right? Was she asleep, or was she lying awake as well?

As the summer light fled the sky, the dormitory was lit with an eerie green light from the street lamp in the road outside. Cautiously Rita stood up on her bed and peered out through the bars. Below the window was the front garden, patterned with dark shadows. A shaft of light from a downstairs window lay across the path, but even as she watched, it disappeared as the light was switched off. For a long time Rita stared out of the window. Her tears were dry now, but she felt a deep and aching loneliness; an emptiness that was beyond tears.

Laurel House was silent. Very quietly, Rita got off her bed and with her eyes accustomed to the pallid light, crossed to the door. She eased it open and crept along the passage to Green Dorm, its door standing ajar. For a moment she stood outside, listening to the quiet breathing of its inmates; the quiet breathing and the muffled sobs. Rita pushed the door open a little wider and slipped inside. It was darker in here, but she could see enough to creep over to Rosie’s bed. The little girl was curled up into a ball, crying in her sleep. Rita twitched back the blanket and lay down beside her, putting her arm round her and snuggling into shape behind her. Rosie stirred and opened her eyes, muttering.

‘It’s all right, Rosie,’ whispered Rita. ‘It’s me, Reet!’ She felt her sister relax against her, and it was only moments before they both fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

The clanging of a loud bell shook them awake, and for a moment neither of them knew where they were. Then the events of the previous day crowded back to them, and Rita was filled with rising despair. She was just crawling out of Rosie’s bed when the door was flung open and Frances came in. She was wearing a dressing gown, and her hair stood in a halo round her head.

‘Come on, kids,’ she began and then broke off, staring at Rita. ‘What d’you think you’re doing in here?’ she demanded. ‘Get back to your own dorm, and be grateful it was me found you, not Matron. Go on, scoot!’

Rita scooted.

‘Where were you?’ hissed Daisy, when she saw her.

‘Went to the toilet,’ lied Rita.

‘Well, hurry up and strip your bed,’ said Daisy, who’d folded her bedclothes into a neat pile on her stool. ‘Come on,’ she said, placing her clothes on the bare mattress. ‘You’ve got to fill your bowl and get washed.’ She grabbed her own bowl and scurried out of the room, returning moments later with her bowl full of water. She stared at Rita.

‘Come on, Rita,’ she implored. ‘Strip your bed. Look.’ She put her bowl down and showed Rita what to do. ‘Hurry up,’ she scolded as Rita struggled to fold the sheets and blanket. ‘Matron’ll be here in ten minutes, and we have to be dressed, with our beds made and ready for inspection.’

She turned back to her own preparations, leaving Rita to fill her own bowl. By the time she was dressed, all the other girls in the room had remade their beds, and were waiting for Matron to carry out her inspection. They could hear her voice, loud with disapproval in another dorm, and Daisy grabbed Rita’s bedclothes and swiftly remade the bed.

‘Hospital corners,’ she muttered as Rita tried to tuck them in. ‘Like this!’

‘You’re very slow this morning, Purples!’ Matron said as she walked in and found Rita struggling with her blanket. She looked at her and sniffed. ‘Well, as it’s your first morning, I won’t be putting you on report,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to learn to be quicker.’

She looked round the room where the other girls were all standing by their beds, waiting for her approval. Glancing at a notice on the back of the door she said, ‘You’re on dormitory work this morning, Joan. You and Rita. Show her what to do. The rest of you, get off to your chores.’

They got to the playroom just in time for morning prayers and listened, hands together, eyes closed, as Mrs Hawkins droned out exactly the same prayers as the night before, only adding, ‘Teach these girls to make the most of this day You have given them, to waste not a minute of Your precious time in idleness, but fill each moment with work and praise.’

Breakfast was porridge and bread and marge. Rita smiled across reassuringly at Rosie, sitting at the babies’ table, but Rosie simply stared down at the plate of cold porridge she’d pushed away. It was still Frances taking her table, and Rita saw her encouraging Rosie to eat. The next time she looked, the plate of porridge was in front of red-headed Susan, and Rosie was left with one piece of dry bread.

When the meal was over Rita found that it was still the Purples’ turn to wash up, and she followed the rest of her dorm to the kitchen to do so. There were other girls in the kitchen at the same time.

‘It’s Orange on veggies today,’ Daisy said as they washed the porridge bowls. ‘It’ll be us tomorrow.’

There was no time to spare once the clearing up was done.

‘Croc in the garden, in five minutes,’ came the call, and Rita followed Daisy to collect her satchel from her locker, ready for school. In a moment when there was no one near her, Rita unbuckled the flap and slipped her hand inside. There, tucked into the pages of her sum book, was her picture of Daddy. Quickly she slipped him inside her pillowcase before she hurried out to join the croc forming up in the garden.

The crocodile moved off, through the gate into the street beyond. Rita’s partner, Angela, looked at her and said, ‘Did you really bite Sheila?’

‘Yeah,’ answered Rita shortly, ‘she was hurting my sister.’

Angela nodded. ‘Yeah, she’s a bully. She often hits the little kids.’

‘Frances stopped her,’ Rita said.

‘Yeah, well, Frances won’t always be there,’ Angela said. ‘She’s got a job now. You better watch out for Sheila. She’s got it in for you.’

The walk to school took ten minutes. On the way they were overtaken by a number 37 bus. Rita watched to see where it stopped. The number 37 was the way home, back to Mum and back to Gran, but the bus didn’t stop; it swept round the corner and was lost to sight. Rita looked at the name of the road they were in. Meredith Lane. Me-red-ith. She sounded the name out to herself. Well, at least she knew where to look for the bus, even if she didn’t know where the stop was.

When they reached the elementary school, the juniors and babies branched off into the playground, while the rest of the crocodile continued to the secondary school. Rita found Rosie in the playground and took her hand.

‘We go to school here now, Rosie,’ she said.

Rosie clung to her. ‘I’m hungry,’ she wailed.

‘You didn’t eat no breakfast,’ pointed out Rita. ‘You let that Susan have it. You got to eat your breakfast, Rosie.’

‘I don’t like porridge,’ whined Rosie. ‘It was nasty.’

‘I didn’t like it, neither,’ Rita said, ‘but we got to eat it, or we’ll be hungry.’

At that moment Angela came up to them. ‘Miss Harrison wants to see you both,’ she said and pointed towards the school door. Rita looked over to where Miss Harrison was waiting. ‘Come on Rosie,’ she said, and led her across.

‘Rita and Rose?’ asked the teacher with a smile. ‘Welcome to St George’s School. I’m Miss Harrison and I’m your new headmistress. Miss Hassinger phoned me and told me all about you. Come on inside and I’ll show you where your classrooms are.’ She reached for Rosie’s hand, but Rosie drew back and hid behind Rita.

‘Rosie’s shy, miss,’ Rita explained.

‘So she is,’ agreed Miss Harrison cheerfully. ‘Never mind, you just bring her in with you. Come along.’

The morning passed very quickly. Everything was new and different at St George’s; for a start it was girls only and Capel Street Elementary had been mixed, but when Rita went to find Rosie at playtime, she was happily playing with a girl from her class, and so Rita left her to it.

At the end of morning school the Laurel House girls were marched back to the home for lunch. It was fish and mashed potato, and though Rita didn’t like fish very much, she was so hungry that she, like everyone else at the table, ate it all. A rather soggy suet pudding followed, and then it was washing up again. Rita couldn’t believe it was still their turn.

‘We’ll be late for croc,’ she wailed when Daisy dragged her into the kitchen.

‘Better not be!’ warned Daisy. ‘Don’t want no dormitory stools!’

All the Purples agreed with that, and hurriedly set to work on the dishes.

‘No more washing up for a week,’ crowed Daisy as they left the kitchen and rushed out to join the crocodile. ‘Yahoo!’

‘Warning, Daisy Smart, for making unseemly noises in the corridor!’ Mrs Hawkins was emerging from the dining room. ‘Another sound like that and you’ll be on punishment.’ She swept on down the passage, leaving Daisy mutinous, if pale-faced, behind her.

‘Watch out for the Hawk,’ she muttered to Rita. ‘She comes from nowhere!’ Then she stuck her tongue out at the retreating figure. ‘Don’t mess with the Hawk, Reet.’

By the end of afternoon school, Rita was beginning to feel at home in her new classroom and she was sorry that it was Friday and there would be no more school until Monday. Miss Davis, her teacher, had given them all some spellings to learn, and said there would be a nine times table test on Monday. Rita had the words carefully written in her new spelling book. She wasn’t worried about the table test; Miss Hassinger had been very strict on learning tables and Rita already knew her nine times. But the thought of no school till Monday made Rita’s heart sink. Just Laurel House. A weekend of being shut up in Laurel House, with no escape… Unless, of course, Mum came to take them home. But as the crocodile wound its way in through the gate, Laurel House closed round her, so that for a moment Rita felt she couldn’t breathe. She looked round for Rosie, but she was much further back in the croc, with the other babies, and she couldn’t see her. The moment they were indoors, Daisy was pulling her into the kitchen.

‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘or we’ll get blackcurrants!’

‘What?’ Rita had no idea what she was talking about, but she hurried anyway. She had quickly discovered that Daisy knew her way around, and if she stuck with her she’d be all right. They were first into the kitchen and Mrs Smith gave them a large basket each and sent them out to pick gooseberries.

‘And don’t let me catch you eating any,’ warned Mrs Smith. ‘I want them baskets full, sharp as you like.’

It took Rita and Daisy over half an hour to fill their baskets, and while they were picking Rita plucked up courage and asked her new friend some questions.

‘How long you been here, Dais?’ she asked.

Daisy paused in her picking for a moment. ‘Here at Laurel House? Forever.’

‘My mum’ll come and get me an’ Rosie when she gets home,’ Rita said.

‘Sez you!’ retorted Daisy, adding as an afterthought, ‘Home from where?’

‘From fetching baby Richard from the hospital.’

‘Is that where she is?’ asked Daisy.

‘Yes, and when she gets home, she’ll come and get us.’

‘No!’ Daisy spoke emphatically. ‘She won’t. They never do.’

‘What?’ Rita turned sharply. ‘What you mean, “they never do”?’

‘They never come. Mums, or dads.’

‘Mine will,’ stated Rita.

Daisy shrugged and went on picking the gooseberries. ‘Betty ain’t got no mum or dad, but she thought her auntie would come, and she’s still here. Her auntie never come for her, and she helps in the home now. You seen her. Wetty Betty what answers the door and runs round after them all.’

‘The maid?’

‘Yeah,’ Daisy said. ‘She’s been here forever, an’ now she has to stay an’ work ’ere.’

‘Why? Why’s she got to stay?’

‘’Cos she ain’t got nowhere else to go. She left school last year, but couldn’t get no proper job, so she has to work here, helping the Dragon an’ that.’

‘You got names for all of them,’ remarked Rita, looking across her basket and thinking how brave Daisy was. She’d stuck her tongue out at Mrs Hawkins at lunchtime. You’d have to be brave to do that, Rita thought.

‘Yeah, the Hawk, the Dragon, Ole Smithy and Wetty Betty.’

‘There was another lady when we come in,’ Rita said, ‘in her office. Who was that?’

‘That? Oh,’ Daisy said a little less nonchalantly, ‘that was Miss Vanstone. You belong to her now! Even if your mum does come, she can’t have you.’

‘Why?’ asked Rita fearfully. Daisy seemed to know everything. Suppose she was right. ‘Why can’t she?’

‘’Cos Miss V’s got the papers.’

‘Papers? What papers?’ But Rita remembered Miss Vanstone looking at some papers Miss Hopkins had brought.

‘The papers what say that you’ve got to stay here. She’s got papers about all of us.’

When the baskets were full at last, they took them into the kitchen where Mrs Smith set them to the topping and tailing. By the time the bell went for high tea, their fingers were stained and sore, but they had finished.

Daisy grabbed Rita’s hand. ‘Come on!’ she hissed as they hurried to line up for tea. ‘We’ve only got laundry drop to do tonight, and then we’re off.’

‘What’s laundry drop?’ asked Rita hurrying after her.

‘We have to collect the clean clothes from the Dragon and put them out on dormitory stools. Saturday tomorrow, ain’t it! Clean clothes day, sweets and no school. Best day of the week.’

The laundry drop was quite easy. Rita took a pile of clothes to Green Dorm. As she put a set of clothes onto her sister’s stool, she muttered, ‘Hide Knitty properly.’

Rosie pulled the pillow more firmly over Knitty’s head. ‘Will you come and see me later?’ she asked.

‘If I can,’ Rita said, and went on with her clothes drop.

In the dorm that evening, Rita got ready for bed with the others, but she had already decided that she would creep into bed with Rosie again when everyone else was asleep. She had seen her briefly after tea and Rosie had told her about feeding the chickens.

‘Can we have chickens when we go home?’ Rosie had asked. ‘I like feeding chickens.’

‘Don’t think Mum likes chickens,’ Rita said.

‘Why not?’ asked Rosie, surprised. ‘We could have eggs. One of the big girls was collecting the eggs.’

‘We ain’t got a hen house, Rosie.’ Then to soften her words she gave her a hug. ‘What’s your teacher like?’

‘She’s called Miss Coucher,’ Rosie informed her, ‘and she shouts a lot. We did number-work and painting, and she told us a story about a circus. And Milly’s my friend.’

The day had been so busy, Rita had had little time to think, no time to feel homesick for Mum and Gran, but now, as she collected washing water in her bowl and cleaned her teeth with Rosie’s toothbrush, she felt a sudden rush of homesickness. She hated Laurel House, the chores, the food. She hated the dreary dormitory. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see Gran. But most of all she wanted Mum. She fought back the tears. No one cried at bedtime, and she was determined no one should see her crying. She locked herself in the lavatory and there she stayed until she heard the Dragon. She flushed the toilet, and scurried back to the dorm.

‘Hurry up, Rita,’ scolded the Dragon, ‘it’s lights out.’

‘Sorry, Matron, I was being excused.’

‘You should have thought of that before, young lady,’ said Matron turning off the dormitory light, leaving Rita to find her way to bed in the gathering twilight.

Rita waited until she was sure everyone else was in bed, and then crept to Green Dorm. She slipped in beside Rosie and curled up together, they both fell asleep.

Saturday was not a bad day. They put on the clean clothes they had been given. No school uniform today, just the skirt and blouse left on the stool. There were always chores to do. The older girls worked in the laundry, some of them washing clothes in the big sink, others standing over ironing tables.

Rita and Daisy were given a tin of Gumption and a cloth each and sent to clean the bathrooms. Daisy explained what had to be done and then they chatted companionably as they worked.

‘What happens for the rest of the weekend?’ Rita asked as she scrubbed at a line of scum on one of the tubs.

‘We got to do the veggies for dinner next,’ Daisy told her. ‘Then, when chores is finished, we have to do our homework. After dinner there’s sweets before we go out to play.’

‘Play out?’

‘Yeah, if we ain’t on punishment, or nothing. We go outside until teatime. Evening chores is the same. It’s Sundays that’s boring with church an’ that.’

When the midday meal was over, they each chose two sweets from a huge tin that was passed round the table, and then went out into the garden. There was a hopscotch grid painted on the paved yard. Beyond was the kitchen garden where they’d picked the gooseberries, and the hen run where Rosie’d fed the chickens. A grassy area which Daisy called ‘the Patch’ had a couple of swings and a seesaw, and a dirty-looking sandpit in one corner.

Most of the girls sat or played on the Patch. Rita saw Rosie happily digging in the sand, making a castle with her bare hands.

‘Come on,’ Daisy said as Rita paused to look round. She grabbed Rita’s hand and dragged her across the Patch, through a gate into the orchard beyond. ‘I’ll show you.’

At the end of the orchard was a clump of bushes by the old stone wall. Daisy pushed her way through these and Rita followed. She found herself in a little clearing, surrounded by bushes on three sides and the wall on the fourth. An old piece of tarpaulin was draped over some of the branches, making a rough shelter beneath.

‘This is my camp,’ Daisy said. ‘I come here to get away from that lot.’ She jerked her head towards the house. ‘I keep my stuff here, safe like.’

‘What stuff?’ Rita looked round the hidey-hole curiously.

‘Private stuff… you know.’ Daisy crept under the tarpaulin roof and pulled out an old biscuit tin. ‘It’s in here,’ she said, opening the tin to show Rita what was inside. There was a pencil and some paper, a green stone with a hole in it, and a piece of string, a stale-looking biscuit and four threepenny bits. She picked up the stone and held it out.

‘That’s my lucky stone,’ she said. ‘I found it on the way to school, just lying it was, in the gutter.’

Rita took the stone in her hand, admiring it, but her eyes were on the threepenny bits. She handed back the stone and said, ‘Where d’you get that money from then, Dais?’

‘That’s mine,’ Daisy said fiercely.

‘Didn’t say it wasn’t,’ said Rita. ‘Just wondered where you got it, that’s all.’

That evening, hidden in the bathroom where none of the others could see, Rita showed Daisy the picture of Daddy.

‘He looks nice,’ Daisy remarked. ‘You’re lucky. I ain’t got no pictures of me mum.’

‘Or your dad?’ ventured Rita.

‘Don’t know who he is, do I?’ snapped Daisy. ‘Come on. Get that hid again. The Dragon’ll be here for lights out in a minute.’

‘Sunday’s always the worst day,’ Daisy informed Rita as they lined up after breakfast, ready to go to church. They were paired together in the crocodile that marched all the children from Laurel House to the Crosshills Methodist Church.

‘Why?’ Rita wasn’t really listening. She was wondering if Mum was home yet, and if she was, when she would come to find them.

‘’Cos we have to go to church, which is boring, and we ain’t allowed to do nothing but our chores.’

The day proved quite as dreary as Daisy had described. When they reached the church, the Laurel House girls were all seated in pews at the back. The Hawk, the Dragon and Ole Smithy each sat at the end of a pew containing the younger girls. The working girls, including Betty Grover, sat behind. The rest of the church was filled with the ordinary parishioners.

Rita stared round the church. She’d only been into a church a few times. Mum didn’t believe in church; she said that if God was really there He wouldn’t have let Daddy die in the war, and Rita had given God no further thought. At school they had scripture, she knew the Lord’s Prayer, and could recite the everyday prayers in school assembly, but they meant nothing to her. Now, as she waited for the service to begin, Rita looked round with interest. The church was not large, its walls red brick, pierced by arched windows, through the plain glass of which the sun was streaming. There was no other decoration.

There was a buzz of conversation from the rest of the congregation as they waited for the minister to appear. Sitting near the front Rita saw the pig-faced woman. She was nodding and smiling to the people around her. She ignored the rows of girls at the back, and she wasn’t the only one. None of the people, dressed in their Sunday bests, who filled the other pews, paid any attention to the girls from Laurel House.

Just before the service started one last woman arrived. Expensively dressed, wearing a stylish hat, she walked up the aisle and took her place in the front pew. Rita recognized her as the other lady from Laurel House, Miss Vanstone, the one Daisy said owned the place. She saw the pig-face raise her hand in a sort of wave, trying to catch Miss Vanstone’s eye, but Miss Vanstone looked neither right nor left as she moved into the front row. The moment she had taken her place, as if it were a signal that the proceedings could begin, the minister glided out from behind a curtain, and the service began.

It was as boring as Daisy had promised and Rita’s thoughts were soon far away, drifting back to Mum and Gran and baby Richard, and she felt a lump in her throat as she pictured them at home in Ship Street. She was startled back to her surroundings by a sharp nudge in the ribs from Daisy when they all had to stand to sing another hymn while the collection was taken. On arrival at the church, each girl had been given a threepenny bit to put in the collection bag when it came round.

‘I reckon they take the threepences out at the end of the service and give them to us again next time,’ Daisy muttered as they were handed theirs.

Rita remembered the threepenny bits Daisy had in her tin. Had she kept them instead of putting them into the bag? Had Daisy really dared do that? She glanced sideways at her new friend, but Daisy was staring straight ahead of her. As the bag came along the row, everyone, including Daisy, dropped her coin into it before passing it on to the next girl.

Daisy had been right. Sunday was a dead bore and as she slipped into bed in Purple Dorm that evening, Rita found herself looking forward to school the next day. She’d done her homework, practised her nine times and learned her spellings. She had no fears about school, and school would be away from Laurel House.

11

In the days that followed, Rita gradually settled into the strict routine at Laurel House. She was not happy, she still missed Mum and Gran desperately, but somehow she was not unhappy either. The rigid routine gave a framework to her days, which was oddly comforting. She quickly learned to keep her head down and conform to what was expected. Punishments were given for the most minor infringement of the rules, and there was nearly always someone sitting on one of the punishment chairs. Daisy and she had become firm friends, and this brought them to the attention of the staff, who frowned upon ‘particular friendships’, and when the chores rota was posted in the playroom, they found they were no longer paired to peel potatoes, or to scrub the bathrooms.

Daisy was picking blackcurrants, which caused her to scowl, especially as Rita was still picking gooseberries. ‘All right for some,’ she moaned. ‘Hate doing blackcurrants!’

‘I’ll probably get them next week,’ Rita said, hoping as she spoke that she wouldn’t be here next week.

‘Yeah, well,’ was all Daisy muttered as, hearing Mrs Smith coming out of the kitchen door, she scurried off to the blackcurrant bushes.

At school it was different. They played together in the playground, and when asked to get into pairs for any activity they always chose each other. Rita had never had such a close friend before. She’d known Maggie, down Ship Street, forever, their mothers were good friends too, but they had not been inseparable. Daisy, on the other hand, was Rita’s rock in the still-uncertain world of Laurel House, and her grip on their friendship was firm. And Daisy? Daisy had found a kindred spirit; from the moment that Rita had faced up to Sheila Nevin, Daisy had realized that Rita was different. The way she had stuck up for her sister had drawn Daisy to her, and from being a bit of a loner, Daisy finally found she had a friend.

Despite the growing friendship, however, Rita did not confide completely in Daisy; she did not tell Daisy where she slept each night. For every night she continued to slip out of her bed and creep along the landing to Green Dorm and Rosie. She and Rosie seldom had a chance to see each other during the day, but as soon as the house was quiet, Rita went to find her, each comforted by the familiar warmth of her sister, in the bed, beside her. Since Frances had caught her that first morning, Rita had been careful. She’d always managed to wake up before the rising bell, sliding quietly out of Rosie’s bed and tip-toeing back to her own, with no one the wiser.

‘You mustn’t tell no one that I come in,’ she warned Rosie. ‘The Dragon’ll be very cross if she finds out. OK?’

Rosie nodded solemnly. ‘I won’t tell,’ she said, adding, ‘I don’t like the Dragon, Reet. She’s scary!’

‘Yeah, I know. So don’t tell no one, or she’ll find out.’

It wasn’t the Dragon who found out, it was the Hawk.

One Friday night Rita had slipped out of Purple Dorm, and not closed the door properly behind her. Later that night Mrs Hawkins, coming along the landing on her way to her flat in the tower, noticed the door open and looked in. All was quiet, she heard nothing but the soft breathing of six little girls, asleep in bed. She paused by the door, and then flicked on her torch, flashing it round the peaceful dormitory until the beam fell on the bed by the window. It was empty. Whose bed was that? She turned her torch onto the dormitory list on the back of the door. Bed number 4. Rita Stevens. Rita Stevens was not in bed… so where was she?

Mrs Hawkins was about to wake the whole dorm to ask where Rita was, when she had a better idea. First she would go and see if Rosie Stevens was there. She turned back to Green Dorm and softly easing the door open she flashed her torch round the room. Rosie Stevens was asleep in her bed, but so was Rita.

Mrs Hawkins switched on the light and strode across to Rosie’s bed. With a grunt of anger, she threw back the covers, leaving the two little girls exposed, curled up in each other’s arms. Rita’s nightdress had ridden up, so that her bare seat was on view. The slap that resounded on her bottom and her cry of pain woke the rest of the dormitory.

‘Get out of that bed,’ Mrs Hawkins snarled, dealing out another slap. Rita leaped from the bed, the marks of the superintendent’s hand red on her pale skin, and Rosie began to cry.

The other children stared, round-eyed, as the Hawk aimed another blow at Rita before turning to the hysterical Rosie. ‘Be quiet, Rose, or you’ll get a hiding too.’ She turned back to Rita. ‘Get back to your own bed,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll deal with you in the morning.’

Rita fled and jumping into her bed, buried herself under the covers. Her bum hurt like fury, and she was humiliated that the ‘babies’ had seen her slapped like that. She could still hear Rosie’s wails until they stopped abruptly. The Hawk must have slapped her too, or terrified her into silence in some other way.

Purple Dorm was still and quiet. No one had heard the commotion from down the landing. Rita lay among the peacefully sleeping girls, the thin blanket over her head, shivering, waiting for the Hawk to call her out again, but she heard nothing and eventually she drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

When she woke, it was still dark. The light from the street lamp filtered into the room and Rita lay looking at the ghostly shapes, her mind swirling with what had happened in Green Dorm. How had the Hawk found them? What had she done to Rosie, and what was going to happen to her?

I’ll deal with you in the morning! The Hawk’s words echoed in her brain. What was she going to do? What could she do? The more these thoughts churned in her mind, the more frightened Rita became.

When the rising bell rang, Rita felt almost sick with fear. She got out of bed and stripped it, but somehow she couldn’t move quickly enough. When it was time to go down for morning prayers and breakfast, though she was dressed, Rita’s bedclothes were still piled onto her stool.

‘Come on, Reet,’ hissed Daisy. ‘You’ll get us all into trouble.’ She pushed Rita aside and swiftly shook out the sheets and blanket, so that when the Dragon came into the room, Rita was just straightening her pillow, feeling the picture of Daddy safely in the pillowcase.

Matron made a quick inspection to see that each bed had the required hospital corners and then said, ‘You’re all behind in here. Hurry up and go down for prayers.’

The six girls scurried along the passage to the stairs, but as they passed Green Dorm, Rita glanced in. The room was empty, except for Rosie. Rosie was standing on her stool with her sheet draped over her head and round her shoulders. Rita stopped dead in her tracks.

‘Rosie?’ she said. ‘Rosie, what…?’

‘Come on.’ Daisy caught her hand and dragged her along the passage.

‘But Rosie—’ began Rita, trying to go back.

‘She’s wet her bed,’ said Daisy. ‘That’s all. Matron will make her stand there until after breakfast, and then she’ll have to wash the sheet. Come on, Reet,’ she insisted, ‘or we’re in trouble too.’

When Rita still held back Daisy said, ‘You can go back and help her after breakfast.’ But by the time breakfast was over, Rita was in no position to help her sister.

The Purples were the last into the playroom, reaching their usual place by the window only moments before Mrs Hawkins came in. She glanced round the room and for a moment her eyes rested on Rita, before she raised them to heaven and said, ‘Let us pray.’

When prayers came to an end, she looked round the room again allowing her gaze to fall on several girls before it finally fixed, once more, on Rita.

The inmates of Laurel House knew their superintendent well. They had recognized the signs. Someone was in deep trouble, and for an awful, long moment as the Hawk’s eyes roved the room, each wondered if she had strayed or failed in some way that she had forgotten.

‘Stand forward, Rita Stevens,’ said the Hawk at last. Even as Rita took a small step forward, she could feel the rest of the room relaxing round her. It was Rita, the new girl, who had transgressed.

‘This girl has broken one of our most important rules,’ the Hawk announced. ‘Last night, not only was she out of bed and out of her dormitory after lights out, she was in another dormitory and in another girl’s bed!’

There was an audible gasp from the assembled girls.

‘Please, Mrs Hawkins,’ began Rita, ‘it was my sister, Rosie’s, bed—’

‘Keep silence, girl,’ thundered the Hawk. ‘When I want you to speak I shall ask you to. It is forbidden to leave the dormitory at night for any reason. You are on punishment for the rest of today, Rita, and if I hear another back answer from you, it will be for the whole week. Do you understand?’ Rita, almost mesmerized by the superintendent’s glare, nodded.

‘Do you understand?’ The question was put even more loudly, and at a dig in the back from Daisy, Rita mumbled, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘You will remain in this room while everyone goes to breakfast. I will send for you when I want you.’ With this the Hawk stalked from the room.

The rest of the girls filed out, and Rita was left standing by the window. She had no idea what being ‘on punishment’ meant, but clearly she was in for big trouble.

Some minutes later Sheila entered the room. ‘Mrs Hawkins says to come into the dining room.’ She smirked at Rita. ‘Not so brave now, are you, Rita Stevens? Not biting anyone today? Going to bite Mrs Hawkins?’ She took Rita by the arm and marched her into the dining room, saying, ‘Punishment chair in the far corner. There ain’t no breakfast for you today.’

Mrs Hawkins said grace and then everyone sat down to their breakfast. As it was Saturday it was eggs, collected from the hens that Rosie had been feeding yesterday. Rita had her back to the room, so she couldn’t see if Rosie was in her place at the babies’ table. She knew that Rosie still wet her bed occasionally when she was frightened or worried; she’d done it several times when Uncle Jimmy had first moved in. Mum had been cross and scolded her, but she’d never made her stand wrapped up in the damp and smelly sheet.

Breakfast seemed to go on forever. Rita was hungry, but she was given no food. At the end of the meal, when grace had been said and everyone had filed out to get on with their chores, Sheila came and fetched her.

‘You got to go up to Mrs Hawkins’ room,’ she told her.

‘Where’s that?’ asked Rita.

Sheila laughed unkindly. ‘Up the stairs,’ she pointed to the main staircase, ‘and then up again. That’s the Hawk’s nest.’ She gave Rita a push towards the stairs. ‘Go on, she’s waiting and she don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Rita hurried up the stairs and turned along the landing, almost bumping into the maid, Betty Grover, as she did so.

‘You ain’t supposed to use them stairs,’ Betty whispered.

‘But Sheila said…’

‘That Sheila’s a bully,’ said Betty. ‘She meant to get you into more trouble ’cos you bit her. Good thing you only bumped into me an’ not the Dragon.’

‘I got to go up to Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Betty nodded, ‘but when you come down again, look under your pillow. I put a bit of bread and marge there. Don’t get caught eating it, mind, or we’ll both be in trouble.’

Rita stared at the maid in surprise. Why would she give her some food when she knew that she was in disgrace? Was it a trap?

Betty seemed to read her mind, because she said, ‘I’m glad you bit that Sheila, an’ I’m not the only one!’ She gave Rita a little push towards the stairs. ‘Go on up,’ she urged, ‘or it’ll get worse.’

Betty scuttled away and Rita turned her steps towards the tower and Mrs Hawkins. When she reached the door she plucked up her courage and tapped.

‘Come in.’

Rita opened the door and found herself in a large room, with sunlight pouring in through wide windows that overlooked the garden. The Hawk was sitting in an armchair, her feet up on a sturdy footstool, reading the paper. Beside her was a coffee table, and on it rested a leather strap, a broad belt with a large buckle on the end. She glanced up as Rita came in. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you,’ as if she’d been expecting someone else. ‘Stand over there.’

Rita moved to the spot she had indicated, and waited… and waited.

The Hawk continued to read the paper for a while and then looked up again. ‘Take your knickers down,’ she instructed.

Rita stared at her in amazement, not sure she’d heard correctly.

‘I said, take your knickers down… and then come over here.’

‘Please, Mrs Hawkins,’ whispered Rita, ‘I don’t want to.’

‘You’ll learn to do as you’re told, my girl,’ snapped the superintendent, ‘and the sooner you do, the better.’ She paused and fixed Rita with a gimlet glare. ‘Now, take your knickers down and come here.’

Shaking with fear and mortification, Rita approached.

‘You heard what I said,’ purred Mrs Hawkins, her eyes gleaming. ‘If you don’t take your knickers down now, I’ll do this in the dining room in front of everyone else. Take them down and bend over the stool.’

She was standing up now, and at last Rita did as she was told, tears of humiliation streaming down her face. With her bare bottom exposed, she knelt face down across the footstool. She heard the Hawk pick up the belt, heard the rasp of the leather as she ran it through her hands. Then nothing. For nearly five minutes she knelt there; to Rita it could have been five hours as she waited, tensed and terrified, for the first lash of the belt across her backside, but nothing happened. Just as she was beginning to think that the Hawk had changed her mind, she heard it… and felt it. The swish of the belt through the air, the sharp sting as the leather licked across her buttocks. Rita let out a cry of pain and anguish. Her tears slid, unchecked, down her cheeks, and she tasted their salt on her lips.

Then nothing. Another wait. Was that it? When was the next lash coming? In one minute? Or two? It was nearly three. The anticipation was far worse than the actual strike, and the Hawk knew it. She had seen the rebellion in Rita’s eyes from the first, had heard how she had bitten Sheila Nevin, a girl nearly five years older, and she knew that she had to break Rita’s spirit once and for all, or she would continue to cause trouble and unrest among the other girls.

It was more than twenty minutes later when Rita found herself back downstairs. Six lashes with the belt, but they had taken twenty minutes.

‘You’ll go to your dormitory and sit on your stool,’ commanded the Hawk when she finally let Rita stand up. ‘You will stay there until I send for you. Do you understand?’

Though still choking with tears of pain, mortification and anger, Rita managed to say, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘This punishment is a private thing between you and me,’ the Hawk said. ‘If you mention it, or discuss it with anyone else, I shall call you in again, and next time I’ll use the other end of the belt. Do you understand, Rita?’

‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Good. I hope you do. Go to your dormitory and speak to no one for the rest of the day.’

Rita went to the dormitory, and sat on her stool. That hurt, but she dare not disobey, and she found that if she sat still, it was bearable. Her tears dried on her face as she sat in the silence of the room, listening to the other girls going about their Saturday chores. Girls who had been here for years. Girls like Daisy, who had learned to work the system, girls like Sheila who got her own back by bullying where she herself was bullied, girls like Wetty Betty, the maid, who had been here forever and still hadn’t managed to escape. Thinking of Betty, Rita remembered the promised bread, and though she did not feel hungry, she crept off her stool to look, and to check with sudden panic that the picture of Daddy was still there. It was. She still didn’t risk taking it out to look at him, in case the Dragon came in, but she could feel the shape of the photo, and under the edge of her pillow was a bread and marge sandwich.

Rita strained her ears to hear if anyone was outside in the passage, and when she heard nothing, she bit into the sandwich. Suddenly she was ravenous, and crammed the whole thing into her mouth. She looked on the floor and retrieved the few crumbs that she had dropped, eating those as well. No crumbs for the Dragon or the Hawk to find.

At lunchtime Sheila Nevin came to fetch her. Once again it was the punishment chair and no food. As she walked to the chair, she looked across at the babies’ table and saw Rosie standing behind her chair with all the others. She had red blotches on her cheeks, the traces of earlier tears, but she gave no sign of having seen Rita, keeping her eyes firmly on the table.

Rita longed to go and give her a hug, but she knew that it would be the worse for both of them if she did. At least Rosie was having her meals. Rita was very hungry, and very thirsty, but no one came near her as everyone else ate Saturday lunch. At the end of the meal she was brought a large glass of water by Sheila, who stood over her until she had drained it, then she was sent back to her dormitory stool, to spend the afternoon alone. Her bottom still hurt, but the first pain had subsided, and Rita had other things on her mind. Escape and revenge. Revenge would be impossible, but escape might not be.

We’re not staying in this place a day longer than we have to, she thought, I have to get us out and home again.

Saturday afternoon was the only time in the week when the inmates of Laurel House had any time to themselves. She could hear them now, their voices and laughter drifting up on the summer air as they played hopscotch in the yard, or took turns with the skipping rope. She imagined Daisy hurrying across the Patch through the orchard and into her secret den.

Could they escape from the garden next Saturday if Mum hadn’t come for them by then? wondered Rita. Perhaps they could climb over the wall behind Daisy’s den. No, that was hopeless. She might manage it, but Rosie couldn’t. And it wasn’t just getting out of Laurel House that was the problem; even if they managed that, how would they get home? She didn’t know where home was from here. She knew that the number 37 bus went in the right direction, but she had no money for fares and she knew Rosie could never walk that far. Her mind churned with ideas as she sat alone on her stool, but she came no nearer a solution.

The door to the landing stood open, and once the Dragon had looked in, saying nothing, simply nodding, and once, more alarmingly, the Hawk had stood silently at the door for a full minute before going up to her room. Rita had simply stared at the floor until she heard the Hawk’s footsteps on the stairs and then the closing of a door. For the moment she was safe from the Hawk. She wasn’t the only one who realized that. A few minutes later Betty crept into the room. In her hand she had an apple.

‘Here.’ She held it out.

Rita looked first at the apple and then at Betty. Then with a swift movement she snatched it, sank her teeth into it and began to munch.

‘You’ll have to eat the core too,’ Betty told her. ‘There’s nowhere to hide it, and if they find it, we’re both for the high jump.’ Rita nodded and continued to munch.

‘Don’t keep nothing special in your locker, neither,’ Betty advised. ‘They always search your lockers when you’re at school. And you’d be better not to keep that picture in your pillowcase,’ she added. ‘If they find that, it’s gone.’

So Betty had found the picture of Daddy after all. ‘It’s my daddy,’ Rita said, ‘but I’ve nowhere else to put him.’

‘Carry him with you,’ Betty advised. ‘Keep him in your clothes, or in your desk at school. They don’t search that if you keep it tidy.’ She was silent for a moment and then said, ‘If you’ve got a dad, why’re you in here?’

‘He’s dead,’ Rita said flatly. ‘He was killed in the war.’

‘Mine too,’ said Betty. ‘Went to the war and never come back. Me mum died in an air raid. When me dad didn’t come home, me auntie stuck me in here.’ She looked across at Rita and then said, ‘You got a mum?’

Rita thought about Mum… Mum and Uncle Jimmy. She nodded. ‘Yes, I got a mum, but she’s having a baby. We’ll be going home, me an’ Rosie, when she come out of the hospital.’

‘Lucky you… if you do,’ Betty said, turning away. ‘I got to go.’ She had only taken a couple of steps along the landing when she heard footsteps and the Dragon emerged from the staircase.

‘Betty, what are you doing up here?’ Rita heard her demand. With her mouth still crammed full, Rita pushed the remains of her apple up under her skirt, as Betty replied, ‘Just brought up the laundry for Mrs Hawkins, Matron. Going back down now.’

‘Well, hurry up, I’m sure Mrs Smith has something for you to do in the kitchen.’ Without waiting for a reply she pushed open the door to Purple Dorm and looked in on Rita, who sat, rigid, on her stool, her mouth full of apple, but her jaws unmoving. The Dragon stood there for a long moment and then went out again without a word. Rita, sagging with relief, swallowed her mouthful, and taking the rest of the apple out from under her skirt, ate it quickly, core and all.

It was five o’clock before the Hawk came into the room and said, ‘Are you sorry for your behaviour now, Rita?’

Rita kept her eyes lowered; she was afraid. Afraid of this terrifying woman who stood over her now, her eyes cold and dark and malevolent, so she murmured, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now go down to the dining room and join your table for tea. And let me have no more trouble from you, do you hear?’

Rita took her place beside Daisy in the dining room. Saturday tea was the only meal at which they were allowed to talk, and when grace had been said there was an immediate buzz of conversation.

‘You have to go up to see the Hawk?’ asked Daisy as she reached for the bread and marge and made herself a thick sandwich to dip into her soup.

‘Yeah,’ Rita answered briefly as she did the same. She was very hungry. Apart from the bread and the apple Betty had brought her, she had had nothing to eat since the corned beef hash the night before.

‘What she do?’

‘Ticked me off and put me on punishment,’ replied Rita, not meeting her eye. Nothing would induce her to tell anyone, not even Daisy, exactly what had happened in the half hour she had been in the Hawk’s room.

Daisy eyed her for a moment and then nodded, accepting what she said, but clearly not believing it.

‘Got an egg for you in the playroom,’ she said.

‘An egg?’ Rita looked startled.

‘Yeah, from breakfast. They’re always hard-boiled, so I put yours up me knickers and brought it out.’ She laughed at Rita’s disgusted expression. ‘It’s still in its shell, silly,’ she said. ‘I’ll eat it if you don’t want it!’

‘No,’ Rita said hastily, ‘I’ll have it. Thanks, Dais.’

Daisy grinned at her. ‘’S all right.’

Rita didn’t tell Daisy she was planning to escape. She liked Daisy, and was grateful for her kindnesses, but Rita had learned a hard lesson in the past few weeks. Trust no one. Everyone she’d ever trusted had let her down in one way or another, and today, during the long afternoon spent sitting on her dormitory stool, she had realized that the only person she could trust was herself. Only Rita was going to look after Rita.

She lay in bed that night trying to think of a way out. She’d talked to Rosie in the playroom soon after tea. ‘You all right, Rosie?’ she asked.

‘Where you been, Reet?’ Rosie asked tearfully. ‘I couldn’t find you.’

‘Busy,’ Rita said. ‘Look, Rosie, you got to try not to wet your bed, OK? Dragon’ll get cross if you do it again. If you need to do a wee in the night, you have to go to the bathroom.’

‘I had to wash my sheet,’ Rosie told her. ‘I had to put it in the bath. A nice lady called Betty helped me.’

‘Well, don’t do it again, Rosie, just go to the bathroom, all right?’

‘It’s dark,’ whined Rosie. ‘I don’t like the dark.’ She looked up at Rita. ‘Are you coming in with me tonight, Reet?’

‘No,’ Rita told her firmly. ‘I ain’t. You got to learn to sleep on your own, Rosie.’ She softened as she saw the tears begin to well up again in her sister’s eyes. ‘I can’t come, Rosie,’ she said. ‘They won’t let me.’

‘I don’t like them,’ said Rosie miserably.

‘No, nor do I,’ agreed Rita.

‘’Cept Betty,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s nice.’

Why was Betty helping them? Rita wondered as she lay awake in bed watching the light from the street lamp play on the dormitory ceiling. She had brought Rita some bread and an apple, and she’d helped Rosie with her wet sheet. Why? Was it really simply because Rita had bitten Sheila? Was it revenge for the way she had been treated over the years? Rita wasn’t sure; all she knew was that she didn’t trust Wetty Betty any more than anyone else.

Sunday followed its usual routine, and as the croc wound its way through the streets to the church, Rita wondered if there was any way they could slip away coming back. She could see Rosie further forward in the croc, holding hands with another of the Green Dorm babies, but there was no way she could get to her.

If it was just me, Rita thought as they crossed a side road and passed the open gate of a park, I could nip in there and hide.

She looked at the bushes behind the fence that created the boundary with the road. She might be able to hide there until the rest of them had gone past and then find her way home, but she couldn’t leave Rosie.

Outside the church two of the seniors came round handing each girl her threepenny bit for the collection, and it was as Rita put the coin in her pocket that the idea came to her. At first she dismissed it as impossible, but as the service progressed on its dull and boring way, she kept coming back to it. As usual, Miss Vanstone had come striding into church. Rita looked at her stern face as she took her place in the front pew and wondered if she knew that the Hawk beat the girls with a belt. If she did, Rita thought, she probably didn’t care. Nobody cared.

It was this thought that finally made her decide to take the risk. The risk of stealing from the church. She glanced along the row to where Ole Smithy stood, singing away, head held high, eyes raised to heaven. The Hawk was at the end of the row in front, so it was really only the Dragon who might see. Rita stole a quick look at the matron who was standing at the end of the pew behind. She, too, was singing, but her eyes were directed at the girls in the pew across the aisle. There were only a couple of minutes to decide, as the collection bag drew nearer; and Rita decided. She would not put her threepence in, she would keep it towards the bus fare home and…

Rita kept her coin in one clenched fist, and when the bag reached her, she put the other hand in, as if dropping in her own offering. Pinching her fingers round an earlier coin, she managed to extract it in her closed fist as she passed the bag on. She now had sixpence towards their fares and she kept the two coins clenched in her hand as they walked home.

‘What you going to do with that money?’ asked Daisy casually. ‘I saw you take it out the bag.’

Rita rounded on her. ‘I never! I didn’t take nothing.’

‘You did too,’ retorted Daisy. ‘You’ll be in dead trouble if you’re caught, but what d’you want it for?’

‘I never took nothing,’ Rita maintained, stoutly.

Daisy shrugged. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Suit yourself. I won’t tell no one, anyway. Only where you going to hide it?’

It was indeed a problem. She decided her satchel would be as safe as anywhere. If anyone found the money there, she could say it had always been there, that her mother had made her carry sixpence as emergency money.

After all, she thought, I’ve only got to hide it till tomorrow. As the minister had intoned the final prayers, Rita made another decision. Now she had some money for the bus, she would take Rosie home tomorrow.

When they reached Laurel House Rita went to the lavatory beside the downstairs cloakroom. She hurried to where her satchel was hanging on her peg, and, after a quick glance round to see that she was unobserved, slipped the two coins under the flap. Moments later she was in the playroom, lining up for lunch with the others.

12

When the bell went for afternoon play the next day, Rita hurried out into the playground to find Rosie. Passing the cloakroom, she unhitched her satchel from its peg and took it with her. Rosie was already outside, playing with her friend Milly.

‘We got to go now, Rosie,’ Rita said, taking her hand.

‘Where are we going, Reet?’ Rosie asked.

‘You’ll see. Come on.’

‘Can Milly come, too?’

‘No, she can’t,’ snapped Rita. ‘Come on!’ Rita was anxious to slip away as quickly as possible, so that they would be well clear of school before their absence was noticed. She had decided on afternoon playtime for their escape. Afternoon register had already been taken, and after break it was hymn practice for the whole school, so they might not be missed immediately.

Reluctantly Rosie allowed herself to be detached from Milly and led away behind the toilet block.

‘We’re going to go home now, Rosie,’ Rita said. ‘But we got to go quickly and you got to do what I say, OK?’

‘Aren’t we going home with everyone else?’ asked Rosie, bewildered.

‘Not home to Laurel House, silly,’ Rita replied. ‘We’re going home to Ship Street. We’re going home to see Mum and baby Richard. Now, come on.’

She took Rosie’s hand again and they edged their way towards the gateway and the street beyond. As they reached the open gate, the whistle went for the end of break. ‘Come on, Rosie.’ Rita dragged her little sister out of the gate, and turning right, hurried along the pavement, round the corner out of sight. The only person who saw them go was Daisy. She stared after them, feeling suddenly lonely. Rita had disappeared, taking her sister with her. All of a sudden, Daisy wished that she had a sister. Someone of her very own.

She stood irresolute in the playground as the rest of the school filed back inside. Should she tell? Now was the time to do it if she was going to. It won’t do me no good, she thought. And when Rita came back, as Daisy was certain she would, she’d have lost her only real friend.

‘Hurry up, Daisy,’ called Miss Harrison. ‘Time for hymn practice.’

‘Coming, miss.’ Daisy turned and went inside. Reet’ll be back soon enough, she thought. No one gets away from Laurel House, and when she’s back, I’ll still be there.

Once they were safely out of sight, Rita slowed her pace a little. Rosie was already dragging on her hand.

‘Where’re we going, Reet?’ whined Rosie. ‘Don’t go so fast.’

‘Told you, we’re going home. We’re going to find Mum.’

‘Will Uncle Jimmy be there?’ asked Rosie, coming to a complete stop.

Rita shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe. Baby Richard will be.’

‘Is he our brother?’ asked Rosie.

‘Yes, you know he is. Look,’ Rita cried, setting off again and pulling Rosie along behind her, ‘there’s a 37. That’s our bus, come on.’ She hurried them along to the bus stop, and they both climbed aboard just before the bus moved on. When the conductor came down from the top deck, Rita had her money out, ready.

‘Two threepenny halves, please,’ she said and handed over the coins.

The conductor punched the tickets and moved on down the bus. Rita looked out of the window, hoping to see something she recognized, but the streets all looked the same. Some were tree-lined. There weren’t many trees in the streets near Ship Street, so she knew they weren’t near home yet. Each time the bus stopped she peered out of the window, hoping to recognize a street name. She felt a rising panic welling up inside her. How was she going to know where they should get off? She thought back to where they had got on the bus with the pig-faced woman; in the centre of the town, near the town hall. She wasn’t sure she could find her way home from there, but at least she would be quite near and she could ask someone.

Rosie was sitting beside her, legs swinging, and singing to herself as she often did. Suddenly she grabbed Rita’s arm. ‘I haven’t got Knitty!’ she wailed. ‘I want to go back.’

‘No, we can’t,’ Rita said firmly. ‘We’ll ask Mum to get him… when we get home.’

‘But I won’t have him for tonight,’ Rosie cried, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. ‘I want him.’

‘You’ll have me with you tonight,’ Rita reminded her. ‘You won’t be on your own.’ But Rosie wasn’t to be comforted, and other passengers began to look at them. Rita was still trying to quieten her when the conductor reappeared.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘you girls should’ve got off by now. Threepence don’t take you to the end of the line, you know. Come on, off you get!’

‘But we ain’t got to our stop yet,’ protested Rita.

‘Oh yes you have,’ said the conductor, and then added, ‘Which stop was it then?’

Thinking fast, Rita said, ‘The town hall.’

The man gave a bark of laughter. ‘The town hall,’ he repeated, ‘then you certainly need to get off. We’re going the other way.’

‘The other way?’ faltered Rita. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean the other way. We’re going away from the town hall. Looks like you caught the bus from the wrong side of the street.’

‘But this is a number 37…’ began Rita.

‘So it is, dearie,’ the conductor agreed, ‘but it went to the town hall before you got on. So, off you get, both of you.’ He rang the bell and moments later the bus drew up at its next stop, and Rita and Rosie had to get off. There was a bench in the bus shelter, and Rita sat down, with Rosie beside her. Despair rose up inside her, making her feel sick. They had been on the bus for ages, been going the wrong way for ages.

‘I’m hungry,’ Rosie announced. ‘Are we nearly home now?’

‘No,’ answered Rita. ‘Quiet, Rosie, I’m thinking.’ They’d have to walk, she decided. They couldn’t stay where they were, and she’d no more money. They’d have to go back along the road and see if they could find someone to ask the way. There were quite a few people about, but Rita knew she wasn’t supposed to speak to strangers, Mum and Gran had both drummed that into her. She’d have to find someone who looked safe. Someone in uniform, Mum used to say. The bus conductor had been in uniform, but he’d just dumped them off the bus.

‘I’m hungry,’ moaned Rosie again. ‘Can we have tea soon?’

Rita was hungry too. It seemed a long time since they had trailed back to Laurel House for cottage pie and cabbage lunch.

‘Come on then,’ Rita said, getting off the bench and taking Rosie’s hand. ‘Let’s go home for tea.’

They walked through the streets, as far as possible in a straight line. When they came to a side road, Rita crossed them over carefully and kept on going straight. Every now and again she found a bench at a bus stop, or outside a pub, and she let Rosie have a rest. Her own legs were tired, and Rosie was walking more and more slowly, dragging her feet.

They reached a bridge which crossed over the river, and Rita remembered the 37 had gone over a bridge on their way to Laurel House, but was it the same bridge? She gave them another rest, sitting on a bench beside the river, and watched the water slipping away under the arches that spanned it. She was exhausted, and she knew Rosie couldn’t go much further. Tears welled up in her eyes and, despite her determination not to cry, they spilled down her cheeks. Her throat hurt with trying not to sob, but Rosie saw her tears and immediately began to cry too.

‘Well, now, what have we here?’ asked a voice. ‘You both look pretty miserable.’

Rita looked up to see a tall policeman standing beside them. He was looking down at them and as she raised her eyes he gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Are you lost?’ he asked. ‘You shouldn’t be out on the streets by yourselves, you know.’

‘I’m looking after Rosie.’ Rita’s voice came out croakily through her tears.

The policeman crouched down beside them. ‘I’m sure you are,’ he said, ‘but even so, you don’t look very happy. You should be at home. Where do you live?’

Rita, still struggling with her tears, said, ‘Ship Street.’

‘Ship Street?’ The policeman sounded surprised. ‘Well, you are quite a long way from home, aren’t you? Perhaps I’d better take you there. Would that make you happier, if I walked with you?’

‘Do you know the way?’ asked Rita.

The policeman nodded. ‘Yes, I know the way. It’s quite a step from here, though.’ He stood up again and added, ‘My name’s Constable Chapman. What’s your name then, love?’

‘Rita. And this is Rosie. She’s tired. She’s only five.’

‘Perhaps I can carry her a bit,’ suggested Constable Chapman. ‘But I think we should get going again. Your mother will be wondering where you are, won’t she?’

Rita didn’t reply to this but simply slipped off the bench, saying as she did so, ‘Come on, Rosie, it’s all right. He’s got a uniform.’

The policeman picked up the little girl and hoisted her onto his back, then he took Rita by the hand and they set off. Rita felt safe with her hand held firmly in Constable Chapman’s large, warm one. At first he didn’t speak as they walked in the early evening sunshine, but after a while he couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.

‘What were you doing so far from home, Rita?’ he asked.

For a long minute Rita didn’t answer, and then she said, ‘We was going home, and we got on a bus going the wrong way by mistake. The conductor put us off. I ain’t got no more bus money, so we had to walk.’

‘Going home?’

‘From school, only we got the wrong bus by mistake.’

‘I see,’ said the policeman, but he didn’t. He couldn’t imagine why the two little girls were so far from home. He asked no more questions. They could wait until he had reunited the girls with their parents, who must be frantic with worry. School probably came out at about half-past three, and the church clock was striking six now.

At last Rita began to recognize the streets, and she knew they were nearly home. ‘I know the way from here,’ she said, coming to a standstill and pulling her hand away.

‘I’m sure you do,’ Constable Chapman replied easily, ‘but I think I’ll deliver you to the door. Rosie’s still tired.’

‘Well, she’s had a ride,’ Rita said. ‘She can walk the last bit, can’t you, Rosie?’

‘I want Mummy,’ was all Rosie said, and clung more tightly to the policeman’s neck.

‘That’s all right, love,’ he said. ‘Nearly there. Bet she’ll be pleased to see you!’ It was Rita dragging her feet now, but Constable Chapman ignored her dawdling, thinking she was afraid of getting into trouble for being so late.

‘Which is your house?’ he asked as they turned into Ship Street. Rita hesitated, but Rosie cried out with delight, ‘There it is!’ She pointed to one of the small terraced houses. ‘We live there.’

‘Right, come on then, let’s tell Mum you’re home safe and sound.’ He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. At first there was no reply, and he wondered if the parents were out looking for the two girls, but as he was about to press the bell again, the door opened.

‘Yes? What d’you want?’ A man peered out at them, the tall policeman with Rosie on his back, peeping over his shoulder, Rita shrinking behind him. His eyes widened as he took in what he was seeing. ‘What they doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I understand they live here,’ replied the policeman, surprise in his voice. ‘Isn’t this their home?’

‘No, it ain’t!’ replied the man fiercely. ‘Not any more it ain’t.’

Constable Chapman could feel Rita’s body rigid against him, and Rosie burst into tears, burying her face in his neck. ‘Is their mother here?’ he asked the man.

‘No, she ain’t…’ began the man, but the kitchen door behind him opened and a young woman carrying a small baby came out.

‘Who is it, Jimmy?’ she asked, but as she saw who was standing on her doorstep, she gave a little cry, her hand flying to her mouth as if to stifle it.

‘Good evening, madam,’ said Constable Chapman. ‘Are these your daughters?’

He didn’t have to wait for her reply as Rosie let out a shriek. ‘Mummy!’ She let go of the policeman’s neck and slithered to the ground. The man stood unmoving, blocking the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I told him, Mav, they don’t live here no more.’

‘And you are…?’ Constable Chapman disliked the look of this man, standing so belligerently in the doorway.

‘Jimmy Randall. And this is my house.’

‘I see.’ Constable Chapman took a step forward. ‘Perhaps we could all come in and discuss this.’

‘There ain’t nothing to discuss,’ Jimmy Randall replied.

‘But you, madam, are their mother?’ The policeman looked past Jimmy and made eye-contact with the woman who cowered behind him. She said nothing but gave a brief nod.

‘Then I think we do have something to discuss,’ he said. ‘These children are exhausted, they need food and a bed. I’m sure you don’t want any trouble, Mr Randall, so perhaps we can all come indoors…’

Jimmy Randall glowered at him, but he stood aside to let them in. Rosie was now clinging to the constable’s leg, and Rita still stood, frozen behind him. Constable Chapman gave a hand to each and, with a reassuring smile, took them indoors, following their mother into the kitchen. A baby’s bottle was lying on the table, and it was clear that Mavis had been feeding the baby when they had arrived. She sat down and reaching for the bottle, began to feed him again. The two girls still kept close to the policeman as if for protection as Jimmy Randall followed them into the kitchen.

‘Now then,’ Jimmy said, ‘what you brought these girls here for?’

‘I found them wandering the streets,’ replied Constable Chapman, ‘and they said they lived here.’

‘Well, they don’t,’ asserted Jimmy, looking challengingly at the copper who’d pushed his way into the house. ‘We ain’t got room for them. They live in an ’ome now, where they can be looked after proper. Their mother, my wife, signed all the papers, so it was done proper. Best all round, eh?’

‘Is that right, Mrs Randall?’ asked Constable Chapman.

Mavis looked up from the baby and nodded.

‘They must have run away,’ said Jimmy. He pointed at Rita. ‘She’ll be behind it. She’s always trouble, that one.’

As he was speaking, Rosie let go of the policeman’s hand and edged her way to where her mother sat. She put a hand on the baby. ‘Is that my brother?’ she asked.

Her mother nodded, unable to speak, the tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached out an arm and gathered her daughter to her, burying her face in the blonde curls. Rita stood beside Constable Chapman, watching. She longed to run to her mother too, but something held her back.

The policeman turned to her. ‘Have you run away?’ he asked gently.

Rita nodded, and PC Chapman crouched down beside her and took her hand in his. ‘Why? Why did you run away?’

Rita gulped and then whispered, ‘I wanted to come home. I want my mum.’

The simplicity of this statement brought unexpected tears to the big man’s eyes. He blinked them away, saying, ‘I’m sure you do. Why don’t you give her a hug now?’ He gave her a little push, and she moved round the table.

‘Mum,’ she said and reached out her arms. Mavis looked at her stricken; with baby Richard in one arm and the other round Rosie, she had no hand to extend to Rita. Rita saw this and stopped. For a moment they were still, a family group that wasn’t a family, then Constable Chapman stepped forward and gently took the baby from Mavis’s arms, so that Rita could take his place.

‘Here,’ growled Jimmy, ‘that’s my baby.’

Chapman turned to him, and without a word passed him the child. Turning back he saw the mother had gathered both her daughters against her, and all three were weeping.

A ring on the doorbell, loud and long, demanded entry. Mavis didn’t look up and as the sound was repeated, louder and longer, Jimmy answered the door. A woman’s voice sounded in the narrow hallway, harsh and strident. It was the pig-faced woman.

‘There you are,’ she cried. ‘You wicked, wicked children. How dare you run off like that!’

Chapman stepped forward, barring her way forward. ‘Good evening, madam,’ he said. ‘May I ask who you are?’

The woman faltered for a moment in the face of his uniform but then said, ‘Good evening, Constable, I am May Hopkins, Children’s Officer for this district. I have come to retrieve these naughty girls and return them to their home.’

‘Which is…?’

‘Laurel House EVER-Care home. They disappeared from school today. Everyone has been so worried.’ She turned again to the two girls, still clinging to their mother. ‘You’re very bad girls,’ she told them. ‘You’ve caused a great deal of trouble. Now then, you’re coming with me.’

Rosie immediately began to scream, a high-pitched scream, and Rita simply allowed the tears to flood down her cheeks.

‘We just wanted to come home,’ she gulped. ‘We wanted to see Mum.’

‘Well, now you’ve seen her,’ growled Jimmy, ‘you can go back where you belong.’

‘Don’t they belong here?’ asked the policeman quietly.

‘No they bloody don’t,’ said Jimmy. ‘We signed the papers, right and tight. She ain’t their mum no more.’

‘Jimmy, couldn’t we just—’ began Mavis, her eyes pleading, her arms still tight about her girls.

‘No, Mavis. I told you,’ he snapped, holding the baby up in the air, ‘you and me and Rick’s a family now.’

‘Just for tonight, Jimmy, let them stay just for tonight? I promise—’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Randall,’ interrupted Miss Hopkins, ‘but that won’t be possible. I have to take them with me now. Miss Vanstone’s sent a car.’

‘Miss Vanstone? Who’s she?’ asked the constable.

‘She is the founder and benefactress of the EVER-Care children’s home,’ announced Miss Hopkins. ‘When she heard that these children had gone missing, she very generously sent a car so I could bring them back.’

‘I don’t want to go back,’ cried Rita, finding her voice at last. ‘It’s horrible there. When Rosie wet her bed, they wrapped her in the wet sheet, and…’ She took a deep breath. ‘And they beat me with a belt.’

‘’Spect you deserved it,’ retorted Jimmy.

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Miss Hopkins, with a quick glance at the policeman. ‘There’s no such chastisement at Laurel House.’ She turned on Rita. ‘You’re a wicked child to tell such lies. Everything is provided for you at Laurel House, you lack nothing.’

Except love, thought Constable Chapman, but he kept his thought to himself. He could see that, however much he hated the idea, these two little girls were going to be returned to the orphanage. The stepfather refused to have them, the weak mother was unable to withstand him, and the Children’s Officer was determined that her authority to take them was assured.

‘You may kiss your mother goodbye,’ Miss Hopkins said, as if she were granting the girls a great favour, ‘and then we must go.’

Mavis gave one last despairing look at her husband, but Jimmy turned away, jogging his son up and down in his arms, and ignoring everyone else in the room. She held both girls close for a moment, kissing their wet cheeks, and then she too turned away.

Miss Hopkins pushed past the policeman and took each of them by the hand. ‘Come along,’ she said briskly, and led them, still weeping, out of the room. Rosie’s screams of ‘Mummy! Mummy! I want Mummy!’ echoed through the house as Miss Hopkins dragged her out to the street and into the waiting car.

‘An’ you can get out, an all,’ said Jimmy, swinging round and addressing Chapman. ‘You’ve interfered enough!’

Constable Chapman ignored him and looked over at Mavis who had collapsed, sobbing, back onto her chair. ‘Will you be all right, Mrs Randall?’ he asked gently.

‘Course she will,’ snapped Jimmy. ‘I’ll look after her. Now, get out of my house.’

Unable to do more, Constable Chapman left the house without saying another word. He was more affected by the events of the last hour than he could have imagined. The sound of Rosie’s cries resounded in his head, and he knew it would be a long time before he forgot the despair in her childish voice. How could a mother let her children be taken from her like that? He walked to the end of the street, and then, on hearing a door banging, he turned and looked back the way he had come. Jimmy Randall had come out of the house, slamming the door behind him, clearly heading for the pub at the end of the road.

Emily Vanstone was at Laurel House when it was discovered that the Stevens girls had gone missing.

‘I’m afraid that Rita Stevens has been a problem ever since she arrived here,’ Mrs Hawkins said. ‘Within an hour of her being here she had bitten one of the older girls who’d been asked to keep an eye on her. She’s a sullen little thing and unfortunately has palled up with Daisy Smart, another of our more difficult children.’

‘I see,’ said Miss Vanstone, ‘and how have you dealt with her?’

‘Fairly leniently at first,’ replied Mrs Hawkins, ‘after all Laurel House was new to her, but when she continued to flout the house rules, I was more severe and she was put on punishment for a whole day.’ She gave Miss Vanstone a thin smile. ‘It is usually enough to bring a child to heel, spending a day on her own, and having only bread and water.’

‘I see.’ Miss Vanstone looked thoughtful. She did not know the extent of the punishments that her superintendent used, nor did she want to. As long as the home ran smoothly she never enquired into the day to day running. Occasionally there were problems, but she could not remember the last time a child had absconded. Most of the children had nowhere to go anyway, but the Stevens girls? Perhaps the punishment day had been too severe.

‘How has the little one, Rosie, settled in?’ she asked.

Mrs Hawkins shifted a little and said casually, ‘Not as difficult as her sister. She’s a bed-wetter. Of course, she’s been reprimanded for that.’

Emily Vanstone nodded. ‘And you’re quite sure that they’re missing?’

‘Quite sure,’ insisted Mrs Hawkins. ‘They were not in the crocodile when it reached Laurel House, and no one can say for sure whether they were there at the end of school.’

‘Is there no roll call?’ asked Miss Vanstone.

‘Not before they leave school,’ admitted Mrs Hawkins, ‘but of course,’ she added with a thin smile, ‘if they walked out during school hours, that would be the school’s responsibility, wouldn’t it?’

‘Have you spoken to the headmistress?’

‘Oh, yes, as soon as I heard they weren’t home here, I rang the school. Luckily Miss Harrison was still there. She checked the registers. They’d both been there at afternoon registration. When I suggested that the class teachers should have noticed their absence, she said that the whole school was together for hymn practice, with the music teacher. Class teachers don’t sit in on that, and the children are dismissed from the hall. No one would have noticed if two of the children were missing.’

‘The other children would have,’ remarked Miss Vanstone. ‘You say Rita and Daisy Smart are friends?’

‘Yes,’ answered Mrs Hawkins, ‘unfortunately.’

‘Have you spoken to Daisy?’

‘Certainly, straight away. I asked her if she knew where Rita was, but she said she didn’t.’

‘Let’s have her in and ask again,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘We can be almost certain that they’ve gone home, but we need to be sure.’

While the superintendent was fetching Daisy, Emily Vanstone reached for the phone and rang the Children’s Office at the town hall but was told that Miss Hopkins had already left for the day. Thoughtfully, she replaced the receiver. She had a home number for Miss Hopkins, but first she would speak to Daisy. Rita hadn’t simply run away because she’d been punished, she had taken her little sister with her. She had planned her escape carefully. Surely Daisy would have known about it.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hawkins,’ she said when the superintendent arrived back with Daisy in tow. ‘I’ll give you a call if I need you.’

Mrs Hawkins flushed. She didn’t like being dismissed like that in front of one of the children, but she turned for the door, saying as she did so, ‘I’ll be in the dining room.’

‘Please make sure that some tea is saved for Daisy,’ instructed Miss Vanstone. ‘I’ll try not to keep her too long.’

When the door shut behind Mrs Hawkins, Miss Vanstone looked at the little girl standing in front of her. ‘Come and sit down, Daisy,’ she said, pointing to a chair by the desk. Daisy edged forward and perched on the chair. She guessed why she was here, so she wasn’t surprised when Miss Vanstone said, ‘You know Rita and Rosie Stevens are missing?’

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone.’

‘Rita’s your particular friend, isn’t she?’

‘She’s in my dorm,’ Daisy replied carefully. Rita was already in trouble, but Daisy wanted to stay out of it.

‘And in your class at school.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes.’

‘We think Rita and Rosie have run away. Do you know where they might have gone?’

Daisy shrugged.

‘I expect they’ve gone home, don’t you?’

‘Don’t know, miss.’

‘The thing is, Daisy, that if they are wandering about in the town they could be in danger. Little Rosie’s only five, isn’t she? How were they going to get home, do you think?’

‘Don’t know, miss.’

‘I mean,’ continued Miss Vanstone, almost as if talking to herself, ‘they won’t have had any money, will they? Not even enough for a bus fare.’

‘Don’t know, miss.’

‘Yes, Daisy, I think you do. Rita must have planned how they were going to go…’ She let the end of the sentence hang in the air, but Daisy said nothing.

‘Did you know that Rita’s mother had just had another baby?’ Emily Vanstone tried a different tack. Daisy didn’t answer.

‘Come on, Daisy, I’m sure she told you that. You were her friend.’

Daisy nodded.

‘And because you’re her friend you don’t want to tell on her now, do you?’

Daisy shook her head and Miss Vanstone smiled. ‘So, you do know what she planned.’

‘She didn’t tell me,’ Daisy maintained, ‘but I ’spect she went home to her mum.’

‘Thank you, Daisy,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘You can go and have your tea now.’

When the girl had left the room Emily Vanstone leaned back in her chair and considered her options. She didn’t want to report the children missing to the police, not yet. She would ring May Hopkins and send her round to see if the girls had gone home.

Indeed, thought Miss Vanstone, I’ll send her in my car and she can bring them straight back without any fuss. She reached for the telephone.

Within an hour Miss Hopkins returned to Laurel House with the two runaways, and brought them straight into Miss Vanstone’s office. Both children were clearly upset. Rita, white-faced and tear-streaked, stood mute, as Miss Hopkins described how she had found them. Rosie was still whimpering, crying for her mother.

‘Thank you, Miss Hopkins,’ said Miss Vanstone, when the Children’s Officer had finished. ‘My driver will take you home.’ She looked across at the two miserable children. ‘I’ll look after them now.’

Miss Hopkins turned towards the door, but was unable to leave the children without saying, ‘You’re very naughty girls. I’m sure you’ll be severely punished.’

Miss Vanstone waited for the door to close behind her before saying, ‘She’s right, you know. It was naughty to run away like that. Everyone’s been so worried about you.’ She looked across at Rita. ‘You shouldn’t have taken your sister out of school, Rita. It wasn’t safe to wander about in the streets like that. Thank goodness the policeman found you.’

Rita said nothing. Rosie murmured, ‘I want Mummy.’

‘Have you nothing to say for yourself, Rita?’

Rita was certain that nothing she said would make any difference, but she answered. ‘Rosie wet her bed, and they made her stand on her stool with the wet sheet over her head.’

‘I see,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘And what about you? What were you punished for?’

‘Rosie was frightened. I just went into her dorm to sleep. We’ve always slept together. We was asleep in bed, that’s all.’ She did not tell this frightening lady about the Hawk and the beating. She wouldn’t believe her any more than the pig-faced woman had.

‘I see,’ said Miss Vanstone again. ‘Well, things are different at Laurel House, Rita. We don’t allow that sort of thing.’ She turned her attention back to Rosie. ‘You can stop that moaning, young lady,’ she said. ‘Your mother isn’t here and isn’t going to be. She has sent you here to be looked after, and this is where you’ll stay. We’ll have no more of this nonsense. No more wet beds, no more sleeping with Rita. You’re a big girl now. Laurel House is where you live, and you’d both better get used to it.’ She paused and looked at the two children standing in front of her. ‘Now, go to your dormitories and go to bed. I want to hear no more of you. Tomorrow you’ll start afresh.’

‘I’m hungry,’ whimpered Rosie.

‘You’ll be even hungrier by breakfast,’ retorted Miss Vanstone. ‘Now off you go, and I don’t want to see either of you in here again.’

When the door had closed behind them, Miss Vanstone sat back in her chair and considered what had happened. Mrs Hawkins was right, Rita Stevens could make trouble. The problem is, she thought, that they’re really living too close to their mother, and suppose the mother changed her mind too? She rang the bell and sent for Mrs Hawkins.

‘You were right about Rita being difficult,’ she agreed, ‘so we’ll have to do something about them both, and quickly, before she causes any more trouble. I think we’ll send them in the group going to Carrabunna.’ She looked up at Mrs Hawkins. ‘It’ll get them out of your hair. I’ll get the documentation sorted out. You can organize their passports. In the meantime, please watch them extremely carefully. We don’t want a repeat performance of this, it gives the home a bad name. I gather the police were involved.’

‘Just one policeman,’ Mrs Hawkins assured her. ‘He found them wandering about and took them home.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Vanstone, ‘if anyone from the police does come round, please ensure you refer him to me.’

‘Yes, indeed, Miss Vanstone.’ The superintendent was relieved. She had no wish to be interviewed by the police about any punishment that she had meted out to Rita. ‘I’ll get on to their passports straight away.’

13

Lily Sharples sat on a chair in the hospital dayroom, waiting to go home. The plaster was off her leg, her hair was beginning to cover the puckered scar on her head, and the recurring headaches came less often.

‘I can’t wait to get home,’ she told Nurse Marsh. ‘Nothing like being in your own home, is there?’

‘No,’ the nurse agreed, ‘but is there anyone there to help you?’

‘Not living in, no,’ said Lily, ‘but my daughter’ll come over every day to see I’m all right.’ She gave the nurse a conspiratorial smile. ‘I told the almoner she’d be there, so you don’t have to worry.’

‘So, really, you’re going to be on your own,’ Nurse Marsh said sternly.

‘Well, some of the time,’ admitted Lily.

‘Will you be able to cope? Your plaster is off, but you’re still on crutches.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ asserted Lily. ‘My neighbour’s been in and put my bed down in the front room, so I don’t have to do stairs yet, and when my granddaughters move back in they can be my legs, can’t they?’

‘Your granddaughters?’

‘Yes, Rita and Rosie. They live with me, you see.’

‘Do they now?’ Nurse Marsh was pretty sure Lily hadn’t mentioned granddaughters to the almoner either.

‘And my daughter’s had a baby since I come in here,’ Lily said. ‘I haven’t seen him yet. She didn’t want to bring him into the hospital in case of infection.’

That’s what Anne Baillie had told her when she’d visited and told her she had a grandson. It was Anne who had been her most regular visitor. Carrie had come in once and told her that she had been looking after the girls until Mavis got back from her honeymoon, but she didn’t come again. Anne came often, and it was Fred and their son, Martin, who’d moved her bed downstairs. It was Fred, she knew, who had come to her aid after the accident, and today he was coming in his van to collect her and take her back home.

‘You’ve both been very good to me,’ Lily had said, touched at their thoughtfulness.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Anne had chided gently. ‘What else are neighbours for?’

‘Well,’ said Nurse Marsh, looking at the determined woman sitting in the chair waiting, ‘don’t you overdo it, Mrs Sharples, or you’ll find yourself back in here.’

‘I won’t,’ promised Lily. ‘I’ll take it steady, and get back to normal gradually.’

Fred arrived then, peering in through the door of the dayroom.

‘Ah, there you are, Lily,’ he said. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

Lily beamed at him. ‘Thank you, Fred. I’m ready.’ She got to her feet a little unsteadily and, grasping firmly hold of her crutches, walked slowly across the room. At the door she turned back and smiled at the nurse. ‘Thank you for everything, nurse. You’ve all been so kind. Please thank all the others, too.’

‘You make sure she doesn’t do too much too soon,’ the nurse warned Fred as he picked up Lily’s bag. ‘She’s a lady with a mind of her own.’

‘Don’t you worry, nurse,’ he replied, ‘my wife’ll keep an eye on her. She’s only round the corner.’

Ten minutes later they drew up outside the house in Hampton Road where Anne was waiting.

‘Welcome home, Lily,’ cried Anne. ‘I’ve got the kettle on.’

‘Thank you, Anne, just what I need.’ Lily struggled into the house and headed straight for the kitchen, its warm familiarity calming her.

Anne made the tea and all three of them sat round the table drinking it.

‘I got some food in for you,’ she said, ‘just to keep you going until Mavis can do a proper shop.’

‘Thank you, Anne, you’ve thought of everything.’ Lily took a sip of her tea. ‘Mavis knows I’m coming home today, don’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Anne said cautiously, ‘I did tell her.’

‘Then they’ll be round later,’ Lily said. ‘I can’t wait to see the girls, and of course the new baby. Richard, you told me. Lovely. Named for his granddad.’

Once they’d seen Lily safely settled into the house, had shown her the front room bedroom, and made sure she had everything she needed to hand, the Baillies left her alone.

‘Soon as you can manage them stairs again, Lily,’ Fred said as they stood at the front door, ‘Martin and me’ll move your bed back upstairs for you.’

They’ve all been so kind, Lily thought as she closed the door behind them. She moved slowly back to the kitchen, remembering to sit in an upright chair as they’d told her in the hospital. The house was very quiet and she sat still, relishing the peace after the busyness of the ward. She’d missed Rita and Rosie dreadfully while she’d been in hospital. She’d imagined them getting to know their new little brother, helping Mavis to look after him, with Rita learning to change him and give him a bath. Surely they’ll be round later and, in the meantime, perhaps she’d have a little rest on the bed. Take it steady, the nurse said.

She was awoken an hour later by the shrill of the front doorbell. Slowly she got to her feet and, grabbing her crutches, went to open the door. It was Mavis.

‘Mum,’ she cried, lifting the baby from the pram and holding him out in front of her, almost as if he were a shield, ‘meet your new grandson, meet Richard.’

Lily looked at the bundle in Mavis’s arms. ‘Oh Mavis, he’s beautiful. Come on in and let me see him properly.’ She turned, awkwardly making her way back to the kitchen, and Mavis followed her.

Once she was sitting down, Lily took the baby, holding him close, pressing her cheek to the softness of his dark hair. She looked up again at her daughter. ‘He’s beautiful, love,’ she said again, ‘and the image of you when you was a baby.’

Mavis gave a half laugh. ‘Think so? Jimmy thinks he looks like him.’

‘Well, a bit of both of you,’ Lily said diplomatically. ‘Where’s the girls? I can’t wait to see them. I thought they’d come with you.’

‘I’ll make some tea, shall I?’ suggested Mavis, reaching for the kettle.

Lily, however, was not to be diverted. ‘Where’s Rita and Rosie?’ she asked again. ‘It’s Saturday and they ain’t at school.’

‘No,’ agreed Mavis. ‘Look, Mum, let me make the tea and I’ll tell you all about them. Richard needs a feed, d’you want to give him his bottle?’

Lily smiled. ‘It’s a long time since I did that, not since Rosie was a baby.’ She watched as Mavis made tea and warmed Richard’s bottle, all the while cuddling the warm bundle that was Richard close against her. When the tea had at last been poured, and Richard was sucking hungrily at his milk, Lily said, ‘Well, come on Mavis, tell me about the girls.’

‘When you was run over, Mum, and I was on my honeymoon, Carrie took them in and minded them. They didn’t have no address for us, see?’

‘Yes, I know all that, she told me.’

‘Then when we got home again they come back to Ship Street. You can guess Jimmy weren’t too pleased.’

Lily said nothing, simply nodded.

‘Anyway, then my waters broke and when the midwife come she said the baby was breach and I had to go to the hospital. So Jimmy got an ambulance.’ Mavis sighed and for a moment lapsed into silence.

‘And the girls?’

‘The girls went back to Carrie’s for the night.’

‘They ain’t still there?’ asked Lily, surprised.

‘No, course not. But I was in the hospital and Jimmy couldn’t look after them, could he? I mean… well, he had to go to work. We need his pay packet, don’t we?’

‘You didn’t let them come home to an empty house after school, did you?’

‘No, course not,’ said Mavis, and latching on to this as a reason for what she had done she added, ‘I wanted them looked after proper, didn’t I? Couldn’t ask Carrie to have them every day, could I? And when Jimmy got home from work he was coming to see me in the hospital.’

‘So?’ Lily’s voice was dangerously low. ‘So what did you do, Mavis?’

But she knew. Before Mavis, still blustering, admitted that she’d put the children into the council’s care, Lily knew and she grew cold. ‘You put them in an ’ome, didn’t you?’

‘Mum, don’t look like that,’ begged Mavis. ‘What else could I do? I couldn’t expect Carrie to have them that long, Jimmy was working and you was in the hospital…’

‘But it’d have only been till you was out of hospital,’ said Lily. ‘How long was you in there? Ten days?’

‘Two weeks, Mum, because Richard—’

‘Two weeks,’ Lily interrupted her. ‘Two weeks and then you were home to look after them yourself. Couldn’t Carrie have had them just for that two weeks?’

‘I couldn’t ask, Mum. She’d already had them for nearly a week. They was sleeping on Maggie’s bedroom floor.’

‘They could have gone to her till Jimmy got home and then slept in their own beds.’ Lily sounded desperate. Surely something could have been arranged.

‘Mum—’

‘So you put them in an ’ome,’ said Lily flatly. ‘Your own kids. You let that Jimmy persuade you.’ She looked up at her daughter with bleak eyes. ‘And when you did come out the hospital? What then? Why didn’t you fetch them home?’

‘I couldn’t, Mum, not right away. Richard’s a colicky baby. I weren’t getting any sleep and the house was getting on top of me. Jimmy was out all day and of course he was tired when he come home at night. It’s heavy work labouring on a site. I couldn’t have the girls there too, it was too much.’

‘It’d have only been till I got home again,’ Lily cried. ‘Just a few weeks.’

‘We didn’t know that, Mum,’ whined Mavis. ‘We didn’t know if you’d be well enough to have them back.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ demanded Lily. ‘I ain’t old, you know.’

‘You’d had a bang on the head, you might have been left a bit funny.’

‘Gaga, you mean? Spit it out, Mavis. Let’s not mince matters. Well, I might have been, but I ain’t and you didn’t bother to wait and find out. You simply shunted them off into an ’ome. And now they’ve gone, Jimmy ain’t going to have them back, is he?’ Still cuddling the baby, who had now finished his bottle and fallen asleep in her arms, she stared into space. Her beloved Rita and Rosie were in a home somewhere thinking that nobody wanted them. ‘Who took them there?’ she asked. ‘Did Jimmy take them? Did he pretend they could come home again soon?’

Mavis couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes. She shook her head. ‘The woman from the council took them,’ she whispered. ‘She went round the school and took ’em from there.’

‘And that Miss Hassinger let her?’ Lily was outraged. ‘Surely she could’ve stopped her.’

‘The woman, Miss Hopkins, had all the papers,’ Mavis said. ‘Miss Hassinger couldn’t have done nothing.’

‘And you’d signed these papers? You’d signed away your own kids? Your own flesh and blood? Oh, Mavis, how could you?’

‘I had to,’ sobbed Mavis, the tears which had been filling her eyes now flooding down her cheeks. ‘I had to, Mum, what else could I do? At least they’re looked after properly there, and that Miss Hopkins said it wasn’t true when Rita said she’d been beaten—’

‘Rita said she’d been beaten?’ broke in Lily. ‘You’ve been to see her then?’

‘No,’ admitted Mavis, realizing she’d let slip too much. ‘No, she brought Rosie home… to see Richard.’

‘Brought Rosie home?’ echoed Lily incredulously. ‘They let her bring Rosie home, by herself?’

‘No. They’d run away. Rita took Rosie out from school and a copper brought them home.’

‘A copper did?’ Lily stared at her for a long minute. ‘Come on, Mavis, spit it out. Tell me what happened. Rita said she’d been beaten?’

‘That’s Reet just making up her stories again,’ sniffed Mavis, dabbing her tears. ‘That Miss Hopkins said they don’t beat the girls there.’

Don’t they? wondered Lily to herself. I think I know who I’d rather believe. But she simply said, ‘So, they come home…’

‘And that Miss Hopkins come round in a car and picked them up again. That’s all.’

‘And you let her? You let her take them?’

‘I couldn’t stop her, Mum,’ whined Mavis, the tears continuing to flow. ‘How could I stop her? She had the papers, she had the right—’

‘Only ’cos you’d signed the bleedin’ papers,’ snapped her mother. ‘I don’t know what you’re crying for, Mavis, it’s your fault, and no one else’s.’ Lily held the baby out to his mother and continued, ‘Well, all I can say is I hope you look after this one better than you’ve done with the girls. Now, where are they?’

Mavis took the proffered baby and hugged him close. ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered.

‘Don’t know!’ Lily’s voice was almost a shriek. ‘What d’you mean you don’t know?’

‘Miss Hopkins didn’t say.’

‘But it must have been on the papers or something.’

Mavis did know, but before coming today, Jimmy had given her a sound talking to.

‘Now don’t you go telling that interfering mother of yours where them girls have gone or she’ll be round the ’ome sticking her oar in where it ain’t wanted and causing us more grief.’ He grabbed Mavis by the shoulders and shook her hard. ‘You understand, Mav? If you tell that old cow where them girls are, I won’t be answerable for the consequences, right?’

‘I won’t tell,’ promised Mavis, and now, even with her mother’s eyes boring into her, she didn’t.

‘She didn’t say,’ she said, ‘and I was in a right state, wasn’t I? I didn’t ask.’

‘And what sort of state was the children in, I wonder,’ said Lily bitterly, but she didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t get one. She looked up at Mavis who was now cradling Richard just as she had once cradled Rita and then Rosie.

‘I think you’d better go home,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear the sight of you just now.’

‘But Mum, I—’

‘Go home, Mavis. Go back to Jimmy. You deserve him.’

‘Mum, that’s not fair—’ began Mavis, but Lily cut her off.

‘Fair? What d’you mean fair?’

‘Jimmy’s Richard’s dad…’

‘Indeed he is,’ said Lily wearily. ‘I just pray there isn’t an ounce of that man in him, precious babe.’ She raised her eyes to her daughter once more. ‘Go home, Mavis, and look after Richard, he’s going to need you.’ She turned away and stared steadfastly out of the window until Mavis had finally left. It was then, and only then, that Lily gave way to her emotions and allowed her pent-up tears to course down her cheeks, the sobs racking her body until she could cry no more.

She was completely drained, and as she sat in her kitchen, utterly exhausted, she allowed herself to wonder if she could indeed cope alone. There’d be no Mavis to help now.

‘Pull yourself together, woman,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve no alternative. Get yourself going. You’re going to find those girls, wherever they are, and bring them home, where they belong.’

14

It was a struggle. For the next few days Lily shuffled her way from her bed in the front room to her chair in the kitchen. Balancing on her crutches she made tea and toast, and opened tins from her meagre store. She leaned against the sink and washed the dishes and she listened to the wireless for company. She was delighted to be in her own home again. However, by the time the next weekend was approaching, she knew she was going to have to get out of the house and get some groceries in.

On Saturday morning she got dressed, a performance in itself, and, opening the front door, she stepped out into the street. She was far better at manoeuvring herself on her crutches by now and she made slow but steady progress along the pavement to the Baillies’ shop.

Fred heard the bell ring announcing a customer and, looking up, saw Lily at the door. He hurried round from behind the counter and immediately set a chair for her.

‘Lily,’ he cried. ‘Surely you shouldn’t be struggling out and about on your crutches like this? Where’s Mavis? She hasn’t left you to do your own shopping, has she?’

Grateful for the seat and catching her breath after the effort of walking the few hundred yards from her house, Lily smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Fred, I need to rest my pins.’

‘Should you be out on them crutches so soon?’ asked Anne, appearing from the back.

‘I wanted to thank you again for all you’ve done for me,’ replied Lily. ‘And I just popped in for a couple of things to keep me going over the weekend, just till Mavis can come round and do me a proper list.’

‘I expect she’s busy with the baby,’ Anne said and Lily agreed that she was.

‘Well, you just tell me what you need,’ Fred said, ‘and I’ll get Martin to deliver it.’ Lily sat on the chair and Fred packed all the things she asked for into a cardboard box, ready for his son to deliver later. Since it was all going to be brought home for her, Lily stocked up her cupboard, handing over her coupons to Fred.

‘You let me know when you want anything else,’ he told her as she hobbled out of the shop. ‘Anne’ll pop in after the weekend and see what you need.’

By the time Lily closed her front door behind her and shuffled to her chair, she was exhausted, but triumphant. She’d done it! She’d gone out of the house by herself and got to the corner shop. Next time she’d go a little further, and by the end of next week, when she was off her crutches, she would be ready to walk to the bus, and she could begin the search for her granddaughters.

She didn’t see Mavis in the days that followed and she wasn’t really surprised. She’d been hard on her, she knew, but the thought of what Rita and Rosie must be going through still made her angry. How could Mavis have done it? In her heart of hearts, she knew the answer. Jimmy had made her, and Mavis was afraid of Jimmy. If Lily were honest she was afraid of Jimmy too, but she was determined to find her granddaughters, and if that meant braving a confrontation with Jimmy, then so be it. Lily began to make her plans. When she only needed a stick, she would go round to Ship Street, on the pretext of visiting the baby.

Not just a pretext really, she thought, I’d love to have another cuddle with Richard.

The following Saturday, when Lily could limp along with only a walking stick, she made her way slowly to Ship Street, arriving late morning and hoping Jimmy would be in the Lion for his lunchtime pint. When Mavis saw who was on her step, her face hardened, and she barred the way, greeting her mother with a gruff, ‘What do you want?’

Lily forced a smile to her lips and said calmly, ‘I’ve come to see how Richard’s doing. Haven’t seen him for two weeks, have I? And they change so quickly at this age.’

‘He’s all right,’ began Mavis, but was interrupted by a shout from inside the house.

‘Who is it, Mav?’

Jimmy had not yet left for the pub. He appeared behind Mavis and, seeing Lily outside on the step, growled, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? What the hell do you want?’

‘I came to see how Richard was doing,’ Lily replied. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Suit yourself,’ he answered, pushing past both the women. ‘I’m going out, but if you start interfering in our business again,’ he warned Lily, ‘it’ll be the last time you come into my house.’

They watched him stride away and then Mavis stood reluctantly aside. ‘You better come in,’ she said.

Richard was in his pram in the front room. ‘I’d rather have him in the kitchen with me,’ Mavis said as they both looked down at the sleeping baby, ‘but Jimmy says there ain’t room, and I s’pose he’s right.’

‘Well, he’s gone out,’ pointed out Lily, ‘so, we could wheel him in there now.’

But Mavis shook her head. ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘Never know when he’s coming back, do we? We’ll leave the door open, that’s what I do when I’m on my own. Jimmy don’t like him crying, see, so most of the time I keep the door shut.’ She smiled down at the baby, the first time Lily had seen the light of love in her daughter’s eyes, and said, ‘Poor little mite. He gets colic something dreadful. Little knees pulled up against his chest.’

‘Are you getting any sleep?’ asked her mother.

‘Not much,’ admitted Mavis. ‘He’s often fretful in the night, so I get up to him a lot. Don’t want him to wake his dad, do I?’

‘Isn’t his cot in with you, then?’

‘No, he’s in the girls’ room.’

Mention of the girls brought a sudden, uneasy silence between them. Lily decided to grasp the nettle. ‘You ain’t going to have them back, are you?’ she said quietly. ‘Not ever.’

‘I can’t,’ Mavis’s voice broke on a sob. ‘Jimmy won’t have them here.’ She looked across at her mother with agonized eyes. ‘I’ve lost them, Mum. They’ve gone.’

Lily reached over and gripped her daughter’s hands. ‘No, Mavis,’ she said, ‘you haven’t. We’ll find them, get them back. They can come and live with me, like before. Jimmy didn’t mind that, did he?’

‘He didn’t like it, and now he don’t want them anywhere near.’

‘But where are they, Mavis? You must know.’

Mavis didn’t answer, simply picked up Richard and began to feed him.

‘Where are they, Mavis?’ Lily asked again.

‘I don’t know,’ muttered Mavis.

‘You must do,’ said Lily, gently. ‘You must know where they are.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘But you signed the papers, they must have named the place, didn’t you read them?’

‘Jimmy filled them in, I just signed, all right!’ Mavis finally looked over at her mother. ‘Leave me alone. If Jimmy hears you’re looking for them I don’t know what he’ll do!’

‘He can’t stop me looking,’ Lily said, ‘and nor can you. I must have some rights as their grandmother—’

‘No you fucking don’t!’ came a growl from the door. Both women spun round to find Jimmy standing in the doorway. ‘It ain’t nothing to do with you, and I told you not to interfere. That’s why I come back. I knew you’d be fucking interfering again.’ He advanced across the room and, towering over Lily, said menacingly, ‘and if I find you here again in my house, it’ll be the worst for you. Understand, do yer? Get it?’

It took all Lily’s courage not to flinch away from him as he stood glowering down at her.

‘What I understand, Jimmy Randall, is that you’re a bully, and them girls is a damn sight safer away from a vicious brute like you.’ She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her stick, but coming upright so they were face to face.

Jimmy shoved his face, now mottled with rage, into hers. ‘Get out,’ he almost spat at her. ‘Get out of this house and don’t never come back.’

Mavis watched this exchange with horror, believing that Jimmy was about to attack her mother. The bottle fell from Richard’s mouth and he began to wail, his cries quickly increasing in intensity and volume.

Jimmy spun round on Mavis, shouting, ‘Shut that baby up! I can’t stand that caterwauling.’

Without a word Mavis gathered up baby and bottle and rushed out of the room. Lily heard her footsteps on the stairs and then the closing of a door. The wails diminished and then suddenly stopped. Mavis must have given him the bottle again.

Lily grasped her stick, almost as if it were a defensive weapon, and turned to Jimmy. ‘Where’s my granddaughters, Jimmy? Where’s Rita and Rosie?’

‘Gone,’ he said and smiled. ‘Gone for good, and good riddance.’

Lily tried once more. ‘But they could live with me, Jimmy. They wouldn’t have to come and live here.’ She tried to sound conciliatory. ‘I can see that wouldn’t work, but if they lived with me, Mavis could still see them. She loves her kids and they love her. They need her… and she needs them.’

‘She don’t need them no more,’ retorted Jimmy. ‘She’s got us now, me and young Rick. That’s all she needs. She don’t need them girls and she certainly don’t need you, coming in here and meddling. So get out, now, before I throw you out and you end up back in the hospital.’

When Lily reached home again she sank exhausted onto her bed. Her body felt heavy, her legs ached from the unaccustomed exercise, and her mind was numb.

How on earth was she going to rescue Mavis and Richard from the monster they lived with, let alone find Rita and Rosie and bring them home? She lay, bone-weary, on the bed for several hours. She did not sleep, simply replayed the scenes in the Ship Street kitchen over and over in her head. Mavis was terrified of Jimmy, not only for her own sake, but for Richard’s too. Jimmy, always on a short fuse, couldn’t bear the sound of a crying baby. If Mavis couldn’t keep Richard away from his father when he cried, how long would it be before Jimmy tried to stop Richard crying himself?

Eventually Lily bestirred herself and went into the kitchen. She opened a tin of soup and made a cheese sandwich. The food revived her spirits a little, and as she sat drinking a cup of tea after her meal, she began to plan her next move. For despite Jimmy Randall’s threats, Lily was still determined to find the girls and bring them home to live with her in Hampton Road.

On Monday morning she set off to the council offices to see the Children’s Officer. She had been involved in the placing of the girls, had been the one who took them from school, so she would know where they were. Leaning heavily on her stick she climbed the council office steps and pushed open the door. From the reception desk in the entrance hall, she was directed up the stairs to room 21 on the second floor. There were several women sitting in the tiny waiting room, and all of them looked up as Lily came in. She looked about her and then went to the hatch and tapped on the glass.

The window slid open and a pale, pinch-faced woman peered out at her. ‘Yes?’

‘I would like to see the Children’s Officer, please,’ said Lily.

‘Have you got an appointment?’

‘No, but…’

‘I’ll make you an appointment.’ The woman reached for a desk diary.

‘I don’t need an appointment,’ Lily said. ‘I only want to ask her one question, in fact you may be able to help me.’

‘I’m only secretarial,’ replied the woman. ‘I can’t tell you anything.’ She glanced down at the open diary. ‘Miss Hopkins has got meetings for the rest of today and tomorrow, but she could see you on Wednesday. 11.30, all right?’

‘But you may have the information I need,’ Lily tried again.

‘I doubt it,’ replied the woman, ‘but I couldn’t give it you anyway. Name?’

‘Name?’

The woman sighed. ‘Your name, so’s I can write you in the diary. 11.30, Wednesday. Half hour appointment.’

‘Half an hour? I don’t think I’ll need that long.’

‘Name.’

Lily gave her name, and the woman put it in the diary, then snapped the window shut.

Lily arrived early for the appointment on Wednesday. Though she was walking better every day, she was still slow on her feet, and she was determined not to be late and miss her allotted time. The waiting room was empty, but even so it was well after half-past eleven before Lily was summoned into Miss Hopkins’s office.

The Children’s Officer waved her to a chair. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Sorry to keep you. What can I do for you…’ She glanced down at a piece of paper in front of her. ‘…Mrs Sharples?’

‘I’ve come to find out where my granddaughters are,’ Lily said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ve come to find out where you’ve took my granddaughters to.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sharples, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ll have to explain. Who are your granddaughters?’

‘Rita and Rosie Stevens,’ replied Lily. ‘Their mum had them took into care while she had her baby, and I was in the hospital after an accident and couldn’t have them, but I’m fine now, so they can come back to me as they was before.’

Miss Hopkins’ face twitched at the names, but she simply said, ‘I’m sorry, but that was a bit difficult to follow. Your granddaughters are Rita and Rosie Stevens?’

‘Yes, I said.’

‘And their mother has put them into care?’

‘Yes, and now I’m out of the hospital I want them back. They was living with me, before, you see.’

‘Before…?’

‘Before I got knocked down. And then their mum had to go into the maternity to have the baby, ’cos he was breach, see, so they got put into care. But now I want them back.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mrs Sharples,’ said Miss Hopkins smoothly. ‘You see they have been signed into our care by their mother. She gave up her rights as their mother when she did that. They have been placed in suitable accommodation by the Children’s Committee, and that is where they are now, awaiting probable adoption.’

‘Adoption!’ Lily sagged back against the chair. ‘But they don’t need to be adopted, they’ve got me. I can look after them better’an anyone. I’m their gran. They love me and I love them!’

‘I’m sure you do,’ agreed Miss Hopkins, ‘and as you do, you’ll want what’s best for them. I believe they were at some risk from their stepfather. Their mother was anxious to get them right away.’

‘Jimmy Randall,’ exploded Lily. ‘My Mavis is scared of him.’

‘Then they are almost certainly better off where they are, well looked after, with everything they need.’

‘But can’t I see them?’ asked Lily.

‘No, I’m afraid not. They’re settled now, and seeing you would only unsettle them again.’

‘How d’you know they’re settled?’ demanded Lily. ‘They ran away and come home not long ago. Someone took them back. Was that you?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sharples, I’m not prepared to discuss this case any further with you. All such cases are confidential.’

‘So you ain’t going to tell me where they are, then?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Not even so’s I can write to them, to let them know they ain’t forgotten?’

‘No. It would not be appropriate. Now if there’s nothing more…’ She got to her feet to indicate that the interview was over. For a long moment Lily sat where she was, defeated.

‘Mrs Sharples, I do have other people to see,’ said Miss Hopkins, and so Lily stood up and walked to the door.

‘I expect you haven’t got children,’ she said, turning back to the woman behind the desk.

‘I am unmarried,’ replied Miss Hopkins thinly.

‘Yes, well, that don’t surprise me,’ remarked Lily. ‘Good thing too, if you ask me. I wouldn’t wish you as a mother on any child.’

That evening Lily sat in her kitchen, going over and over the meeting with Miss Hopkins. It seemed as if there was nothing further she could do to discover the whereabouts of the children. Jimmy wasn’t going to tell her and nor was Mavis. Perhaps she really didn’t know. They’d been taken from school, picked up without any warning, probably by that dreadful woman she’d met today. Armed with the papers Mavis had signed, poor Miss Hassinger wouldn’t have been able to prevent it. Then it struck her. Miss Hassinger; Miss Hassinger might know. In the morning she’d go to Capel Street Elementary and see if Miss Hassinger could help her.

The girls were happy here, she thought as she waited to see the headmistress.

‘Mrs Sharples?’ Miss Hassinger’s voice broke into her reveries and Lily got to her feet. ‘I’m so glad to see you out and about again,’ said the headmistress as she ushered Lily into her office. ‘We heard all about your accident, it sounded dreadful. Do please sit down.’ She pulled a chair out for Lily and then seated herself opposite. ‘Well now,’ she said, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘It’s good of you to see me,’ began Lily. ‘The thing is, Miss Hassinger, well, the thing is, I wanted to ask you something.’

‘I see,’ said Miss Hassinger, smiling reassuringly, ‘and what was that?’

‘You know our Rita and Rosie was taken into care while Mavis was in the hospital having the baby.’

Miss Hassinger’s smile faded. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I know all about that.’

‘Do you? Do you really?’ Lily’s heart leaped. ‘Do you know where they was took to?’ She looked across the desk and said, anguish in her voice, ‘I can’t find them, miss. I don’t know where they are.’

‘Surely Mavis knows.’

‘Well, if she does she ain’t saying. Her new husband don’t want them in the house, and that’s all there is to it. Mavis is scared of him, and she does what he says.’ Lily looked earnestly at Miss Hassinger. ‘All I want is to bring them back home to live with me, like before.’ Her voice trailed off as she whispered, ‘I just want to find them, that’s all.’

‘It must be very difficult for you,’ sympathized Miss Hassinger, ‘but I’m not sure how I can help.’

‘Mavis told me they was took from school,’ explained Lily. ‘She said that the welfare come here and took them away. She’d signed some papers or other, silly girl, which let them be fetched. Did you see them papers, Miss Hassinger?’

‘Yes, the Children’s Officer showed them to me.’

‘And was that a Miss Hopkins?’

‘I believe that was her name, yes.’

‘And did she let you read them, all through, like?’

Miss Hassinger nodded. ‘Yes, I read them.’

‘Didn’t it say where they was going? It must have put an address or the name of the place or something.’

Miss Hassinger thought hard, considering what to do. She knew they had been sent to Laurel House, the EVER-Care children’s home. Now she had to decide whether to tell Mrs Sharples where they were, or whether to maintain the strict confidentiality as she ought, and refuse to do so. She knew Lily Sharples of old, both as Mavis’s mother and as Rita and Rosie’s grandmother. Surely, and she was positive about this, the two little girls would be far better off living with their gran, whom it was clear they loved dearly, than in an institution.

‘I can tell you where they were taken,’ she said when she’d decided to take the risk, ‘but whether they’re still there or not, of course, I don’t know. Children in care don’t always stay in the same place, you know. The move these days is to find them a foster home, where they can become part of a family, rather than keep them in residential care. I’ll give you the name of this place, it’s called Laurel House EVER-Care home and it’s in Russell Green.’

Lily looked at the headmistress, tears of gratitude in her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ‘thank you so much.’

Miss Hassinger smiled ruefully. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you, it’s breaking confidentiality, but I’m sure you’ll forget where you heard it.’ She stood up and held her hand out to Lily. ‘Good luck, Mrs Sharples. I hope you find them and can bring them home. I look forward to having them back in my school.’

Miss Hassinger watched from her window as Lily Sharples made her way out of the school gate, still hobbling with her stick, but armed with the information she’d been able to give her.

I hope you find them, she thought, but even if you do, I doubt if you’ll get them back.

On her way home, Lily stopped at the bus station and looked at the timetables. The number 37 bus was the one she needed to get to Russell Green.

‘Russell Green! Russell Green!’ called the bus conductor, and gave Lily his hand to help her step off the bus. Once on the pavement she looked round her. It was an area of the city that she didn’t know. The bus had dropped her outside a parade of shops. Lily decided to ask in the newsagent’s. If they delivered papers in the area, they would be sure to know where Laurel House was. She pushed open the door and went in.

‘Laurel House?’ said the woman behind the counter. ‘You mean the abandoned children’s home?’

Abandoned children? The words cut through to Lily’s heart. If that’s how the place was known locally, Rita and Rosie must truly feel they’d been abandoned. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘the children’s home.’

‘That’s in Shepherd Street,’ said the newsagent.

With the directions in her hand, Lily found her way to Shepherd Street, and walked slowly along, looking at the big old Victorian houses that lined it. Halfway along she found Laurel House. The name was on the gate, as if it were a private house, like the others around it, but inside the front wall was another sign announcing it to be the EVER-Care Home for Girls.

Lily pushed open the gate walked up to the heavy front door and rang the bell. As she waited for someone to answer, she looked up at the house. Were her girls really inside this bleak, unwelcoming place? For a while it seemed that no one was going to answer the bell. She was about to ring again when she heard footsteps inside, and stepped back.

A maid opened the door. ‘Yes?’

‘Good morning,’ Lily said, surprised, all her carefully rehearsed words deserting her.

‘Did you want something?’ asked the maid.

‘Yes,’ answered Lily gathering her wits. ‘Yes, I want to see whoever’s in charge here.’

‘You mean Mrs Hawkins?’

‘If she’s the one who runs the place.’

‘You’d better come in.’ The maid stood aside and Lily entered, finding herself in a large hallway. ‘If you wait there,’ the maid said, indicating a chair, ‘I’ll go and see if Mrs Hawkins can see you. What name shall I say?’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Mrs Sharples.’

It was some ten minutes before she returned to say, ‘Mrs Hawkins will be with you in a minute,’ and another five minutes before a small, dark-haired woman emerged from the corridor. She looked at Lily and said, ‘Mrs Sharples?’

‘Yes, Lily Sharples.’

‘I’m Mrs Hawkins, the superintendent of Laurel House. Perhaps you’d like to come through to my office.’

‘Now, Mrs Sharples,’ she said as she closed the door behind them, ‘how may I help you?’

‘I’ve come to find my granddaughters,’ Lily said. ‘I’ve come to find Rita and Rosie.’

‘Rita and Rosie?’ The superintendent’s voice remained calmly enquiring, but Lily caught a flash in her eyes; the woman knew them.

‘Rita and Rosie Stevens. I know they’re here, ’cos that Miss Hopkins brought them here.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sharples,’ said Mrs Hawkins, ‘I’m not sure I can help you. We never reveal the names of the children we care for to outside parties.’

‘I’m not an outside party!’ cried Lily indignantly. ‘I’m their grandmother.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Mrs Hawkins reasonably, ‘but the children here are in our care—’

‘Well, Rita and Rosie shouldn’t be,’ interrupted Lily. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They was living with me but I had an accident, and while I was in the hospital they was brought here. I’m out now, so they can come home again.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sharples,’ replied Mrs Hawkins, ‘but I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that. We’ve become their legal guardians, it is we who decide what is in their best interest. We don’t simply hand them over when someone walks in and asks for them.’

‘I understand that,’ Lily said, trying to sound as reasonable as the superintendent. ‘But I’d like to discuss it, explain, like.’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Hawkins’ lips twitched, ‘but that would mean speaking to our benefactress, Miss Vanstone. She makes the decisions with regard to the children here, I simply have the day to day care of the girls.’

‘So Rita and Rosie are here,’ said Lily.

‘I can say nothing about our children,’ Mrs Hawkins said firmly, thinking that this Mrs Sharples spelled trouble. The determined look in her eye said she wouldn’t be fobbed off. Mrs Hawkins dare not let the Stevens girls be returned to their grandmother. She had tried to break Rita Stevens’ spirit, to bring her to heel, as she’d done with other rebellious girls, but if Rita went to live with this grandmother, who seemed so like her, had the same determination in her eyes, who knew what the child would say, what stories she would tell? Mrs Hawkins wanted no report of her treatment of those in her charge escaping into the fresh air beyond the laurel hedges. She already had the passports Miss Vanstone had asked for, and soon the two girls would be safely out of reach.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘if you wish to make further enquiries, I suggest you make an appointment to see Miss Vanstone.’

‘And how do I do that?’ asked Lily.

‘I will give you a telephone number,’ replied Mrs Hawkins.

‘Isn’t she here? Can’t I speak to her now?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. But please do phone, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help if she can.’ She rang a bell on her desk, and the maid appeared.

‘Ah, Betty, kindly show this lady out, will you?’

The superintendent handed Lily a piece of paper. ‘Here is the number to ring if you wish to pursue this matter further, Mrs Sharples.’

Lily took the paper and put it in her bag. She stood up. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I certainly shall. I intend to find Rita and Rosie.’

Mrs Hawkins looked at Betty Grover standing by the door and was annoyed she’d given her the chance to overhear Mrs Sharples’ business. Mrs Hawkins considered Betty a sly little thing, so she wouldn’t give the grandmother a chance to speak to her alone.

‘That’s all right, Betty, I don’t need you after all,’ she said. ‘I’ll see this lady out. You can go back to the kitchen.’

The superintendent escorted Lily to the door, but once outside, Lily turned back. ‘I’m going to find my girls, you know,’ she said, ‘and you nor nobody else ain’t going to stop me.’

Mrs Hawkins smiled and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Sharples.’

When she had shut the front door, Mrs Hawkins went back to her office and sat down to think. Clearly the Sharples woman wasn’t going to be put off; she’d soon be on the phone to Miss Vanstone asking about the Stevens girls. Mrs Hawkins picked up the phone.

‘Will you be coming into Laurel House today?’ she asked when Emily Vanstone answered.

‘No, why?’

‘I’ve had a visitor, and we need to discuss things.’

‘I see,’ sighed Miss Vanstone. ‘Perhaps on my way into town. I have a meeting at the council offices.’

‘In that case,’ said Mrs Hawkins, ‘we definitely need to talk before you go there.’

‘Why, what’s happened? Who came to see you?’

‘A Mrs Sharples, says she’s the Stevens girls’ grandmother. I think she’s going to be trouble. She wants to see you. She’s going to ring you for an appointment.’

‘I’m far too busy to see her,’ declared Miss Vanstone. ‘I’ll instruct Miss Drake to say so. You did give her the office number, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but I doubt if she’ll accept a refusal,’ answered the superintendent. ‘If you don’t see her, I think she’ll try and take it further.’

‘There’s no further to take it,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘What did she want, anyway?’

‘She wanted them back,’ replied Mrs Hawkins.

‘Wanted them back?’

‘To live with her. Apparently they used to live with her before they came to us. Now she wants them back.’

‘Well, that’s not going to happen,’ asserted Miss Vanstone.

‘I know that,’ said Mrs Hawkins, ‘but she won’t accept that from me. She needs to hear it from you, then she may give up trying. But she looks like a trouble-maker to me.’

‘I’ll give her an appointment in a week or so,’ conceded Miss Vanstone, ‘and then it will be too late. They’ll have left for Carrabunna,’ adding, ‘I’ll deal with this from now,’ before she disconnected.

Mrs Hawkins sat back in her chair. Not my problem, she thought with relief.

Mrs Hawkins was pleased enough to be employed by the EVER-Care Trust; her salary and living quarters were reasonable and it gave her scope to exercise authority over those beneath her, but she had no feeling for the children in her care. Rita’s continued intransigence vexed her, she was not used to defiance, and though Rita now seemed subdued, there was defiance in her eyes.

Well, thought Mrs Hawkins, she’s on her way to Australia now, and she can take her defiance with her.

Emily Vanstone leaned on her desk and considered what she’d just heard. Everything was arranged for the Stevens girls to travel at the weekend, and she’d allow nothing to interfere with those plans. She rang for her secretary, Miss Drake.

‘If a Mrs Sharples rings for an appointment, please be very polite, but no appointment until Friday week, understood?’

‘Certainly, Miss Vanstone.’

We’ll have to see about this grandmother, Emily thought as she dialled the Children’s Office. When May Hopkins answered, Emily said, ‘I need some information, background information, on the Stevens girls.’

‘Oh dear,’ cried Miss Hopkins. ‘They’re not in trouble again, are they?’

‘Their grandmother has been to Laurel House looking for them,’ replied Miss Vanstone, ‘and she’ll be back. I need to know their family circumstances, exactly where they came from and why, before I see her. I need a proper report from you.’

‘Oh, I see, well, yes…’ Miss Hopkins sounded flustered. ‘Well, I must think—’

‘We have a meeting scheduled for this afternoon,’ interrupted Miss Vanstone. ‘I shall expect all the information to be available for me to take away then.’ She rang off before the Children’s Officer could reply.

When they met that afternoon Miss Hopkins handed Emily Vanstone a folder. ‘It’s all in here as far as I can remember it,’ she said. ‘The mother remarried and there was a baby on the way. They’d been living with their maternal grandmother, but she was taken into hospital. The stepfather is a violent man, we had to remove them from his care while his wife was having the baby.’

‘They’d have been at risk if they’d stayed with him?’

‘Oh yes, almost certainly,’ replied Miss Hopkins, and seeing that her answer pleased Miss Vanstone, she added, ‘Nasty piece of work he is.’

‘I see. And when you went to fetch them, after they’d run away, was the grandmother there then?’

‘Oh no, I only met her for the first time the other day.’

‘You met her?’ Miss Vanstone raised an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t mention it.’

Miss Hopkins flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Vanstone, I didn’t know it was important. She came in here demanding to know where her granddaughters were.’

‘And you told her.’

‘No, of course not. I refused to tell her anything and she left.’

‘I wonder how she found out,’ Miss Vanstone mused. ‘Well, it’s clear she’s not going to drop the matter. Now that I understand the background, I can deal with her. Now, where’s everyone else? I thought this was a meeting of the Children’s Committee.’

‘It will be, I just wanted to brief you first.’ Miss Hopkins sounded more confident. ‘There’s a directive come down from the government encouraging fostering children in families. This means there will be fewer children coming through the system to you. I’ll do what I can, of course, Miss Vanstone. I have great faith in institutions like Laurel House. But,’ she gave a small shrug, ‘we are now obliged to consider family foster care first.’

‘I see.’ Emily Vanstone’s expression did not change.

‘And the thing is, well, if we do continue to send children to you, the home will have to have regular inspections.’

‘And you think we’d fail these inspections?’

‘It’ll be a question of staff qualifications, and well, none of your staff are properly qualified, are they?’ She took her courage in her hands and went on, ‘Mrs Hawkins, for example. She has great experience, I know, but I think she can be hard on the girls. That Rita Stevens accused her of beating her… with a belt. All lies, of course, but she did make the accusation in front of a policeman…’ She let her words hang in the air. When Miss Vanstone made no comment, she said, ‘If he follows it up… if it came out that I and the Children’s Committee knew of such accusations and did nothing about them… well, it could prove extremely difficult for me. I’m sure you understand.’

Still faced with Miss Vanstone’s silence, May Hopkins lapsed into a silence of her own. For a long moment they sat there, and then Miss Vanstone got to her feet.

‘I don’t think you need to worry about Rita Stevens and her accusations,’ she said. ‘She won’t be with us beyond the end of the week. Please give my apologies to the Committee, I shan’t be attending the meeting today. Good afternoon, Miss Hopkins.’

That evening Emily Vanstone called a staff meeting at Laurel House.

‘Ten girls will be leaving for Carrabunna on Sunday,’ she said. ‘Sheila Nevin, Angela Gardner, Dora French, Mary Shannon, Joan Cameron, Daisy Smart, Rita and Rose Stevens, Sylvia Brown and Susan Hart.’

‘Sheila’s a bit old, isn’t she?’ asked Mrs Smith.

Miss Vanstone looked surprised at her intervention. ‘I have my reasons for sending Sheila,’ she said, but gave no further explanation. None of the other staff commented on the children who had been chosen. Few ever queried Miss Vanstone’s decisions. If anyone thought that Rosie, Sylvia and Susan, all aged five, were a little young to be sent to the other side of the world, she didn’t say so.

‘I also wanted to warn you that a woman called Mrs Sharples has been nosing her way round here. She’s the Stevens girls’ grandmother. If she should approach any of you, please refer her to me. Do not mention Australia or get into discussion with her about Rita and Rose. They are not her concern.

‘Now then, the usual preparations will have to be made, but I will tell the girls myself on Friday evening. Until then there is no need to mention their departure to any of them. Any questions? Everybody understand?’

There were murmurs of assent, they all understood. The children concerned would only be told what was happening after they had finished school on Friday and by Monday they would have gone. Their schools would have no more warning than the children. The meeting broke up. As they were leaving the office, Miss Vanstone called Mrs Hawkins back.

‘There have been accusations about your treatment of some of the girls,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to enquire into those, discipline is something for you.’ She gave her superintendent a hard stare. ‘But in future I advise you to be a little more circumspect in how you discipline these girls. From now on Laurel House will be inspected on a regular basis, and I will not have the whole project put at risk by… shall we say, overzealous disciplinary measures. Should that happen, I should have to seek a new superintendent. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone,’ murmured Mrs Hawkins.

‘Good. Now, make sure all those going have the usual sets of clothes ready, and a decent pair of shoes each, and I’ll authorize the expenditure. Good evening to you.’

15

The children had almost no notice of their departure for Australia. Rita and the other Purples were laying the tables on Friday evening, when they were summoned to Miss Vanstone’s office.

‘Just leave that,’ said Ole Smithy brusquely, ‘and get along to the office, sharp as you like.’

‘What on earth have we done now?’ wondered Rita as she and Daisy headed along the corridor.

Daisy shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but you can bet it ain’t nothing good.’

At that moment Sheila Nevin appeared, dragging an unwilling Rosie along behind her.

‘Here, what are you doing with my sister?’ Rita demanded.

‘Nothing,’ glowered Sheila, ‘just sent to fetch her, that’s all. Got to take her and these,’ she jerked her thumb at Sylvia and Susan trailing behind, ‘to Miss Vanstone’s office.’

‘Let go of her,’ Rita said fiercely, adding more gently, ‘Come here, Rosie, you can come along with me, we got to go too.’

‘I didn’t want to come with her, Reet,’ whispered Rosie, ‘she hurt me.’

‘Never mind that now, Rosie,’ Rita said taking her hand, ‘we got to go to the office.’

‘Why, Reet?’ asked Rosie, following willingly now.

‘Don’t know, do I? Going to find out.’

When they reached the office door, Sheila stepped forward and knocked.

‘Come in.’

Sheila turned the handle and they crowded into the small office. Miss Vanstone was sitting behind her desk where they’d always seen her. She looked up and smiled.

‘Ah, there you are,’ she said. ‘Close the door, Sheila. Sit down on the floor, please.’

Rosie sat close to Rita, still holding tightly to her hand and looking at Miss Vanstone with anxious eyes.

‘Now then,’ began Miss Vanstone, ‘I’ve some very exciting news for you all. You’ve all been chosen to have the adventure of a lifetime.’ She beamed round at them. ‘Look, I’ve got something to show you.’ She picked up a picture from her desk, holding it up for them to see. ‘Just look at this!’

It was a wonderful sight, a wide green landscape, rolling hills with occasional patches of woodland and far away in the distance the sparkle of water.

‘You’ve been specially chosen to go on holiday,’ Miss Vanstone said. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

For a long moment they all stared at the picture in silence, not really understanding what she was talking about. A holiday? Where? To the place in the picture? Where was the place in the picture? And most of all… why them?

‘But what about school?’ It was Sheila who was brave enough to ask.

‘It’s the end of term next week,’ Miss Vanstone reminded her. ‘You’ll only miss a couple of days, and I’ll tell the school you’re going.’

‘Where are we going, then?’ asked Rita, suspicion in her voice.

‘You’re going to this wonderful place called Carrabunna,’ replied Miss Vanstone, thinking as she did so, Mrs Hawkins is right, that Rita is a nuisance. ‘It’s a lovely place, warm and sunny, just like in this photo, and out in the countryside.’ She put down the picture. ‘Now then, Matron has been getting your clothes ready for you, and tomorrow she’ll take you all to buy new shoes. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’

There was an immediate buzz of interest; none of the girls could remember when they last had new shoes of their own, not simply another pair from the communal box.

‘Can I take my party dress?’ piped up Rosie, suddenly brave as she saw Miss Vanstone’s smile.

‘What party dress?’

‘Mine,’ said Rosie.

‘We had new dresses for our mum’s wedding,’ Rita said in explanation when Miss Vanstone looked at her enquiringly. ‘Matron took them away.’

Seeing this as a way to bring Rita back into the fold, Miss Vanstone said, ‘I’ll ask her to pack them in your case, shall I? Would you like to take them?’

‘Yes!’ cried Rosie in delight.

‘Very well, then.’ Miss Vanstone looked back at Rita, but the little girl had looked away. ‘Now then all of you, go and have your tea.’

‘Please, miss,’ ventured Joan Cameron. ‘When do we go?’

‘You’re leaving on Sunday,’ came the reply. ‘Mrs Hawkins and I shall be taking you to London on the train.’

‘But where is Carra… Carra…’ asked Angela Gardner. ‘Is it in London?’

‘No, much further away than that… across the sea!’

‘Are we going on a boat?’ asked Daisy, wide-eyed.

‘Yes, indeed you are,’ answered Miss Vanstone. ‘Won’t that be an adventure? Now, run along all of you and have your tea.’

‘Why is it us?’ wondered Daisy as soon as they were outside the office.

Rita shrugged. ‘Who knows? Probably wants to get rid of us.’

‘But for how long?’ demanded Joan, who had joined them in the passage. ‘I mean, how long is the holiday? When are we coming back?’

‘Don’t reckon we are,’ said Sheila, coming up behind them. ‘Reckon she’s sending us to another home, for good.’

‘Another home?’ Joan sounded scared. She knew no other home.

Sheila shook her head. ‘Don’t know, do I?’

‘But she said we was going in a boat,’ pointed out Rita.

‘Can’t be that, going to another home, by boat!’ scoffed Angela.

‘New shoes!’ Daisy said in wonder. ‘Think of that! I never had a pair of new shoes!’

Later that night, lying in bed, Rita thought about their forthcoming ‘great adventure’. She had no real idea of where they were going, but at least she and Rosie were going together. She wondered if Sheila was right and they weren’t coming back.

Suppose it don’t matter where they send us, she thought as she watched the summer twilight fade into darkness, we ain’t going home again. It was the first time she had actually admitted this fact to herself. When the pig-faced woman had returned them to Laurel House, Rita had expected severe punishment. She had imagined that the Hawk would send for her again, and the thought made her feel sick, but no summons came from the tower and the next day it was as if nothing had happened.

‘Knew they’d catch you,’ Daisy said as the croc formed up for the walk to school. ‘Where did you go? They tried to get it out of me, but I didn’t tell them nothing.’

‘You didn’t know nothing,’ pointed out Rita.

‘Well, saw you sneaking off, didn’t I? Didn’t tell them that. Did you go home and see the baby?’

‘Yes,’ replied Rita shortly. She was fighting back the tears that seemed to come so easily since she’d been home and then dragged back again. Daisy saw and in a rare gesture of comfort, put her arm round her friend and hugged her.

‘I think you was very brave, Reet,’ she said. ‘And you took Rosie with you. I never dared run away, and I’m on my own. Wish I had a sister,’ she added wistfully.

Rita returned the hug. ‘I ain’t going to let them see me cry. Not ever again. I don’t care what they do. Even if the Hawk beats me with the belt.’

‘Is that what she did?’ breathed Daisy. ‘Did you tell?’

‘Tell who?’ scoffed Rita, but then added, ‘I did say, when I was at home, but they didn’t believe me.’

‘I believe you,’ Daisy said stoutly.

‘Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, ain’t you? Like another sister. You’re s’posed to believe me.’

‘You could tell them at school,’ suggested Daisy. ‘Miss Harrison might believe you.’

‘Waste of time.’ Rita dismissed the idea. ‘Even if she did, it’d mean more trouble. The Hawk would say I was telling lies and I’d still be stuck here.’

Now it seemed there was a chance of escape. Not as they had escaped by running back home to Mum, but by moving to live somewhere else. Somewhere far away from the Hawk and the Dragon. Surely she and Rosie would be better off anywhere that wasn’t Laurel House.

The news of their ‘holiday’ was soon common knowledge in the house. The three younger girls from Green Dorm simply accepted it at face value, a holiday in the country, and were the envy of their dorm-mates. The Purples were all going, and somehow that made it easier. They were going together to a new place, but at least there’d be familiar faces.

It was their night for washing up, and Daisy, cornering Ole Smithy in the kitchen, asked bluntly, ‘Will we be coming back here, Mrs Smith?’

Ole Smithy looked uncomfortable and said, ‘I don’t know, Daisy, do I? Miss Vanstone says you’re all off somewhere exciting.’ She smiled awkwardly and added, ‘Be nice to have a change from here, won’t it?’

‘Where’s this place we’re going to?’ Daisy asked.

‘Place called Carrabunna,’ answered the cook. ‘It’s a lovely place, by all accounts. You’ll love it. Now then, Daisy Smart, stop wasting my time and get on with them dishes.’

Daisy wasn’t satisfied. She had nothing to lose now by pestering the cook, and she knew Ole Smithy was the person most likely to give them the answers, so she turned again from the dishes and announced, ‘But you know where we’re going, don’t you, Mrs Smith? Come on, tell us.’

‘Yeah, where is this Carrabunna place?’ asked Angela.

‘Yeah, where’re we going?’ demanded Joan.

‘And how long for?’ Mary asked.

‘When will we be back?’

‘Is it a long way? Miss Vanstone said a boat.’

Once Daisy had had the courage to broach the subject, they’d all fired questions at the unfortunate cook.

Ole Smithy looked taken aback for a moment and then she made her decision. Why on earth shouldn’t these kids know where they were going? They’d had no preparation for this enormous change in their lives. No one had explained where they were going to, or why. Ole Smithy didn’t approve of them being sent away at all, but at least she could try and tell them a little about where they were going.

‘You’re going to Australia,’ she said. ‘It’s a country a long way away, and you’ll have to go on a big ship to get there. But when you get there it’ll be lovely! Nice and warm, with lots of open space and lots of things to do.’

Australia! They stared at her in amazement. Australia meant, if it meant anything, kangaroos and koala bears.

‘I don’t want to go to Australia!’ Rita burst out, thinking of Mum and Gran. Of all the children selected to go, Rita and Rosie were the only ones who had a family. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, but she forced them back, determined to maintain her resolution never to let anyone see her cry… ever again.

‘Might be better than here,’ pointed out Daisy a little uncertainly.

‘Couldn’t be worse,’ muttered Angela, and Dora nodded.

‘So we ain’t coming back,’ Joan said tremulously. ‘Not ever?’

Ole Smithy had seen the mixture of fear and expectation in their eyes and hating what she saw, wished she could do something to alleviate it.

‘Why don’t you go and look at the atlas?’ she suggested. She wanted them out of the kitchen, so she could forget their dismay. She had thought it right to tell them, but now she had, she wanted to turn away from their confusion and leave it for someone else to sort out.

They found Sheila in the playroom and they told her where Carrabunna was. She opened the old atlas and found Australia on the far side of the world.

‘Well,’ she said, snapping the atlas closed, ‘roll on Sunday. We ain’t coming back from there.’

When they arrived at Tilbury dock, the Laurel House girls stood on the quay, labels pinned to their coats, their small suitcases at their feet, an anxious group, staring in bewilderment at the people eddying round them. Other children were standing in similar groups. One, a large group of both boys and girls, was standing round a tall man wearing some sort of uniform, listening intently as he spoke to them; another, made up of boys only, was being led up the gangplank, while yet another, a small group of girls, was lining up, ready to board. Each child wore a brown identity label, each child carried one small suitcase, and all stood around not knowing where to go or what to do.

‘Stay here,’ Miss Vanstone ordered and leaving the girls standing with Mrs Hawkins, she bustled away to speak to the man at the foot of the gangplank.

As they waited the girls stared up in awe at the ship towering above them. White-painted with an orange line sweeping its length and pockmarked with portholes, she was taller than any of the office buildings they had seen on their way through London. A tall funnel, standing proud above the upper decks, puffed smoke out into the summer sky, and the whole ship seemed too huge, too heavy, to stay afloat.

‘Are we really going on that?’ Daisy whispered to Rita.

Rita, standing beside her with Rosie clutching her hand, peered up at the towering vessel. ‘S’pose so,’ she said. ‘It’s very big.’

‘Australia must be a long way away,’ said Joan, nervously.

‘It’s the other side of the world, stupid!’ snapped Sheila, though she too was a little shaken at the size of the ship that was to take them there.

Miss Vanstone reappeared. ‘Come along, you girls,’ she commanded. ‘Follow me.’

The ten girls picked up the cases that contained their worldly possessions and straggled up the gangway, the Hawk bringing up the rear. On deck there were children everywhere, some large groups, some small; some scuffling and noisy, others standing silent and forlorn shrinking away as adults struggled past them, carrying suitcases and bags.

Miss Vanstone spoke to a crew member who directed them to a glass-fronted office, but it was nearly twenty minutes before it was their turn to be met by a harassed-looking woman in a white uniform who held a clipboard.

‘These are the girls from the EVER-Care Trust,’ said Miss Vanstone, passing over a list of names and a handful of passports. The woman consulted her clipboard and began ticking off names, checking the name against that on the label each girl wore on her coat. While she dealt with the paperwork, the little group of girls gazed round them.

‘It’s a very big ship,’ whispered Daisy. ‘Look at all those other people. Are they all coming too?’

‘Don’t know,’ replied Rita. ‘S’pose so.’ Her grip tightened on Rosie’s hand. ‘Stay close to me, Rosie,’ she ordered. ‘You might get lost.’

As long as she was beside Rita, Rosie was not afraid. She looked about her at all the hustle and bustle, and asked, ‘Are we nearly at Australia now?’ Australia to Rosie could be anywhere, the next street, the next town or a million miles away.

‘No, course not, silly,’ snapped Sheila Nevin, overhearing the question. ‘We’re going to be on this ship for weeks and weeks.’ Sheila, as the eldest girl in the group, had assumed its leadership and for the time being the others had accepted this, all hostilities laid aside as they turned to each other in their strange new situation.

Now they were on the ship, it made Rita realize the enormity of their journey. They would have to stick together, and fend for themselves and her job would be to look after Rosie.

‘Right,’ the woman in the white uniform said, ‘I’m the purser in overall charge of you children. But you have two chaperones who’ll keep an eye on you during the voyage. Miss Dauntsey and Miss Ellen Dauntsey. They’re two teachers, going to Sydney. If you have any problems they’re the first people you go to. If necessary they’ll come to me.’ She looked the little group over and said, ‘All right?’

‘And where are the Miss Dauntseys?’ asked Miss Vanstone, looking round.

‘Dealing with another group at present,’ replied the purser. ‘If you take your group into the lounge on “F” deck, they’ll come and find you there.’

Miss Vanstone and the Hawk shepherded them to the deck above. Miss Vanstone carried the suitcases belonging to Sylvia and Susan, and instructed the Hawk to take Rosie’s.

They found the lounge, a wide saloon furnished with tables, chairs and several deep sofas. The evening sun flooded in through the windows, disguising the rather tired state of the furniture.

‘Come and sit down here,’ ordered Miss Vanstone, leading them to a table. She opened her capacious handbag and pulled out a packet of sandwiches, giving one to each child. Overawed by their surroundings, they ate in silence, and were just finishing when two young ladies crossed the room towards them.

‘Good afternoon,’ said one, extending her hand to Miss Vanstone. ‘These are the EVER-Care children, am I right?’

‘You are indeed,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘Stand up, girls, and say good afternoon to Miss Dauntsey.’

Obediently, they all rose to their feet and chanted, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Dauntsey.’

‘And this is my sister, Miss Ellen Dauntsey,’ said the first lady. ‘You may call her Miss Ellen, so that you don’t get us muddled up.’ She smiled at the forlorn-faced children, and added, ‘Cheer up, we’re off on a wonderful adventure.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Vanstone, picking up her bag, ‘we’ll leave you to it, Miss Dauntsey. Be good, children. Do as Miss Dauntsey tells you on the voyage. Remember, you carry the good name of Laurel House with you.’ And with that she walked out of the lounge and followed closely by the Hawk who had said no goodbyes, disappeared down the stairs. Ten pairs of eyes tracked them to the door, and then turned miserably back to the two Miss Dauntseys.

‘Now then,’ said Miss Ellen, speaking for the first time, ‘you know our names, so we need to know yours.’ She pointed at Rita, still holding tight to Rosie’s hand. ‘Who are you, then?’

‘Rita Stevens,’ replied Rita softly, ‘and this is my sister, Rosie.’

One by one they said their names and Miss Ellen checked the labels pinned on their fronts. When they’d finished, Miss Dauntsey said, ‘You must wear your name tags for a few days, but we’ll do our best to remember which of you is which. If we get it wrong after that, you’ll have to tell us. Now, come along everyone, let’s find your cabins.’

The cabins each had two bunks. Rita and Rosie were together, sharing with Daisy and Sylvia.

‘Get yourselves settled in,’ said Miss Ellen, ‘and I’ll come and find you later.’ Rita closed the door behind her, and the four girls looked round the cabin that was to be their home as they crossed the world.

‘We’d better have the top bunks,’ she said to Daisy. ‘Don’t want the babies to fall out.’

‘I ain’t a baby,’ protested Rosie, glaring at her.

‘Nor am I,’ said Sylvia.

‘OK,’ agreed Rita, ‘you ain’t babies, but you ain’t having the top bunks, neither.’ She opened Rosie’s small case and took out the clothes that Matron had packed for her. Included was the dress she’d worn to the wedding.

‘My party dress,’ cried Rosie in delight, grabbing at it.

‘And here’s Knitty,’ Rita said, pulling the beloved creature out of the case.

‘Knitty!’ screamed Rosie, clutching him to her as she waltzed round the cabin.

‘Careful,’ Daisy admonished her, ‘you nearly had me over.’

Rosie didn’t care, she had her beloved Knitty. Rita had asked Wetty Betty to see if she could slip him into the case once the Dragon had finished with it, and Betty, wishing she’d been included in this strange adventure, had managed it.

‘You’ve been very kind to us,’ Rita said before they left.

‘’Cos you got some spunk,’ Betty said. ‘Wish I had your spunk. You never give in to the Hawk, even after she beat you.’

‘How d’you know she beat me?’ demanded Rita.

‘’Cos she did the same to me,’ answered Betty, ‘but I give in, and now she knows she can make me do anything with the threat of doing it again.’

‘But you’re grown up,’ said Rita in surprise.

‘Not really,’ replied Betty, ‘but I will be one day, and I’ll get my own back. One day she’ll be sorry.’ She looked across at Rita. ‘You still got your picture? The one of your dad?’

Rita nodded.

‘Want me to put that into your case for you?’

‘No thanks, Betty,’ Rita said firmly. ‘I’ll look after it.’

They unpacked their few belongings into the four drawers of the chest that was the only storage space.

‘We got a basin, though,’ marvelled Daisy. ‘D’you think them taps really work?’ She turned one on and water gushed out. ‘They do!’ she cried in delight. ‘We don’t have to fetch our water no more!’

Above the basin were a shelf and a small cupboard for their washing things and beside it was a rail on which hung four towels. Daisy climbed up to one of the top bunks, and flopped down.

‘This is a bit of all right,’ she announced. ‘Never had such a soft bed.’

Rosie and Sylvia immediately bounced on theirs with cries of glee, and Rosie tucked Knitty carefully under the covers.

‘I should keep him hidden for a while,’ advised Rita. ‘Don’t know what these teachers are like yet, do we? Don’t want them to take him away.’

Rosie pushed Knitty down further under the covers, hiding his head under the pillow.

Rita climbed up on the other top bunk and carefully slipped the picture of Daddy into the pillowcase.

‘This ain’t half bad,’ she agreed, sitting up and dangling her legs over the edge. She leaned forward. ‘I can see the dock through our window.’

‘Porthole,’ corrected Daisy, leaning forward as well. ‘There’s still loads of people on the dock. How’ll they all fit on this ship?’

‘Don’t know,’ laughed Rita, ‘but they ain’t having my bed.’

‘They ain’t having my bed,’ echoed Rosie, standing on her bunk to look out.

Miss Ellen came to fetch them, and took them back up to the lounge where they’d first met her. The others were there, and a crowd of children they didn’t know, some chattering and laughing, others sitting silently, staring round with anxious eyes.

Miss Dauntsey was already there, and when Rita’s group came in she clapped her hands for silence.

‘Now then,’ she said, ‘listen, all of you.’ The noise faded away as everyone paid attention. ‘We’re going to be on this ship for a long time, so we just need a few rules.’

Here we go, thought Rita. Do this, do that.

‘Meal times are posted on the board in this room,’ began Miss Dauntsey. ‘You are not to be late for meals, understood? They will be taken in the dining room, on the next deck up. I’ll take you all up there and show you in a minute. You may go almost anywhere on the upper decks of the ship, provided you don’t get in the way of the crew. If they tell you to scoot, you scoot, OK? And remember there are other people travelling on this ship, and they don’t want to be plagued by a lot of noisy children. This room is reserved for you. Grown-ups won’t come in here, they have a lounge reserved for them upstairs. You don’t go in there. Understood?’

There was a murmur of assent and she went on, ‘We want you to enjoy the voyage, but if anyone is a nuisance, they’ll be made to stay in their cabin… which would be very boring, don’t you think?’

More murmurs of assent. ‘Good, well, I think that’s it. Off you go and explore if you want to, but supper is in half an hour in the dining room. Don’t be late.’

And so it was that they were all in the dining room, tucking into fish, chips and green beans, as the Pride of Empire was towed away from the quayside and nosing her way slowly out of Tilbury on the evening tide, slipped away into the river, taking with her the hopes and fears of the migrants who made up her passenger list, all headed for a new life in Australia. Adults, tired of the bleakness of post-war, war-torn Europe, following earlier pioneers to what they hoped was a new and better life; children who had no say in whether they wanted to go or not.

16

The morning after her visit to Laurel House, Lily Sharples went to the phone box at the end of the road, and rang the number Mrs Hawkins had given her. She was determined to get an appointment to see Miss Vanstone. The number was answered almost immediately with a sing-song ‘Vanstone Enterprises! May I help you?’

For a moment Lily was thrown. She had thought the number she’d been given would connect her straight with Miss Vanstone.

‘Oh, er…’ she began, ‘I, er, I need to speak to Miss Vanstone.’

‘Putting you through,’ carolled the operator. There was a click and a whirr and then a woman said, ‘Miss Vanstone’s office.’

‘Miss Vanstone?’ asked Lily, hesitantly.

‘No, I’m afraid Miss Vanstone isn’t available just now. This is her secretary, Miss Drake, may I help you?’

‘Maybe,’ Lily was unfamiliar with the workings of an office. ‘I need to see Miss Vanstone.’

‘I see,’ the voice on the other end said calmly, ‘and may I ask in what connection?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What did you want to see her about?’ asked Miss Drake, patiently.

‘That’s between me and her,’ replied Lily stiffly, adding, ‘It’s about EVER-Care and it’s urgent.’

‘I see,’ said the secretary again. ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

‘Mrs Lily Sharples.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Sharples,’ said Miss Drake, remembering her instructions. ‘Would you hold the line one moment, while I fetch her appointment book?’

Lily waited. She could hear noises on the other end of the phone as if someone were searching for something, then Miss Drake’s voice again. ‘Sorry to have kept you, Mrs Sharples, the diary was in the other office. Now then, let’s have a look.’ Another pause. ‘Ah yes, well, I’m afraid the first appointment I can offer you is Friday of next week, in the afternoon.’

‘But it’s urgent,’ cried Lily. ‘Can’t she see me sooner than that?’

Miss Drake was all apology. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Sharples, but I’m afraid not. Miss Vanstone’s away on business and won’t be back until next Thursday night, and she’s instructed me to keep her diary clear on the Friday morning. I shouldn’t really be putting you in, in the afternoon, but, well, you did say it was urgent. Shall we say at Laurel House, Friday 6 August at four o’clock?’

It was clear Lily couldn’t see this Miss Vanstone any sooner, so she agreed to the time and date and rang off. Disappointed she went back home. Ten days until she could find out any more about the girls. It seemed to stretch an eternity before her.

That afternoon the doorbell rang and she was surprised to see Carrie Maunder’s husband, John, outside on the step.

‘John!’ Immediately she feared the worst. ‘What’s the matter? Is Mavis all right… and Carrie?’

‘Far as I know, Mrs Sharples,’ John said cheerfully, ‘nothing’s happened to no one. Just thought I’d pop in and see you was all right… see if you’d got the kettle on.’

John Maunder had never been to her house, she hardly knew the man, but she opened the door wide and smiled. ‘Of course, John. Come on in.’

He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a pot on the go,’ she told him, ‘but it might be a bit stewed. I’ll make a new pot.’

‘No, don’t worry about that, Mrs Sharples,’ said John. ‘I like my tea strong.’ He took a sip. ‘Lovely,’ he said, ‘just the ticket.’ He put the cup down and reached into the pocket of his jacket. ‘We thought you might like these,’ he said, and handed Lily a large envelope.

She took it, saying, ‘What’s this, then, John?’

‘Little present. Thought they might cheer you up.’

Lily opened the envelope and pulled out three photographs. She stared at them for a moment, and then looked up at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, John, what a dear man you are!’ she breathed. In one hand she held a photo of Mavis in her wedding dress, and in the other a picture of Rita and Rosie standing together in their rose-patterned-curtain dresses, beaming at the camera. The third was of Mavis and Jimmy newly married on the steps of the register office. She looked back down at the girls, and the tears slid silently down her cheeks.

‘Now then, Mrs Sharples,’ said John in alarm. ‘No waterworks! I thought you’d like them.’

Lily smiled up at him through her tears and reassured him, ‘John, I just love them. It’s the only snap I got of them girls. I’ll put it in a frame on the mantelpiece. And the one of Mavis is lovely too,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘She did look happy that day, didn’t she?’ She pulled her hankie from her sleeve and mopped her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It was very thoughtful of you.’

‘Carrie said you’d like them,’ said John, clearly relieved that the tears had stopped. ‘Glad you do.’ He downed the rest of his tea and got to his feet. ‘Well, better be off. Only popped in for a mo, just to give you the snaps.’

Lily began to get to her feet, but he put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Don’t get up, Mrs Sharples, I can find my way out. Ta ta for now.’

As she heard the front door close behind him, Lily looked again at the pictures, and this time she allowed the tears to flow. How long, she wondered as she gazed at the little girls’ beaming faces through the mist of her tears, how long would it be before she saw them again? How long before she could bring them home, here to Hampton Road, where they belonged?

Next morning Lily decided to walk round to Ship Street, once Jimmy had gone to work, and see how Mavis and baby Richard were getting on. Lily loved babies, and longed to have her new grandson in her arms again. When she reached the house she knocked on the door, and as she waited for Mavis to open it, she realized that she could hear Richard crying. She knocked again, and then, trying the door, found it on the latch.

‘Mavis?’ she called as she went into the hall. ‘Mavis? Is everything all right?’ There was no reply, but the crying was coming from upstairs, so Lily grasped the banister and hauled herself up to the landing. The wails came from Richard’s bedroom and when Lily opened the door she found the baby lying in his cot, scarlet-faced from screaming. She scooped him up into her arms and realized at once that he needed a nappy change. His clothes were wet through, and the cot sheet was soaked as well. She held him close and soothed him, rocking him comfortingly against her until his bellows died away to nothing more than a whimper, then she sat on a chair and with swift and practised movements stripped off his wet clothes and sodden nappy. Wrapping him in a cot blanket she carried him out of the room and into Mavis’s bedroom.

Mavis was in bed. She lay absolutely still with her head under the covers. For one dreadful moment Lily thought that she was dead, but, approaching the bed fearfully, she saw the faint rise and fall of the bedclothes and realized Mavis was deeply asleep.

She must be exhausted, Lily thought, if she slept through the racket young Richard’s been making. Seeing she was all right, Lily gave her attention to the baby.

‘Now then, young man,’ she murmured, ‘let’s get you comfy, eh?’ She pulled open a drawer and found a pile of terry nappies. Moments later he lay on her lap, clean and dry, as she pulled on a clean vest and romper. ‘There,’ she said, ‘that’s better, ain’t it? Let’s go down and find you some milk. We’ll leave your mummy to sleep. Looks as if she needs to. Did you have her up all night? Bet you did, you monkey.’

She carried Richard to the top of the stairs and then stopped. It was difficult enough for her to negotiate the stairs on her own, let alone carrying a small baby. Reluctantly she took him back to his cot. ‘Now, you stay there, darling,’ she said, ‘and Gran’ll go and find your bottle.’ Even as she left the room, Richard began to whimper again, and by the time she was in the kitchen he was going strong. When she struggled up the stairs again with the bottle, there was still no sound from Mavis’s room.

Sleeping the sleep of the dead, thought Lily as she gathered Richard up into her arms once again and offered him the teat. As if she had turned off an electric switch, his wails stopped and he latched onto the bottle, clearly very hungry indeed. Lily rocked him gently as he sucked, wondering as she did so when he’d last been fed. She looked at her watch. It was past eleven, no wonder he was hungry, he’d probably had his last feed at about six.

Richard finished his bottle and Lily swung him up onto her shoulder to burp him. Moments later, exhausted from his extended crying and with his stomach once more comfortably full, he was asleep in her arms, his little body relaxed against her, his head nestled under her chin. Lily sat holding him close for a while, before gently returning him to his cot. Mavis was still asleep in the next room and as far as Lily could tell, hadn’t moved an inch since. She stared down at her daughter for a long moment before leaving the room, quietly pulling the door to. Poor kid, she thought, she ain’t having an easy time of it, she needs her sleep.

Lily went back down to the kitchen and looked round. It was a disgrace. Not like Mavis to have it so bad. Lily sighed and rolling up her sleeves, set to work. It was nearly two hours later when she finally sat down with a cup of tea, but glancing round she decided all the hard work had been worth it. The kitchen was clean again. Lily was just looking into the meat-safe outside the back door when she heard footsteps, and turning round found Mavis coming blearily into the room.

‘Mum! What you doing here?’ Mavis looked dreadful. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a fading bruise on her forehead. Her hair, unwashed, hung in lank rats’ tails round her pale cheeks.

Lily, shaken by just how worn out Mavis looked, tried to school her expression. ‘Just clearing up a bit,’ she replied carefully. ‘You was fast asleep and Richard was crying. Didn’t want to wake you, so I changed and fed him. He’s asleep as well now.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Mavis, smothering a yawn. ‘I looked in on him.’ She glanced round the kitchen, suddenly aware that it was not as she’d last seen it. ‘You done the kitchen,’ she said.

‘Well, it needed a bit of a going over,’ her mother said, smiling. ‘Thought you might not have time to do it when you woke up.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Mavis flopped down on a chair and rested her head on the table. ‘Still not quite with it yet,’ she admitted.

‘Never mind, love.’

Lily poured them each a cup of tea, then said, ‘I was just looking to see what you’ve got for Jimmy’s tea. See you’ve got a couple of hearts in the safe. S’pose I stuff them for you, and you can pop them into the oven in time for when Jimmy come home. ’Spect he’s hungry when he come off the site, ain’t he?’

Mavis nodded. The tea had revived her a little and she smiled wanly at her mother. ‘Thanks, Mum, that would be lovely of you.’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I don’t seem to be able to cope with Richard like I did with the girls. He cries a lot, which Jimmy hates, and I’m so tired. Jimmy don’t understand, he says how can you be tired when you’ve only been looking after a baby at home? He don’t see that as work.’

‘No, well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ replied Lily. ‘He’s a man!’

Lily prepared the hearts for Jimmy’s tea, but she made sure she was well away before he came home. She dare not come to the house when he was there, but she was determined to visit when he wasn’t. She knew Mavis needed her, and more to the point so did Richard. Lily had been horrified at the state in which she’d found him. She said nothing to Mavis about her search for Rita and Rosie. Mavis would never be able to keep it from Jimmy. She had no intention of saying anything about the girls until she had them safely back in her own home.

For the next few days she popped in regularly to see how Mavis was getting on. On more than one occasion she found her deeply asleep in bed, while Richard was left wet and unfed in his cot. Each time Lily sorted him out, and each time she encouraged Mavis to make the effort to look after him herself. Mavis was tearful, but she did seem grateful for Lily’s support.

On the day before Lily had her appointment with Miss Vanstone, she went round to Ship Street during the morning, ostensibly to see if Mavis wanted anything from the shops. When she got there she found Mavis doing the washing at the kitchen sink. Richard was lying, gurgling, in his pram in the yard outside the back door.

‘He sounds happy enough,’ Lily remarked.

‘Yeah, he’s OK.’ Mavis didn’t turn round, but simply continued doing the washing.

‘You look busy, love,’ said Lily cautiously. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Can if you like,’ replied Mavis, still not turning, still pummelling clothes in the soapy water.

Lily picked up the kettle and moved across to the sink to refill it. Mavis edged aside, keeping her face averted. Lily filled the kettle and set it to boil on the stove, then she turned back to her daughter and, with a hand on her shoulder, turned her round.

For a moment she stared in shocked silence at the state of Mavis’s face, then she hissed, ‘The bastard! When did he do this?’

‘Last night,’ whispered Mavis. ‘He come home and Richard was crying, and I was upstairs with him, and the tea wasn’t ready.’

‘But what the hell did he do? Your face is a mess!’

‘You don’t have to tell me that, Mum! I got a mirror, haven’t I? He pushed me down the stairs. Hit my face on the banisters.’

‘Bastard! Bastard!’ Lily almost spat the words.

‘He was sorry after,’ Mavis said. ‘He didn’t mean to push me down the stairs, course he didn’t, just gave me a bit of a shove to hurry me up and I toppled over. My fault really.’

That was too much for Lily. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mavis. Course it weren’t your fault.’

‘He said sorry after. Said he won’t ever do it again.’

‘You could’ve been killed, falling down them stairs,’ said Lily, unable to let the matter go.

‘Leave it, Mum, it was only a tumble.’ Mavis seemed determined to make light of what had happened, but Lily wasn’t going to let Jimmy off so easily.

‘You could’ve been holding the baby!’

‘He wouldn’t have pushed me if I’d been holding Richard,’ said Mavis. ‘He loves that baby.’

Lily bit back the retort that Jimmy loved no one but Jimmy, and said, ‘You must be bruised all over. Have you been to the doctor?’

Mavis gave a bark of laughter. ‘The doctor? Where do I find money for the doctor?’ Then seeing the concern on her mother’s face she said more gently, ‘I’m fine, Mum, really I am. A bit bruised, that’s all. Nothing broken.’

Lily didn’t stay long, she needed to get out of that house. Mavis was up and about, Richard was happy in his pram, and you never knew when Jimmy might walk in, and today, if she met Jimmy, she would be unable to control her anger at what he’d done.

Next afternoon Lily set off to Laurel House. This time she was expected and when the pale-faced maid opened the door, she was shown into a small parlour and told Miss Vanstone was expecting her. Five minutes later Miss Vanstone sailed into the room full of apologies at having kept her waiting. She led Lily to her office and settled her into a chair, before taking up her own place, behind her desk.

‘Now, Mrs Sharples, what can I do for you?’

Lily came straight to the point. ‘I come to find my granddaughters, Rita and Rosie. I know they’re here, ’cos that woman from the Children’s Office brought them.’

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Sharples, but I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey,’ said Miss Vanstone smoothly. ‘We never discuss the children in our care.’

‘But surely I’m entitled to know where they are!’ cried Lily. ‘They’re my grandchildren after all, my flesh and blood.’

‘That I quite understand,’ said Miss Vanstone, ‘but when they were signed into our care, we became their guardians, and they no longer “belonged to you” as it were. However,’ she raised a hand to cut off Lily’s riposte, ‘in your case I will make an exception. You are clearly a loving grandmother and want to be sure that your granddaughters are well and cared for. So, this much I will tell you. We did indeed have Rita and Rose with us for a while. Miss Hopkins was extremely concerned that they should be removed from the vicinity of their new stepfather, who I understand is a violent man. She was rightly concerned for their safety. I am sure you’ve seen evidence of his violence?’ She cocked her head to ask the question and Lily found herself nodding.

‘So, you see,’ she went on, ‘they were brought here for their own protection. These days, however, that is a short-term measure. It is better to place such children in a safe, family environment. With this in mind, Rita and Rose have moved on… to be adopted.’

It was the first time, in her edited version of the truth, that Emily Vanstone told Lily an outright lie, justified in her own mind by the need to ensure this woman caused no more trouble. ‘We’ve found a charming couple, up north, who are prepared to take both of them, so they won’t be separated. They’ll grow up together in a happy home as sisters should. It is the best possible chance for them, as I’m sure, when you’ve thought it through, you’ll agree.’

Lily didn’t agree. She stared, dumbfounded, at the woman who had, without reference to anyone, put them up for adoption.

‘Adopted?’ she croaked at last.

‘Yes,’ nodded Miss Vanstone, ‘much the best option.’

‘And the Children’s Officer, that Miss Hopkins, has she agreed to all this?’

‘She’s been kept informed, naturally, as the children came to us through her, but she’s quite happy with the arrangement, yes.’

‘And they’ve already gone?’ whispered Lily. ‘To this new home?’

‘Yes. After they ran away from here, it was decided that we should move quickly to establish them somewhere safe in a permanent home.’

‘Can I see them?’ asked Lily, still struggling to take it all in. ‘Can I go and see them in this new place?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Miss Vanstone regretfully. ‘That would not be appropriate.’

‘What d’you mean, not appropriate?’ demanded Lily, beginning to fight back. ‘Why can’t I see them? You just going to let them think that their mum and their gran simply forgot about them? It may be best, as you said, for them being with this new family. Maybe they can give them things what I can’t, but they need to know I’m still their gran and that I still love them.’

‘I can understand your feelings,’ sympathized Miss Vanstone, ‘but what you have to realize is that this would certainly unsettle them again, just when they’ve begun to find their feet with their new parents.’

‘New parents,’ echoed Lily with a catch in her voice. For a moment there was silence, as she wondered what to say next, and Miss Vanstone waited her out.

‘Can I write to them?’ Lily asked at last. ‘At least give me an address where I can write to them… tell them I love them.’

Miss Vanstone’s expression softened. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can’t actually give you the address, of course, but I tell you what I will do. If you want to write them a letter, and you give it to me, I will see that it’s posted on to them. How’s that? Even that’s bending the rules.’

‘You mean if I write them a letter, you’ll see that they get it?’

‘Of course,’ agreed Miss Vanstone smoothly, ‘but just the one.’

‘So if I write to them and bring you the letter, you’ll send it on?’

‘Yes, Mrs Sharples, I’ve just said I will,’ came the patient reply.

‘And you won’t open it or read it or nothing?’

‘Certainly not!’ Miss Vanstone sounded most affronted. ‘I don’t make a practice of reading private correspondence.’

‘No, no, course you don’t.’ Lily backtracked hastily; she didn’t want Miss Vanstone to change her mind. She’d simply have to trust her.

‘Why don’t you write to them now?’ suggested Miss Vanstone. ‘I’ll give you notepaper. Then you needn’t come all the way back again.’

‘Well,’ Lily hesitated, ‘I’m not sure.’ She’d much rather sit down at her own kitchen table, and take her time; but suppose Miss Vanstone wasn’t here when she came back? Suppose it was only the Hawkins woman? Lily certainly didn’t trust her. Safer, really, to take advantage of the offer, and give the letter to Miss Vanstone now.

Miss Vanstone opened a drawer and took out a sheet of notepaper and an envelope. Picking up a fountain pen from the desktop she said, ‘Here you are.’ She got to her feet as she spoke. ‘Now, I’ll take you back to the parlour and leave you to write your letter in peace, and when you have, just bring it back to me here. I’ll be here for at least half an hour.’

Swept along by the other woman’s briskness, Lily took the proffered writing materials and followed her back to the parlour.

‘You won’t be disturbed in here. All right?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Lily, and with a smile Emily Vanstone closed the door.

Lily sat down at the table and looked at the notepaper. It was not a large piece; she would have to write concisely. It was so difficult to know what to say. She didn’t want to upset Rita and Rosie by sounding upset herself. She wanted to assure them they would never be forgotten, but she knew that, if she loved them, and at this moment she ached with love for them, she needed them to settle into their new home and be happy. At last she drew the sheet of notepaper towards her and began to write.

Dearest Rita and Rosie,

I hear from Laurel House that you have moved away and are living with a new family. How exciting! I’m sure they will be kind to you and you’ll be very happy in your new home. I just wanted to tell you that I’m out of hospital now, back at home in Hampton Road and going on all right. I don’t know exactly where you are, but Miss Vanstone says she’ll send this letter on to you. Remember, wherever you are you are my best girls. Look after Rosie, Rita. I know you will, and be very good for your new Mum and Dad.

Lots of love to you both,

Gran. xx

Lily read the letter through, it seemed very cold and unemotional, but she decided that was better than pouring out her grief at their being taken away. That would help no one. She also had to recognize that the adoptive parents would almost certainly read the letter, so she hoped that her comments about them would help make life easier for her girls. She added two more kisses on the bottom and then, with quiet resolution, folded the paper, and sealed it in the envelope.

Turning it over she wrote, Miss Rita and Rosie Stevens, leaving plenty of room for the address to be added below. She held the sealed letter in her hand for a moment and went back to the office.

Lily held out the letter. ‘Here you are,’ she said, and Miss Vanstone took it and laid it on her desk.

‘Aren’t you going to address it?’ asked Lily.

‘I’ll get my secretary to look out the address,’ replied Miss Vanstone with a smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t carry all that sort of information in my head. Rest assured, Mrs Sharples, I’ll deal with your letter as soon as I can.’

The two women shook hands and Miss Vanstone walked Lily to the front door. When she had closed the door behind her visitor, she returned to her office. She picked up the letter that lay on her desk, spinning it round in her fingers, but she didn’t open it. She had promised not to; she simply tossed it into the wastepaper bin.

17

The days on board ship did indeed seem like the holiday Emily Vanstone had promised to the children from Laurel House. Before the war the Pride of Empire had been a three-class ocean liner, regularly plying her trade from London to Sydney. Her war work as a troop ship over, she’d had a refit, and was back in service on her old route. Now, she transported migrants in search of a new life across the world, rather than the pre-war, rich passengers, but to the migrant children, she was the grandest place they’d ever been in. None of them slept well that first night. It was far too exciting to be going to bed in a cabin, and feeling the movement of the ship as she ploughed through the English Channel.

‘Now, you’re all to go to sleep and no chatting,’ warned Miss Ellen. ‘I’m going to turn out the light and you’re to settle down. It won’t be completely dark, there’s a night-light up there.’ She pointed to a tiny green light, high up in a corner. ‘I’ll come and tell you when it’s time to get up, but until then you stay in the cabin, understood?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Right, well, goodnight.’ She turned off the light, and shut the cabin door.

After morning prayers, a bell sounded, the signal to go into the dining room. The children had never seen so much food.

‘You seen what there is?’ whispered Daisy, pointing at a plate of food being served at the next table. ‘Them’s fried eggs, two, and bacon. D’you reckon we can have some of them?’

‘Don’t know,’ Rita sounded doubtful. ‘P’raps it’s just for that lot, you know. Maybe they’re special or summat.’

‘What can I get you, miss?’ said a voice, and Rita turned round to see a dark-faced waiter wearing a smart white jacket, smiling enquiringly.

‘What?’

‘What would you like to eat?’ he asked. ‘Would you like some egg and bacon, or a sausage? I bring toast after.’

‘Yes,’ said Daisy, quickly. ‘I’ll have all of that.’

‘Me too,’ said Rita, and looking at Rosie, she added, ‘and the same for my sister.’

‘Certainly, miss,’ said the waiter. ‘Just a few minutes.’

He was back in less than five minutes bearing three plates, piled with the food the children had asked for. They couldn’t believe their eyes, and when he offered orange juice they all nodded yes please, their mouths already too full to make an audible answer.

Though several of them, Daisy included, were feeling distinctly queasy as the ship continued down the English Channel, they all devoured everything they were offered. Afraid such food might not be there again, they all stuffed themselves, despite their seasickness. Rita didn’t feel too bad, as she adjusted quickly to the motion of the ship; Rosie did not.

‘Reet,’ whimpered the little girl, ‘I feel sick.’

‘You can’t be sick here,’ cried Rita looking round the posh dining room in agitation. ‘Come on, Rosie, we got to get to the cabin.’ Leaving the last of her own breakfast on the table, she grabbed her sister’s hand and dragged her out of the room, back down to their cabin two decks below. Rosie was beginning to retch as Rita pulled her inside and they only just made it in time for Rosie to return her breakfast into the basin. Rita held her head, muttering soothingly, until at last Rosie, pale and scared, lifted her head.

‘I don’t like it,’ she wailed. ‘I don’t feel very nice.’

‘Get on your bunk and lay down,’ advised Rita. ‘I’ll stay here with you. OK?’ She helped Rosie onto her bunk, but within moments she was up again, leaning over the basin. When there was nothing left to come up Rita helped the little girl back to bed, where moments later she fell asleep.

Daisy and Sylvia felt seasick too, and it wasn’t long before they were lying on their bunks, eyes closed, fighting to keep their breakfasts down.

‘You silly girls,’ cried Miss Ellen when she came to see how they were faring, ‘you shouldn’t have eaten so much. You’d better not eat anything else until you’ve got your sea-legs.’

‘What’s sea-legs?’ quavered Rosie. ‘Where do we get them?’

Miss Ellen laughed. ‘Sea-legs just means getting used to the ship moving. Then you can eat to your heart’s content.’

‘Will we get breakfast like that every day?’ asked Rita in wonder.

‘Of course,’ replied Miss Ellen. ‘And lunch and tea and dinner, so you don’t have to eat yourselves sick!’

At first there was still confusion about the meals that would be served. As far as most of the children were concerned, lunch was a mid-morning snack, dinner meant the midday meal, and tea was the evening meal. No one expected four meals a day.

‘Tea’s awful early,’ said Rita to Daisy when the bell summoned them to the dining room at half-past four, the first afternoon.

‘Not much of it neither,’ said Daisy, looking in disgust at the bread and jam set out on the table. ‘We won’t half be hungry by breakfast.’

‘Cake!’ cried Rosie, pointing to slices of cake arranged on a dish. ‘There’s cake!’ They helped themselves to several slices of bread and jam, piling pieces of cake onto their plates in case it disappeared.

‘For goodness sake, children,’ admonished Miss Ellen, seeing the food stacked up on their plates, ‘if you eat that lot, you won’t have any room for dinner.’

‘But we had dinner, miss,’ pointed out Sheila, taking the lead. ‘Fish pie and ice cream.’

Miss Ellen laughed. ‘Silly girl! That was your lunch. Tea is in the afternoon, just to keep you going, and then dinner is at seven in the evening.’

They all stared at her in amazement. ‘You mean we got another meal to come, miss?’ asked Daisy.

‘Certainly you have, so leave some room for it.’

‘Is that the same,’ ventured Rita, ‘every day?’

‘Every day,’ Miss Ellen assured her, and seeing the incredulity on their faces, she suddenly realized how little these children normally had to eat. For the first time, she took in their skinny bodies, their pallid faces and their lacklustre hair.

‘Enjoy your tea,’ she said, ‘but leave room for your dinner.’

Life slipped into an easy pattern and the children began to enjoy their unaccustomed freedom. The Laurel House girls roamed the ship freely, exploring the different decks, finding a library and a games room, and were soon making friends among the other children who were also being sent to a new life in Australia. They hardly saw Sheila; she had palled up with two older girls who were travelling out with their parents to live in Perth. If any of the Laurel House girls bumped into her during the day, she scarcely gave them a glance as she and her new friends sauntered past.

‘I’m in charge of our group,’ Rita and Daisy heard her say on one occasion, ‘as I’m the oldest. They have to do what I say.’

Rita stared after her and remarked scornfully, ‘She ain’t in charge of nofink, and I ain’t going to do nofink she tells me, neither.’

‘P’raps I’ll tell her stuck-up friends that you bit her,’ said Daisy with a grin. ‘That’d learn her.’ And both girls burst out laughing.

The days began to merge into each other. Each morning started with prayers, and each evening, between tea and dinner, Miss Dauntsey read to any children who were in the children’s lounge. To begin with few children were interested in going to story-time, but as the word got round that she was reading a really exciting book, Five Children and It, more and more of the children came in to listen. Miss Dauntsey made no comment as the numbers increased, but each evening she read the next instalment, always leaving them waiting for more.

‘Where’d you get that book, miss?’ Rita plucked up the courage to ask her.

Miss Dauntsey smiled at her. ‘I found it in the library, Rita. Have you been in there?’

Rita shook her head. ‘Not really, miss, not looking at the books, like.’

‘You should,’ said Miss Dauntsey. ‘The shelf by the window has the children’s books on it. You can choose one to read yourself.’ She looked at Rita speculatively. ‘You can read, can’t you, Rita?’

‘Course I can.’ The scorn in her voice made Miss Dauntsey smile. ‘I was the best reader in my class at school.’

‘Well, that’s excellent,’ answered Miss Dauntsey. ‘There’s nothing like reading a good book. Why don’t you go and have a look tomorrow? I’ll be in there in the morning, so I can help you if you like.’

‘What on earth d’you want to go to the silly old library for?’ scoffed Daisy when Rita told her. ‘Dull as ditch-water in there.’

But Rita loved Five Children and It, and wanted to see if there were other exciting stories that she could read for herself.

Miss Dauntsey was already there. She had several books out on the table in front of her. She looked up as Rita came across to her. ‘Ah, there you are, Rita, that’s good. Sit you down and have a look at these.’ She smiled across at her. ‘Choose one you like the look of and read me a bit.’

‘You like reading, don’t you, Rita?’ Miss Dauntsey said when Rita had read her several pages.

‘I liked reading at school, and I used to read to my gran, when I lived with her. Gran read to us sometimes, me and Rosie when we was in bed.’ There was a quaver in her voice that didn’t escape Miss Dauntsey, and she wondered what on earth Rita and Rosie were doing going to Australia if they had a grandmother who loved them back in England. Not wanting to upset the child further, she said, ‘It doesn’t matter what you read, as long as you read. Books are meant to be fun, so if you’re enjoying one, keep reading it.’

‘I like the one you’re reading us,’ Rita said. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ agreed Miss Dauntsey, smiling. ‘There are other books written by the same lady, you know. Shall we see if we can find another one?’

When she left the library five minutes later, Rita was clutching a battered copy of The Phoenix and the Carpet and Miss Dauntsey sat staring into space and thinking how sad it was that a child as bright as Rita was being sent thousands of miles away from the grandmother she so obviously loved.

Once the Pride of Empire had progressed through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean, the children began to blossom. Properly fed, and spending most of the day out in the warm, fresh air, there was little to see of the pasty-faced urchins who had boarded the ship at Tilbury. As the weather grew hotter the cover was removed from the small swimming pool, and here once a day the Miss Dauntseys allowed their charges a supervised swim. Few of the children had swimming costumes, but the boys were allowed to swim in their shorts, and the girls, swimming at a different time, wore their vest and knickers.

‘Hey, Reet,’ cried Daisy on the first swimming day, ‘you been in a pool before?’

‘Nope,’ replied Rita, ‘and I’m not sure I want to go in one now.’

‘Cowardy Custard,’ taunted Daisy, and to show she wasn’t afraid, she jumped in, disappearing under the water. It seemed an age to the anxious Rita before Daisy came spluttering back to the surface, only to disappear once again.

‘Miss, miss!’ called Rita, running over to Miss Dauntsey, who, having finished her own swim, was lying on a sunbed. ‘Quick, miss, Daisy’s fell in. She’s drowning, miss!’

Miss Dauntsey took one look at Daisy, coming to the surface spluttering for the third time, and diving across the pool grabbed her as she began to sink again. ‘You stupid child!’ she admonished, as she hauled the still-spluttering Daisy onto the side. ‘If you want to go into the pool and you can’t swim, you must come down to the shallow end and walk in.’

‘Don’t want to go in, miss,’ muttered Daisy.

‘Well, you’re going to,’ insisted Miss Dauntsey. ‘Everyone should learn to swim. Come on, Daisy, back into the water. You too, Rita.’

After that, she gave swimming lessons every day, and over the next few weeks most of them learned to swim, enjoying the cool water as the skies above them remained blue and hot, and the sun toasted their pale skins brown. The routine swim had become the high spot of the day.

The Miss Dauntseys were not strict; they were chaperoning several groups, but the children only saw their guardians at the obligatory meeting before breakfast each day, at the afternoon swim and story-time after tea. It wasn’t long before the Laurel House girls were making friends with both boys and girls from other homes. All the children revelled in their freedom. When they passed through the Suez Canal, they leaned over the side of the ship watching little Egyptian boys diving for pennies thrown overboard by some of the passengers.

‘Wish I could swim like that,’ moaned Daisy as she watched a dark head burst upward through the water. She had got over the fright of her first dip in the pool, and could now dog-paddle from end to end with confidence. Rita wasn’t anything like as keen as Daisy.

She joined in the swimming lessons, but she was happy to get out as soon as she was told. There were books to read and quiet corners in which to read them, either out on the deck, enjoying the increasingly hot sunshine, or in the cool of one of the smaller saloons.

It was there, one afternoon, she met Paul Dawson. He was sitting at a table writing in an exercise book. He didn’t look up as she walked over to him, his concentration complete as his pencil flew across the paper. Rita wondered what he was doing. Surely he wasn’t doing school work. Nobody was doing school work. Suddenly Paul stopped writing and gazed up at her, unseeing and chewing the end of his pencil.

‘What are you writing?’ ventured Rita.

Paul noticed her for the first time. ‘This is my journal,’ he replied. ‘I’m writing about what’s happening on this ship.’

‘Can I read it?’

‘No,’ said Paul, firmly. ‘You can’t. Write your own.’

‘Write my own?’ said Rita. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Don’t you do composition at school?

‘Yes, course I do. That’s just composition.’

‘Composition is writing,’ said Paul. ‘Writing a journal is just long composition. If you can do composition, you can do that.’

Rita thought for a moment. ‘I’d rather read,’ she said, and taking her book, curled up in an armchair in the corner, and within moments she was no longer on board the ship, but running to the railway embankment to wave to the old gentleman on the train. Later she thought about what Paul had said. She had always enjoyed composition at school; perhaps if she began to write about their journey to Australia, like Paul, that might get her started.

That evening, she asked Miss Ellen if she could have a book to write in.

‘I’ll see if I can find an exercise book for you, Rita,’ she said, ‘but if I can’t, I can probably find you some paper.’

Daisy was very scornful when Rita returned to the cabin carrying a new pencil and a thin exercise book.

‘What’s got into you, Reet?’ she demanded. ‘Why’ve you gone all goody-goody and started doing school stuff? Reading and writing and that! You’re dippy, you are. No school for two months and you’re writing compositions.’

But Rita, having decided she would write a journal, was not to be put off. ‘I’m writing about our voyage,’ she explained. ‘What we’ve seen and that.’

The days slipped by, merging one into another, so that Rita found she had no real idea as to how long they’d been travelling. She found the ship’s daily routine, marked off by the sound of bells, comforting. There was nothing around the ship to remind her of the past, nothing to trigger memories that might ambush her; and as for the future, well, she had no idea what that might hold. She thought of her mother and grandmother, but somehow they had faded, like an old photograph, and seemed only shadows of themselves.

Rosie, to Rita’s relief, had at last stopped asking for Mum. She seemed content to settle into the new and strange life on board, playing happily with her friends, romping like a water baby in the swimming pool. At bedtime, provided she had Knitty, she settled down to sleep without fuss. Just occasionally she climbed up the little metal ladder and crept into bed beside Rita, but not every night.

The day came when they had their first sight of Australia, and the Pride of Empire steamed into Perth. Some of the migrant workers and one large group of children disembarked there before the ship resumed her journey, docking again in Adelaide for two days, before sailing on to Sydney. One evening the captain announced that, the day after tomorrow, they would reach their destination. There was a ragged cheer from some of the migrant workers still on board, but the Laurel House girls were less happy, anxious about what awaited them when they arrived.

‘Perhaps this Carrabunna place won’t be the same as Laurel House,’ suggested Rita.

‘Course it will,’ scoffed Daisy. ‘Any place that Vanny has her fingers in will be the same, you’ll see!’

18

Wetty Betty Grover shut the door of her tiny bedroom and wedged the back of its single chair under the handle. There was no privacy for Betty, no respect shown to her beyond the allocation of a tiny attic room to herself above the kitchen wing. Its furniture consisted of an iron-framed bed, a sturdy wooden upright chair and a bedside locker. A cramped, cold and uncomfortable room, it was the only place Betty Grover had to call home.

She had lived at Laurel House for much of her life, first as an orphan and now as a maid, working as a skivvy, with no love or affection, simply cheap labour, available because she had nowhere else to go. For a twelve-hour day, and sometimes longer, she received her keep and half-a-crown a week, her only free time being late evenings and two hours on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. She was treated with contempt by the staff, and she resented it, but there was little she could do about it. Yet.

Betty had left school soon after her fourteenth birthday, with no qualifications, no particular natural aptitude, and when no job was found for her, she’d been obliged to stay at Laurel House and earn her keep.

However, Betty was made of sterner stuff than many imagined. She had plans; she had no intention of staying a day longer than she must, and from the day she’d first put on the hated maid’s uniform, she’d begun to make plans for her escape. She was certain that someone, probably the Dragon, regularly went through her few possessions. Betty couldn’t prevent the search, but she managed to keep her secrets safely hidden.

Now she was safe from interruption, Betty pulled the locker away from the bedside, and with an old kitchen knife levered up the piece of loosened floorboard beneath it. From the hollow revealed, she lifted out a home-made bag and tipped its contents onto the bed and looked at them. There was a small pile of money, some newspaper clippings, some trinkets and a stub of pencil. From her pocket she took an envelope and once again stared at the names on it before adding it to the collection on the bed.

Earlier that afternoon Betty had been coming out of the laundry, when she’d almost bumped into Miss Vanstone.

‘Ah, there you are, Betty,’ said Miss Vanstone. ‘I don’t know when you last cleaned my office, but it’s in a terrible state, thick with dust and the windows are a disgrace. Please make sure it has been thoroughly cleaned by the time I come back tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone,’ murmured Betty, eyes downcast, standing aside to let her pass.

‘You’ll have to pull your socks up, Betty,’ remarked Miss Vanstone. ‘I’ve noticed several times recently that you’ve been skimping on your work. Don’t make me have to sack you. You owe Laurel House a great deal, you know. It would be a pity if we had to turn you out to fend for yourself.’ She raised her eyebrows, clearly expecting an answer.

‘Yes, Miss Vanstone.’ Betty kept her eyes lowered until her benefactress had walked on. Then, with an expression of hatred on her face that would have astonished Miss Vanstone had she seen it, she went to the scullery to collect the cleaning things.

Once in the office, she looked about. She knew that important documents were stored in the two filing cabinets which stood either side of the window, but they were of no use to her and she ignored them. She went straight to Miss Vanstone’s large oak desk. It had a central drawer, which was normally locked, and three drawers down each side, which were not. Quickly and methodically, Betty went through each of the unlocked drawers. They held little of interest, some sheets of writing paper, blotting paper, paper clips, pencils and a new bottle of ink. Nothing of value. On one occasion the middle drawer had been left unlocked, and inside she’d found stamps, a few silver coins in a small tin, a cheque book, a small black address book and some letters. Betty had taken nothing from the drawer, simply noting what was in there for future reference. Seldom was there anything on the top of Miss Vanstone’s desk except her blotter, a pen, a bottle of ink and a small steel paperknife. If there was anything else, Betty had always replaced it, in case it had been a test; something of value left by Miss Vanstone to see if she were stealing.

Betty was stealing, whenever she got the chance. She was saving up to walk out of Laurel House, and kick its dust from her heels. Whenever she found anything that might have the minutest value, she squirrelled it away under the floorboard in her room; but she knew better than to take anything of Miss Vanstone’s. On the day she finally left, she would break into that drawer and take everything of value, one last, defiant act before she broke free of Laurel House forever.

Today the desk was clear. Betty took the duster she’d brought with her and set to work, lifting the blotter, pen, ink and paperknife, and setting them on the chair to polish the smooth oak surface. There was rubbish in the wastepaper basket, so she put it beside the door to empty. It was then she noticed that a letter had fallen into it. She picked it out and glancing at it, saw the names Miss Rita and Rosie Stevens written neatly on the envelope.

Betty stared at it: a letter, addressed to Rita and Rosie, in the bin? Why hadn’t it been addressed and put into the hall box, for posting? They had left for Australia more than a week ago, so why was Miss Vanstone writing to them? One of Betty’s chores was to take the letters to the post office, and now she saw that the writing on the envelope was not Miss Vanstone’s, but a small, neat script, written by someone else. But who? Then she remembered the woman who’d come to see Miss Vanstone only this afternoon.

It was the second time she’d come to Laurel House, and Betty suddenly remembered that the first time she’d asked for Rita and Rosie. Betty stood for a long moment, holding the letter in her hand, wondering. Their grandmother? Too old to have been their mother. Whoever she was, she must have written the letter, and Miss Vanstone, cruel bitch that she was, had simply thrown it away when the lady had gone.

At that moment, Betty, always alert to the sounds of the house, heard footsteps in the corridor outside and stuffed the letter into her pocket; when the Hawk opened the office door, Betty was vigorously polishing the sides of Miss Vanstone’s desk.

‘Ah, there you are Betty,’ cried the Hawk. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Miss Vanstone told me to clean her office straight away,’ Betty said, adding, with no hint of apology in her voice, ‘sorry if you was looking for me, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘I see. Well, when you’ve finished in here, come and find me. I’ve several jobs for you.’ The Hawk stalked out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.

‘Bitch,’ muttered Betty as she returned to her polishing. She still had the windows to do, and if the Hawk had jobs as well, she knew that meant that she’d be working till late. She was sure that the Hawk had left the door open on purpose, and as she couldn’t risk being caught off guard, Betty simply finished her cleaning and emptied the wastepaper basket, before closing the door on the office. As she’d expected, the Hawk kept her busy all evening and it wasn’t until she crept up to bed at last that she had time to consider the letter again, and decide what to do with it.

It lay, still sealed, on her bed. She was sorely tempted to open it, to discover who had written it. She hesitated; she could open it easily enough, but she had no way of resealing it, and she would have to do so if she sent it on to the Stevens girls.

Betty thought of the two girls: Rosie, a tearful and bewildered little girl, clinging to her sister in the alien world of Laurel House, and Rita, who had stood out so bravely against the bully Sheila Nevin; who had dared to run away, and take her little sister home. Rita had never jeered at Betty like the other girls. They had talked and Rita had told her how her mother had had another baby, but that she would soon be fetching them home.

Rita had been wrong there of course, but, thought Betty, picking up the letter once again, it looked as if there was someone who was trying to find them.

Rita and Rosie had been shipped off to Australia thinking no one cared what happened to them. Betty, on the verge of making the break from Laurel House herself, wanted them to know that someone had come to ask.

Next time I’ve to post a letter to Carrabunna, thought Betty, I’ll copy the address and I’ll send Rita her letter and maybe she’ll get found again. That, she thought with satisfaction, will be one in the eye for old Vanstone.

As she put the letter into her cloth bag, she counted the money she had hidden there. Two pounds, fifteen and threepence, the sum of her wealth. Among the coins so carefully hoarded, folded into a tiny square, was a green pound note. She had been collecting the coins for months, but the pound note had been a gift from God. It had swirled past her, a flash of green among the yellow and brown autumn leaves. It was a moment before Betty registered what it was, then darting out into the road she snatched it up, stuffing it into her pocket before anyone else could lay claim to it. A whole pound! It was the pound note that had sealed her determination to escape from Laurel House once and for all. If she could save another pound or two maybe, she’d head for London. Two pounds, fifteen and threepence until she stole the petty cash from Miss Vanstone’s desk… but only on the day she left.

That day came sooner than she’d dare hope. Three days after she’d found the letter, the Hawk called her into her office and said, ‘There’s post to go today, Betty.’ She handed Betty a package, wrapped in brown paper. ‘I want you to post this parcel, and Miss Vanstone has letters to go as well. Collect them from her office.’ She pulled out her purse, and peered into it, then she extracted a ten shilling note and handed it to Betty. ‘I’ve no change,’ she said crossly, as if it was Betty’s fault. ‘You’ll have to take this. Now, mind you bring me a receipt for the parcel, and make sure I have the right change.’

‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins,’ replied Betty dutifully. ‘Matron needs me to sort the laundry upstairs. Will it be all right if I go to the post when I’ve done that?’

‘Just as long as you catch today’s post with that.’ The Hawk nodded at the parcel. ‘It’s for my niece’s birthday.’

‘Of course I will,’ promised Betty. ‘I’ll just leave it on the hall table for now and pick it up as I go.’ The ten shilling note she folded and slipped into her pocket, where it seemed to generate a warmth of its own.

This is my chance, Betty thought. I’ve an extra ten bob in my pocket. Today’s the day.

She felt suddenly hollow inside. Could she really do this? She clenched her hands into determined fists. Today was the day. It had to be. If she didn’t leave today, then she’d never leave. She’d be stuck in this God-awful Laurel House for the rest of her life. This last thought brought her out in a cold sweat, and the decision was made.

Betty went to the office. ‘Excuse me, Miss Vanstone, but Mrs Hawkins said you had some letters for me to post.’

‘Ah, Betty, yes.’ Miss Vanstone looked up from what she was writing. ‘I should have them finished in about half an hour. I’ll leave them in the hall box when I go. Please make sure they catch today’s post.’ She opened her desk drawer and reached inside, handing Betty a florin. ‘That should cover the postage,’ she said, adding, ‘you may keep the change, Betty, it’ll only be a few pence.’

It was the chance Betty had been waiting for and she scurried up to her room to get ready. Having wedged the chair against the door once more, she retrieved her hoard from under the floor and laid it out on the bed. She took her Sunday frock from the hook on the back of the door and her change of underwear, comb and toothbrush from the locker by her bed. All she had in the world. With a quick glance round the room, she stuffed everything into the cloth bag and then tied it round her waist under her black stuff skirt. It made a peculiar bulge, so she retied it so that the bag hung down behind her knees. It made her walk with a strange waddle, but it was concealed, and she only had to get through the kitchen and hide it in the yard ready to pick up later.

With a final look at her bleak little attic, she closed the door. Never again would she go into that room.

When she reached the kitchen, Ole Smithy was standing, red-faced, at the stove.

‘There you are, Betty!’ she cried. ‘Where’ve you been? I need you to take over here,’ and without further explanation she handed Betty the huge wooden spoon she’d been using to stir a vat of custard, and disappeared. Betty gave the custard a hefty swirl and darted out of the door into the yard. She stashed her bag behind the dustbins and was back at her post, dutifully stirring the custard when Ole Smithy returned.

‘Now, my girl,’ she said, ‘you keep on with that, and mind you don’t let it burn. What were you doing upstairs, anyway?’

‘Just went up to be excused,’ replied Betty, trotting out the answer which had to be accepted.

‘Well, don’t disappear again, do you hear?’

Betty ducked her head submissively. ‘No, Mrs Smith.’

As soon as lunch was over and the girls were set to their chores once more, Betty went into the hall and collected the letters from the box. She was about to go back through the kitchen, when a thought struck her. Perhaps Miss Vanstone had already gone. Betty hurried along the passage and knocked on the office door. There was no answer. Betty knocked again just to be sure, and then eased the door open.

The room was empty. Betty went inside, closing the door quickly behind her. Then, she crossed to the oak desk. She pulled open the unlocked drawers, but as usual, there was nothing of value, so she turned her attention to the central drawer. It was locked. Betty pulled hard at the handle, but although it moved a little, it didn’t give. Frustrated, Betty rattled it hard, pulling and jerking in an effort to break the recalcitrant lock. She was about to give up, when she caught sight of the little metal paperknife lying on the desktop. She snatched it up and with all her strength, jammed its point in beside the lock, twisting it hard against the wood. Something seemed to give a little and she did the same again. At the third attack, the lock gave way and the drawer was open.

It was the work of a moment for Betty to empty the petty cash tin and grab the stamps, but just as she was about to shut the drawer again, she saw a small black address book and remembered the letter. She snatched it up and stuffed it into her pocket with the money. Then, pushing the drawer closed, she pocketed the paperknife and went to the door.

Now was the dangerous part. She opened the door an inch and listened. Silence in the corridor outside, and so, clutching the letters in her hand, she slipped out into the passage and hurried towards the kitchen.

‘Betty!’ The Hawk’s harsh tone brought her up sharp. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘Just going to the post, Mrs Hawkins,’ murmured Betty, the colour flooding her cheeks. She held up the letters.

‘In that corridor?’ The Hawk’s voice was laden with disbelief.

‘I just went to see if Miss Vanstone had any more letters before I went,’ answered Betty, falling back on her prepared excuse, ‘but she’s not there.’

‘No, she’s gone home.’ The Hawk raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You haven’t forgotten my parcel, I trust.’

‘No, Mrs Hawkins,’ she lied. ‘I was just going to collect it.’

‘I’ve several jobs for you,’ the Hawk told her. ‘Make sure you come up to the flat as soon as you get back.’

For the last time, Betty Grover ducked her head and replied, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’ She fetched the parcel from the hall-stand and went through to the kitchen, gathering up her coat and slinging it carelessly over her arm. In the yard, she collected her bag and concealing it beneath her coat, walked out through the back gate. In the road outside she turned in the direction of the post office, aware that the Hawk might be watching from a window. She walked quickly, heading for the nearest bus stop. A bus pulled up beside her and she got on. She had no idea where it was going, and she didn’t care. She simply needed to be far away from Laurel House before they realized that she’d broken into Miss Vanstone’s desk and wasn’t coming back. And by then, thought Betty, I’ll have disappeared, swallowed up by the world. Swallowed up by the world. She liked that idea and for the first time in days, Betty Grover smiled.

Betty looked out of the bus window. No one knew she was escaping, and no one cared. She wondered what the Hawk would do when she realized that Betty wasn’t coming back. Would she care? Or would she simply shrug and say, good riddance to bad rubbish?

The Hawk’ll be furious, thought Betty, ’cos I’ve had the courage to walk out, and I’ve taken her ten bob with me!

The bus stopped at the railway station and Betty jumped off and went to the ladies’ public convenience. Ten minutes later, she emerged with combed hair, wearing her Sunday frock. She’d been about to throw away the hated black uniform, but remembering she had little else, she reluctantly stuffed it into the bottom of her bag. With her coat over her shoulders and her bag on her arm, Betty walked to the ticket office and bought a third class ticket to London. One way. She was never coming back to Belcaster.

She’d counted her money and with the ten shillings the Hawk had given her, the florin from Miss Vanstone, and the money from the office desk as well as her savings, she now had almost four pounds.

If I’m careful, she thought, I can make that last until I find some work.

Sitting in a compartment by herself, Betty opened the Hawk’s parcel. Inside was a small brown teddy bear. He lay in tissue paper, and looked up at Betty with bright boot-button eyes. Betty lifted him out and pressed his soft furry face against her own. She had planned to sell whatever was in the package, but now she changed her mind.

‘You’d better come with me, Tedda,’ she told the bear, ‘you’re my lucky mascot,’ and she tucked him carefully into the top of her bag.

She opened each of the letters in case there was money enclosed, but there wasn’t, and she tore them up and watched as the fragments were whipped away in the turbulence of the train’s slipstream. Then she sat back and considered her future.

‘Whatever it is, Tedda,’ she said to the bear who regarded her solemnly from the top of her bag, ‘it has to be better than Laurel House.’

It was a week later, in London, that she wrote the Carrabunna address, found in Miss Vanstone’s address book, on the letter to Rita and Rosie Stevens and using all the stamps she’d taken from the desk, dropped the letter into a pillar box.

19

The Pride of Empire steamed into Sydney Harbour, on a chilly September dawn, giving a blast on her foghorn as she approached the great bridge.

‘Cor! Look at that!’ breathed Rita, staring up in amazement at the incredible steel structure arching across the harbour mouth.

‘This ship’s too big,’ cried Daisy as they drew nearer. ‘Our funnel ain’t gonna fit under there!’

‘Course it is,’ scoffed Sheila who was standing with them, ‘ships like this come in here all the time, stupid!’

‘It’s very high,’ whispered Rosie, clutching her sister’s hand. ‘Will it fall down?’

‘Don’t be silly, Rosie,’ muttered Rita. ‘Course it won’t.’ But, as they steamed slowly beneath it, they could hear the thunder of a train passing over their heads, the steady rumble of its wheels seeming so close that they were all glad when the ship was through and making her way up the inner harbour towards Pyrmont, where they would finally disembark.

They, along with all the other migrants left on the ship, were standing on the main deck, crowding the rails to gaze in wonder at the huge bridge and the city around it; the town stretching away to their left, with strange buildings clinging, higgledy-piggledy, to a rocky headland. Wharves, jutting out into the water with boats tied up alongside, were topped with warehouses, some of which seemed derelict. There were boats everywhere, ferries hurrying fussily across the water to pick up and deposit passengers all around the harbour, other small, private craft that chugged about on business of their owners, and boats under sail, skimming across the bay, seemingly unaware of the vast liner passing under the bridge.

The Pride of Empire continued her stately progress up the harbour. All round the deck there was a buzz of excited conversation, a babble of languages from the melting pot of migrants aboard, as with a mixture of fear, hope, excitement, expectation and resignation, they gazed at the city, spreading amorphously away on either side of them. Their long voyage was finally coming to an end and they were about to be expelled from the safe haven of the ship into this strange, unknown city at the end of the world. The six-week journey, a curious interlude between their past lives in war-scarred Europe and their uncertain, future lives in Australia, was at an end.

The ship finally docked at Pyrmont. With much noise and shouting she came alongside the wharf and was made fast. When they at last disembarked, streaming down the gangplanks onto the quay and into the customs sheds, the crowd of immigrants fell into untidy lines, their meagre luggage at their feet, the buzz of their conversation muted by anxiety.

The Miss Dauntseys had gathered their charges together the evening before, speaking to each group in turn, giving them instructions on what to do when they disembarked.

‘All your luggage must be packed and ready this evening,’ Miss Dauntsey told the EVER-Care children. ‘We arrive early in the morning, and have to get off the ship straight away. Make sure you leave nothing behind or you’ll lose it.’

‘You’re to wear your best clothes,’ Miss Ellen added. ‘We don’t want Mrs Manton to think we’ve brought her a lot of scruffs.’

‘Sheila, you’re in charge of your group,’ went on Miss Dauntsey. ‘Make sure everyone stays together. I’ll be handing you over to Mrs Manton once all the formalities have been dealt with.’

‘What’s “formalities”?’ murmured Daisy.

‘Showing passports and telling them what you’ve got in your suitcases,’ Miss Ellen explained. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’

She was wrong. It took ages. Once ashore the children were separated into their original groups. The Laurel House group was the smallest, and as they stood together waiting for someone to come and collect them, they saw the other, larger groups of children shepherded away. Miss Ellen and Miss Dauntsey waited with them, looking anxiously about. Until they had handed over their charges they couldn’t leave the port themselves. Various groups of children were called, and either Miss Dauntsey or Miss Ellen came forward with the necessary papers, escorting each group out to where they were to be collected, passing on their guardianship.

The Laurel House girls shuffled their feet, sat on their cases, moaned and grumbled. Rita looked round the enormous shed at the stream of people who had disembarked from the Pride, pushing and shouting and gesticulating. All these people, she thought. All these people coming to live here… because they want to. I don’t want to.

‘How much longer?’ whined Susan Hart.

‘I’m hungry,’ wailed Rosie.

‘So am I!’ said Daisy.

They were all hungry. The excitement of their passage into the shelter of Sydney Harbour had kept the children on deck. None of them had gone below for their breakfast. Six weeks earlier, none of them would have missed the chance of a meal for any reason; but with six weeks of regular and satisfying meals, the fear of hunger had faded.

‘You should have gone to breakfast when you had the chance,’ remarked Miss Ellen, overhearing as she returned from handing over another group. ‘Never mind, Rosie, I expect Mrs Manton has made arrangements to feed you very soon.’

Paul had been part of the previous group, and as they’d stood waiting to be called forward, Rita had asked him where he was going.

‘Place called Molong,’ he replied. ‘Looks all right. It’s a farm.’

They’d said goodbye, and as he turned to rejoin the rest of the Molong group, he said, ‘Keep writing your stories, Reet. They’re quite good.’

‘And you,’ replied Rita, giving him a half wave as he followed the others out of the shed. He didn’t look back.

Rita watched him disappear, sad to see him go. Over the final few weeks, they’d become friends. While the other children continued to race round the ship, playing hide and seek, and deck tennis, running races and inventing new games to amuse themselves, Paul and Rita had spent many hours curled up in the library, reading, writing and sharing their thoughts. Watching him walk away into the new world which was Australia, Rita felt bereft, and fighting the tears that threatened her, she turned back to find Rosie. Rosie was still her responsibility, and it was with a rush of affection that she saw her sister sitting on her suitcase, kicking her heels against its cardboard sides.

‘You all right, Rosie?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Rosie, surprised. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Me? Course I am.’

Eventually they were allowed to straggle out of the customs shed to a concrete yard beyond where a formidable-looking woman sat on a bench: Mrs Manton, Superintendent of Laurel Farm, Carrabunna, waiting to collect her new charges.

The woman stood up as they approached. She was tall and thin, her greying hair scraped back into an untidy bun under a small black hat. Her face wrinkled, her mouth downturned with permanent discontent, she peered at the children from small, mistrustful eyes. Dressed in a long black overcoat which almost reached her spindly, black-stockinged ankles, she wore black gloves and carried a capacious, black handbag.

‘She looks like a witch,’ muttered Daisy. ‘Or a spider. She’s going to be worse than the Hawk.’

‘May be OK,’ Rita murmured in reply.

‘Huh!’ Daisy looked her new guardian up and down. ‘Don’t you believe it, Reet.’

The little group came to a halt in front of her, all of them realizing as they saw the expression on her sallow face that their ‘holiday’ had indeed come to an end.

‘Here you are at last,’ said the woman by way of greeting. ‘I was beginning to think you were never coming through.’

‘Mrs Manton? I’m so sorry, but they dealt with the larger groups first,’ explained Miss Ellen. ‘I’m afraid your girls were last.’ She turned to the silent group at her heels and said brightly, ‘Well, girls, here’s Mrs Manton. She’s going to look after you from now.’

No one moved. Rita stared at Miss Ellen, suddenly realizing how important she’d become during the journey. She had shown her charges a kindness which was new to most of them. She and her sister had read to them, played with them, talked to them; something few adults had done before. Of all the children in their small group, only Rita and Rosie remembered being with loving adults, and those memories were fast fading. Looking at Miss Ellen now, Rita wanted to clutch hold of her and beg her not to leave them, but she knew with bleak certainty that there was nothing Miss Ellen could do.

‘Well, I must say goodbye,’ Miss Ellen said awkwardly. She hated the idea of leaving these girls to the mercy of the dry stick of a woman who was about to take them away. They’d been her particular charges during the voyage and she’d become fond of them, especially the little ones. She glanced at Mrs Manton, but that lady’s expression had not relaxed into one of welcome for the children who had come so far.

Rosie, suddenly aware that Miss Ellen was going away, let out a wail of misery. Miss Ellen reached out to her and gathered her into a hug. Moments later she’d hugged each of them, even Sheila, who at nearly fourteen might have rebuffed her, and then with tears burning in her eyes, she turned on her heel, hurrying away to collect her own luggage and join her sister in the immigration queue.

Mrs Manton turned to her charges. ‘Stop that yowling,’ she ordered, glaring at the three youngest, who, at the sight of her expression and at the tone of her voice, gulped down their sobs and dashed the tears from their cheeks.

Satisfied, Mrs Manton gave an abrupt nod, then looking over to the gate, she waved an imperious hand at a young, tow-headed lad wearing dirty overalls. ‘Colin!’ she called. ‘Get over here.’

The boy peeled himself away from the wall and, picking up the handles of a handcart, ambled over to them.

‘Load up the luggage, Colin, and be quick about it, we’ve got a train to catch.’

The lad stepped forward and grasping two of the suitcases, hefted them easily onto his cart. In a matter of moments he had all the cases stacked, and set off with the cart.

‘Form up in twos,’ directed Mrs Manton, turning back to the waiting children, ‘follow me and keep up.’

‘Please, miss,’ ventured Sheila, ‘where’re we going?’

‘To catch a train,’ replied Mrs Manton briskly. ‘Now, you older girls make sure the little ones don’t get lost.’ She waited for a moment as the older girls took hold of the younger ones, and then she turned on her heel and strode off, leaving her charges to follow. Rita held Rosie firmly by the hand, and from habit the rest of the group came together in pairs, forming a loose crocodile as they straggled out into the windswept street. Sydney was a city such as they’d never seen before. The streets were crowded and noisy. People hurried along, heads bent against the wind and the incoming rain. Traffic hooted and roared as cars and buses battled the congestion and the sudden clang and clank of a passing tram made Susan and Sylvia scream and cling on to Sheila and Angela.

‘Come on!’ Sheila yanked on Sylvia’s hand. ‘Don’t be such a baby! It’s only a tram!’ But even she kept a wary eye open after that.

Afraid of losing Mrs Manton in the lunchtime crowds, they scurried along behind her, dodging through the pedestrians thronging the pavement. A clock was striking two when they finally reached the railway station. There was no sign of Colin and the handcart.

Rita looked round nervously. ‘Where’s our cases?’ she asked Daisy.

‘How do I know?’ shrugged Daisy. ‘That boy’s got ’em.’

Mrs Manton led them into the station, pausing for the girls to gather round her.

‘Our train is in an hour,’ she told them. ‘You’ll have to wait here.’ She waved them over to some wooden benches that ran along a wall. ‘Sit there and keep quiet while I buy the tickets.’ As they sat down, she opened her bag and handed Sheila a brown paper bag. ‘You can share these out,’ she said, ‘and make sure no one moves before I come back.’

Sheila opened the bag and found it contained some rather soggy-looking egg sandwiches. There was just one each. It was quite a while before Mrs Manton returned with the tickets and by the time they’d all drunk from a drinking fountain and been to the lavatory, it was time for them to board the train. As they clambered into the second class carriage, Colin appeared and climbed in as well. There was no sign of their suitcases.

‘Where’s our stuff?’ asked Rita, an edge of panic in her voice.

‘Yeah, where’s my case?’ Daisy demanded.

‘In the van, of course,’ replied Colin, and immediately lay down on one of the bench seats, flipped his grubby cap over his eyes and went to sleep.

They were all tired, and it wasn’t very long after the train drew out of the station that most of the girls followed his example. The carriage was unheated, and Rita and Rosie huddled together, trying to keep warm. Rosie was soon asleep, her back curved against Rita’s, her hand under her cheek. Rita lay against her, listening to the rhythm of the wheels. ‘No way back! No way back! No way back!’

There was no way back for them now. They would live in another home until they were old enough to leave school and earn their own living, and then… what then? There would still be no way back. For the first time for weeks Rita allowed herself to think about home. On the ship she’d managed to keep such thoughts at bay. She’d been surrounded by new and exciting things, new places, new people, but now, on a cold train, rattling through the countryside, Rita was faced with the reality of her future life. She thought of Mum at home in Ship Street with baby Richard. Uncle Jimmy she tried to blot out of her mind. She tried to picture Gran in Hampton Road, but poor Gran had been knocked down by a car. Was she still in the hospital? If you’ve been run over, Rita thought, you must take ages to get better, specially if you’re old, like Gran.

She thought about Laurel House and the Hawk, and shuddered. Surely the spidery woman who had picked them up today couldn’t be as bad as the Hawk, could she?

Rosie was muttering in her sleep, and Rita pulled her closer, wrapping her arms round her to help keep them both warm, and at last, with the rhythm of the train unchanged and unchanging, she fell into an uneasy doze.

Carrabunna station was small, little more than a platform and a station house at the edge of the town. The grey light of a chilly dawn was stealing into the sky when the train began to slow and, with a squeal of brakes, stop beside the platform. Mrs Manton, who had been sitting elsewhere, hustled them off the train into the early morning chill, shouting at them to stand still while she counted them. Bleary-eyed with sleep, and shivering with cold, they stood waiting. Colin was busy at the guard’s van, pulling out his handcart, still loaded with the suitcases. No one else left the train, and the moment they were all safely on the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the train chugged away into the darkness.

Colin set off up the narrow road pushing the handcart, their suitcases jumping together as the cart bumped its way along the rough road. As they followed in his wake, the grey light grew stronger, but they were able to make out a little of the countryside.

It was very cold, the wind biting, cutting through the thin coats which they had all been given as part of their new wardrobe. Dressed in their best clothes, as Miss Ellen had told them, they were all wearing the short white socks and sandals they’d been given, and the wind beat mercilessly at their bare legs as they trudged along the road into Carrabunna.

The town was silent and it seemed to the girls, trailing along the early morning street, that the whole place was deserted. No one saw the weary little procession as it passed and they saw no one. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; it was the only welcome they received.

A painted sign, hung beside a wide, wooden farm gate, read: Laurel Farm EVER-Care Children’s Home. Mrs Manton led the straggling line of tired children through the gate of their new home and across a cobbled yard to a long, low building. She opened a door at one end, and a welcomingly warm light flooded into the yard.

‘Follow me,’ she instructed, ‘and make sure you wipe your feet!’

The exhausted group did as they were told, anxious to get out of the keen wind. Inside they found themselves in a concrete-floored cloakroom. There were pegs on the wall and a line of wooden benches, with wire lockers underneath, ran down the middle. Most of the lockers contained a pair of shoes, and there were coats hanging on some of the pegs. It was hardly warmer than it had been outside.

‘D’you think we take our coats off? whispered Daisy, looking round.

‘Dunno,’ replied Rita, ‘but I ain’t going to. It’s too cold.’ She reached over to Rosie who was starting to unbutton her coat. ‘Keep your coat on, Rosie, it’s cold.’

For a moment they all stood there, wondering what they were supposed to do, then Mrs Manton reappeared, calling them through into a large room, empty except for a table at one end.

‘Sit!’ she instructed.

They sat down on the wooden floor and waited. Mrs Manton picked up a clipboard from the table and ran her eye down a list.

‘Now then, answer your names.’ When this was done, she said, ‘Good, we haven’t lost anyone. Now, here at Laurel Farm we all live in cottages. You’ll each be assigned to a cottage, and that’s where you’ll eat and sleep. Your cottage is your home. There is a house-mother to look after you, so each cottage is one big happy family.’

Her words were greeted with silence, as no one knew if they were expected to speak. She peered at them over her spectacles. ‘Now, I’ll tell you which cottage you’re in, then you’ll be taken there and you can get settled in.’ She consulted her list. ‘Sheila Nevin, you’ll be in Ash Cottage. That’s the senior girls’ cottage. Angela Gardner, Dora French and Mary Shannon, in Elm. Daisy Smart and Rita Stevens, Oak. Sylvia Brown and Susan Hart, Pine, and Joan Cameron and Rose Stevens, Larch.’

She looked up again and said, ‘Everyone know where they’re going?’

‘Please, Miss…’ began Rita. She’d seen the look of fear on Rosie’s face when she heard she was not going to be in the same cottage as Rita.

‘Mrs Manton,’ corrected the superintendent. ‘Well?’

‘Mrs Manton. Please. Mrs Manton, couldn’t I go into Larch with Rosie instead of Joan? Then Rosie and me’d be in the same cottage. We’re sisters.’

‘Rita, is it? Well, Rita, you’re all sisters here, and you, Joan and Rose will live where you’re told… just like everyone else.’ She paused, and when Rita said nothing she added, ‘Is that understood?’

Rita was whispering, ‘Yes, Mrs Manton,’ when Rosie began to wail. ‘I want to be with Rita. Reet, I want to be with you.’

‘Be silent, child!’ snapped the superintendent. ‘What a disgraceful noise. Another sound from you and you’ll get six of the best.’

Not knowing what six of the best was, Rosie continued to wail, until Rita grabbed her, pulling her sister against her, so that her cries were muffled. She hissed in her ear, ‘Shut up, Rosie, or she’s going to spank you!’

Rosie’s wails subsided, but her shoulders continued to heave with dry, shaking sobs.

‘Now then, where was I?’ continued Mrs Manton. ‘Oh yes. Colin has left your luggage in the yard, so you must pick up your own suitcase on the way to your cottage. You’ll be fetched in the next few minutes.’

Even as she spoke, there was a knock at the door, and a girl came in. Her dark hair was cut straight and short about her ears, she wore a grey checked dress and no shoes.

‘Good, here’s the first of our guides. This is Jane, she’s in Elm. Dora, Angela and Mary, go with her. She’ll take you to your cottage.’ As the three girls hesitated Mrs Manton snapped, ‘Look lively! We haven’t got all day!’ And with anxious glances at the others, the three girls stood up and followed their guide from the room.

Moments later there was another knock and a second girl appeared, dressed identically to the first, pudding basin haircut, grey dress and no shoes. Gradually all the girls were taken to their cottages. When Louise arrived to take Joan and Rosie to Larch, Joan stood up, but Rosie continued to cling to Rita.

‘Come on, Rosie,’ Rita encouraged, softly. ‘Go with Joan and I’ll come and find you later, when we’re all settled in.’ She stood up, pulling Rosie up with her, and then disengaged the child’s fingers from her arms and gave her a little push. ‘Go on, Rosie,’ she urged, ‘go with Joan. I’ll find you later, I promise you.’ Rita could see Rosie was about to start crying again, and she gave a beseeching look to Joan, who reached out, took Rosie’s hand and saying, ‘Come on, Rosie,’ almost dragged her away. Audrey from Oak arrived as Rosie and Joan disappeared and moments later Rita and Daisy were out in the yard where their suitcases awaited them.

When she had dismissed the English girls to their various cottages Daphne Manton went through to the house she shared with her husband, Joe. He was sitting in front of a smouldering fire, reading a newspaper.

‘Everything go all right?’ he asked as his wife came in.

Daphne flopped into a chair on the other side of the fireplace and kicked off her shoes, holding her cold toes to the warmth.

‘Yes,’ she said wearily. ‘All present and correct.’ She glanced down at the clipboard she still carried, with its list of names and assigned cottages. ‘Don’t know how they’ll fit in, though.’

Daphne had been dismayed when she’d received a letter from her cousin Emily some weeks ago saying that she was sending children out from Laurel House. There had been no migrant children since before the war, and the girls who now inhabited Laurel Farm were nearly all Australian-born, children left orphaned or deserted by their families, cast upon the charity of strangers. One or two of the senior girls had vague recollections of coming over on a ship, but most of the earlier migrant children had moved on now and as always, newcomers would be regarded with mistrust.

Well, Daphne had thought at the time, she’ll send them whatever I say, so they’ll just have to muck in with the others.

Emily had enclosed a typed list with her letter, naming the children she would be sending, and three of the names had handwritten comments beside them.

Rita and Rose Stevens. Sisters. These girls should be separated. Rita is a difficult child and a bad influence on her sister. Rose is very babyish… time she grew up.

She’d done as Emily had advised when assigning the new arrivals to their various cottages, and separated the sisters, but that was only a short-term solution; she had other plans for Rosie, which, if they came to fruition, would deal with the situation on a permanent basis.

Sheila Nevin. Can be a trouble-maker, but usually comes to heel.

That comment didn’t worry Daphne either. She was used to the odd trouble-maker, and was well able to deal with those.

Rita and Sheila. Now she had met them, and already had a run-in with Rita, she would, Daphne decided, keep a sharp eye on those two.

‘Emily’s sent me a whole pile of paperwork,’ she told Joe with a sigh. ‘It’s so long since we had any kids from England, I’d forgotten how much was involved. And I bet there’s a long letter, too. You know Emily.’

‘Why not wait till you’ve eaten?’ suggested Joe. ‘Irene’s come over to cook your breakfast. She’s waiting in the kitchen to know what you want.’

‘Scrambled egg and bacon,’ said Daphne, ‘and some toast and tea.’

‘I’ll go and tell her,’ and Joe went in search of the senior girl, Irene, whose job it was to cook for the superintendent and her husband.

Daphne leaned forward and poked the fire, so that the smouldering log blazed with welcome warmth. It was an extravagance, having a fire in the daytime, and one she would never have countenanced in any of the cottages, but she was grateful for its heat today after the long and chilly train journey.

‘Be ready in ten minutes,’ Joe said, looking round the door. ‘Told her to bring it in on a tray so’s you can stay by the fire. I’m off out to the chooks.’

Daphne decided Joe was right to suggest that she leave the letter from Emily until she’d eaten. After all it had taken six weeks to get here, another half hour wasn’t going to hurt, so she sat back, relaxing into her armchair, her feet to the fire, to wait for Irene.

When she’d eaten her breakfast, she poured herself another cup of tea and finally turned her attention to the foolscap envelope. Inside there was the expected letter from Emily, and all the personal records of the ten girls who had arrived that day. She tackled the letter first.

Dear Daphne,

Well, here they are. Quite a mixed bunch, but all of them children who, for various reasons, needed both a change from Laurel House and a completely fresh start. They’re all used to living in a home like yours so they should settle in with you quickly provided you stand no nonsense. I do suggest you keep an eye on Rita Stevens. I think I mentioned her before.

‘Yes, you did Emily,’ muttered Daphne, ‘and I did what you told me.’

Sheila Nevin is a bit of a bully, but like all such she’s also a coward, so I suggest you take an extremely firm line with her right from the start.

Things are changing here quite a bit, and the trend is to foster children in families rather than keep them in institutions like ours. The Labour government has rewritten the rule book with lots of socialist twaddle, meaning that society as we’ve known it is being turned on its head. Of course, we here at Laurel House are working hard to maintain our standards, and would urge you to do the same. It is vital that children such as ours should know their place in the world and keep to it. Too much education can only make them dissatisfied, leading to unhappiness and discontent. I am sure you’ll agree with me.

I am arranging for further funds to maintain these children and plan to send another group out to join you in the near future.

Daphne raised her eyes to heaven when she read this. Where did Emily think she was going to put more children? She’d had to squeeze in the ones who’d arrived today.

I know it isn’t easy to make ends meet, but I’m sure there are economies you can make. Have you considered you might keep a pig? Could Joe build a sty?

Could Joe build a sty? Daphne almost exploded. Joe was going to have to build another bloody cottage, if Emily was determined to keep sending more children from England. And she was certainly going to have to send more money. Economies indeed! How Emily thought they could all live on the funds provided in such tough financial times, Daphne couldn’t imagine. Of course, it was no problem to her and Joe. They had their comfortable house, adjoining the central block, from where she could keep her finger on the pulse of the place. She just took money whenever she needed to. A little work on the books made the deception easy and they lived in comparative comfort, but the rest of the place was run on a shoestring. The five house-mothers lacked any qualifications; they were women grateful to find employment of any kind, and would never query the difference in salary. Daphne was, after all, the superintendent, Joe was the outdoor manager, both very responsible jobs. It was only right that they should earn considerably more than a house-mother, a gardener or an odd-job boy.

Now she scrutinized the details in front of her. The only two she was worried about were the Stevens girls. Attached to their documents was a handwritten note in Emily’s writing.

These girls come from a dysfunctional family. The widowed mother is feckless. She has remarried and has had another child. There is no room for them in the new family, and the stepfather is thought to be violent and abusive. Watch Rita, she’s already absconded from Laurel House, taking Rosie with her. Rosie is a submissive child, biddable enough once out of Rita’s influence.

I certainly will be watching that Rita, thought Daphne. The last thing we want is girls running away from here.

Attached to each girl’s report was her birth certificate, family details, and the legal guardianship document signing her over to EVER-Care. The immigration authorities would have the names of the girls who arrived, but they wouldn’t have the more intimate details.

Occasionally Daphne Manton was approached by adoption agencies, representing couples wishing to adopt. Most of them wanted babies, which she couldn’t provide, but she had placed one or two of her charges in families. She had no idea if those adoptions had been successful, but she’d never been asked to return the adoption fee, and none of the children had been sent back.

Recently she’d been approached by a couple, older than usual, who wanted a daughter. Gerald and Edna Waters had come to her on a recommendation from the minister at the Methodist church they attended in Fryford, just up the coast from Sydney. He had heard that Laurel Farm was an orphanage run by a Methodist charity, and they had made an appointment to visit. When they arrived, Mrs Manton had sat them down in her sitting room and discussed in detail what they were looking for. With luck, she’d thought, there should be a good-sized fee.

The Waters were both in their forties, but had only been married for a year or so, and wanted to adopt a little girl of four or five.

‘Need to have her house-trained,’ said Gerald Waters with a bark of laughter. ‘Too old to cope with nappies and potty training, aren’t we, dear?’

He turned to his wife for corroboration. Edna Waters was a small, whey-faced woman, standing little more than five feet, beside her husband’s six feet four.

She glanced up at him with a half-smile and said, ‘We’d like a daughter, and Gerald’s right, we don’t want a baby, but we do want a child young enough to become our own. You know,’ she went on earnestly, ‘a little girl young enough to forget her early life, whatever it has been, who can truly belong to us.’

‘I doubt if any of the children here are the sort you’re looking for,’ Daphne Manton had said, ‘they’ve been in care too long,’ adding as she saw the disappointment on the Waters’ faces, ‘but there are some children arriving from England in the next few weeks, and one or two of them are the right age. Of course I haven’t met any of them yet, but I’d be happy for you to meet them when they get here and see what you think.’

‘Oh, yes,’ cried Edna, clasping her hands together in delight. ‘Yes, we’d love to see them.’

‘Are they the sort of girls we’d want?’ Gerald sounded doubtful. ‘I mean, well, English girls? We don’t want a slum kid.’

‘They’ve been living in our Belcaster home for some time,’ Daphne told him. ‘They are perfectly well behaved… we allow nothing else. But of course if you don’t wish to—’

‘Oh we do, we do,’ interrupted Edna. ‘Of course we do, don’t we, Gerald? We’ll come and see them as soon as they get here, just tell us the day.’

They were coming tomorrow. If they were going to choose one of the new arrivals, Daphne wanted it done and dusted straight away. Daphne considered the girls who had just arrived. Rosie Stevens seemed the obvious choice, but you never knew. She would bring the three youngest girls in for inspection, and Rita. She’d bring Rita in as well. She was pretty sure, from Edna’s enthusiasm, that they would take one of the three youngsters, but there was just the possibility that when they saw the Stevens sisters together, they might take both, and that would not only relieve her of one of the problem kids Emily had landed on her, but would also ease the overcrowding their arrival had caused.

If one of the other girls was adopted by the Waters couple, that information would be added to her file, so that records were kept straight, but there would be no mention of the adoption fee that would be paid. That would be a matter purely between Gerald Waters and Daphne Manton.

20

Rita lay in bed staring up at the ceiling; grubby white-painted boards sloping from a ridge, meeting the grubby white-painted walls pierced by an uncurtained window. This dreary room was her new dorm. Here she’d crept miserably into bed last night, and here she would go to bed tonight and every night stretching away into the future. She shivered under the thin blanket she’d been given, and the metal springs of the bed creaked beneath her. The grey light of a new dawn seeped through the grimy windows, doing nothing to lighten the austerity of the room, but allowing Rita to see the others, asleep in the other beds. Daisy, lying on her back, was snoring lightly; the two other girls, Audrey and Carol, whom they’d met yesterday, were both buried under their bedclothes, not even their heads showing.

When Rita and Daisy had been dismissed by Mrs Manton, Audrey from Oak had taken charge of them.

‘It’s over here,’ said Audrey, when they’d picked up their luggage, and she led them away through a clump of trees to a small cottage squatting in a patch of garden, behind a wooden fence. The word Oak had been scratched onto one of the palings. Audrey led them up to the front door.

‘Mrs Garfield’s our house-mother,’ she warned them. ‘Watch out for her. She’s mean.’

Inside the cottage they found themselves in a small entrance hall from which a short passage led off to the right. Audrey pointed to a door directly ahead of them. ‘That’s the living room. We eat in there, and do our homework and stuff. Kitchen’s here.’ She waved at a door on her right. ‘Bathroom and toilets here. Dorm’s at the end.’

She led them along the narrow corridor to a small room at the end. ‘You two’re in here with me and Carol.’ She pointed to a metal-framed bed in the corner. ‘That’s mine. ‘Yours is under the window.’

Two more beds, identical to Audrey’s, stood, unmade, under the window. Each had a strip of mattress, on top of which was folded a sheet and a grey blanket. There was no pillow and no quilt.

‘Them’s your lockers.’ Audrey indicated two wooden lockers standing against the wall. ‘You can put your stuff in there.’

‘Where’s Carol, then?’ demanded Daisy.

‘Cooking breakfast. You hungry?’

‘Starving,’ admitted Rita. ‘Will it be soon?’

‘’Bout ten minutes,’ said Audrey. ‘Better get your skates on, or you’ll be late, and then old Ma Garfield’ll be at you.’ She looked at the two new girls standing, hesitant, and added, ‘I’ll come back and get you in ten minutes.’

‘This is worse than Laurel House,’ said Daisy, plonking her case on one of the spare beds. ‘Ma Garfield? What a name for a mother! Ma Gar! Ma Gar, that’s what I’ll call her.’

Rita laughed, her first laugh since she’d walked down the gangplank at Pyrmont. ‘Trust you, Dais, giving her a nickname!’

‘Bet it suits her,’ maintained Daisy, opening her case. ‘And the one what fetched us, I call her Spider. Good name, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, just right,’ agreed Rita. ‘Or Witch. She looks like a witch, don’t she?’

Daisy, who liked to do the nicknames, said, ‘Yeah,’ grudgingly, adding, ‘but I like Spider better.’

Rita put her case on the other bed and went to look through the open window. It was full daylight now, and she could see across a kitchen garden to some ramshackle buildings beyond. Several girls were already out there carrying buckets and she guessed they were feeding chickens.

‘That’ll cheer Rosie up,’ she said.

‘What will?’

‘Chickens. There’s chickens. She loves chickens.’

‘You ready?’ Audrey had reappeared at the door.

‘Nearly,’ said Rita, pulling all her things out of her case and pushing them into her locker. She hadn’t very much, but even so it was difficult to make the locker door close.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Audrey. ‘Most of that stuff gets took.’

‘What d’you mean?’ demanded Daisy, who had just managed to close her own locker.

‘All them clothes you brought, get taken in. Used for everyone.’ She glanced down at the socks and sandals the two girls were wearing. ‘And you only wear shoes for school and church. They’ll get took off you as well.’

Rita remembered the cloakroom, the wire lockers with the shoes inside. She looked down at Audrey’s dirty, angular feet. Did everyone really go about barefoot here, and only put shoes on when they went to school?

‘But they’re new,’ she stammered. ‘We only just got them.’

Audrey shrugged. ‘You’ll see. Come on, it’s time for breakfast, and if you’re late you won’t get none.’

Mrs Garfield was waiting for them in the living room. She looked at her watch as they came in and glowered at Audrey. ‘You’re late. Where’ve you been?’

‘Mrs Manton said to show the new girls,’ Audrey replied. ‘They’re here.’

‘So I see,’ sniffed Mrs Garfield. She turned her attention to Rita and Daisy, and Audrey slipped thankfully into a place at the table.

‘What’re your names, then?’

‘Please, Mrs Garfield,’ answered Rita, ‘I’m Rita and this is Daisy.’

‘She got no tongue in her head?’ demanded the house-mother. Rita reddened and said nothing.

Daisy looked up at Mrs Garfield and said, ‘I’m Daisy Smart.’

‘Smart, are you? Well, don’t you get smart with me!’ snapped the house-mother. She turned towards the table where six other girls were already standing, waiting behind their chairs. There were two empty spaces.

‘Well…’ Mrs Garfield waved a hand, and Daisy and Rita hurriedly took their places.

Mrs Garfield sat at the head of the table with a pile of tin bowls in front of her. Into these she dished porridge from a large tureen. They ate in silence. Rita and Daisy put their spoons into the glutinous mess in front of them, and despite their hunger – they had had nothing since the egg sandwiches at the station the day before – they found it hard to swallow. All round them was the clatter and scraping of spoons as the other girls shovelled the grey mess hungrily into their mouths. Fixed by a baleful stare from the head of the table, Rita and Daisy struggled to finish their portions, but, remembering Audrey’s warning, they finally managed clean plates.

This was the only communal room in the cottage, and looking at its dirty white walls and grimy windows, the utilitarian furniture and the cold stone hearth, Rita found it dismal in the extreme. Were they really going to spend the rest of their lives here at Laurel Farm in this dreadful cottage, eating this disgusting food? The prospect was too awful.

Are all the cottages like this, Rita wondered, or just Oak?

When everyone had finished the porridge, Audrey came round the table with a large jug of milk, filling the mugs that stood beside each place. The milk was good, and everyone drank thirstily. Then the meal was over. The whole thing had taken less than twenty minutes.

Mrs Garfield stood up. Though she’d sat at table, she had eaten nothing. ‘Get cleared up and ready for school,’ she said to the room at large, adding, almost as an afterthought, ‘New girls don’t go today. You’ll start on Monday. You’re not to leave the house without permission. I’ll see you in here in half an hour when the others have gone.’

‘And when she’s had her breakfast,’ muttered Audrey as the house-mother disappeared through a door beside the fireplace.

‘Don’t she have meals with us?’ asked Daisy.

‘What do you think?’ scoffed Audrey. ‘No, she goes back to her own rooms and has bacon and eggs.’ She waved towards the door through which Mrs Garfield had disappeared. ‘She lives through there… and you don’t want to get called in there, I can tell you!’

Just like the Hawk, Rita thought miserably. There was no escape from people like the Hawk… or Ma Gar, and this time the nickname did not make her smile, it made her shiver.

Another girl approached them and Audrey said, ‘Here’s Carol. Carol, these are Rita and Daisy. They’re in with us. You two better get your beds made,’ she added turning back to them. ‘Ma Garfield’ll be round to check the minute we’ve gone.’

‘Ma Gar!’ said Daisy.

‘Hey, that’s clever,’ cried Carol. ‘Ma Gar!’

‘Yeah, well, don’t let her hear you call her that,’ advised Audrey. ‘Told you, she’s real mean.’

It seemed only moments later that the cottage emptied, and Rita and Daisy were left alone. All the other girls disappeared over to the main building, which Audrey told them was known as ‘central’, to put on their shoes, ready for the walk to school. A strange silence settled over the cottage, and Rita felt they ought to be talking in whispers.

Remembering Audrey’s warning about having things taken away from them, Rita pulled everything out of her locker. The picture of Daddy that had travelled safely all the way from England, she slipped into her journal notebook and then slid both of them under the mattress. She’d have to try to find somewhere better later. There was nothing else that was particularly precious except her rose-patterned dress and she wasn’t sure if it would still fit. Anyway there was nowhere to hide it. Reluctantly she laid it aside. It would have to take its chances. The rest of her new clothes she folded carefully and put back in the locker.

‘Let’s have a proper look about,’ suggested Daisy when they’d made up their beds with the scant bedclothes provided. So they walked back along the passage, opening doors and looking into rooms. The room next to them was also a dorm. It was identical to their own except that this one had five beds. Each bed was neatly made, night clothes tidily folded and laid where a pillow might have been, each locker-top completely clear. The bathroom held two baths and two basins, but it had no door. Anyone could look in. The two lavatories had doors, but no locks.

‘We better go back to the living room,’ said Rita. ‘Your friend Ma Gar’ll be after us.’

‘All right,’ agreed Daisy, and they went back to where they’d eaten their breakfast. They found the table cleared and the chairs upended.

Daisy wandered over to the window. ‘Look, Reet,’ she said, ‘there’s a man in the garden.’

Rita hurried over and peered out through the grubby glass. ‘Who is it, d’you think?’

Daisy shrugged. ‘Dunno. It’s not that Colin, is it? P’raps he’s the gardener.’

‘Ah, there you are.’ Mrs Garfield’s voice cut through the air like a knife. The two girls spun round, each of them wondering how long their house-mother had been standing there. Had she heard their speculation about the man in the garden?

‘Please, Mrs Garfield,’ Daisy asked, ‘who’s the man in the garden?’

The house-mother gave her an icy stare, as if incredulous at such curiosity, but then she said, ‘That’s Mr Manton, the superintendent’s husband. He’s in charge of outdoors. He oversees the work outside, maintaining the garden and looking after the animals.’

Rita was about to ask what sort of animals, but something in Mrs Garfield’s expression made her change her mind.

‘Now then,’ began their house-mother, ‘I’m going to tell you what happens round here, so pay attention. I shan’t tell you twice. Oak Cottage is your home now, and you’ll be expected to look after it properly. You’ll help with the cooking and cleaning, all the usual daily chores. You go to school every day, but when you get back there’ll be the afternoon jobs to be done.’ She looked at them sharply to make sure they were still paying attention. ‘You’ll have homework, and then after tea each day, you go over to central for prayers and notices. At weekends and in the holidays, you’ll be helping outside. All the cottages have vegetable gardens. We have to grow as much of our own produce as we can. That’s what Mr Manton is in charge of. There’s not much money for extras here, so you all have to pull your weight.

‘You can start in the kitchen,’ said Ma Gar briskly. ‘There’s the washing up to finish and then potatoes to peel. Come along,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll have to show you.’ She led them across the passage into the kitchen. A scrubbed wooden table filled much of the room, and shelves, stacked with cooking utensils, lined two of the walls. An old range stood against a third, and under the windows was a deep sink, now filled with unwashed breakfast bowls. There were two more doors leading from the room; one, Mrs Garfield told them, went to the vegetable cellar where they would find the potatoes, the other out into the garden.

‘Wash those breakfast things,’ she said, ‘and then fetch potatoes from the cellar and peel enough to fill that pot.’ She pointed to a saucepan that stood, empty, by the range. ‘You can go outside and look round when you’ve finished, but there’ll be more jobs to do later,’ adding as she stalked out of the room, ‘We’ve no time for idleness here.’

‘We’ve no time for idleness here!’ mimicked Daisy. ‘You all have to pull your weight!’

‘Oh Dais, you are a one!’ giggled Rita, keeping an anxious eye on the door, afraid Ma Gar might come back unexpectedly. Her laughter died away as she looked round the kitchen and saw the chores awaiting them. ‘I got to go and find Rosie,’ she said. ‘I got to see she’s all right.’

‘Better do this first,’ Daisy said with unusual caution. ‘Won’t take long, will it? Bowls, spoons and mugs.’ She turned on the tap, and a stream of cold water flowed into the sink. ‘No hot water,’ she said, as she dipped her hands into the sink and began to scrub at the porridge glued to the rims of the bowls. Rita shrugged and picked up a tea towel from the rail in front of the range.

‘S’pose you’re right,’ she said. ‘Ain’t no point in getting on the wrong side of Ma Gar on the first day. Anyway, the others’re probably having to do the same stuff in their houses.’

Daisy was right, the washing up didn’t take very long, despite the cold water and the lack of soap. The potatoes Rita had fetched from the cellar took much longer; the pot they had to fill was huge.

The cellar was a dark hole, stretching the width of the house, lit only by a horizontal slit of a window, level with the garden above. There was no artificial light, and Rita had to wait for her eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom before she could see what was there. An accumulation of junk was stacked up at one end, broken furniture, what looked like a rolled-up carpet, a pile of sacks, a heap of logs and some coal. A shelf ran along one wall on which she could see some jars, but it was impossible to tell in the dim light what they contained. She found the sack of potatoes in a corner. The whole place was chilly and had a musty, dank smell. As she hurriedly filled the pot Rita thought she could hear something scuffling about among the rubbish and shuddered.

‘It’s horrible down there,’ she told Daisy. ‘Full of junk, and stinks something rotten. And,’ she added with another shudder, ‘there’s rats!’

With small kitchen knives, the two girls laboured over the peeling for nearly half an hour before the pot was full.

‘Let’s go an’ explore,’ said Daisy, when they’d finished. ‘We’ll go out of this door so’s Ma Gar don’t see us and find us sommat else to do.’

‘I got to find Rosie,’ Rita said again. ‘She’s in Larch, wherever that is.’

‘We’ll find it,’ said Daisy, ‘come on.’

The two girls slipped out through the back door into the garden. Beyond the fence they followed a well-trodden path between the trees and found themselves outside another cottage. This one had no fence round it, but the word Pine was scrawled on a board beside the door.

There was no sign of life, so they moved on in search of Larch. It was the next they came to. Like Oak, it stood in a patch of garden, where rows of potatoes were earthed up, and spring cabbage grew in straight, green lines.

‘Shall we go in?’ said Rita apprehensively. ‘I got to find Rosie.’

‘You go and see,’ said Daisy, glancing round. ‘I’ll keep cave.’

Rita gave her a twisted smile. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘you do that.’ And leaving Daisy crouched behind a bush, safely out of view, she walked up to the front door. There was no knocker or bell, so she turned the handle and the door swung open. With one backward glance to Daisy, who gave her an encouraging thumbs up from beside the bush, she stepped inside.

The interior was the same as Oak’s. Opposite the front door another door stood ajar, and a passage stretched away to Rita’s right. The house was quiet, no sound from anywhere. Rita wondered if she should call out, but hesitated to break the silence. She peered into the room in front of her. Like Oak it was a living room, furnished in much the same way. No one there. She crept along the passage, peeping into each room as she passed, and finally came to the dorm that matched her own. Rosie’s case was on one of the beds, but there was no sign of Rosie.

She was about to leave the room when a voice said, ‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ Rita spun round and found herself facing a small, fair-haired woman, standing in the doorway. The woman looked her up and down, waiting for a reply.

‘Rosie… I was… just looking for Rosie,’ Rita faltered, ‘my sister.’

‘Visiting other cottages uninvited is strictly forbidden,’ said the woman, though she spoke mildly enough and didn’t sound particularly angry.

‘S-s-sorry,’ stammered Rita. ‘It’s just that I promised her.’

‘Rose has gone with Joan to feed the chooks,’ the woman told her, adding as she saw Rita’s look of incomprehension, ‘the chickens. If you go round the house, you’ll find the path to the hen runs.’

Rita’s face lit up with relief. The chickens. Rosie would love feeding them. ‘Thank you, miss,’ she said.

‘I’m Mrs Watson, Larch house-mother,’ the woman said. ‘And your name is…?’

‘Rita, miss.’

‘Well, Rita,’ said Mrs Watson with a faint smile, ‘I think you’d better scoot out to the chooks as well, before I see you.’

Rita looked uncertain for a moment, but then as the woman disappeared from the doorway, she beat a hasty retreat.

‘She’s feeding the hens,’ Rita told Daisy, and set off round the cottage.

She found Rosie and Joan emptying buckets of water into a trough. Rosie glanced up and seeing Rita coming towards her, dumped her bucket and rushed over to her.

‘Oh, Reet,’ she cried, her face one huge smile. ‘Look, they’ve got chickens, just like at Laurel House.’

‘You all right, Rosie?’ Rita asked, but she could see she was.

‘What’s your cottage like?’ Daisy asked Joan, as she came up to join them.

Joan shrugged. ‘All right, I s’pose.’

‘What did you have for breakfast?’ demanded Daisy.

‘Porridge and bread and butter,’ answered Joan.

‘Lucky you!’ moaned Daisy. ‘We only got porridge and it was disgusting.’

At that moment the man they had seen from the window emerged from one of the sheds. ‘Hallo,’ he said with a smile. ‘Who’ve we got here then? Don’t know you two.’

Rita and Daisy told him their names and he said, ‘I’m Mr Manton, you’ll be helping me in the garden. Everyone has to pull their weight here, you know.’

The new girls were each given another round of egg sandwiches for their midday meal, and as they ate them they exchanged their news. From what Joan told them, it seemed that Mrs Watson was the kindest of the house-mothers. Mrs Yardley in Pine scared the two younger girls.

‘She’s got big teeth,’ Sylvia told them, fear lurking in her eyes.

‘And she shouts,’ added Susan.

‘Mrs Dawes is Ash mother,’ Sheila said, ‘but I ain’t seen her yet. She didn’t come in when we had breakfast.’

‘Our house-mother’s called Mrs Ford,’ Dora told them. ‘She’s the size of a house. Arms on her like a navvy.’

‘Voice and language to match,’ agreed Mary. ‘She roars at everyone. Stood over Ange this morning till she finished her porridge, didn’t she, Ange?’

‘Said if I didn’t eat it she’d hold my nose and force it down my throat,’ agreed Angela. ‘An’ I believed her, an’ all!’

‘The girls here do talk funny,’ remarked Mary. ‘The one what showed us round, Jane, she called us Poms. What’s Poms?’ No one knew exactly, but they all agreed it probably wasn’t complimentary.

‘Their voices are dead odd,’ said Joan.

‘That’s just their Australian accents,’ said Sheila loftily. ‘There was an Australian girl in my class at school back home for a bit, and she talked like that. That’s how they talk over here. But they don’t like us coming, so we stick together, OK? Ain’t going to take no stuff from any of them.’

‘Yeah,’ said Daisy, ‘stick together.’

They all agreed, and felt a little more cheerful, knowing they were in it together.

When the other girls got back from school, the newcomers had to return to their cottages, and were soon swallowed up in the routine of each house. When they got home, the girls changed out of their school uniform and put on overalls. Some went to collect eggs, others were set to weed the vegetable plots, others had to collect the discarded clothes and wash them, ready to wear again on Monday morning.

The potatoes Rita and Daisy had peeled earlier were set to boil, and then added to the thin stew, prepared before breakfast. After the meal, they all trooped over to central for notices and prayers. The full complement of girls gathered in the meeting hall and sat on the floor, where Mrs Manton addressed them all.

‘You’ll all have noticed that we’ve ten new girls come to join us,’ she said. ‘They will quickly learn how we do things here at Laurel Farm. After prayers I wish to speak to Rita and Rose Stevens, Susan Hart and Sylvia Brown.’ She did not say why, but simply went on to outline the jobs for the weekend.

Rita was hardly listening. Why did the Spider want to see them after prayers, and why only her and Rosie and the two little girls? Why didn’t she want the others? Rita was filled with a dark foreboding.

After a Bible reading and some prayers, everyone was dismissed except the four new girls, who sat on the floor, waiting. As she got up to leave with the other girls from Oak, Daisy whispered to Rita, ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ And Rita, feeling the Spider’s eyes boring into her, could only nod gratefully, while keeping her own eyes lowered.

When the others had gone, Mrs Manton said, ‘Tomorrow we’ve some visitors coming. You’ll wear the clothes and shoes you brought from England, and I want to see clean faces and tidy hair. These people are coming especially to see you and I expect perfect behaviour from you all. You’ll answer politely, but only speak if you’re spoken to.’ She looked round at them and said, ‘Any questions? No? Good.’

‘Please, Mrs Manton,’ ventured Rita, ‘why do they want to see us?’

Clearly Mrs Manton hadn’t expected questions, and she spoke sharply. ‘You’ll find out tomorrow. Go back to your cottages now. Make sure you’re ready after breakfast.’

Outside Daisy was waiting for them in the gathering twilight. The five girls walked back through the dusk, Rosie clinging tightly to Rita’s hand, Sylvia and Susan clutching Daisy’s.

‘What did she want?’ Daisy asked. ‘Why did you have to stay?’

‘She told us some visitors is coming tomorrow and we’ve got to meet them,’ said Rita. ‘She said they was coming specially to see us. Didn’t say why. She said we had to dress up and look smart.’

Daisy thought for a moment and then said, ‘Perhaps they have to check up on children just come from England.’

‘Yeah, I thought that,’ agreed Rita, ‘but why just us four? Why not all of us what come together?’

‘Don’t know,’ shrugged Daisy.

‘I don’t want to go in there,’ Susan whispered to Daisy when they reached Pine Cottage. ‘The lady in there is scary!’

‘You got to,’ Daisy told her firmly, detaching her hand and casting her adrift. ‘Look, Sylvia’ll be with you, and we’ll see you in the morning, all right?’ When neither of the little girls moved, she grabbed their hands again, marched up to the front door of the cottage and opened it. ‘See you in the morning,’ she said again and pushing them inside, she pulled the door closed behind them.

Rosie gripped Rita’s hand even tighter as they came to Larch. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she whimpered.

‘Nor do I,’ admitted Rita, ‘but there ain’t nothing we can do about it. I’ll see you in the morning, after breakfast, OK? You’ll be all right. Joan’s in there too. You like Joan.’

‘But she’s not in my dorm,’ cried Rosie. ‘There’s only girls I don’t know.’

Rita sighed. ‘Come on, Rosie. You got to go in.’ She opened the cottage door. ‘You got to be a big girl now. I’ll see you in the morning, promise you.’

‘What’s going on here?’ demanded a voice from inside. The door was pulled wider and Mrs Watson appeared. She looked at the two girls hesitating on the doorstep and said, ‘Ah, you’re back, Rosie. Good. Come along in, now. It’s time for bed.’ She reached down and took Rosie firmly by the hand. ‘Goodnight, Rita.’

Rosie was pulled into the house, and Rita was left standing outside.

‘I wish she was with me,’ Rita said to Daisy as they walked back to Oak. ‘She’s only little.’

‘She’s got to learn to stand on her own two feet,’ Daisy said. ‘You can’t look after her forever, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ Rita sighed, ‘but even so, they could have put us together, just at first.’

Why were they to meet these strange people tomorrow? Rita wondered as she lay in the chilly dorm. Who were they and what did they want? A fearful thought had assailed her, but it was so dreadful that she didn’t mention it, even to Daisy. She felt that somehow, just saying it aloud might make it come true. But the idea wouldn’t leave her. Suppose they were going to be sent somewhere else. Suppose they were going to be split up. Surely she and Rosie would be kept together – they were sisters. Perhaps that was why she, alone of the older girls, had been included. But Rita felt sick with worry. The Spider had already split them up, perhaps she was going to do it again.

With her thoughts in such a turmoil, it had been ages before Rita had finally fallen asleep. It was the cold that had woken her again and for a moment she didn’t know where she was, and then it all came flooding back to her. Yesterday had been a miserable day, surely today things could only get better.

21

The next morning Audrey, Carol and Daisy dressed in their weekend overalls. When Daisy had returned from the meeting room the previous evening, she’d found that all her clothes had disappeared and all that was left in her locker was one pair of knickers and her nightie.

‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘Where’s my things, my clothes?’

‘Told you,’ Audrey said. ‘Told you they’d take them.’ She pointed to a pair of overalls lying on the bed. ‘That’s what you wear now, like the rest of us.’

‘They haven’t taken mine,’ Rita said, peering into her locker. ‘They’re all still here.’

Audrey had shrugged. ‘You got to dress up for the visitors tomorrow,’ she said. ‘They’ll take them after that.’

Rita lifted out her rose-patterned dress, but when she tried it on, it was too tight and too short. The good food on the ship had done its work, and she had grown, not only an inch taller, but she had also filled out.

‘You’re too fat, Reet,’ Daisy remarked as she watched her friend struggling with the dress.

‘No, I ain’t,’ snapped Rita, pulling the dress back over her head. ‘I’ve grown, that’s all.’ With a sigh she put the frock away and put on the white blouse and tartan pinafore which she’d been given as Sunday best before she left England.

‘D’you know why the visitors are coming?’ Rita asked Audrey as she put on her socks and sandals.

Audrey, whose feet were bare, and more than a little grubby, shrugged. ‘’Spect it’s for parade.’

‘Parade!’ echoed Rita. ‘What’s parade?’

‘You stand on parade and people come and look at you,’ said Audrey.

‘But what for?’

‘To see if they want to take you,’ chipped in Carol.

‘Take you? Take you where?’ Rita still didn’t understand.

‘Take you with them.’ Audrey spoke as if explaining to an idiot. ‘To live with them. ’Doption, it’s called.’

‘And they just take you away?’ Rita shivered, a sudden chill running through her.

‘Yeah, well, they come and look from time to time,’ Audrey told her, ‘but nobody never gets took. Don’t know why they bother, d’you, Carol?’

‘I never knew anyone to get took,’ agreed Carol, ‘and I’ve been here forever.’

Rita’s mind was racing. Could these people who were coming today, could they simply carry one of them off to live somewhere else? Why was it only her and the three little girls who were to be ‘on parade’, as Audrey had called it? Did it mean what she’d been dreading, that she might be separated from Rosie? She closed her eyes, fighting against the waves of panic welling up inside her.

‘Reet?’ Daisy had been listening to the exchange with interest, ‘Reet? You all right?’ She edged towards the door. ‘Come on, Reet, we got to go.’

‘S’posing they take Rosie,’ Rita whispered.

‘They won’t,’ Daisy assured her. ‘You heard what Carol said. No one ever gets took.’ She reached out and pulled at her friend’s arm. ‘Come on, Reet, we’ll be late.’

At breakfast Rita was the only girl in Oak who was not dressed in her weekend overalls. Wearing her bright tartan pinafore, she stood out like a parrot among a flock of pigeons. Mrs Garfield, standing at the head of the table, sniffed when she saw her come in, but otherwise ignored her. The other girls cast sideways glances in her direction as she struggled to swallow that morning’s helping of glutinous porridge. The silence, broken only by the scraping of spoon on bowl, was oppressive, and Rita couldn’t wait for the meal to end.

When at last the tin plates had been cleared away, and Mrs Garfield had disappeared to her own quarters to eat bacon and eggs, Irene, from Ash, appeared and said, ‘Message from Mrs Manton, Rita. You’re to go straight over to central and to wait in the meeting hall, all right?’

Rita gulped and nodded. Irene gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right. Never know, you might get lucky and get out of this place.’ She gave Rita a little push. ‘Go on now, don’t be late or you really will be in for it… and don’t forget to brush your hair!’

Rita went back to the dorm. She brushed her hair as instructed, slipping on the hair band Miss Ellen had made from some tartan ribbon. Just before she left the room, she rescued the photo of Daddy from under the mattress and tucked it inside her blouse, so that she could feel the stiff paper against her skin and know that he was safe.

When she reached the meeting room, she found Rosie already waiting there. Rosie leaped to her feet and with a cry of ‘Reet!’ ran to hug her sister. Rita returned the hug and said, ‘You all right, Rosie?’ She looked at her little sister, and the sight of her twisted Rita’s heart. It was clear someone who knew she was ‘on parade’ had taken great care with the little girl’s appearance. Rosie was dressed in her rose-patterned dress, which, though a little on the short side, still fitted her. Her fair, curly hair was brushed, parted down the middle and tied with a pink ribbon on either side. She wore clean white socks and her sandals had been polished. She looked bright and clean and… lovable, and Rita felt a sudden burst of affection for her.

‘Who did your hair, Rosie?’ she asked, gruffly.

‘Mrs Watson,’ replied Rosie, making a face. ‘She pulled.’

‘S’pect it was tangly,’ said Rita, ‘but it looks nice now.’ So different from her own hair, dark and straight, held clear of her face by the tartan snood.

The door opened and Susan and Sylvia came in, brought over by one of the older girls from Pine. They, too, had had their hair brushed, both now wearing neat plaits. They came in nervously, holding hands, and even when they sat down on the floor beside the other two, they kept a tight grip on each other.

‘What we got to do, Rita?’ asked Susan nervously.

‘Don’t know. We’ll get told.’

‘Who’s coming to see us?’ asked Rosie.

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Rita snapped, her own nerves jangling. ‘Just some people.’ How she wished this ‘parade’ was over and they could all go back to their cottages and get on with things.

At that moment the door opened and Mrs Manton came in. ‘Stand!’

They stood, a forlorn group of four children, looking anxiously at the superintendent’s grim face. Rita and Rosie close together, hands clasped; Sylvia and Susan, each holding tight to the other.

‘Stand up straight!’ ordered Mrs Manton. ‘And for goodness sake, stop holding hands like babies!’ She looked them over and seeming satisfied with what she saw, said, ‘I’ll be bringing our visitors in shortly, so remember what I said: stand still and straight, be quiet, and answer properly if anyone asks you a question. Understand?’ When no one replied, she said again, ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mrs Manton,’ muttered Rita, and the three little girls murmured, ‘Yes, miss,’ in a whispered chorus.

Mrs Manton gave a brisk nod and left the room. The four children stood as she’d left them, not daring to move. Moments later the door opened again and Mrs Manton brought in a man and a woman.

Rita, her head held high, standing straight as she’d been told, looked at them. They looked quite ordinary, she thought. The lady wore red lipstick and had permed hair; the man had a red face, wore a blue suit and brown shoes, and his smoothed hair was shiny with oil. Just ordinary grown-ups, really, Rita thought.

The couple paused inside the doorway, their eyes resting on the little group of waiting girls. Nobody said anything. No introductions were made. Mrs Manton stood, a silent presence behind them, as they studied the ‘parade’. Then the man came forward, and walked up to Rosie.

‘Hallo, little girl,’ he said. ‘And what’s your name?’

Rosie edged behind Rita, peering round nervously at this stranger who towered over her, a bear of a man with a red face and wide bristling moustache.

‘Tell Mr Waters your name, child,’ ordered Mrs Manton.

‘Rosie,’ she whispered.

The man bent down, thrusting his big face close to hers.

‘And how old are you, Rosie?’

Again Rosie hesitated and Mrs Manton prompted her with a brisk, ‘Speak up, Rosie!’

‘Five.’ Rosie had taken hold of Rita’s hand again, and Rita gave her a comforting squeeze. She glowered at the man whose face was just inches away from Rosie’s. Can’t you see she’s frightened? she wanted to say. She’s only five.

The man glanced up at Rita and asked, ‘And is this your friend, Rosie? What’s her name?’

Rosie didn’t answer, and so Rita said, ‘My name’s Rita, and I’m Rosie’s sister.’

‘Your sister, eh?’ The man nodded, and stepped back towards the woman who was still standing at the door. He had hardly glanced at the two other little girls, standing stiff and frightened. They didn’t have the blonde curls, they didn’t have the blue eyes, which was what Gerald Waters liked in little girls, and Rosie, in her rose-patterned dress, was an exotic butterfly beside two moths.

The woman now walked across to the little group of children. She asked each of them her name, and how old she was. Each replied, monosyllabic, always with an anxious eye on the superintendent who hovered, a black crow, in the background.

When she reached Rosie she smiled and said, ‘What a pretty dress.’

‘My gran made it,’ Rosie told her.

‘Your gran?’ The woman sounded surprised. She’d assumed that these children here had no family.

‘She made it from her curtains,’ Rosie told her.

‘Did she now? From her curtains! How clever!’

Rosie smiled at her, but Rita, listening, didn’t think the woman really thought it was clever at all. She said the words, but Rita could tell she didn’t mean them.

‘Well, Rosie,’ smiled the woman, ‘you look very pretty in it.’ Rosie beamed at her. She loved being told how pretty she looked.

Having finished her inspection, the woman rejoined her husband by the door. They spoke together in hushed tones for a moment and then Mr Waters turned to Mrs Manton.

‘We’ll take that one,’ he said, and pointed to Rosie.

Mrs Manton treated the couple to her best smile and said, ‘The perfect choice, I’d say.’ She turned to the waiting children and said, ‘Rosie, come over here. The rest of you can go back to your cottages and get changed.’

Susan and Sylvia hesitated for a moment and then scurried out of the room. Rosie came forward as asked, but Rita stood her ground.

‘Off you go, Rita,’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘We don’t need you any more.’

‘But what about Rosie?’ asked Rita.

‘What about Rosie?’ Mrs Manton’s tone was cold.

‘Rosie’s coming to live with us,’ Mrs Waters broke in. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rosie? To come and live at our house?’

‘Can Reet come too?’ asked Rosie.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Mrs Waters. ‘We haven’t room for both of you. But you can come… I’m going to be your new mother.’

Rosie’s sunny smile faded. ‘I got a mother,’ Rosie told her. ‘She’s called Mummy.’ Then her lip began to tremble. ‘But I don’t know where she is now.’ She looked across at her sister and said, ‘Where’s Mummy, Reet? I want Mummy.’

It was so long since Rosie had mentioned their mother that Rita didn’t know what to say. She wanted Mum, too, but she’d already realized that they were never going to see her again. She stepped forward and put her arms round her sister, holding her close.

‘Mummy’s not here now, Rosie,’ she whispered, ‘but I’ll look after you.’

‘Off you go now, Rita,’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘You can say goodbye to Rose before she leaves.’

‘But—’ began Rita, but the superintendent interrupted before she could protest further.

‘Leave the room immediately, Rita. I’ll deal with you later. Rose, you’ll come with us.’ She took hold of Rosie’s hand and jerked her away from Rita, saying to the couple as she did so, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come through to my sitting room where we can deal with the formalities.’

They left the room, Rosie beginning to wail as she realized Rita wasn’t coming with them, wails that were abruptly cut off by the closing of the door.

Rita was left standing alone, icy despair flooding through her as she knew that her worst fear had come true. She was going to lose Rosie. Just like that. Rosie was going to be taken away, to live with people she didn’t know. She, Rita, was going to be left here at Laurel Farm, and each of them would lose the last link with Mum and Gran and Ship Street. She was going to lose Rosie and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it. She gazed round the empty room in anguish. She didn’t even believe Mrs Manton when she said that she’d be able to say goodbye to Rosie before she left.

Rosie’ll have to get her things, thought Rita. And Knitty, she’ll want Knitty!

Rita ran across the dusty grass to Larch Cottage. When she got there, she banged on the front door. It was opened by a girl Rita didn’t know, but she pushed past her and ran along the passage to Rosie’s dorm. There, hidden under the blanket, she found Knitty. He was looking the worse for wear after his travels, but she gathered him up, hugging his familiar striped body to her before tucking him under her arm.

‘You’ll go with her, Knitty,’ she said. ‘At least she’ll have you.’

‘And what is going on here?’ demanded a voice and Rita spun round to find herself confronted by Mrs Watson, standing in the doorway.

‘Oh, it’s you again,’ sighed Mrs Watson, when she recognized Rita. ‘I told you yesterday about visiting cottages uninvited.’

‘They’re taking my sister away,’ cried Rita, her voice breaking with misery. ‘They’re taking Rosie away and I can’t stop them.’

‘No, you can’t,’ agreed Mrs Watson. ‘And you shouldn’t want to! She’s going to a family where she’ll be looked after and loved. You should be happy for her, or are you too selfish?’ She arched her eyebrows and looked expectantly at Rita. When Rita didn’t reply she went on, ‘Come along, Rita, let’s go to my room and talk about this, shall we?’

Rita paused uncertainly. Suppose Rosie came back to her dorm and Rita wasn’t there? Mrs Manton had promised they’d be allowed to say goodbye properly, but suppose she didn’t keep that promise? Supposing they just sneaked Rosie away and Rita never saw her again? The thought made her clutch Knitty to her more tightly.

Mrs Watson held out her hand. ‘Come along, Rita, you can’t stay here, you know.’

‘Mrs Manton said I could say goodbye.’

‘And so you shall. Now come along, there’s a good girl.’ Mrs Watson didn’t sound angry, just tired. Still holding tight to Knitty, Rita reluctantly followed her out of the dorm through the living room, and into Mrs Watson’s domain beyond.

Though sparsely furnished, an attempt had been made to turn the two small rooms into a home. There were some books on a shelf, and a photo of a smiling baby in a frame on the mantelpiece. An easy chair stood beside the empty fireplace and there was a table covered with a red cloth in the window with a chair on either side.

Mrs Watson waved at one of these. ‘Sit down, Rita.’

Rita did as she was told, and Mrs Watson took her place on the chair opposite. She rested her hands on the table and looked across at Rita.

‘Now then, Rita,’ she said, ‘I know you’re upset that Rosie’s been chosen to be adopted and not you—’

‘It ain’t that, miss,’ interrupted Rita, ‘it ain’t that I’m left behind, it’s ’cos she’s going. She’s being took away and I don’t know where. She’s all I got left now. Our dad’s dead, miss. Our mum don’t want us. Our gran’s in the hospital. Don’t know if she’ll get better. Rosie and me got each other and that’s all, see. If I lose her and she loses me, well, we ain’t got no one else, have we?’

‘No, not just now. But if Rosie’s adopted, she’ll have a much better life than if she stayed here.’

When Rita remained silent, her face mutinous, Mrs Watson said, ‘You do see that, Rita, I know you do. You’re not stupid. You’re nine years old, and you know how things work. You think it’s not fair? Well maybe it isn’t, but then life isn’t fair and the sooner you learn that lesson the better.’ She waited and Rita gave a reluctant nod.

‘So you know that Rosie has a chance today that she may never get again. These people want a daughter and they’ve chosen Rosie. She’s still your sister, and it doesn’t make her any less so, you know.’

‘You should’ve seen them, miss,’ Rita said. ‘They walked round us all like we was animals at some market. They looked us up and down and then, bang, pointed to Rosie and said “we’ll have that one” like they was buying a dog.’

‘I expect she was just the little girl they were looking for. They’ll be longing to take her to her new home.’

‘But I shan’t see her,’ blurted out Rita. ‘I shan’t know she’s all right. Gran said to look after her.’

‘And you have, haven’t you?’

‘But if she’s took by these people, I won’t see her no more. They ain’t gonna let me near her.’ Rita fought to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘She’s only five!’ she cried, ‘She’s only little… she needs me.’ For a moment she buried her face into the comforting woollen body of Knitty.

Mrs Watson’s life had not been easy, she’d battled her way through her early years, and having escaped from an abusive family, borne and lost a child of her own, she had assumed the title of ‘Mrs’ and applied for the job she now held in the hope of getting her life back together. She did not suffer fools gladly and had no time for tears and regrets, but even she was touched by the depth of pain she heard now in Rita’s voice.

‘I’m sure she’ll be well looked after, Rita,’ she said gently. ‘And who knows, you may be able to visit her in her new home, if she doesn’t live too far away.’

‘They ain’t going to let me anywhere near her,’ Rita said bitterly.

‘Well,’ Mrs Watson said briskly, ‘you’re much more likely to be allowed to visit her if you don’t make a fuss about her going.’

Rita raised her eyes to the house-mother’s face, a look of scorn suffusing her own. ‘You don’t believe that,’ she said, ‘an’ if you do, you’re just plain stupid.’

‘Rita, that’s quite enough.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ Rita agreed and getting to her feet she walked to the door.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ demanded Mrs Watson.

‘To say goodbye to Rosie,’ replied Rita. ‘I been in here too long.’

With Knitty cuddled against her, she walked round to the main gate. A car was still parked outside, but no one was there. Rita sat down, her back against the wall, to wait.

It was nearly half an hour later when she heard voices and people approaching down the path. She got to her feet and turned to confront the group coming towards her.

Mrs Manton was leading the way, talking to the man. The woman followed with Rosie, holding her firmly by the hand. Rosie was hanging back, dragging her feet, and Rita could see that her face was blotched with tears. As Rita emerged from behind the wall, Mrs Manton stopped in her tracks, her face like thunder. Rosie saw her at the same moment and with a jerk broke free of the woman’s hold and hurtled towards her, screaming, ‘Reet! Reet! I want to stay with you.’

She flung herself against her sister, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Rita held her fiercely in her arms, looking over her head at the three adults who now strode towards her.

‘Rita!’ roared Mrs Manton. ‘What do you think you’re doing here?’ She reached out to pull Rosie away, but Rita’s arms tightened round her sister, and she faced the superintendent, defiance in every line of her body.

‘You said I could say goodbye to Rosie properly,’ she said. ‘That’s what I’m doing.’ She looked down at Rosie, still clinging to her. ‘I’ve brought you Knitty,’ she said, giving her the knitted bear. Rosie hugged Knitty to her, but she didn’t let go of Rita.

‘What a disgusting looking creature!’ The woman was beside them now and she wrinkled her nose. ‘I can smell him from here! We’re not taking that with us.’

‘But she loves him,’ Rita spoke matter-of-factly. She could see that they’d brought nothing with them to the car, and she said, ‘It’s all she’s got to remind her of home, that and her dress.’

‘Made from curtains,’ sniffed the woman. ‘She won’t be wearing any more clothes that are made from curtains, I can tell you!’

‘That’s enough from you, Rita Stevens,’ snarled Mrs Manton. ‘You’ve seen your sister, now you can go straight back to your cottage. I’ll deal with you later.’

‘Don’t go, Reet,’ begged Rosie. ‘Don’t go.’

‘Now then, Rose, that’s enough from you too,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘You’re going to go with this nice lady and gentleman.’

‘And have pretty dresses, just like we told you,’ added the woman, reaching down to take her hand again.

‘I don’t want pretty dresses,’ cried Rosie, the tears starting to flow again. ‘I want to stay with Reet.’

‘Come along, now.’ It was the man this time. He’d obviously had enough of female tears. Without warning he scooped the little girl up and carried her to the car. Rosie kicked and screamed all the way, dropping Knitty in the process.

Rita ran forward to pick him up, but by the time she had him safe, Rosie was in the back of the car and the woman was sliding in beside her. The man hurried round to the driver’s side and started the engine. Rita ran to the car, holding out Knitty, but the windows were closed, and she could only peer in for one last glimpse of her sister who was screaming now, held firmly in the woman’s arms as she squirmed to get free. The car began to move, and Rita had to jump clear as the wheels spun in the dust and the car gathered speed. She stood for a long moment, watching the car disappear down the dirt road that led to the town. Rosie had gone and the only thing that connected them now was a tired and grubby-looking knitted teddy, which Rita still clutched in her arms.

A sudden heavy hand fell on her shoulder. ‘As for you, young lady,’ hissed Mrs Manton, ‘you’ve disgraced us all. Your sister was going along quite happily until she saw you here. I will not tolerate such disobedience, and you will be punished. Go back to your cottage, sit on your bed and wait for me there.’ She spun Rita round, her expression icy as she looked into the girl’s mutinous face. ‘And you can take that look off your face,’ she snapped. ‘It’s time you learned to do as you’re told.’ She let go, but when Rita didn’t move she dealt her a stinging slap, saying, her fury barely controlled, ‘Go back to the cottage.’

Rita’s hand flew to her cheek, and then without a word she turned and still clutching Knitty, stumbled back to Oak.

22

On reaching the cottage, Rita hurried to her dorm, pulled the photo of Daddy out from under her blouse and slid it back into the journal under her mattress. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, but she was determined to keep her photo hidden.

A pair of grey overalls lay on her bed. Rita stared at them for a moment before opening her locker. Just like Daisy, all she found was a pair of knickers and her nightdress. All the clothes she’d been given on leaving Laurel House had disappeared. They had taken everything she had, including her rose-patterned dress, and she suddenly realized that if they saw Knitty, he would vanish as well. There was nowhere to hide him and she knew with a cold certainty that when Mrs Manton came to her, Knitty would be destroyed. ‘Oh, Knitty!’ she murmured. Nowhere seemed safe. Then she had an idea and hurried to the lavatories. She pulled the chain and as the toilet flushed, she stood on the seat, looking up to the rusty cistern above. It was old and had no top to it, and the water hissed softly as it began to refill. Standing on tip-toe, Rita reached up and tipped Knitty into the cistern.

He’ll be very wet, Rita thought, and he’ll be difficult to get out again, but at least he’s safe for now. She clambered down from the seat and flushed the lavatory again… it still seemed to work… and she went back to the dorm.

Sitting on her bed, awaiting her punishment, made her think of the Hawk and the punishments she’d dished out at Laurel House. Was she going to get the same again from Mrs Manton? she wondered. She hardly cared as she thought, despairingly, of Rosie being carried off, screaming, in the back of the car to… who knew where? Little Rosie, usually so sunny-tempered, who just wanted people to love her, now frightened and alone in a new place with new people… and no one to comfort her, not even her beloved Knitty. Rita knew now that she would never see Rosie again.

‘I did my best, Gran,’ she whispered to the empty room. ‘I did my best.’ And she sat on her bed, awaiting retribution for doing her best.

The retribution was swift and cruel, but it wasn’t Mrs Manton who administered it; that she left to Mrs Garfield. While Rita had been waiting in the dormitory, the superintendent paid a visit to the house-mother. Mrs Manton disliked Mrs Garfield, she thought her a slut, and a toper, but she knew that she stood no nonsense, and could be relied upon to bring mutinous girls to heel.

‘Rita’s a rebellious girl,’ she said, as she sat in Mrs Garfield’s squalid sitting room. ‘I won’t have such disobedience. Please deal with her as you think fit. I leave the punishment up to you, but I will not tolerate a repeat of how she behaved today.’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Manton, I’ll deal with her,’ replied Mrs Garfield. ‘I’d already marked her down as a trouble-maker, but I can assure you she won’t cause any more.’

Rita didn’t have to sit in the dormitory for long. Within a few minutes she heard footsteps in the corridor, and she braced herself for whatever was to come. She was surprised it was Mrs Garfield who appeared, not Mrs Manton.

‘Ah, there you are, you wicked, selfish girl.’ Ma Gar’s eyes gleamed malevolently as she stood over the child sitting on the bed. ‘Trying to come between your sister and a lovely new home. Jealous, I suppose!’

‘No—’ began Rita, but Mrs Garfield cut her off.

‘Keep silence,’ she hissed. ‘You were told to come back here. Did you? No! You were not told to lie in wait outside the gates and cause trouble! Did you? Yes! Stand up!’

Rita stood, her eyes downcast.

‘You’re an ungrateful, disobedient girl.’ The house-mother spoke softly and her icy voice slithered round Rita, making her shudder. ‘Mrs Manton has asked me to deal with you. She has no time to waste on disruptive girls like you. You’re going to learn that she will not be disobeyed or defied. And I am going to be the one to teach you.’ She paused, looking Rita up and down and waiting for some reaction. There was none. Rita, determined not to cry, stood rigid, her expression blank.

‘Get changed!’ snapped Mrs Garfield. ‘Put your overalls on.’ She stood, hands on hips, as Rita took off her white blouse and tartan pinafore, and put on the grey, weekend overalls.

‘Take off your shoes. From now on you only wear them for school and church.’

Rita did as she was told, placing both shoes and her socks in her locker. She stood, barefoot, and waited.

‘Now, you can come with me.’ Ma Gar turned on her heel and led the way out of the dormitory and along the passage. When she stopped at the kitchen door, Rita felt a wave of relief flood through her. She was going to be given extra kitchen chores as a punishment. She could cope with that.

Mrs Garfield opened the door and nodded to Rita to go in. There were two girls, whose names Rita didn’t yet know, working at the kitchen table, making sandwiches for the midday meal. They fell silent as Mrs Garfield took hold of Rita’s arm and marched her to the cellar door. Still maintaining a tight grip on Rita’s wrist, she pulled the door open and giving Rita a push, said, ‘Down there.’

Rita had to grab at the door frame to stop herself from falling. ‘What do you want me to fetch?’ she asked, still thinking she was going to be given extra chores.

‘Fetch?’ Mrs Garfield gave a snort. ‘Nothing. You’ll stay down there until I say you can come out again.’

Rita looked down the steps to the gloom of the cellar below, remembered the rats and with a rush of panic turned round to face her tormentor. Mrs Garfield took a menacing step towards her, and Rita took an involuntary step backwards onto the top stair. As she did so, the house-mother slammed the door shut in her face, and Rita heard the heavy bolt sliding home. For a moment she was gripped by a silent terror; panic rose inside her at being shut into this dank, dark place, alone with the rats, and then she began to scream, banging her fists on the solid door, but it remained shut.

After a while Rita stopped hammering and sank down on the step, her fist crammed into her mouth. ‘I will not cry!’ she said through her teeth as she fought down the panic. ‘You will not make me cry!’

She sat on the top step, eyes closed, hands balled into fists, rocking back and forth, drawing deep, slow breaths until, gradually, she grew calmer and her heart beat a little more slowly. How long she sat there she didn’t know, but after a while she opened her eyes and, as they grew accustomed to the gloom, she looked around her. She thought back to the previous day; there had been no electric light in the cellar, but there had been a window which allowed a little daylight to filter through.

No point in sitting here, Rita told herself, that cow ain’t going to open the door for ages yet. Calling Mrs Garfield a cow, out loud, seemed to give her courage and she began to shout, ‘Cow! Cow! Cow!’

Holding firmly to the handrail, she made her way down the steps to the cellar below. A blade of sunlight stabbed its way through the dirty window, a pale shaft of yellow, dancing with dust motes, bringing an illusion of warmth into the chilly air. Rita made her way carefully round the cellar. Among the pile of old furniture she found a wooden stool and, dragging it over to the window, she clambered onto it and peered out through the filthy glass. The garden beyond was flooded with sunlight, bathing the rows of vegetables in bright spring light. Because the window was at ground level, Rita could see nothing more of the garden, but she could hear voices, and occasionally she saw the bare feet of the girls working outside. She tapped on the glass, but got no response; either they didn’t hear her, or they knew better than to react.

She was hungry, but as far as she could see there was nothing she could eat: all the vegetables stored here needed to be cooked. Despite the shaft of sunlight, the cellar was chilly, and dressed only in her cotton overalls, Rita was soon shivering with cold. She could hardly feel her bare feet, and she sat on the stool rubbing them to try to warm them up. It helped a bit. She stood up again and began to swing her arms as she’d seen tram drivers do in the winter in Belcaster. This did warm her a little, but as soon as she stopped, the chilly air slipped round her again.

Shivering, Rita made a more careful exploration of the cellar and its contents, and found that one of the barrels contained apples, all wrapped in newspaper. She pulled one out and looked at it. It was big and green, tinged with red. She rubbed it on her overalls, took a bite and immediately spat it out again. Cooking apple, she thought, like the ones Gran used to make into apple pie. She threw the apple away in disgust and turned her attention to the jars on the shelf along the wall. They contained preserves of some sort, but when she lifted one down, she found that the lid was so tight that she couldn’t open it. She tried each jar in turn, but it was no good.

As the day wore on, Rita got colder and colder. She was hungry and thirsty, and she couldn’t feel her feet at all. She tried jumping up and down to get warm, but it was tiring and she couldn’t keep it up. She climbed back onto the stool and peered out of the window again. No one was working outside now, no feet passed by, she heard no more voices.

Rita lost track of time, and as darkness began to fall beyond the window, she turned her back on the garden. Among the oddments of furniture was an old table, and underneath it she discovered a piece of carpet, rolled up and secured with string. It was heavy, but she managed to pull it out and stared down at it.

If I can undo that, Rita thought, perhaps I can roll myself up inside to keep warm. With great patience, she managed to ease the string off and the carpet flopped open. It wasn’t as big as she’d thought, little more than a hearth rug, but at least she could spread it on the filthy flagstones of the cellar floor.

She needed to go to the lav, but there was nowhere to go. She tried not to think about it, but as the minutes passed, she became more and more uncomfortable. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been. Not for ages, and there was nowhere to go. She made another tour of the cellar, but there was nothing she could use as a chamber pot. In the end, in sheer desperation, she crept into a corner, pulled down her knickers and crouched against the wall. Another fear grasped her. What would Mrs Garfield do to her when she discovered that Rita had been excused all over the floor? She could smell the sharp tang of the urine. Surely Ma Gar would smell it too, when she came down, and know what Rita had done.

She returned to the carpet, pulling it as far as possible from the damp patch she’d made. At least she hadn’t needed to do number twos, she thought. That would have been even worse. Wee would dry up, number twos would be there in the morning, for all to see.

As night closed on the garden outside, Rita finally drifted off into an uneasy doze. Not really asleep, she could hear a rustling in the rubbish. There was a definite scuffling in the corner where she’d thrown the apple, and something fell over with a crash. Rita sat up with a start. The darkness around her was complete; only the faintest outline of the window showed in the unbroken blackness around her, but she knew now, for certain, that there was something else in the cellar with her. Knew it was a rat.

She grabbed the nearest thing, another apple from the barrel, and hurled it in the direction of the scuffling. There was more scratching and a squeak. Rats!

The rats added another layer to the fear that wrapped her far more closely than the cold air. With her eyes stretched wide, trying to pierce the darkness, she sat on the stool, her feet held clear of the floor, and waited. While there were still scufflings and scratchings, nothing would induce Rita to lie back down on the carpet. S’pose the rats bit her, started to eat her! They were probably big as cats. She’d heard Gran say once that she’d seen some rats on a bombsite that were as big as cats. Rita had been frightened by the idea at the time, but the fear that consumed her now was an entirely different emotion. She sat perched on the stool, her legs drawn up underneath her, her arms wrapped round them, so that no part of her touched the floor.

When the dawn’s early light finally began to filter through the window, Rita was faint with hunger and cold, and her throat was parched and dry. She drifted between sleeping and waking, but every time she nodded off, she began to slip and jerked awake again. At last unable to sit there any longer, she gave in and returned to the carpet. The scuffling had stopped, and the cellar was silent. Had the rats gone? She tried to put them out of her mind. She lay down on her side, and despite the cold and feeling faint from hunger and thirst, she finally fell asleep, only to be troubled by the most terrible dreams.

She dreamed she was running, she had no idea where, but she knew she had to run. Rosie. She was looking for Rosie. There were rats all over the path in front of her, so many of them there was nowhere to put her bare feet, but even so she had to keep running. In her dream she was freezing cold, but even so Mrs Garfield was shouting at her, telling her to take her clothes off. She was chasing the car that was taking Rosie away, and the road was covered in broken glass. She was calling to Rosie, but Rosie didn’t seem able to hear her, she simply sat in the back of the car clutching a dripping wet Knitty. Rita was screaming at Rosie not to go, and Mrs Manton, looking more like a witch than ever, was waving a stick and threatening to beat her if she didn’t stop screaming.

It was Rita’s own screams that woke her up, and she lay on the carpet for a moment, bathed in a cold sweat, not knowing where she was, or what she was doing. Then it all came back to her, the fear, the cold, the hunger, the thirst, flooding through her and making her shake uncontrollably. The light filtering through the window had become stronger, lighting her prison with chilly, grey light. It was morning, but still nobody came.

Daisy woke early. She was cold. She pulled the thin blanket closer round her, but it added little warmth. She turned over, curling up into a ball, and as she was pulling the blanket up over her head she caught sight of Rita’s bed, empty and unslept-in. It was a moment before she remembered that Rita had disappeared yesterday, Daisy hadn’t seen her since breakfast. When she’d asked Audrey, she’d shrugged and said she was probably in trouble with Mrs Garfield.

‘She’ll be back later,’ Audrey said, ‘you’ll see.’

‘But where is she?’ insisted Daisy.

‘Better not to ask,’ chipped in Carol.

The rest of the day Daisy had been set to work outside. Mr Manton had girls from each cottage clearing out the hen houses, fetching water in buckets to water the vegetable gardens, and one team clearing a new patch of ground to be dug over and planted with beans. It had been hard work and Daisy had little time to think about Rita, but when they all sat down to tea in Oak’s living room, there was still no sign of her.

‘Have you seen my friend, Rita?’ she whispered to the girl next to her.

The girl, whose name was Janet, laid a finger on her lips and whispered back, ‘Tell you after.’

Two girls brought in a dish of macaroni cheese, but there was no sign of Mrs Garfield. Agnes, the senior girl in the cottage, said grace and they started to eat. As the meal progressed the girls relaxed and began to whisper quietly to each other. Gradually the volume of their talk rose, until there was a general buzz of conversation. Suddenly the door at the end of the room burst open and Mrs Garfield appeared, swaying unsteadily on her feet, clutching the door jamb for support.

‘And what is this noise?’ she demanded. The chatter ceased abruptly and she went on, her words slightly slurred. ‘Just because I have a shlight headache and am unable to take thish meal with you, there is no excush for thish dreadful noise. You will keep shilence from now onwards, and if…’ She paused as if she’d lost the thread of what she’d been saying. ‘…and if… and if… and if you don’t, you’ll all be in trouble tomorrow.’ Still holding the door frame for support, she turned unsteadily and left the room.

The girls remained silent for a long moment, and then Janet muttered, ‘Well, she can’t lock us all up in the cellar.’

‘Is that what she’s done with Reet?’ asked Daisy, wide-eyed. ‘Locked her in the cellar?’

Janet nodded. ‘She’s done it before as a punishment, but she’ll let her out later.’

‘Shut up, you two,’ hissed Agnes. She was sitting on the other side of Janet, and when they’d started to talk again she looked anxiously at the door.

Janet and Daisy shut up, but Janet nodded towards the door and mouthed the word ‘after’.

The meal was soon over, and Daisy found herself on washing-up duty. Janet came into the kitchen too, and as they did the dishes Janet told Daisy what had happened.

‘I was doing sandwiches with Agnes,’ she said, ‘ready to bring them out to you lot, when Garsley came into the kitchen.’

‘Garsley?’

‘Mrs Garfield. Anyhow, she came into the kitchen with Rita, and she locked her in the cellar.’

‘Locked her in?’ echoed Daisy. ‘How did she… I mean, what did she do?’

‘She opened the cellar door and just shoved her inside,’ replied Janet. ‘Told us if we opened the door or even went near it, we’d be put in there too. She meant it, and Agnes was terrified, ’cos she’d done it to her before and left her there for hours.’

‘Poor Reet.’ Daisy was horrified. ‘What did she do?’

‘She banged on the door for a bit, and then it went quiet.’

‘No, I mean what did she do, that she was put in the cellar?’

Janet shrugged. ‘Dunno. Something to do with her sister, I think.’

‘Rosie? What about her?’

‘Dunno,’ said Janet again, ‘but Edna over in Larch said that the sister ain’t there no more. She was in the parade, weren’t she, so perhaps she was took.’

‘Rosie was? Poor Reet! Wonder what she did… or said.’

Janet glanced at the cellar door which was still bolted. ‘I don’t know, but she’s still in there, ain’t she? I mean the door’s still bolted. Old Garsley’ll be back to let her out soon. I’m off before she does.’

Daisy hesitated, looking at the bolted door. Rita was locked in. Should I just open the door a fraction? she wondered. Call to her, see if she’s all right?

Janet seemed to read her thoughts. She grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the door, saying, ‘Don’t you dare, Daisy. Come on, she’ll be let out in a while, you’ll see. It’ll be the worst for the both of you if Garsley knew you’d opened that door, honest.’ She tugged on her arm again. ‘Come on.’

Daisy still hesitated, and Janet let go of her. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, ‘but I’m not stopping here.’ With one final, backwards glance at the bolted cellar, Daisy followed her from the kitchen.

‘Daisy wanted to let Rita out of the cellar,’ Janet announced. This was greeted by exclamations of horror from the assembled group.

‘I didn’t,’ protested Daisy, ‘I just wanted to call down to her, see she was OK.’

‘She’ll be all right,’ said Audrey. ‘She’ll be out and in bed by the time we get back from prayers, you’ll see.’ But she wasn’t.

‘She still ain’t here,’ Daisy said to Audrey when they got back to the dorm.

Audrey shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do about it.’

‘We could let her out,’ Daisy said.

‘Not me,’ stated Audrey firmly and got into bed.

‘Not me,’ echoed Carol. ‘And you won’t, neither, if you know what’s good for you.’

Daisy lay awake for what felt like hours, thinking about Rita and wondering what had happened to Rosie. She was fond of the little girl too, had she really gone? At last, exhausted by the hard day, she, too, had fallen asleep. Now, as cold dawn lit the sky and she could see that Rita’s bed hadn’t been slept in, Daisy knew she must do something.

Surely Reet isn’t still in the cellar, she thought. Ma Gar must’ve let her out. Surely she hasn’t been left there all night. Daisy was horrified at the thought. Had she had anything to eat or drink? No one had dared to open the door, so unless Ma Gar had given her food, she’d had nothing since her breakfast porridge yesterday.

Daisy sat up. There was enough light now to see the other two still fast asleep. Neither girl stirred as Daisy slid out of bed and crept to the door. She eased it open, but the latch clicked, loudly. She froze, but silence still enclosed the house. No one had heard. The cottage was quiet apart from Carol snoring and a snuffling noise coming from the other dorm.

Softly Daisy edged her way out of the room, and along to the kitchen. She paused at the door listening hard before she opened it and crossed swiftly to the cellar door. It was still bolted. Daisy hesitated.

If I open the door, she thought, we’ll both be for it. But if I don’t… and s’pose something’s happened to Reet?

Reet’d come and find me, she thought. Reet’s brave. Her hand rested on the bolt. ‘I can be as brave as you, Reet,’ she said, and summoning all her courage, she slid the bolt across and opened the door.

The cellar was in darkness. Daisy looked down the steps, but could see nothing. ‘Reet,’ she called softly, ‘Reet? Are you there?’

There was no reply. She ain’t there after all, thought Daisy, relief flooding through her. Ma Gar must’ve let her out last night after all. P’raps she weren’t ever in there and that Janet was telling lies.

‘Reet,’ she called again, going down two steps this time, trying to see into the cellar without going right down. ‘Reet, are you there?’ She was about to turn back to the kitchen when she heard a sound, a faint whimpering, like an animal in pain.

‘Reet?’ Daisy crept down another two steps, and peered into the gloom.

‘Dais?’ The voice was little more than a croak, but it was Rita’s.

Daisy scurried down the last few stairs, saying, ‘Reet? Reet, are you all right?’ In the faint light from the window she saw what looked like a heap of… something… on the floor. She was kneeling beside her in an instant, taking her hand. ‘Reet,’ she said, ‘Reet, it’s all right. I’ve come to get you out. Crikey! You ain’t half cold.’

‘Thirsty,’ rasped Rita. ‘So thirsty.’

‘Come on, Reet,’ Daisy said. ‘We got to get out of here. You can have a drink of water when we get up to the kitchen.’ And when Rita didn’t move, Daisy pulled at her urgently. ‘Come on, Reet. We got to get out of here.’

Somehow she managed to get Rita to her feet, pulling her towards the stairs. Together they negotiated the steps and got back up to the kitchen where Rita collapsed onto a stool; Daisy shut the cellar door and bolted it firmly. Then she filled a tin mug at the sink and handed it to Rita.

Rita gulped down the water, emptying the mug before she paused for breath. She gave Daisy a wan smile. ‘Thanks, Dais,’ she said.

Daisy looked at her friend anxiously. ‘You all right, Reet?’

‘Cold,’ replied Rita, ‘and hungry, but all right.’

‘See if I can find you something to eat,’ Daisy said and opening the pantry door, she peered inside. There was very little food, but she found the end of a loaf of bread and a heel of cheese wrapped in a piece of cloth, and brought them out. ‘Not much,’ she said, passing it over.

Rita wolfed down the food, tearing at the bread and cramming the small piece of cheese into her mouth. ‘This’ll do,’ she said. ‘Then I’m off.’

‘Off?’ Daisy was startled. ‘Off where?’

‘Out of here,’ Rita said through a mouthful of bread. ‘You should come too. We’re in dead trouble now.’ She shook her head at Daisy. ‘You shouldn’t have come down for me, Dais. Now you’ll be for the high jump, too.’ She swallowed hard and added, ‘But I’m so glad you did. You’re a real friend.’

‘Couldn’t leave you there, could I?’ Daisy looked down at herself. ‘I can’t come with you. I ain’t even dressed.’

‘Go and get your clothes, then,’ said Rita. ‘I ain’t staying here another day, and you shouldn’t neither.’

Daisy hesitated. She’d always lived in a place like Laurel Farm, she hadn’t the courage to walk away from it, as Rita had from Laurel House, and was planning to do again.

‘We ain’t got no shoes,’ she pointed out.

‘No.’ Rita looked down at her bare feet, still too cold to feel. ‘They took mine as well, I expect. Never mind, that ain’t going to stop me. I just got to fetch something from the dorm and then I’m off.’ They made their way silently along the passage. It was almost complete daylight now, and soon the rest of the house would be awake.

In the dorm, Rita opened her locker door. Inside were the shoes and socks that Mrs Garfield had made her take off yesterday. She grabbed them, quickly putting them on, then she up-ended the mattress and pulled out her precious journal, checked that her photo was still inside it and tucked it under her arm. To her surprise she realized that Daisy was struggling into her clothes. Just the overalls they all wore, but she had no shoes. ‘What you doing, Dais?’ she whispered.

‘Coming with you, Reet,’ came the soft reply.

The two friends hurried down the passage, and out through the back door.

‘Just a minute,’ hissed Daisy, and turned aside to a little lean-to shed. Moments later she reappeared wearing a pair of rubber boots. They were several sizes too big for her but at least her feet were covered. Rita gave a muffled laugh when she saw her.

‘Had to wear them yesterday when we was mucking out the chooks,’ explained Daisy. ‘Come on.’

‘This way,’ Rita said, leading the way through the trees. ‘Better not go out through the gate. We’ll climb out.’

Together they slipped through the trees, past the sleeping cottages, towards the boundary fence.

‘And just where do you two think you’re going?’

The two girls froze, their hearts pounding. The voice came from the garden in front of Larch Cottage. Mrs Watson had been sitting on an old wooden bench, and now she came across to the two girls.

‘Just for a walk, miss.’ Rita tried to sound nonchalant.

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Watson. She’d recognized Rita at once. ‘Too early for a walk, don’t you think?’ She reached across and took Rita by the arm, her fingers warm against the girl’s chilly flesh.

‘Good gracious, child, you’re freezing!’ she exclaimed. She turned Rita to face her and saw the dirt on her face and her matted hair. ‘And you’re filthy. What on earth have you been doing, Rita?’

Rita didn’t answer, but Daisy piped up, ‘She’s been locked in the cellar all night. You’d be cold and dirty if you was left in a cellar that long.’

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Mrs Watson. She didn’t know the child’s name, one of the new kids from England. She turned back to Rita. ‘Is that true? That you’ve been locked in the cellar all night?’

Rita was glowering at Daisy for interfering, but she nodded.

‘All night? Mrs Garfield left you in the cellar all night?’

‘She did, miss.’ Daisy would not be silenced by either of them.

Mrs Watson looked at her. ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Daisy Smart, miss.’

‘Well, Daisy Smart, will you kindly be quiet? I’m speaking to Rita.’ She looked at the two girls for a moment and saw that Rita was shivering.

‘You’d better come inside,’ she said and still holding onto Rita, led them into Larch. She took them through the living room into her own quarters beyond and made them sit down. Here she stirred the embers in the fireplace, adding some dry twigs as she coaxed the fire back to life.

‘You need a hot drink,’ she said, ‘and then, you’d better tell me exactly what’s been going on.’

23

‘You’ll have to sack Garfield,’ Joe Manton said. ‘The Watson woman is right, that child might have died in that cellar.’

‘That’s a bit overdramatic,’ replied his wife. ‘She’s all right, a bit cold… hungry and thirsty, that’s all.’

‘Daphne, if that other child, what’s her name…?’

‘Daisy Smart.’

‘If Daisy Smart hadn’t gone down and found her, she might well have been in a far worse state. The woman was dead drunk on the floor when you went to find her. She wouldn’t have come round for hours.’ He looked across at his wife, his expression serious. ‘Let’s face it, Daphne, it’s not the first time she’s been drunk. Oh, I agree,’ he said, as his wife tried to interrupt, ‘I agree never as bad as she was today… goodness only knows how much she’d had… but we can’t keep turning a blind eye.’

‘There was an empty gin bottle lying beside her,’ conceded Daphne.

Joe shrugged. ‘That says it all. You can’t leave her in charge of a house full of children. Imagine what would have happened if that girl had been taken really ill, or worse! Doesn’t bear thinking about. We’d have had the authorities down on us like a ton of bricks, they’d have crawled all over the place. Probably closed us down.’

‘I know,’ agreed his wife reluctantly, ‘I know, you’re right, of course, but I don’t like being blackmailed by that woman.’

‘Well,’ answered Joe, getting to his feet, ‘there’s nothing you can do about it. You simply sack the Garfield woman. You never liked her anyway!’ And he left Daphne sitting in her chair, deciding what to do.

They’d been awoken early that morning by a pounding on their front door. Daphne had got up, still bleary with sleep, and opened the door to find Mrs Watson, fist raised about to hammer again.

‘Mrs Watson!’ she’d cried. ‘What on earth’s happened?’

‘It’s Mrs Garfield,’ began Mrs Watson.

‘You’d better come in.’

‘No,’ insisted Mrs Watson, ‘you’d better come with me.’ She sounded so urgent that Mrs Manton flung an overcoat over her nightdress and followed her to Oak. The girls stared in astonishment as the superintendent, still in her nightclothes, and Mrs Watson entered the cottage, marched through the living room and into Mrs Garfield’s quarters.

Daphne Manton stopped short at what she saw. Mrs Garfield lay on the floor, eyes closed, her breath coming in stentorian rasps, an empty gin bottle beside her.

‘She’s out for the count,’ Mrs Watson said in disgust, ‘and must have been for hours.’

‘Well, at least there’s no harm done,’ Mrs Manton said calmly.

‘No harm done!’ exploded Mrs Watson. ‘She had a child locked in the cellar all day yesterday and all last night. She was too drunk to remember to let her out. Mrs Manton, that child could have died!’

‘Oh, I hardly think so—’ began the superintendent.

‘You’re wrong,’ Mrs Watson interrupted. ‘That child was left in the dark with no food, no water, no sanitation, in a cellar which, if ours at Larch is anything to go by, has a population of rats, for nearly twenty-four hours.’ She confronted her employer across the prone figure of Mrs Garfield. ‘I will not be party to such treatment, Mrs Manton. Unless you get rid of this…’ she prodded the oblivious house-mother with her toe, ‘…this apology for a woman, not only will I not stay in this place, I will report this to the authorities.’

‘Then you’ll be out of a job yourself,’ pointed out Mrs Manton, surprised at Mrs Watson’s temerity. ‘I thought you needed this job.’

‘I do,’ snapped Mrs Watson, ‘but not at the expense of a child’s life.’

‘The child is not dead.’

‘No thanks to this woman. Who knows how long Rita’d have been left there if her friend hadn’t had the guts to go down and bring her out? None of the other kids dared, and she…’ she prodded Mrs Garfield again, ‘…she probably won’t surface again for hours yet, and won’t remember the child in the cellar when she does.’ She held Mrs Manton’s eyes and said softly, ‘That is my ultimatum, Mrs Manton. Either she goes or I do, and if I do, my first stop will be the state authorities.’

‘Where’s the child now?’ demanded the superintendent.

‘I’ve given her a hot drink and put her to bed in Larch,’ replied Mrs Watson. ‘She needs to be kept in bed today to make sure there are no further ill-effects.’

‘And the other child, Daisy Smart?’

‘She’s still at Larch, too. I left her in my room and told her to wait for me there.’ She looked at the superintendent and said, a little less brusquely, ‘I think it would be a good idea if those two girls moved into Larch. Rosie leaving has left us with a free bed, and I can make space for one more.’ Mrs Watson went on, pressing her advantage, ‘Those girls have had a bad start with Mrs Garfield. If you are going to get rid of her, all the girls in Oak will have to move into other cottages until you find a suitable replacement, so I’ll take Rita and Daisy.’

There had been just the faintest emphasis on the word ‘suitable’, which was not lost on Mrs Manton, and her lips tightened before she said, ‘I will decide where each child will go, if the necessity arises.’

Mrs Watson remained adamant. With her dark blue eyes fixed on her employer, she said firmly, ‘The necessity has already arisen, Mrs Manton. My ultimatum stands, and part of my conditions are that Rita and Daisy move into Larch. I shall keep them both for the rest of the day, by which time you will have made your decision. Should you decide to keep Mrs Garfield on, I will leave tomorrow morning, and I will report the happenings here to the authorities.’

‘This is blackmail,’ snapped Mrs Manton.

‘If you like,’ agreed Mrs Watson. ‘But if she stays, I go. And if I stay, there are to be no more “cellars” in any of the houses. No child should be treated as Rita Stevens was yesterday.’

‘Rita Stevens was defiant,’ Mrs Manton retorted, ‘she deserved to be punished.’

‘Very possibly,’ concurred Mrs Watson, ‘but her punishment was extreme and unacceptable.’

‘I am the superintendent here,’ said Mrs Manton, ‘and I’ll be the judge of that.’

‘Exactly,’ replied Mrs Watson equably, ‘that’s what I’m asking you to do. If you think Mrs Garfield’s drunkenness is acceptable and that she chose a suitable punishment for a little girl, far from home, who’d just lost her sister, then you keep her on as a house-mother. But you know what I’ll do if that is your decision.’ She gave a half-smile and added, ‘I must get back to Larch and make sure the girls are ready to go to church.’

Daphne considered Mrs Watson’s ultimatum again now. Damn the woman! Why had she ever employed her? Mrs Manton had made some enquiries and discovered that the so-called ‘Mrs’ Delia Watson was an unmarried mother whose employers had thrown her out when they’d found out about the child. She had moved from place to place, but then a few months later the child had been found dead in his cot. An investigation proved nothing against the mother, but she had remained under a cloud, and no respectable household would employ her. Mrs Manton took the risk, because Mrs Watson was desperate for a job and she came cheap. In the months that she’d been at Laurel Farm, she’d proved herself a competent house-mother. But now? Now she was holding Mrs Manton to ransom and the superintendent bitterly regretted taking her on. She knew Joe was right. They couldn’t risk the authorities being informed and descending on the place. She would have to give in to the woman’s blackmail and sack Mrs Garfield. She sighed. Emily had warned her that Rita Stevens was a troublesome child, and she was quite right! Rita had been nothing but trouble from the moment she arrived. She gave another sigh and made her decision. Mrs Garfield would have to go, with all the upheaval that would cause, and Rita and Daisy would stay in Larch Cottage.

After a quick breakfast she went across to Oak to make sure the girls who lived there were ready for church. The buzz of conversation ceased as soon as she walked into the living room, and they looked at her fearfully.

‘Mrs Garfield isn’t well this morning,’ she told them. ‘Go over to central and put your shoes on, then line up with the others.’

‘Please, Mrs Manton,’ stammered Agnes. ‘We think Rita is in the cellar and we can’t find Daisy Smart.’

‘Of course Rita isn’t in the cellar,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘And I know where Daisy Smart is, so you don’t have to worry about them. Now, off you go, or you’ll be late.’

The girls scurried away to find their shoes, and Mrs Manton closed the door behind them, drawing the bolt. Looking out of the window to check they’d all gone she went through into Mrs Garfield’s room. The house-mother still lay on the floor, still snoring.

‘You stupid woman!’ Mrs Manton told the inert form. ‘You had a cushy number here, and now you’ll have to go.’ As she left the room, she removed the key and locked the door from the outside. She did not want a hungover house-mother wandering round the property when they came home from church.

Everyone was ready for the walk to the church when she returned to central. She crossed to Mrs Watson asking softly, ‘Where are Rita and Daisy?’

‘Rita’s in bed, and Daisy is sitting in my room. I’ve given her some mending to finish before I get back. It’ll keep her busy enough.’

Mrs Manton nodded. She didn’t tell Mrs Watson what her decision had been, but simply walked to the head of the line, gave the signal and they all set out for church.

Daisy watched the line of girls disappear down the road, and then, tossing aside the sock she was mending, went in search of Rita. Rita was watching from the window as well.

‘You all right, Reet?’ Daisy asked as she came into the dorm.

‘Yes, course I am,’ said Rita. ‘She put me in Rosie’s bed and told me to stay here till they get back from church.’ She suddenly realized that Daisy ought to have gone with the others. ‘Why ain’t you gone?’

‘’Cos she left me in her room with a stack of mending to do,’ replied Daisy.

‘Did you see if Ma Gar was with them? I couldn’t see from here.’

‘Probably was,’ said Daisy, ‘not sure. Why?’

‘’Cos I got to go back to Oak and fetch something… and I need your help.’

Daisy looked apprehensive. ‘Don’t want to go back there if I don’t have to,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to bump into Ma Gar. I’m going to be in enough trouble for letting you out.’

‘Don’t think you will,’ Rita told her. ‘Mrs Watson said things were going to be all right and not to worry.’

‘All right for her,’ groaned Daisy, ‘but she ain’t the one going to face Ma Gar.’

‘Well, I’m going back anyway,’ Rita said firmly. ‘I got to fetch something.’

‘What?’ demanded Daisy. ‘What you got to fetch?’

‘Something I hid,’ Rita said, unwilling to say it was Knitty in case Daisy really didn’t come with her. ‘Something of Rosie’s. You going to come and really help me or not?’

‘S’pose so,’ agreed Daisy reluctantly.

They slipped out of the house and hurried over to Oak, hoping that everyone had gone to church. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, and they crept up to the front door.

‘It’s locked,’ Rita hissed in dismay. ‘We can’t get in.’

‘We come out the back door before,’ Daisy reminded her. ‘P’raps it’s still open.’

Rita was relieved when the back door opened. Daisy had hoped it that would be locked. She was still terrified of being confronted by Ma Gar.

Rita led the way back along the passage towards the bathroom. ‘In here,’ she said.

‘In the toilet?’ gasped Daisy. ‘What for?’

‘You’ll see,’ answered Rita, and pulled the door closed behind them. ‘I hid him in the cistern.’

‘Hid who?’ Daisy was bemused. ‘Rita, what are we doing here?’

Rita climbed up onto the lavatory seat and reached up. She could touch the open-topped cistern all right, but there was no way she could reach high enough to put her hand inside.

‘That’s no good,’ she said. ‘Wait a minute.’ She hurried out to the broom cupboard in the passage and returned a moment later with a stepladder. ‘Hold this steady,’ she said, and as Daisy put her foot on the bottom rung, she climbed to the top.

‘Reet, what are you doing?’ demanded Daisy.

‘Hid something in here,’ panted Rita, balancing precariously on the top step and reaching her hand into the cistern. Her fingers found the sodden Knitty, and grasping him as tightly as she could, she dragged him, dripping, from his hiding place.

‘Hey,’ cried Daisy, ‘you’re soaking me.’ She let go of the steps and they wobbled violently and Rita jumped to the floor as they crashed against the wall. The sound echoed round the house, and the girls froze in terror, but no one appeared.

‘What are we going to do about this mess?’ Daisy pointed to the pool of water on the floor.

‘Nothing,’ said Rita, picking up Knitty and squeezing him so that more water poured from his sodden body. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ Moments later the steps were back in the cupboard and they were creeping into the kitchen.

As they approached the kitchen door they heard a loud banging. Daisy clutched Rita. ‘It’s Ma Gar,’ she whispered. The banging came again, and then they heard someone shouting.

‘Scarper!’ hissed Daisy.

‘No, wait!’ Rita grabbed her arm. ‘Listen!’

‘Let me out,’ came the shout. ‘I’ll thrash the lot of you, you little sluts. Let me out!’

‘Come on, Reet,’ begged Daisy.

‘Just a minute, someone’s locked her in!’ Rita exulted. ‘Some brave girl’s locked her in.’

‘Yes, and I ain’t going to be here when she breaks the door down,’ Daisy told her, and shot out of the back door. With a gleeful grin Rita turned and clutching the still-dripping Knitty in her arms, scooted after her.

When they reached Larch, they went back into the dorm. Rita leaned out of the window and gave Knitty another squeeze before leaving him on the outside windowsill to dry in the sun, then she went back along the passage to the kitchen.

‘Reet!’ cried Daisy in dismay. ‘What you doing now?’

‘Back in a min,’ called Rita, and returned carrying a pointed kitchen knife.

‘Cripes, Reet.’ Daisy stared at her friend. ‘What you gonna do with that?’

‘This,’ replied Rita, and Daisy watched in horror as Rita pulled the bedclothes off the bed and up-ended the mattress. With sudden vigour, she stabbed the mattress, slitting the worn and faded ticking with the point of the knife. The shabby material ripped apart easily, exposing a thin layer of crushed kapok. Rita reached inside and, pulling out a handful of the stuffing, she took her precious journal containing the picture of Daddy she’d brought from Oak that morning, and slid it into the hole. Carefully she replaced the stuffing and then put the mattress back onto the bed, the ripped side resting on the wire springs of the bed frame.

Daisy watched the whole process open-mouthed.

‘You won’t tell,’ Rita said to her. It was a statement, not a question, and Daisy nodded.

‘Course not.’

‘When I got Knitty dry, I’ll put him in there, an’ all,’ Rita said. She gave Daisy a grin. ‘You and me’s best mates, Dais. We’ll look out for each other in this place. Now we better get your mending finished, before that lot get back.’

When Mrs Watson came in from church, she went straight to see how Rita was doing. She found her sitting up in bed, mending a hole in the sleeve of a cardigan. Sitting beside the bed was Daisy, sewing up the hem of some overalls.

‘Daisy Smart,’ she exclaimed, ‘I thought I told you to wait in my sitting room.’

‘Sorry, miss,’ Rita said before Daisy could answer. ‘It’s my fault, I felt a bit funny, so I asked her to come up and sit with me.’

‘Did you, now?’ Mrs Watson said wryly. She was coming to realize that these two girls would stick together, and she found that she respected them for it. She was determined that, if she still had a job at the end of the day, they should be transferred to Larch, so that they would be under her care.

She was outraged at the way Rita had been punished. She had no problem with disciplining girls who were disobedient, indeed she knew that obedience to authority and conformity to rules were necessary if one was to get on in life, but she also liked to see the sparks of independence and courage she’d seen in Rita, and to a lesser extent in Daisy. It would be wrong to extinguish those. The girls in Larch lived under the same strict regime as those in the other cottages, their daily routine was as strenuous and their work as hard, but they were allowed a certain leeway in behaviour. They were allowed to chat during meals and in the dorms before lights out. Mrs Watson had found some old packs of cards, a snakes and ladders board and a draughts set, and she encouraged them to play games in the living room when they’d finished their homework, sometimes even playing with them. She had collected a small selection of books, and occasionally she read to the younger ones. She had taken the job of house-mother, as Mrs Manton knew, because she was desperate, but having taken it, she was the sort of woman who gave it her best shot. House-mother. To Delia Watson it was the second half of her title which was important. Since taking up her position, several things about Laurel Farm had worried her. She knew it was no good confronting Mrs Manton head-on, but she did feel that from the inside she might be able to influence and alter some of the practices; they had certainly softened in her own house. She knew the other house-mothers regarded her as soft, but she didn’t care. Her girls usually gave little trouble, and she was always prepared to listen if they came to her, as she had listened to Rita the previous day. This morning, however, she knew that she couldn’t ignore what had happened to Rita. Once she had seen to Rita’s immediate needs, she went straight to Oak to confront Mrs Garfield and what she’d found had sent her straight to Mrs Manton’s front door.

As she sat in the sun that afternoon, thinking over the day, she wondered, not for the first time, what she would do if Mrs Manton called her bluff. No, not bluff, she told herself. If Mrs Garfield wasn’t sacked, she, Delia Watson, would indeed leave at once and go to the authorities. She’d manage somehow, but what would happen to the girls in Larch if she had to leave? At that moment, one of the senior girls came running up.

‘Please, Mrs Watson,’ she puffed, ‘Mrs Manton wants to see you over at her house. Straight away, she said.’

‘All right, Diane, thank you.’ Delia Watson stood up. ‘Run back and tell her I’m on my way, will you?’

‘Yes, Mrs Watson.’ The girl streaked off like a hare, her bare feet thudding on the path as she went.

Mrs Watson did not go straight over to central; first she went indoors to check on Rita. She was still sitting up in bed, Daisy beside her, as they both tackled the mountain of mending Mrs Watson had given them.

Assured now that Rita had in fact suffered no lasting effects from her incarceration, Mrs Watson followed Diane more slowly through the trees. When she knocked on the Mantons’ door it was opened by Joe who gave her a smile, and said, ‘Ah, Mrs Watson, come in. You’ll find my wife in her office.’ He stood aside to let her pass and then stepped out of the door himself, adding, ‘Off to feed the chooks.’

Mrs Watson went through the house to the office at the back. She knocked on the door, and at the sharp ‘Come!’ went in.

The superintendent was sitting behind her desk, apparently working on some papers. She glanced up as Mrs Watson came in.

‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, ‘please sit down.’

Mrs Watson took a seat on the upright chair in front of the desk. For a moment neither of them spoke. In the end it was the superintendent who broke the silence.

‘I have spoken to Mrs Garfield,’ she began, ‘and she deeply regrets the events of yesterday.’

I’m sure she does, thought Mrs Watson. But she did not speak, simply sat and waited for her employer to continue.

‘However,’ Mrs Manton went on, ‘I have told her that such behaviour is unacceptable and she must leave Laurel Farm by tomorrow evening. In the meantime the girls who live in Oak Cottage will be assigned new places this evening. I hope that this…’ she hesitated, ‘…arrangement will meet with your approval. Of course, no mention will be made of why Mrs Garfield has left, either to the other staff or the children. It will be announced she’s been called away to look after her sick mother.’

Very generous of you, thought Mrs Watson, but all she said was, ‘Since they are already in my house, I will keep Rita and Daisy in Larch from now on… as agreed.’

Mrs Manton gave her a long look, as if assessing whether it was worth making an issue of such a small added victory, and decided against it. ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘If Rita is still in bed, you’d better send Daisy over to Oak to collect their things.’

‘I will,’ replied Mrs Watson, adding as she got to her feet, ‘but I don’t expect there’s much for them to bring, do you?’ And with this she walked out of the room closing the door quietly behind her.

‘Insufferable woman!’ exploded Mrs Manton to the closed door. ‘Just you wait.’ She got to her feet and went through to her living room, where she flopped into a chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. It had been one hell of a day, she thought, and Mrs Garfield’s reaction to her dismissal had been quite extreme.

‘You must see that I can’t continue to employ you—’ she’d begun, but was interrupted.

‘I can’t think why not,’ snarled Mrs Garfield, ‘I was only doing what you’d ordered me to.’

Mrs Manton did not respond but simply told Mrs Garfield that she had to be out of the house by the end of the next day.

The house-mother had been almost apoplectic. ‘You told me to deal with that child!’ she shrieked. ‘You told me you wanted no more trouble from her.’

‘Agreed,’ Mrs Manton said mildly, ‘but I didn’t want her dead, either.’

‘But she ain’t dead, is she?’ screamed the woman. ‘She’s alive and well and making accusations about me.’

‘You were drunk,’ said Mrs Manton flatly, ‘I saw you myself. I told you, neither Mrs Watson nor I could rouse you. Rita Stevens had nothing to do with that.’

‘I did what you told me to do,’ reiterated Mrs Garfield, ‘and now you want to sack me! Turn me off without a reference!’

‘I didn’t say that,’ said her employer. ‘But I can’t keep you here. If the authorities heard that you’d been dead drunk while in charge of a house full of children, and I hadn’t sacked you, they’d close us down without a second thought. Both my husband and I are agreed on this—’

‘Your husband!’ sneered Mrs Garfield. ‘He’s just a lapdog. He don’t make the decisions round this place.’

‘Maybe not,’ agreed Mrs Manton smoothly, ‘but he concurs with them, and this one in particular.’

‘You bitch!’ shrieked Mrs Garfield, who, realizing there was no reprieve, gave no heed to her language.

‘You will be paid up to date,’ went on Mrs Manton as if she had not spoken, ‘and be off the premises by the time the children get home from school tomorrow.’ She stared across at the enraged Mrs Garfield. ‘And should you need a reference, you may write to me for one.’

‘Stuff your reference,’ snarled Mrs Garfield.

‘As you wish,’ replied the superintendent, and with her dignity unruffled, she turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

The relief with which Rita and Daisy greeted the news that they were to stay in Larch Cottage was immense. They were back sharing a dorm with Joan, whom they both liked, and though Rita felt a physical ache when she thought of Rosie, alone in a strange place with strange people, there were times when she was so busy that there was no room for Rosie in her thoughts. Knitty had been retrieved from the windowsill and while the other girls were in the bathroom, had been stowed, still slightly damp, in the mattress.

Mrs Watson had taken the two girls aside and told them that from now on they would be living in Larch. ‘I’ve given you a little leeway today,’ she said, ‘but from now on I expect complete obedience from you, do you understand?’ She fixed them with a stern eye as she waited for their ‘Yes, Mrs Watson’.

‘I hope you do. Tomorrow you’ll be starting school with the others, and I expect to hear that you’re model pupils. Any reports of bad behaviour and you’ll be in more trouble. Understand?’

‘Yes, Mrs Watson.’

‘Good. Now Rita, you can come and collect clothes for both of you, and then you can get dressed and come down for tea. Daisy, run over to Oak and collect anything of yours and Rita’s that’s there. You needn’t worry,’ she smiled as she saw the look of horror on Daisy’s face, ‘you won’t see Mrs Garfield.’ When Daisy didn’t look convinced she said briskly, ‘Come along, Daisy, do as you’re told.’

Unwillingly, Daisy went back into Oak, and found a general hubbub as all the other girls were there doing the same thing.

‘Which cottage are you going to?’ asked Audrey when Daisy came in.

‘Larch.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Carol. ‘We’ve got to go into Pine, with the babies.’

‘Better than here,’ Daisy said.

‘Where’s Rita, then?’ demanded Audrey as she watched Daisy gather up her toothbrush and flannel from her locker, and then collect Rita’s from hers.

‘Back in Larch. She ain’t well.’

‘Bet she was there all the time,’ Audrey said belligerently. ‘Bet she weren’t in the cellar at all.’

‘She was, too,’ retorted Daisy. ‘I let her out, and then Mrs Watson looked after her.’

‘Bit of a sissy, if you ask me,’ Audrey said. ‘She ain’t the only one’s had the cellar treatment. Agnes had it and—’

‘Yeah,’ interrupted Daisy, ‘and look at her now. She’s scared of her own shadow.’ She went to the beds that had been theirs and pulled off the single blankets that covered them. Rolling them carefully together, she tucked them under her arm.

‘Where’re you going with those?’ asked Carol, watching open-mouthed. ‘You can’t take them, they ain’t yours.’

‘Nobody else needs them,’ Daisy pointed out. ‘Nobody ain’t going to be sleeping in here, are they? Take yours to Pine, I would.’

‘That’s stealing,’ announced Audrey righteously. ‘You won’t half get it in the neck when they see you walking off with those.’

‘Yeah,’ echoed Carol, ‘s’posing we tell!’

‘Then,’ replied Daisy as she looked round to check that there was nothing else of use she could take, ‘you’d be just plain stupid.’ As she passed the lavatories she glanced in; one of them had an extremely wet floor. Daisy gave a grin. Reet was a card, and no mistake.

The routine in Larch turned out to be virtually the same as in Oak.

‘Our turn first in the bathroom,’ cried Sandra, as they hurriedly stripped their beds, folding the bedclothes neatly as they’d been taught back in Laurel House. ‘Come on, you lot, get in there before the other dorm do.’

When she’d washed her face and hands, Rita remade her bed, tucking the extra blanket in carefully, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed if there was dormitory inspection. Rita and Daisy had each been given one of the grey checked frocks that all the girls wore to school, and they put them on, leaving the grubby weekend overalls in a basket, ready for someone to launder later on.

24

‘For Christ’s sake, Edna, shut that child up,’ growled Gerald Waters as he accelerated away from Laurel Farm. The spinning car wheels threw up a cloud of dust as they sped down the dirt track leading to Carrabunna and the main Sydney road beyond.

‘Hush now, Rosie,’ Edna said as she struggled to hold the child squirming in her arms. ‘Be quiet, dear, you don’t want to upset Daddy now, do you?’

But Rosie, crimson-faced and her cheeks wet with tears, didn’t stop, couldn’t stop and went on bawling, ‘I don’t want you! I don’t want you! Go away! I want Reet. Where’s Reet?’

‘Come along now, Rosie,’ Edna tried again. ‘Calm down, there’s a good girl.’

Rosie didn’t calm down and once they had passed through Carrabunna Gerald suddenly slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt. Without a word he got out, opened the back door and reaching in, dragged the little girl from her new mother’s arms. He pulled her clear of the car and then, shouting ‘Shut up! Shut up! You hear me?’ he shook her, hard and long till her head flopped and the screaming stopped.

‘That’s more like it,’ he snarled. ‘Now you listen to me, young lady. I’ll have no more of that disgraceful noise, understand? Start that row again and you’ll get a hiding.’ Then he thrust Rosie back into the car and slammed the door behind her. Edna gathered the shaking child into her arms and held her tight, crooning softly to her and stroking her hair.

Rosie’s screams had stopped, but heaving sobs still shook her body as she buried her hot, damp face into Edna’s neck.

Exhausted by the events of the morning and lulled by the motion of the car, Rosie finally fell asleep, only waking again when the car stopped outside a roadside café. She opened her eyes, for a moment forgetting where she was, and then she saw the frightening man getting out of the car, and she shrank back against Edna’s shoulder again.

As he opened the back door of the car, Edna said, ‘Look, Gerald, you’ve terrified the poor child!’

‘Well, she needs to learn to do as she’s told,’ he muttered. Then he held out his hand and twisting his mouth into a smile, said, ‘Come along now, Rose. You must be hungry, let’s find something to eat.’

‘Out you get, Rosie,’ encouraged Edna. ‘I expect you’re hungry, and we’re going to have some eggs and bacon and sausages now.’

Once out of the car, Edna took Rosie’s hand and they went into the café. The promised food appeared on the table and Edna helped Rosie cut up her food saying, ‘If you eat all that like a good girl, you can have some ice cream after. Would you like that?’ When Rosie didn’t answer Edna went on, ‘You like ice cream, don’t you?’

Rosie nodded.

‘I thought you did,’ Edna said. ‘Eat up then.’ She turned to Gerald who was just finishing, wiping round his plate with a piece of bread. ‘Will you order up the ice cream, Daddy?’

‘Ice cream for our little girl, coming up,’ he cried, jovial now that Rosie was behaving herself, and he waved to the woman at the counter to bring them each a bowl of ice cream.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Rosie could hear Rita’s voice saying, ‘He’s not my dad,’ but looking across at the frightening face of the man opposite, she said nothing and went on eating her sausages. They were nice, and she did want ice cream.

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ Edna enthused when the dessert came. She beamed at Rosie. ‘Aren’t you a lucky girl to have such a kind daddy?’

They finally reached Fryford, where the Waters lived, in the late afternoon. Their house was in a quiet street, one of a row of villas. There was a window on either side of the front door and another perched above it under a shingled gable. Mr Waters drew into the kerb and switched off the engine.

‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘home at last.’

Edna took Rosie into the house. ‘This is where we live, Rosie,’ she said. ‘This is your home now. Isn’t it nice? Look, we’ve got a yard out the back where you can play. Now come upstairs and I’ll show you your bedroom.’ She led the way up a narrow staircase to the floor above where there were two bedrooms. The one at the front looked out through the gabled window onto the street below, while the one at the back, much smaller, had a little window looking out across the single storey scullery roof below and onto the small square of garden beyond.

‘Here we are,’ Edna said brightly, leading Rosie into the tiny bedroom. ‘This is your room.’ She went to the window and drawing aside the flimsy curtains, threw it open. ‘Isn’t it nice?’

Rosie stood by the door and stared into the room. A wooden bed stood along one wall, a chest of drawers topped with a bowl and jug stood against another, and there was a small chair in the corner. Though the room was hot and stuffy, it was stark and unwelcoming.

‘I wish Reet was here,’ Rosie said, her lip beginning to tremble again as she looked at the cold hard bed where she must sleep alone. ‘I want Reet.’

‘Well, you can’t have her,’ said a sharp voice behind her. Gerald had come upstairs carrying her small suitcase. ‘You must forget her. You live with us now.’

That night Rosie lay in bed in her new bedroom and with her face under the pillow, cried herself to sleep. She was entirely alone, no Rita, no Daisy, not even Knitty to cuddle as exhaustion overtook her and she finally fell asleep.

Next morning she was given breakfast and then the three of them walked to the nearby church. The only thing suitable to wear was the rose-patterned dress, and so Rosie was dressed in that.

‘Tomorrow,’ Edna promised her, ‘we’ll go shopping you and I. We’ll get you some decent clothes, not something made out of curtains.’

Church was boring, but Rosie was used to that. Numerous Sundays spent in church since she’d been taken from Ship Street had taught her to sit still and quiet however bored she was, until it was over and they could emerge into the sunshine again. Outside the church she found herself the centre of attention. People came up to the Waters, smiling and nodding.

‘Is this the little girl you’re adopting?’

‘What a generous thing to do, taking a child like this from an orphanage!’

‘What a pretty little girl, such lovely fair hair.’

Edna had spent some time brushing Rosie’s hair and had tied it back off her face with a ribbon. Rosie liked the ribbon, and she liked people saying she was pretty, so she smiled at the lady who was reaching out to touch her curls.

‘What a lovely smile,’ said the lady. ‘Aren’t you a lucky girl to have been chosen by these kind people.’

The minister was standing by the door, and he came over and shook Gerald by the hand. ‘Well done, Mr Waters,’ he said. ‘A truly charitable act.’ He reached down and chucked Rosie under the chin. ‘And what’s your name, little girl?’

‘Rosie,’ she whispered shyly.

‘Well, Rosie, I hope you’re truly grateful for the kindness of your new parents.’

The next few days passed in a whirl. Edna took Rosie on the promised shopping trip, and the little chest of drawers soon held new underclothes, a blouse and skirt, a dress and a cardigan. She was fitted with new shoes, worn over new white socks. Her rose-patterned dress, though still wearable, was pushed to the bottom of a drawer, the last remnant of her previous life.

One evening Gerald came home carrying a small teddy bear which he pushed into her arms, saying gruffly, ‘Thought you might like to have this.’ Rosie hugged it to her, and from then on every night she fell asleep with the bear, named Bear, tucked under her arm, just as Knitty had been.

The Waters insisted that she call them Mummy and Daddy; if she didn’t, they appeared not to have heard her, and she soon learned that her life was easier if she did what she was told. Rosie had never liked being in trouble, and without Rita to protect her she simply accepted what was happening.

‘I always wanted a daughter called Jean,’ Edna told her one day, ‘so Daddy and I have decided that’s what we’ll call you from now on.’

Rosie looked confused. ‘I’m called Rosie.’

‘No, darling, you were called Rosie, but now you’re called Jean.’

She was enrolled at her new school as Jean Waters, and so everyone there called her Jean. At first, often, she didn’t realize she was being spoken to, and was scolded for not answering, but in time she got used to being Jean, and the name Rosie, like the rose-patterned dress, was consigned to her past life and almost forgotten.

‘Please will you remember that Jean has been adopted?’ Edna said to the principal on her first morning. ‘Everything here is a bit new to her. I’ll bring her to and from school just until she’s used to it all.’

Rosie liked her new school. She liked her teacher, Miss Hughes. She liked Edna, but she was still afraid of Gerald. He had a way of grabbing her from behind and crushing her against him that she found frightening. She’d struggle to pull free and he’d hold on even more tightly saying, ‘What, not got a cuddle for your dad?’ He laughed as he said it, but she hated the way he held her and nuzzled the back of her neck with his moustache. Mummy laughed too, and said, ‘How Daddy loves his little girl!’

Rosie settled in at school quite quickly. Always eager to please, she did as she was told and behaved herself well in the classroom. The first sign of trouble came, however, a few months after she arrived. The children were asked to tell the class about their families. Each child stood up and spoke for a minute or two, telling of mums and dads, brothers and sisters, family pets. Miss Hughes left Rosie till last, because she was aware that Rosie had only recently been adopted and didn’t have a family to talk about. When it finally came to be Rosie’s turn, she said gently, ‘Now then, Jean, can you tell us about your family, you’ve got a new mummy and daddy, I think, haven’t you? But no brothers or sisters.’

Rosie looked at her as if surprised. ‘I got a sister,’ she said. ‘She’s called Reet.’

‘No, Jean, I don’t think you have,’ said Miss Hughes. ‘You’ve come to live with Mr and Mrs Waters, haven’t you?’

‘They took me away,’ Rosie said with sudden recollection. ‘They pushed me into the car and they left Reet behind.’ She began to look wildly round the classroom and with tears flooding down her cheeks called out, ‘Where’s Reet? I want Reet. I don’t like it here. I want Reet.’

The other children stared at her, round-eyed, and Miss Hughes sent one of them to fetch the principal, unable to stop Jean from crying, from calling for someone called ‘Reet’, from shouting that she didn’t like her new home.

She was quickly hustled from the room and made to wait in the principal’s office until Edna came to fetch her.

‘You’re a naughty, ungrateful girl,’ Edna scolded. ‘Daddy and I have given you a lovely home, and you’re telling people you don’t like it here. You’re a lucky girl that we took you away from that place and gave you a proper home.’

Gerald, when he came home that night, did more than scold her. ‘She’s got to learn who’s boss in this house,’ he said to Edna when he heard what had happened. ‘And I’m going to teach her.’

‘Of course, Gerald,’ Edna said. ‘You’re quite right.’ And she waited down in the living room while Gerald went upstairs to find Rosie. Moments later when Rosie’s screams echoed through the house, Edna switched on the radio to drown them out.

From then on, Rosie, now Jean, walked in terror of her new father. She withdrew into her own little world, only emerging to do as she was bid, to appear to the world as the spoilt adopted daughter of two kind and generous parents. Beautifully dressed, she appeared at church, sat quietly through the services, spoke only when spoken to. A dutiful, obedient daughter.

Some weeks later, Edna had gone to a meeting at the church to help plan the annual Harvest Festival supper. Rosie was already in bed, tucked in with a kiss by Edna before she left, but as so often, she lay awake, listening to the sounds that came from downstairs. Sometimes she would hear her father come up the stairs and pause outside her room, apparently listening to hear if she had gone to sleep. This particular evening, she heard his feet on the stairs, and lay as still as she could waiting for him to go back down, but he did not. She heard the door open and kept her eyes screwed up tight, so he would think that she was asleep, but he did not simply close the door again and go away as she had hoped. He came into the room and stood by her bed.

‘Jean,’ he said. ‘I know you’re not asleep. Open your eyes.’

Not daring to disobey, Rosie opened her eyes and in the faded light still coming in through her little window, found him staring down at her.

‘I see,’ he said with a smile. ‘Pretending again. Never mind, you are awake, so you can give your dad a cuddle, can’t you?’ He saw Rosie shrink back in fear and his hand snaked out, pulling the covers off her bed and dumping them on the floor. ‘Now then,’ he said, his voice still jovial, ‘let’s have a look at you.’ He paused for a moment as if listening, then he crossed to the door. ‘Don’t want Mummy walking in to spoil the fun, do we?’ he said, as he turned the key.

25

Life in Larch was a great improvement on life in Oak and Rita and Daisy soon settled into the familiar routine. On that first morning, after breakfast, which was shared by Mrs Watson sitting at the head of the table, there were the usual chores to be done. Daisy and Rita were set to making more of the ubiquitous egg sandwiches, which had to be wrapped in paper and taken to school as packed dinner. As well as her sandwich, each girl was given an apple. Rita discovered later that girls from other houses were not as lucky. It was a rush to get everything done, and Mrs Watson was soon clapping her hands and chivvying them over to central to put on their socks and shoes for the walk into town.

Carrabunna School was housed in a long low building set round three sides of a square. There were two blocks of classrooms and a hall used for gym, dancing and any school gatherings, an outside toilet block, and in the middle was a sandy playground. As they came into the yard, the English girls saw there were boys as well as girls playing in the dusty space.

‘Didn’t know there was boys too,’ Daisy said with interest. She watched a game of football being played at one end of the yard, and was soon hopping from foot to foot, longing to join in. ‘D’you think I could play?’ she wondered.

Rita, who was familiar with boys’ playground games, laughed. ‘Not a hope. Boys don’t let girls play.’

She and Daisy were standing with the other new girls just inside the gate, watching the other children and wondering what to do and where to go. After a few moments Irene came over.

‘You lot got to come inside with me,’ she said, and she shepherded the new girls into the hall.

Daisy looked round her at the wooden ribs on one wall and the three thick ropes looped up to the ceiling. Through the window she could see the rest of the children out at play before morning school.

‘This place don’t look too bad,’ she muttered to Rita. ‘I’d love to have a go at climbing them ropes.’

‘D’you know how?’ asked Rita in surprise.

‘No, but I will.’

The nine girls sat down on the floor and waited. The teacher who came in was a small woman, dumpy, with grey hair cut short, rather like a man’s. Her face was round, with a short snub nose and a receding chin. She wore round-rimmed glasses, but through these stared a pair of piercing blue eyes, convincing the seated girls that she was not a person to be trifled with.

‘I am Miss Headley,’ she announced when she had everyone’s attention, ‘and I am the principal of this school.’

‘What’s a principal?’ asked someone in a whisper.

‘The principal is what you would call a headmistress, back home in England,’ she answered, although the question had clearly not been intended for her ears. ‘Now then, I’m going to call your names and when you answer I will tell you which classroom you’ll be in. Remember the number, and when I dismiss you that is where you’re to go. If there is no one in there, you simply wait for the rest of the class to come in from the yard.’

Rita, Daisy and Joan, all being much the same age, were sent to Room 3. The room looked out on the playground, but the four rows of ten desks faced the blackboard and the teacher’s table, with their backs to the window. They were greeted by their teacher, Miss Carson, who told them where to sit, and moments later a bell rang, heralding the start of morning school. Another thirty children filed into the room and went to their places, boys on one side of the room, girls on the other. Rita found she had Audrey from Oak on one side of her and Carol on the other, and recognized several others from Laurel Farm, including Elizabeth from Pine and Jane from Elm.

Miss Carson introduced the new arrivals to the rest of the class, who looked at them with interest. They’d come all the way from England… they might as well have come from the moon.

Rita had never had much problem with her school work, though she preferred reading and writing to arithmetic. She knew her tables, and so found the multiplication sums they’d been set quite easy. She could see that Daisy was struggling, but there was complete silence in the room, so she couldn’t whisper any help. When the answers were given, Rita found that she’d only got one mistake.

‘This is very good work, Rita.’ Miss Carson had to glance at the name she’d written on the book to remember which new girl it was. ‘Well done. I hope all your work is as good as this.’

Daisy had done the worst and was warned that she’d be tested on all her tables at the beginning of next week. ‘That means I got to learn them all in just a week,’ she complained to Rita, when they were out in the yard for the mid-morning break.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rita said comfortingly, ‘I’ll learn them to you.’

After play it was time for composition, a subject Rita really enjoyed. They were told to write about what they’d done at the weekend. Most of the girls were soon hard at work, but both Daisy and Rita hesitated; Daisy because she found any sort of creative writing difficult, Rita because she couldn’t write about what had happened to her over the past two days.

‘Come along, you two,’ chided Miss Carson, ‘get writing. You haven’t got all day.’

‘Don’t know what to put, miss,’ grumbled Daisy. ‘We only just got here.’

‘Then write about how you came,’ suggested Miss Carson. ‘I don’t really mind what you write about, as long as you write something for me to read.’ That made things easier, and Rita wrote about the ship and the journey out from England. Having recorded most of it in her journal already, the words began to flow and she was still writing when the bell rang for the dinner break, and she had to hand the work in.

The girls were all collected into the hall where tables and benches had been set up, and there they sat, eating their sandwiches. Some of the local children went home for their midday meal, but there were one or two from outlying farms who joined the Laurel Farm girls. One of them was a boy from their class called Patrick, a large freckle-faced boy with flaming red hair that stood up in an untidy tuft on the back of his head. When he’d entered the classroom, Daisy recognized him at once from the earlier football game. Now, she went over and sat down next to him.

‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘I’m Daisy. Can I come and play football with you afterwards?’

Patrick looked at her with undisguised astonishment. ‘Football’s for boys,’ he said at last.

‘I can play,’ Daisy said, although she’d never kicked a football in her life. ‘I’m good at football.’

‘Well, you ain’t playing with us,’ Patrick said decidedly, ‘we don’t play with girls and we don’t play with “homies”.’

‘I ain’t a “homie”,’ Daisy told him hotly, not at all sure what he meant, but knowing it wasn’t complimentary.

‘Course you are,’ he returned. ‘All you lot from Laurel Farm’s “homies”. Wouldn’t be in a home otherwise, would you? Stands to reason!’

‘I ain’t a “homie”,’ repeated Daisy. ‘I just live there for now.’

‘’Spect you’ll live there forever,’ Patrick said. ‘My ma says you wasn’t wanted in England and you ain’t wanted here, neither.’ He turned his back on her and as soon as he’d wolfed down his sandwiches, he ran outside, leaving Daisy sitting by herself.

Rita went over and sat down beside her. ‘Told you,’ she said.

‘Can’t even pretend we don’t come from Laurel Farm, can we,’ Daisy said bitterly, ‘not when we’re all dressed like this.’ She held out the skirt of her dress, looking down at its dull grey checks in disgust.

‘Never mind, Dais, Miss Carson said it’s PT this afternoon,’ Rita reminded her. ‘You’re good at that. Let’s go and play tag in the yard, now. Come on!’

Rita was right, the first lesson that afternoon was PT, the only lesson for which Daisy showed any enthusiasm. Miss Carson led them out into the yard where she had placed bean-bags to mark a makeshift race track. Two children, Daniel and Frances, were appointed team captains and told to pick up teams. At first Daniel simply chose boys, and Frances, girls, but there were more girls than boys in the class, so in the end Daniel had to select a girl. He looked across at the four girls left, the three new girls and Carol. Patrick, already chosen, nudged him and pointed out Daisy. He shrugged; it clearly didn’t matter to him which girl, they were all equally useless at running. He pointed a finger at Daisy.

‘Her,’ he said, and Daisy went across and stood with the boys’ team. Rita was chosen by Frances, Joan went to Daniel, and Carol, flushed with mortification at being chosen last, to Frances.

‘We’ll have a relay first,’ Miss Carson told them. ‘When I blow my whistle it’s twice round the circuit,’ she indicated the bean-bags, ‘and then touch the next one to go.’

The children lined up ready, and when the whistle went the first pair raced off round the makeshift track, encouraged by shrieks from their teammates. As the race progressed it was clear that it was going to be a close finish, the girls’ team in the lead. Then it was Daisy’s turn, the last to go for Daniel’s team. She was off like a hare, her feet pounding the yard as she chased after Carol, lumbering along half a lap ahead of her.

‘Go on, Daisy!’ screamed Joan, the only one in her team who knew her name. Immediately the boys joined in, and soon the whole team was bellowing, ‘Go on Daisy!’ as she overtook the stumbling Carol and hurtled over the finishing line, several yards ahead. Daniel’s team cheered, delighted with their victory. Daisy, flushed with success, grinned round at her team-mates, but none of the boys spoke to her.

Joan went over and clapped her on the back. ‘Well done, Dais. You won.’

Carol, red-faced and hot, glowered at her as she finally crossed the finishing line.

‘Why do we always get Carol?’ one of the other girls was heard to ask. Miss Carson looked across to see who had spoken, but couldn’t tell.

‘Remind me next time that Carol will be a team captain,’ was all she said, and Carol gave her grumbling team a look of triumph. Next time she’d be doing the choosing.

There were several more races before they went back inside for the last lesson of the afternoon, and Daisy ran flat out in all of them, never flagging, so that Daniel’s team won every one. The boys all cheered for her as she was running, but once the race was over they ignored her.

‘You was great!’ Rita enthused as they went back inside. ‘You was faster than anyone else, even them boys.’

‘Yeah,’ said Daisy glumly, ‘but they still don’t want me.’

At the end of the afternoon, all the Laurel Farm girls lined up together for the walk home. Miss Carson had set them some spellings to learn for homework, but Daisy was more worried about the tables she had to master before the next Monday.

‘Which ones do you know?’ asked Rita as they waited for some of the older girls to appear.

Daisy looked uncertain. ‘Twice times?’ she offered.

‘Say it then.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, now,’ insisted Rita. ‘Come on, I can’t help you if you don’t try.’

Daisy shrugged and began to chant, ‘Twice one is two, twice two is four…’ She got to the end without a mistake, and Rita punched her cheerfully on the arm.

‘Well, that’s one you don’t have to learn,’ she said. ‘Now the three times.’ Daisy managed to get through it, and all the way home they chanted the fours, in time with their marching feet.

‘If we do that each way, every day, you’ll soon learn them,’ Rita told her as they came in through the gate.

Tea was the main meal of the day, and Mrs Watson was in the kitchen to supervise the preparation. She made sure that the vegetables brought in from the garden were properly washed and peeled, and though the mince for the cottage pie was extremely fatty, it was the best she could get, and properly cooked. After tea she set them all to do their homework, and when Rita had learned her spellings, Mrs Watson tested her.

‘The Watchdog’s OK,’ Daisy said, as they lay in bed, warm under two blankets. ‘We’ll be all right here in Larch.’

‘Hmm,’ agreed Rita, smiling at the nickname Daisy had given Mrs Watson earlier in the day. It was a good one, she thought. Mrs Watson had certainly watched over them. She just wished Rosie was here for her to watch over too.

26

After the first week at school, the days began to run into each other. There was a sameness about each day which made for extremely humdrum living. The routine was unchanging, and despite the severity of the regime, everyone knew what was expected of her, both at Laurel Farm and at school.

In Larch, Mrs Watson didn’t mind how they passed their short leisure hour at the end of the day. Most of them sat around and chatted, or played the games that Mrs Watson had scrounged from somewhere. Rita used the time to read, and it wasn’t long before she had devoured the few books on the living room shelf. Every evening she sat up in bed and wrote her journal. She enjoyed recording the events of each day. She wrote about school and things that had happened at Laurel Farm, but she also wrote about the people around her, the other girls and the staff. And she wrote about Rosie, letting her sadness seep onto the page and ease the ache of her loss. Sometimes she wrote stories. She often thought of Paul Dawson, from the ship, and wondered if he was still writing stories as well. He had finally let her read some of his before they reached Sydney, and she’d thought they were very exciting.

Now that she didn’t have to hide what she was doing, she tried her hand at similar stories. Rita thought they weren’t as good as Paul’s, but she enjoyed writing them, letting her imagination roam across the remembered places of home and the new and unfamiliar landscape that surrounded her now. Her stories were a means of escape from the gritty, grey days that made up her life, and she was never happier than chewing the end of her pencil trying to find the exact word she needed.

Rita had settled into school particularly well. She enjoyed the work, and though she was nothing like as keen as Daisy on the physical exercise, she was happy enough to join in the PT classes with everyone else. Miss Carson had quickly spotted that Rita was an intelligent child, with an enquiring mind; it delighted her, and she set out to foster that intelligence. Rita, Miss Carson saw, enjoyed learning for the sake of it, and it wasn’t long before she was encouraging her to borrow books from the school bookshelf. She also noticed that Rita wrote well. From the first day, when she’d written about her journey out from England, Miss Carson had realized that this child had a creative talent which should be nurtured, and she encouraged her to continue recording her thoughts and ideas.

Mrs Watson had spotted Rita’s potential as well, though she never singled her out for any special attention. Rita might be bright, but she was treated the same as everyone else. She knew Rita missed her sister, but there was nothing Mrs Watson could do about that; Rosie’s adoption was something else that Rita must accept and get used to.

One evening a few weeks after Rita and Daisy had moved into Larch, it was Rita’s turn to do the ironing and she was warming the iron when Mrs Watson came in and said, ‘Ah, Rita. I’ve some ironing to be done as well. Please come and fetch it now.’

Rita didn’t look very pleased. She thought there was enough in the basket already, but she obediently set the iron aside and followed the house-mother. There was, she knew, never any point in arguing with the Watchdog.

When they reached Mrs Watson’s quarters, Rita followed her inside, and was surprised when she closed the door behind them.

‘I’ve got something for you, Rita,’ she said, ‘but I’d rather the others didn’t see it.’ She fixed Rita with a firm gaze. ‘Can I rely on you for that?’

Rita, who had no idea what she was going to be given, nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Watson.’

‘Not even Daisy?’

Rita hesitated. She and Daisy had become inseparable. They had been close friends before, but since Daisy had rescued Rita from the cellar, and Rosie had been taken, Rita had shared everything with Daisy, and to Daisy it seemed that at last she had the sister she’d always wanted.

‘I’m sorry, Rita,’ said Mrs Watson, ‘but I must insist. If I give you this, you mustn’t show it to Daisy, all right?’

‘All right,’ Rita said, but she crossed her fingers behind her back.

‘Well, I’m going to trust you,’ said the house-mother. ‘Here you are then,’ and she handed Rita an envelope.

The letter had arrived that morning. Mrs Watson had been on her way into Carrabunna to buy some notepaper and stamps, and as she walked to the gate, Mrs Manton had shouted after her, asking her to collect the mail. When she got to the post office, she bought her own stamps and then asked if there was any post for Laurel Farm. Miss Drew, sitting as always behind the counter, swivelled round on her chair and reached into the Laurel Farm pigeon hole.

‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Not much, but there is one from England addressed to two of the kiddies. They’ll like getting that, won’t they?’

‘I’m sure they will,’ agreed Mrs Watson, even as she doubted they’d ever see it. She thanked Miss Drew and took the small bundle of letters. Glancing through them she found that all but one were addressed to Mrs Manton, most looking like bills. Only one was for anyone else, and that was addressed to Miss Rita and Rosie Stevens. Mrs Watson stared at the envelope for a moment before tucking it into her bag with the rest of the post.

She finished her errands and then walked slowly back up the lane to Laurel Farm, thinking hard. A letter for Rita… and Rosie. Too late for Rosie, but Rita? Who would have sent it, and how did they have the Carrabunna address? She knew that it was never given out. It was one of Miss Vanstone’s strictest prohibitions. Once a child had been taken in by the EVER-Care Trust, she lost all contact with anyone from her previous life; all ties cut, no further contact with friends or extended family. It was one of the things that Delia Watson most disliked about EVER-Care. To her it indicated a lack of humanity. She knew that many of the children in their care were, perhaps, better off at Laurel Farm, but she felt that cutting them off from everything known and familiar was cruel, leaving them with no roots or sense of identity. But, now, here was this letter for Rita.

It’s got the right address on it, she thought, so Miss Vanstone must have allowed it to be sent. She took it out of her bag again and leaning on a field gate, scrutinized it once more. The names, Miss Rita and Rosie Stevens, were written in a neat hand, but the address underneath was an untidy scrawl, obviously written by someone different. It had a line of stamps all along the top, the postmark that cancelled them was London, and the date, over six weeks ago.

Mrs Watson had a lot of time for Rita. She knew her to be a courageous little girl, who had braved all that her short life had thrown at her. She thought of what Rita had told her about her family; that her mother had remarried, a baby brother, something about a grandmother? So, who could have written? The address was certainly written in an uneducated hand. Could it be the mother’s? If so, surely the child had a right to read what her mother had written.

What am I going to do? she wondered. But in her heart she already knew. ‘The address is right,’ she spoke aloud, trying to convince herself, ‘so it must have been given to the person who wrote the letter, and the only one who could have done that was Emily Vanstone. In which case, I can give it to Rita.’

If she gave the letter to Mrs Manton, she would insist on opening the letter first and might not pass it on. Rita might never know someone in England had written to her.

But, if I give it to Rita directly, Mrs Watson thought, and don’t mention it to anyone else, there’s no reason why Mrs Manton should ever know. Her decision made, Delia Watson put the letter back into her handbag, but in a different compartment from the rest of the post.

Her chance to give the letter privately to Rita came that very evening. She knew a moment’s hesitation, as the girl waited expectantly. Was this a mistake? But looking at Rita’s eager face, she stuck to her earlier decision and reaching into her bag, passed the letter across.

Rita took it, staring at it in surprise. ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked.

‘How should I know?’ asked Mrs Watson briskly. ‘I haven’t opened it. It’s your letter.’

Rita tore the envelope and extracted the letter. She took one look at the signature and gave a little cry.

‘Well?’ Mrs Watson couldn’t contain her curiosity.

‘It’s from my gran,’ whispered Rita, holding it out for the house-mother to see. Mrs Watson did not take it, but she could see that the letter was written in the same neat hand that had written Rita’s name on the envelope.

‘Well, you’d better read it then.’ Mrs Watson spoke more gently this time, and turned away, so that Rita could do so unobserved.

‘She thinks we’ve been adopted, me and Rosie,’ Rita said quietly when she’d read the letter. ‘She thinks we’re together somewhere, but she don’t know we’ve gone here.’ She passed the letter over. ‘You read it,’ she said.

Mrs Watson glanced through the short note. Rita’s quite right, she thought as she read it again. This grandmother has no idea they’ve been sent to Australia.

Mrs Watson felt a wave of relief; at least now she knew that Miss Vanstone had indeed sanctioned the letter. She handed it back and said, ‘Did you know your grandmother had been in hospital?’

Rita looked up. ‘Yes, she got run over and they took her down the General. We was living with her then, but when she was hurt, Auntie Carrie, next door, looked after us till Mum come home from her honeymoon.’

‘I see,’ responded Mrs Watson quietly. She waited for Rita to go on.

‘And when Mum come home, she was took to hospital to fetch the baby, so we was took to Laurel House.’

‘It looks as if your grandmother hasn’t been told you’re here,’ Mrs Watson said carefully.

‘No, she ain’t,’ snapped Rita. ‘She’s been told a lie. She’s been told we’re adopted, me and Rosie. She thinks we’re together, and,’ her voice broke on a sob, ‘she’s told me to look after Rosie, and I can’t!’

The look of total misery on the child’s face pierced Mrs Watson’s own carefully preserved carapace, and for the first time since she had laid her son in his coffin she pulled a child into her arms and held her close.

For a moment Rita stiffened, about to push her away, and then she relaxed and allowed herself to be held.

After a moment Mrs Watson released her and sitting down on a chair, waved Rita to another. ‘Sit down, Rita,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to have a think about what we’re going to do next.’

Rita sat, still clutching Gran’s letter in her hand, and looked bleakly across at her house-mother. ‘She don’t know where we are,’ she said flatly.

‘You could write and tell her,’ suggested Mrs Watson. ‘How about that, Rita?’

Rita’s expression brightened a little, but she said, ‘I can’t. I ain’t got no paper or stamps.’

‘I’ll give you those, but I’ll have to read the letter before you send it. Those are the rules here. All right?’

Rita nodded and looked down to read Gran’s letter again. There was no mention of Mum, or baby Richard. Rita wished Gran had said something about them, but at least she knew Gran was all right and getting better from her accident.

‘I’ll find you some paper and an envelope,’ promised Mrs Watson, ‘and tomorrow evening you can write your letter.’ She got to her feet. ‘You’d better get back to the ironing now. Shall I look after the letter for you till tomorrow evening?’

Rita shook her head violently. ‘No!’ she almost shouted. ‘No,’ she repeated in a more moderate tone, ‘thank you, miss. I’ll look after it.’

Back in the kitchen at the ironing table, Rita thought about her letter. She could feel it, tucked into her knickers, and longed to take it out again, but she didn’t want anyone to see it. It was too special, too private to be shared with anyone else, even Daisy, just now. She would tell Daisy and show her the letter later, after all, she’d had her fingers crossed when she’d promised not to, so that didn’t count, but just for now she wanted to hug the secret to herself. As she ironed the weekend overalls, she thought about what she would say to Gran in her reply. There was so much to tell her, but the most important thing was about Rosie. She’d lost Rosie.

When it was bedtime at last, Rita went into one of the lavatories and shutting the door, pulled out her letter again. It was already looking a bit dog-eared, but she sat on the toilet seat and read it through again. Remember, wherever you are you are my best girls. Rita could hear Gran’s voice in her head, and despite her determination, she found that, at last, the tears were pouring down her cheeks, and it was some time before she was able to go back into the dorm.

‘You been crying?’ asked Daisy, looking at her suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Rita as if surprised by the question. She gave a meaningful glance at the others. ‘I’m fine, Dais. Do you want to go over your twelves for the test tomorrow?’

They sat together on Rita’s bed, chanting the twelve times table, and when it was lights out, Rita slipped the letter from under her clothes and fell asleep with it held tightly in her hand. When she awoke in the morning, she put it in her school bag, so that it would be with her all day.

The letter from Gran filled Rita’s thoughts.

Daisy tackled her in the playground. ‘What’s up with you, Reet?’ she demanded. ‘You been in a funny mood ever since last night. You ain’t thinking of bunking off again, are you?’

‘No,’ replied Rita. ‘Got things on my mind, that’s all.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like mind your own business, Dais,’ Rita snapped uncharacteristically. ‘I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready.’

Daisy’s cheeks reddened. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, turning away, ‘but I thought we was mates.’

Rita, immediately contrite, grabbed her arm. ‘Sorry, Dais, sorry. Don’t be like that,’ she begged. ‘Course we’re mates, but I just can’t tell you yet. I will soon, promise.’

‘Promise?’

‘I said, promise.’

‘OK, only you was crying last night, and I weren’t the only one what noticed.’

‘I just got to sort something out, Dais, that’s all. I’ll tell you all about it soon, honest.’

Mrs Watson handed Rita some sheets of notepaper when she got back from school. ‘When you’ve written it, I’ll find you an envelope.’

Rita slipped the notepaper into her school bag, and when she had finished her homework that evening, she pulled it out, and began to write.

Once she’d started the words flooded from her pencil, and before she knew it she’d covered three sheets of paper, pouring out to Gran exactly what had happened to them both. As she wrote about Rosie, she felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and she forced them back. One day she would find Rosie again, and that was a promise she made to Gran in the letter.

Delia Watson looked at the letter Rita handed to her and knew at once that she couldn’t send it as it was. It would have to be censored. She read it through again and looked up at Rita. ‘What a lot you’ve written,’ she said lightly. ‘Now, here’s the envelope. You address it to your gran, then I’ll post it tomorrow. It’ll need lots of stamps for England.’

Rita looked anxious. ‘But I ain’t got no stamp money.’

‘Never mind,’ Mrs Watson reassured her, ‘I’ll buy them for you. Write the address, and we’ll get your letter on its way.’

Rita wrote the address in Hampton Road carefully on the envelope, adding ENGLAND, when prompted by Mrs Watson. Then she put the letter into it, licked it up and handed it to her house-mother. ‘You promise you’ll post it?’ she said, her eyes fixed on Mrs Watson’s face.

‘I promise I will.’ Rita gave a quick glance at Mrs Watson’s hands, but her fingers weren’t crossed, and Rita felt reassured.

Later that evening, Mrs Watson took out the letter Rita had written and carefully unsealing it, read it through again. Dear Gran, she read…

I got your letter the other day. Thank you for writing to me to tell me you are better. I am glad you ain’t in horspidal no more and your leg has got better. Rosie and I ain’t with a family like you said, nobody’s took us but we ain’t at Laurel House neither. We tried to come home to Mum and to see baby Richard, but the horrid lady from the children’s office took us back to Laurel House. Soon after that we was told we was going to Australia. We wasn’t allowed to tell Mum we was going, but I think she knew anyway. It was cos Uncle Jimmy wanted to get rid of us.

We come here by ship and it took more than six weeks. The ship was lovely and we had a good time on board. The food was lovely. Lots of times the weather was very hot. We learned to swim in the pool on the ship.

We saw lots of places on the way, but we wasn’t aloud get off the ship. When we got to Australia some people got off before we did at Perf and Adalayed but we was going to Sidney. When we landed we come to this home. It is in a little town a long way away called Carrabunna.

When we got here we was put into cottages. Rosie was in a different one to me. My cottage mother was called Mrs Garfield. Two days after we got here, we was all called together and had to put on our best clothes. We ain’t got many, but Rosie wore the dress you made, but mine was too small. It made us both cry when we thought of you back at home and us so far away. Then a man and a lady come and looked at us all. We had to stand still and strate and then turn round. They walked along the line looking at us all, then they said to Mrs Manton they’d have this one, and the man put his hand on Rosie. Then they took her away. She didn’t want to go with them, and she started screaming. I ran over to hold on to her, but they pushed me away. Then we was all told to go back to the cottages. Rosie went on screaming, and they dragged her away. I waited by the gate to say goodbye but Rosie was put in a car and I couldnt. Mrs Garfield shut me in the cellar all night. When I came out I went in a different cottage called Larch.

I ain’t seen Rosie no more. She has gone to live with them people, and I dunno where she is. It is very lonely here without her and I hate it, but when I get out of here, I’ll go and find her again.

We all go to school here and I am here with some of the girls who came from Laurel House. It was cold when we arrived, because it was winter here, not like England. Spring has come now and it is a bit warmer.

I don’t like it here and wish I could come home. I wish Rosie was here too.

Please write to me again soon.

Lots of love from Rita xx

Mrs Watson opened a bottle of Indian ink and working through the letter, blacked out the most damning parts. One page she removed entirely, and when she was satisfied, she slipped it back into its envelope, using some clear glue to reseal it. Next morning she walked to the post office, bought the necessary stamps, and dropped the letter into the box. She had kept her promise. Rita’s letter had been sent.

27

Lily was having her second cup of tea when the letter plopped through her letter box. It lay on the mat, face down. Stooping stiffly, Lily picked it up and looked at it. It was from abroad, as far as she could tell without her spectacles. The stamps didn’t look English, though they had the king’s head on them. Puzzled she carried it back into the kitchen and put on her glasses. The king was on the stamps, but underneath was the word AUSTRALIA. Lily stared at it. Who could be writing to her from Australia? Then she looked at the handwriting. For a moment she felt light-headed, and she sat down hard on a chair. In a childish hand, but carefully written, the letter was addressed to Mrs Lily Sharples, here in Hampton Road, and the handwriting was Rita’s. Lily recognized it at once. Rita’s writing. But Rita wasn’t in Australia; she and Rosie had been adopted by a couple here in England, a couple from ‘up north’. How could Rita be writing to her from Australia?

With a shaking hand, Lily ripped the envelope open, and confirmed that it was signed, ‘Lots of love from Rita’. She turned back to the beginning and began to read.

Dear Gran,

I got your letter the other day. Thank you for writing to me to tell me you are better. I am glad you ain’t in horspidal no more and your leg has got better.

Then there were a few lines crossed out so darkly that Lily couldn’t make out anything. Then Rita’s handwriting again.

We come here by ship and it took more than six weeks. The ship was lovely and we had a good time on board. The food was lovely. Lots of times the weather was very hot. We learned to swim in the pool on the ship.

We saw lots of places on the way, but we wasn’t aloud get off the ship.

Another line blacked out.

When we landed we come to this home.

More scratching out. Lily began to be angry. Rita had written to her to tell her where she was, and what was happening to her, but someone must have read the letter after it had been written and censored it.

Just like in the war, thought Lily. Why would they do that? How dare they? What harm was it to write a letter to your grandmother?

She went on with the letter, but it was soon apparent that a whole page was missing. The last page began in the middle of a sentence,

to school here and I am here with some of the girls who came from Laurel House. It was cold when we arrived, because it was winter here, not like England. Spring has come now and it is a bit warmer.

There were several more lines crossed out and then just one line at the end.

Lots of love from Rita xx

Lily read and re-read the letter, her consternation growing by the minute. It was clear that Rita had received her letter, but it had followed her to Australia. Miss Vanstone had said that the two girls had been adopted together. Had their adoptive parents decided to move to Australia? Were they still together? Rita hadn’t mentioned Rosie once. Why not? What had happened to her? Had she written about her on the page that was missing? Lily looked at the letter again. There was no return address and no date. How long ago had it been written? She picked up the envelope and studied the postmark, but it was smudged, most of it was unintelligible, the only part she could make out was NSW. What or where was NSW? Lily didn’t know. Her grasp of geography was hazy, but she was determined to find out. She’d go to the library and look it up in an atlas. The postmark was a definite clue and one that couldn’t be censored by someone the other end before the letter was sent. Switching on the table lamp, Lily held the paper to the light, trying to see if she could make out any of the censored part of the letter, but it was impossible. Whoever had read Rita’s letter had been determined to obliterate whatever it was that she’d written and had used Indian ink.

If they were going to black so much of it out, Lily wondered, why did they send it at all?

All the way through Rita had written ‘we’ but hadn’t mentioned Rosie. Surely Rosie must have gone with her. But then, Lily thought, Rita also said that there were other girls from Laurel House, so perhaps she meant them when she said ‘we’.

And if she’s with a load of girls from Laurel House, and living in this home wherever it is, thought Lily suddenly, then she ain’t been adopted. She’s just been sent out there to another home. Just been got rid of ’cos she caused trouble.

Lily felt the anger rising up inside her, a fireball of fury, as she realized that she’d been duped and lied to… that they’d all been duped and lied to. Surely even Mavis wouldn’t have given her permission for her children to be sent to the other side of the world. Lily got to her feet, gripping the table as she fought for her balance. She felt giddy with rage, her little girls, Rita and Rosie, aged nine and five, had been posted off to Australia without so much as a by-your-leave from the family. Surely Mavis didn’t know. Did Jimmy Randall know? Had he arranged it all? What about that fat pig of a woman, that Children’s Officer? Did she know where they were going when she took them back to Laurel House?

Calm down, Lily told herself, calm down. This is getting you nowhere. She forced herself to sit down again and think rationally. ‘Think it all through,’ she said aloud, ‘then you can decide what you’re going to do about it.’

She squeezed another cup of tea from the pot and considered what to do. Were there any clues in the letter that she’d missed? She picked it up and read it yet again. All the points she’d already noticed came into sharp focus. No mention of Rosie. ‘We.’ Who’s we? ‘We come to this home’, no mention of a family, or adoptive parents, so adoption was unlikely. NSW. She thought about the postmark. What did NSW mean? Carrie’s John worked for the post office, he might know.

Lily found a pencil and paper and began making a list, a plan of campaign to find her missing granddaughters.

1.  Talk to John about postmark.

2.  Make sure of all the facts.

3.  Go to Laurel House and demand explanation.

4.  Go and see the Children’s Officer woman.

5.  Write to the Children’s Committee?

6.  Find out whether Mavis knows.

7.  Tell her if not.

Lily looked at her list. It was a start. She got to her feet again and went slowly back upstairs to get dressed. It was Saturday, so she’d probably find John and Carrie at home. She got washed and dressed, her mind churning with the possibilities, and then, all of a sudden, she began to weep. Slumping down on her bed, she clutched her pillow to her and began to sob, her whole body shaking with grief and despair. Little girls, such little girls. How could anyone send children that age to the other side of the world? How could anyone be so cruel?

Lily looked at the picture John had taken of the girls at the wedding, beaming at the camera, and the ache in her heart was a physical pain. Australia. No one ever came back from Australia. She would never see them again. Lily wept for a long time, great sobs racking her body.

Later, much later, when her tears had run dry, and with stiffened resolve, she finished dressing. Pull yerself together, woman, she told herself firmly. Crying ain’t going to help no one. With new determination, she put on her coat, and walked round to Ship Street, not to see Mavis but to visit the Maunders.

Carrie was surprised to see her, but she said, ‘You looking for Mavis?’

‘No,’ replied Lily, ‘it’s your John I want a word with. Is he in?’

‘No, John’s at the Lion for his pint,’ Carrie replied, putting the kettle on the stove. ‘But I ’spect he’ll be back soon if you want to wait.’

When John came home, he found Lily and Carrie in the kitchen.

‘I’ve come to pick your brains,’ Lily said, ‘if you don’t mind.’

‘Pick away,’ said John. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’ve had a letter.’ Lily showed him the envelope. ‘I can’t read the postmark, and I wondered if you could tell me where it come from.’

John took the envelope and studied it. ‘It’s from Australia,’ he said at length. ‘Some place in New South Wales.’

‘New South Wales!’ echoed Lily. ‘So that’s somewhere in Australia?’

‘It’s a big area,’ John said. ‘The name of the town’s the smudged bit.’ He looked up enquiringly. ‘Who’s it from then, Mrs S? Who’s writing to you from Australia?’

‘Rita.’

‘Rita!’ echoed Carrie. ‘Rita’s in Australia? Does Mavis know?’

‘Don’t know,’ Lily shrugged, ‘but I don’t think so. She’d never let them be took that far away, would she?’

‘No, course she wouldn’t,’ said John, trying to sound reassuring. ‘She’ll be real upset when she hears.’

‘What’s Mav going to say when you tell her?’

‘I ain’t going to tell her, not yet,’ stated Lily. ‘I got to find out exactly what’s happened to them girls before we say anything to Mavis, right? I know you’re her best friend, Carrie, but please don’t tell her. Don’t even say I’ve been here. Please.’

‘No, all right,’ agreed Carrie. ‘D’you think it was Jimmy what sent them? You know, wanted them right out of the way?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Lily. ‘I went round the home looking for them, didn’t I? Said I wanted them back, that they could live with me, just like before. And this woman, the one what runs the place, she said that Rita and Rosie was adopted and had moved away.’

‘Did she say where they was taken to?’ asked Carrie.

Lily shook her head. ‘Just that it was “up north”. I asked to see them but she said it’d unsettle them again. She wouldn’t even give me an address to write to. Just said if I wrote one last letter, she’d send it on.’

‘And did you?’ John asked. ‘Did you write to them?’

‘On the spot,’ replied Lily. ‘The woman give me some paper and a pen, and I wrote to them there and then.’

‘And she addressed it and sent it on.’

‘S’pose so. Rita got it, didn’t she?’

Lily had been wondering about that. Clearly Miss Vanstone had forwarded the letter as promised, but perhaps she’d broken the other part of her promise and had read it herself first. Perhaps she had crossed out bits she didn’t want Rita to read. Lily thought back over the letter she’d written. Was there anything that Miss Vanstone might have thought it necessary to censor? No, all she’d written was that she was out of hospital and getting better. She’d wished them well with their new family and said she loved them and would never forget them. Perhaps, if the woman knew they weren’t being adopted into a family, she might have blacked out that bit.

‘Anyway,’ Lily said, ‘I’m going to go to that Laurel House and face that woman for the liar she is.’

‘Will it do any good?’ wondered Carrie.

‘No.’ Lily’s shoulders sagged. ‘Probably not, but I have to try.’

‘Still, she might give you the address now that you know they’ve gone,’ suggested John more optimistically. ‘So’s you can write back.’

Lily thanked them for their help and got to her feet, quite as determined as before to tackle Miss Vanstone at Laurel House.

When she got home again she lit the fire. It was extravagant, she knew, but sitting alone, she felt cold through to her bones.

How strange, she thought as she poked the fire into life, that here I am, freezing cold, on a dark November evening, and where Rita is it’s warming up for summer. Thousands of miles away. Thousands of miles from home.

How she got through that Sunday, Lily wasn’t sure. Much as she wanted to rush over to Laurel House and confront Miss Vanstone with her duplicity, it was Miss Vanstone she needed to see, not that other woman, and Miss Vanstone didn’t live there.

‘Want to speak to the organ-grinder, not the bloody monkey,’ she announced to her kitchen, as she rehearsed what she intended to say.

Monday morning dawned cold and wet. Lily opened her curtains to a grey drizzle that drifted from the sky, enveloping the houses across the street in shifting mist. It was an outlook that chimed with her mood, grey and dismal. She dressed with care. Today she’d go back to Laurel House and she wanted the Vanstone woman to know that she was respectable and had all her wits about her; that she wasn’t a common, ill-educated woman who could be fobbed off again. Today she wasn’t going to be misled, lied to or patronized.

Laurel House was silent when Lily arrived, it, too, shrouded in the grey mist of the dull November day. She rang the bell and waited. After several minutes, the door opened and a young girl of about fourteen peered out at her. Not the girl who’d opened the door to her before; this one was smaller, had reddish hair and a pale, freckled face.

‘Can I help you?’ she whispered.

Lily was about to ask for Miss Vanstone when she hesitated. Perhaps this girl had known Rita and Rosie, and something could be learned from her, before anyone had the chance to shut her up.

Lily smiled at her. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘I’m Rita and Rosie Stevens’ gran. Do you think I can see them?’

The girl stared at her in wide-eyed consternation and then said, ‘They ain’t here.’

‘No?’ Lily affected surprise. ‘Where are they, then?’

‘Don’t know, miss, they went away.’

‘What’s your name?’ Lily asked gently.

‘Pamela, miss,’ said the girl, glancing fearfully over her shoulder.

‘Well, Pamela, I’m trying to find Rita and Rosie. I’m their granny and I wondered if you, or any of the other girls know where they went.’

‘The other girls are at school, miss,’ said Pamela.

‘And why aren’t you at school, Pamela?’

‘I left, miss, in the summer. I work here now.’

‘How old are you, Pamela?’ asked Lily, still speaking softly, as she might to a frightened animal.

‘Fourteen, miss.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

Pamela shrugged. ‘Think so, miss.’

‘Pamela! Who’s at the door?’ The strident voice rang out from inside the house, and Lily saw the girl blench, her faint colour draining from her face.

‘That’s Mrs Hawkins,’ Pamela whispered. ‘You’ll have to ask her about Rita. I don’t know nothing.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lily reassured her, ‘I won’t say nothing, neither.’

Pamela looked anything but reassured, as she stood aside to let Lily in.

‘Lady to see you, Mrs Hawkins,’ she murmured, as the Hawk appeared from her office.

‘You should have told me at once, Pamela,’ she scolded, ‘not left her on the doorstep. Go back to the kitchen now, Mrs Smith’ll be needing you.’

The girl needed no second bidding, and with one last imploring glance at Lily, she scurried away.

‘I was simply telling the girl that I need to see Miss Vanstone,’ Lily said, stepping into the house before Mrs Hawkins could speak. ‘You may remember I came before. I’m Lily Sharples, Rita and Rosie Stevens’ grandmother.’

‘I remember,’ replied Mrs Hawkins, ‘but I’m afraid that Miss Vanstone isn’t here today.’

‘And when will she be?’ asked Lily sweetly.

‘I never know. She comes when she feels it necessary.’

‘Well, it’s necessary today,’ said Lily sharply. ‘I’ve come to see her and see her I must.’

‘Perhaps I can help you?’ suggested Mrs Hawkins, stretching her mouth in a smile that didn’t even come close to her eyes.

‘I want to speak to the organ-grinder, not the monkey.’ Lily snapped out the prepared line and had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs Hawkins flinch.

‘I’m afraid rudeness like that won’t get you what you want,’ said Mrs Hawkins, her voice cold steel. ‘Miss Vanstone isn’t here today, and I’m certain that she has nothing further to say to you.’

‘Well, I have something further to say to her,’ said Lily planting her feet firmly on the floor and leaning on her stick. ‘A great deal.’

‘I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now,’ said Mrs Hawkins, reaching past her and opening the front door. ‘You have no further business here.’

‘And if I refuse?’ challenged Lily.

‘If you refuse to leave, I’ll have to call the police and have you forcibly ejected. I’m sure you don’t want that sort of trouble.’

‘If the police is called, I’ll tell them how you’ve sent my granddaughters to Australia, without asking and without telling anyone! I’ll show them the letter I’ve had from Rita, and then we’ll see who’s in trouble!’

‘Miss Vanstone will probably be here sometime tomorrow,’ said Mrs Hawkins. ‘I suggest you come back then,’ and with a sharp push she propelled Lily out through the open door. Lily staggered, jabbing her stick into the ground to maintain her balance, and by the time she was able to turn round, the front door had been slammed. She had to admit defeat for the time being, and turned away, the rage still boiling inside her. She was defeated now at Laurel House but she was still determined to confront Miss Vanstone. Somehow she would find her and throw her lies in her face.

Inside Laurel House, Mrs Hawkins went upstairs and peered out of the landing window watching and waiting for Lily Sharples to give up and leave. Damned woman! How had she had a letter from Rita? Surely they hadn’t allowed Rita to write home!

Better warn Miss Vanstone, she thought. I always knew that woman was trouble. Monkey indeed! I’ll make her regret that!

Mrs Hawkins returned to her office and picking up the phone, she rang Vanstone Enterprises and asked to be put through to Miss Vanstone.

‘Yes? What is it?’ Miss Vanstone was, as always, brisk on the telephone.

‘That Sharples woman’s been round again,’ answered Mrs Hawkins. ‘She knows those brats are in Australia.’

‘How? How could she possibly know?’

‘She says she’s had a letter from Rita.’

‘A letter from Rita? Hmm.’

‘I told her you weren’t coming here today,’ went on Mrs Hawkins. ‘Said you might be here tomorrow if she wanted to call back.’ She hesitated before she added, ‘I think you’ll have to see her. She’s threatening to go to the police.’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Miss Vanstone, ‘but if she turns up again, tell her I can give her five minutes tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. We have to sort this thing out once and for all.’

28

While Mrs Hawkins had been warning Miss Vanstone of Lily’s intentions, Lily herself had been reassessing them. She found a tearoom a couple of streets away and, sitting over a cup of tea and a sticky bun, she considered her next move. If she couldn’t get to Miss Vanstone at Laurel House, perhaps she could beard her in her other office. She’d rung her before at some business place. She couldn’t remember the name, but maybe she still had the paper with the phone number on it. She scrabbled through her handbag, emptying it out onto the table in front of her, and at last she found it, tucked into the back of her purse.

Now I can ring the Vanstone woman’s office, Lily thought and hurried out to find a phone box. She was about to ring when another idea struck her. How much better simply to turn up on the doorstep. She paused outside the phone box and thought it through. She didn’t know where this office was, but what if she rang and asked for the address? Once she had that, she could turn up unannounced as she had at Laurel House. Having thought of a plan, Lily went into the phone box, slid the coins into the slot and dialled.

As soon as she heard the words ‘Vanstone Enterprises! May I help you?’ Lily pressed button A, and spoke in a clear, business-like voice. ‘Ah, good morning. Vanstone Enterprises?’

‘Yes, good morning. How may I help you?’

‘Please could you give me the exact address of your offices? I have a delivery to make, and I seem to have the wrong address.’ Lily tried to keep her voice steady, but she was shaking as she spoke.

‘Vanstone House, 21 Broome Street. Just off Main Square,’ came the helpful reply. ‘It’s a big red brick building, with black railings. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Lily, and replaced the receiver. ‘21 Broome Street,’ she repeated aloud, ‘just off Main Square,’ and she set off to catch the number 37 bus.

Vanstone House stood behind its black-painted iron railings with wide steps leading up to double, glass-panelled front doors. There was a brightly polished brass nameplate. Vanstone House.

Lily stared across at the building with misgiving. How would she get inside a place like that? She’d never get past the front door. She looked up at the three floors of windows overlooking the street. Many were lit from within, and Lily wondered what went on in there. What did Vanstone Enterprises do inside Vanstone House? How would she get to see Miss Vanstone? Better to wait and catch her one day going into Laurel House.

No! Lily told herself firmly. You have to do it today. Every day you leave it will make it more difficult.

As she watched, a man in a dark overcoat walked up to the front door and simply pushing open the double doors, went inside.

So, thought Lily, here goes. She crossed the road and pushed her way through the doors. She found herself in an entrance hall, carpeted in dark green, with several doors opening off it. Two chairs stood against the wall and a gracious staircase rose to the floors above. A smartly dressed woman was sitting behind a desk and as the door swung closed behind Lily, she looked up and smiled. When she spoke her voice was soft and well modulated. ‘Good morning, madam. May I help you?’

For a moment Lily faltered in the face of such courtesy. Could she simply demand to see Miss Vanstone and create a scene if she were denied?

‘I need to see Miss Vanstone,’ she said. ‘It is a matter of great urgency.’

‘Have you an appointment, madam?’ enquired the receptionist.

‘No, I haven’t,’ admitted Lily, ‘but it is most important that I see Miss Vanstone today.’

‘I see,’ the woman replied. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take a seat,’ she waved her hand towards the chairs, ‘and I’ll enquire.’

Lily stood irresolute for a moment and the receptionist, smile still fixed in place, repeated, ‘Please, take a seat, madam.’

Lily sat down, perching awkwardly on the edge of the chair, as if ready to leap up again. She watched the receptionist lift a phone, and speak in a low voice. Lily couldn’t hear what was said, but after a moment she glanced across at Lily and set the receiver down.

‘What name shall I say?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Lily Sharples,’ replied Lily.

‘Thank you, Mrs Sharples.’ She picked up the receiver again and after another brief conversation, rang off.

‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘Miss Drake will be down to see you in just one moment.’

Lily sat back on the chair and waited. One moment turned into ten minutes and she was just about to approach the desk again, when a woman came down the stairs and after a glance at the receptionist, crossed the hall to Lily. She was a small, thin woman, with a sharp, narrow face. Her faded fair hair was cropped short, accentuating her angular features, and her mouth was set in a straight line. There was no sign of welcome in her expression.

‘Mrs Sharples? I’m Miss Drake, Miss Vanstone’s secretary. Can I help you?’

Lily stood up. ‘How d’you do?’ she said. ‘I’m here to see Miss Vanstone.’

‘Yes, so I understand,’ replied Miss Drake, ‘but Miss Vanstone is unavailable at the moment, so perhaps I can help. What was this in connection with?’

‘That’s between her and me,’ said Lily.

‘I see. Well, I’m afraid if you can’t give me some idea of your business, I’ll simply have to make you an appointment for some time next week.’

‘Next week! Next week ain’t no good,’ retorted Lily. ‘It’s important. I got to see her today.’

‘So you say,’ replied Miss Drake, smoothly, ‘but unless you give the reason for such urgency, I’m afraid she can’t see you.’

‘Can’t or won’t,’ snapped Lily.

‘Mrs Sharples,’ Miss Drake’s tone was one of extreme patience, ‘Miss Vanstone is a busy lady. She can’t simply drop everything when someone walks in off the street and demands to see her. I’m sure you understand that.’

At that moment the front doors swung open and two young men came in. One approached the reception desk, and spoke quietly to the receptionist, while the other, who carried a large black bag, paused just inside the door, looking round.

‘What I understand,’ said Lily, the anger which had been boiling up inside her finally exploding, ‘is that EVER-Care has stolen my granddaughters. Your Miss Vanstone lied to me, lied to me to my face. And I want to see her, now. I want her to tell me where they are, ’cos they certainly ain’t where she told me they was.’

Miss Drake gave an anxious glance at the two men standing in the hallway. One was still talking to the receptionist, but the other was unashamedly listening to Lily.

‘Excuse me, Miss Drake,’ the receptionist called across. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to know that the two gentlemen from the Chronicle are here.’

‘Thank you, Miss Pullman,’ replied Miss Drake. ‘I’ll come back down as soon as I’ve taken Mrs Sharples upstairs.’ She turned to the waiting men and said, with a tight smile, ‘If you’d like to take a seat, gentlemen, I’ll be down again in just one moment. Please come this way, Mrs Sharples.’

Without looking to see if Lily was behind her, she started back up the stairs. Lily followed, taking the stairs slowly. She had no idea what accounted for Miss Drake’s change of heart, but she didn’t care, she was being taken up to see Miss Vanstone.

Miss Drake led her into an office on the first floor, a strictly utilitarian room, with metal filing cabinets along one wall and two more chairs along another. Across the office a second door led to a room beyond.

Miss Drake waved Lily to one of the chairs and then knocked on the second door and went through. As she waited, Lily looked round, but there was little to tell her what Vanstone Enterprises was all about. This was a secretary’s office, functional and sparse.

Several moments passed and then the door opened and Miss Drake emerged. ‘Miss Vanstone will see you now,’ she said. ‘She can give you five minutes.’

Lily got to her feet and passing the secretary at the door without so much as a glance, went through into Miss Vanstone’s office.

This was quite a different room. Maroon carpet covered the floor, thick and soft under Lily’s feet. The three windows which looked out onto the street below were hung with rich, red, velvet curtains. There was a sofa and two easy chairs set before a fireplace, where smouldering logs gave off a comforting warmth. The room was dominated, however, by a huge mahogany desk, set facing the door. In front of it was an upright wooden chair, and behind it sat Miss Vanstone.

She did not look up as Lily came into the room. Lily paused inside the door for a moment and then strode across the expanse of carpet and placing her hands on its polished surface, leaned across the desk.

‘Where’s my granddaughters?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s Rita and Rosie?’

Miss Vanstone lifted her head as if surprised to see her. ‘Mrs Sharples?’ she said, an eyebrow raised. ‘I believe we’ve met before.’

‘You know darn well we have,’ retorted Lily. ‘And you know why I’m here now. You’ve sent my granddaughters to Australia. Sent two little girls as what have a loving family here to look after them, thousands of miles away without even telling anyone.’

‘I have nothing to tell you,’ replied Miss Vanstone, evenly. ‘As I told you before it’s a question of confidentiality, to protect the children left in our care.’

‘Protect ’em!’ Lily almost shrieked. ‘Is sending them to the other side of the world, on their own, little kids like that, protecting them?’

‘These children are my responsibility. Where they live and who looks after them is entirely up to me. I do not have to explain myself to you, or anyone else.’ She removed her glasses and stared at Lily, her expression hard and uncompromising.

‘You don’t have to tell me nothing,’ snapped Lily. ‘I know where they are, ’cos Rita wrote to me, see. They’re in New South Wales, and that’s in Australia.’

‘Then you know all there is to know,’ replied Miss Vanstone, calmly.

‘No, I don’t,’ asserted Lily. ‘You can give me their proper address for a start.’

‘If your granddaughter has indeed written to you, you have the address already.’

‘What d’you mean “if”? Course she’s written to me, otherwise I would still think she was adopted by some people “up north”, wouldn’t I?’

Lily reached into her handbag and pulled out Rita’s already dog-eared letter, and thrust it at Miss Vanstone, but jerking it away before she could touch it.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ she said. ‘You ain’t getting your hands on this. This is my evidence that you’re a liar. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.’

‘That’s your problem, Mrs Sharples, not mine.’ Miss Vanstone shrugged and looked away as if the letter was of no interest to her.

‘So, I need the proper address,’ repeated Lily, ‘and you’re going to give it me.’

‘No, Mrs Sharples, I am not.’ Miss Vanstone didn’t raise her voice, but it was clear that she was not going to change her mind.

‘But you must.’ Lily knew that she was pleading now, but there was nothing else that she could do. ‘How can I write back to her if I don’t have the proper address?’

‘I see your difficulty,’ replied Miss Vanstone, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘But she’ll think I don’t care.’ Lily was desperate now. ‘She’ll think I didn’t bother to answer.’

‘As I told you before,’ said Miss Vanstone, ‘a clean break is the best way. Wherever your granddaughters are, they have embarked on a new and exciting life. It will be far better for them to forget their earlier life and make a fresh start, don’t you think?’

‘No, I bleedin’ don’t.’ Lily seldom swore and it was a sign of her distress and desperation that she did so now. She saw Miss Vanstone frown at the obscenity and knew she’d done her cause no good. Miss Vanstone would never have used such a word, and Lily having done so marked herself out as being far beneath her, not fit to have the care of children.

‘I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now.’ Miss Vanstone rang the little silver bell that stood on the desk top and Miss Drake appeared at the door.

‘Mrs Sharples is leaving now, Miss Drake,’ stated Miss Vanstone and picking up the papers on her desk, she began to read.

Lily got to her feet and stood, irresolute.

‘This way, please,’ said Miss Drake, and when Lily still didn’t move she took hold of her arm.

Lily shook off her hand angrily. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ she growled. ‘Don’t you lay a hand on me!’

‘This way, please, Mrs Sharples,’ repeated Miss Drake. ‘Miss Vanstone has another appointment.’

Slowly Lily turned and leaning heavily on her cane, walked to the door. As she reached it she turned back to face the woman sitting behind the desk. ‘You ain’t heard the last of me,’ she warned, ‘you ain’t heard the last of me, not by a long chalk.’

Miss Vanstone ignored her but, addressing her secretary, she said, ‘When you’ve seen Mrs Sharples off the premises, please ask the gentlemen to step upstairs.’

Unable to provoke any further reaction, Lily straightened her back and with her head held high left the room.

‘I’ll see you to the front door,’ said Miss Drake, leading the way to the stairs.

‘There’s no need,’ replied Lily stiffly. ‘I can find my own way out.’

‘Nevertheless, I will see you to the front door.’

Miss Drake followed her down to the hall where the two men were still there waiting. They watched as Lily was shown out of the front door, and as it closed behind her, Lily heard Miss Drake say, ‘Miss Vanstone will see you now, gentlemen, if you’d care to follow me.’

Upstairs, Emily Vanstone set aside her papers. That Sharples woman is a real nuisance, she thought, coming here causing a fuss. Let’s hope that’s the last of her. After all, what more can she do?

In a way, Emily found herself admiring Lily’s determination and tenacity, recognizing traits that ran as strongly in herself. Despite Mrs Hawkins’s warning, Emily had been surprised that the woman had turned up, unannounced, at the office. She had assumed that Lily would ring for another appointment, and had already briefed her staff to refuse her. But by turning up and making a scene in front of reporters from the Belcaster Chronicle, Miss Drake had had no choice but to bring her upstairs, before the newspaper men latched on to what she was saying.

‘She was accusing you of stealing her granddaughters and of lying to her,’ Miss Drake had explained. ‘I thought it was better to get her out of sight and earshot as quickly as possible.’

‘You did quite right, Miss Drake,’ Emily had replied. ‘Send her in to me, I’ll deal with her.’

That Lily had a letter from Rita, posted from Australia, Emily found worrying. She’d been relieved to see, when Lily held out the letter, that a great deal of what the child had written had been blacked out. At least Daphne had had the wit to do that, but why allow her to write at all?

Emily felt no remorse or guilt at having separated the children from their family. She had rescued them from a feckless mother and an abusive stepfather; she had done God’s work. Remorse and guilt never came into her mind.

But what will the grandmother do next? wondered Emily. What would I do next, if it were my grandchildren? Then she thought of May Hopkins. I’d go and see the Children’s Officer. Emily allowed herself a tight smile. Well, you’ll get no luck there, Mrs Sharples. May Hopkins doesn’t know where they are.

However, the troublesome woman might make difficulties with the Children’s Committee. Emily reached for the phone, but before she could ask the operator for the number, there was a knock on the door.

‘Excuse me, Miss Vanstone, the gentlemen from the Chronicle are here.’

Emily Vanstone replaced the receiver. Mrs Sharples and Miss Hopkins could wait, the men from the newspaper couldn’t. ‘Please show them in,’ she said, and rising from her seat, came round her desk to greet them.

Terry Knight was one of the senior reporters on the Belcaster Chronicle. Tall and slim, he had an intelligent face with deep-set blue eyes. His fair hair was well cut, his face freshly shaved. Snappily dressed in dark suit and white shirt, he was out to make an impression. He was writing a feature article on the rise of women in business since the war. Emily Vanstone was one of the obvious candidates for interview. She had been running her own business empire since the thirties, and he wanted to discuss the changes, particularly in the role of women, that she’d seen over the years.

The interview went well, and as it drew to a close, she posed at her desk for Mike Holden to take his pictures.

‘I understand that you are very much involved in charity work as well,’ Terry Knight said as he put his notepad away.

‘I do what I can,’ said Emily modestly. ‘If one is in a position to do good, it behoves one to do so. I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Terry. ‘Wasn’t the EVER-Care Orphanage founded by you?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Emily, ‘that is one of my projects.’

‘What good work you must do there,’ remarked Terry, ‘helping children who’ve been orphaned by the war; your home giving them a new start.’

Statement, not question. Emily liked that and smiling, she nodded. ‘Certainly. We give them a home, and when they leave us, we help them find their place in the world.’

‘And I expect some children are left with you for just a short while,’ suggested Terry. ‘That must be very helpful in time of family crisis.’

Emily gave him a wary smile. ‘Not often,’ she replied. ‘We become the legal guardians to the children who come to us, as we have to assume complete responsibility for their welfare.’

‘Oh, I see. I assume they stay in touch with their extended families, though. You know, aunts, uncles, grandparents?’ He spoke casually, with no notebook in his hand, but hearing this question, Emily knew at once what he was after. He’d heard the Sharples woman sounding off downstairs about her granddaughters and he was fishing, fishing for a story.

She decided to confront him, head-on. ‘I expect you overheard the lady downstairs who’s looking for her granddaughters. That poor woman, she’s a case in point. She’s heard that her estranged daughter has placed her daughters in our care, and she’s been trying to find out where they are. I wish I could help, she’s so distressed, but I could tell her nothing. It would break professional confidentiality. We never reveal details of the children placed in our care.’

‘So you do know where her granddaughters are,’ said Terry.

Emily gave him a practised smile. ‘As I said, Mr Knight, I’m afraid I can tell you no more than I could tell her. We never discuss our children.’

‘Not even to say whether they are your children?’

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Knight,’ Emily said sweetly and got to her feet. ‘If you’ve finished, I’m afraid that must be all for today.’

‘And the lady downstairs,’ persisted Terry. ‘What was her name again?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Knight, I’m afraid I can’t discuss the subject with you any further.’ She rang the bell on her desk. ‘Miss Drake will show you out, gentlemen. I’ll be so interested to read your article in due course.’ She extended her hand and both the reporters shook it before following Miss Drake out of the room.

When the door had closed behind them she sighed. How infuriating that they’d picked up on Lily Sharples so quickly. Still, she thought, at least they don’t know who she is, so they won’t be able to write anything except in a very general way. Still, she’d better warn Miss Hopkins.

Lily Sharples plodded away from the Vanstone Enterprises building, emotionally exhausted. She had met her match in Miss Vanstone; that lady hadn’t got where she was without being ruthless. Lily knew that she’d get nothing more from her. Miss Vanstone hadn’t expected her today; from now she’d be surrounded by the protecting ranks of her staff. However, Lily hadn’t given up all hope. There were the others on her list that she intended to visit. The next was Miss Hopkins, the Children’s Officer.

She probably don’t know they’ve been sent to Australia, Lily reasoned. She’s probably been told that they was adopted, same as me. This thought encouraged her. Perhaps the Children’s Officer would be as outraged as she was. Perhaps Miss Hopkins and the Children’s Committee could make Miss Vanstone say where the girls were.

Feeling another faint flicker of optimism, Lily slowly walked back to the Main Square, and was soon struggling up the stairs to the second floor of the council offices in search of Miss Hopkins. Once again she was forced to sit in the crowded waiting room.

‘I’m sorry, but Miss Hopkins has a full diary this afternoon.’ It was the same pale, pinch-faced woman behind the glass hatch. ‘You can wait if you like,’ she sniffed, ‘but Miss Hopkins won’t finish her list till late, and then she may not agree to see you.’

‘I’ll wait,’ said Lily. Sighing, Miss Parker wrote down her name, and said, ‘You’d better take a seat then.’

Lily sat there for two hours before she heard her name being called through the glass.

‘Next appointment hasn’t turned up,’ she was told. ‘You can go in now.’

Miss Hopkins didn’t get up to greet her new visitor, just gave her a vague smile and waved her to a chair. ‘Now, Mrs Sharples,’ she said when Lily was seated, ‘what can I do for you?’

She didn’t need to ask. She already knew why Lily was there. She had been expecting her. An earlier meeting had been interrupted by a phone call from Miss Vanstone.

‘Mrs Sharples will be coming to see you,’ she’d said. ‘She knows that the Stevens girls have gone to Australia, but she doesn’t know where. Please ensure that it stays that way.’

‘Oh, of course, Miss Vanstone. I quite understand. I wouldn’t dream of—’

‘The best thing to do would be for you to plead complete ignorance of their whereabouts,’ went on Emily, smoothly. ‘She may well show you a letter from Rita, the older one, you know? But there’s no return address on it, and that’s what she’s after.’

‘You can rely on me, Miss Vanstone,’ purred Miss Hopkins. ‘Mum’s the word.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hopkins. Good afternoon.’

‘Just one other thing, Miss Vanstone,’ the Children’s Officer cried as Miss Vanstone was about to put down the phone.

‘Yes,’ had come the abrupt reply.

‘I was going to phone you later today. I’ve just heard there’s to be a full inspection of Laurel House in the next couple of weeks.’

That caught Emily’s attention. ‘When?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t know, they’re unannounced spot checks, but I just thought I’d tip you the wink. Good afternoon, Miss Vanstone.’ And this time it was May Hopkins who’d replaced the receiver and cut off the call.

She turned her attention back to the woman in front of her. ‘You were saying?’

‘I’m Lily Sharples, Rita and Rosie Stevens’ grandmother,’ began Lily. ‘I came to ask if you know where they are. They ain’t at Laurel House no more and they ain’t been adopted like I was told.’ She paused to allow the Children’s Officer to speak, but as she said nothing, Lily went on, ‘They’ve been sent to Australia!’

Still Miss Hopkins said nothing, showing none of the outrage that Lily had hoped for.

‘Australia!’ repeated Lily. ‘The other side of the world! Did you know that, miss? No one told? Not even their mother? Did you know that?’

‘No,’ replied Miss Hopkins evenly, ‘I didn’t, but I’m not surprised. I seem to remember that their mother signed the children over to EVER-Care. In which case,’ Miss Hopkins held up her hand to silence Lily as she was about to interrupt, ‘in which case, that charitable society is entitled to do whatever it feels is in their best interests. If that means sending them to make a fresh start in a new country, well, so be it.’

‘But without even telling my daughter? Without even telling their mother?’

‘Certainly,’ said Miss Hopkins. ‘Your daughter gave up her right as their parent when she signed the papers.’

‘But that can’t be right!’ protested Lily.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it is,’ Miss Hopkins assured her.

‘So you did know they was sent to Australia,’ stated Lily.

‘No. Once they’re with EVER-Care, they’re no longer my responsibility.’

‘But you’re the Children’s Officer, ain’t you? You’re supposed to look after children.’

‘And so I do.’ Miss Hopkins was tired of Mrs Sharples. ‘I looked after the Stevens girls. I removed them from a home where they were not wanted; from the influence of an abusive stepfather and a weak and ineffectual mother who couldn’t stand up for them. I placed them in the care of a reputable children’s home, and my job was done.’ She rose to her feet to indicate that she considered the interview at an end. ‘And now, Mrs Sharples, it is time for my next appointment.’

‘But you must know where this place in Australia is,’ said Lily, sitting firmly in her seat. ‘You must know where they’ve been sent.’

‘No,’ Miss Hopkins maintained, ‘I do not. Australia is a huge country, and there are many homes like the EVER-Care. If your granddaughters have indeed been sent there, they could be anywhere.’

‘Oh, they’ve been sent all right,’ said Lily. ‘I’ve had a letter from Rita…’ She retrieved the letter from her bag and getting to her feet, held it out towards Miss Hopkins.

‘Then you know where they are, and that they’re safe and well,’ said Miss Hopkins, ignoring the proffered letter. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can do for you. Good afternoon!’ She brushed past Lily, opened the door, and called out, ‘Next.’

Lily walked slowly out of the room, but as the door shut behind her, she looked round the still full waiting room and said, ‘Don’t let that woman take your children off you.’ Heads jerked up as she went on, ‘Don’t let her get her hands on your kids. They don’t look after them for you, they pack them off to Australia, out of the way!’

‘Really, Mrs Sharples,’ cried Miss Parker, emerging from her cubbyhole behind the glass, ‘you’ve no right to spread such lies.’

‘They ain’t lies,’ snapped Lily bitterly. ‘That woman’s took my granddaughters, and sent them away, thousands of miles. Don’t let her do it to you!’

‘Mrs Sharples, you must leave this office at once,’ begged Miss Parker. ‘You must stop saying these dreadful things and go home… or I’ll have to call the police.’

‘Yes, why don’t you?’ demanded Lily, but when she saw that the woman was reaching for the phone, she turned towards the door. ‘All right, all right, I’m going,’ she muttered, and then with one last look round the waiting room, she added as the tears began to slide down her cheeks, ‘but I’m telling you the truth. I was in the hospital and couldn’t look after my girls for a week or two, and they sent them to Australia.’

Lily had planned to go round to Ship Street next, to tell Mavis what she’d discovered, but when she reached the square outside the council offices, she was suddenly so tired she wasn’t even sure she could make it home. Exhaustion overcame her and she almost collapsed onto one of the stone benches in the square. One or two passers-by, seeing her tear-streaked face, looked at her awkwardly and hurried past. After a moment or two, Lily’s pride reasserted itself and ashamed of being seen to weep in the street, she pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

The clock on the town hall struck four. Lily stared up at it in amazement. Could it really be four o’clock in the afternoon? She’d left home soon after nine. No wonder she was tired. She thought again about going to see Mavis, but by the time she got there, Jimmy would be coming home for his tea. No, Lily decided, I’ll go home, and go round Mavis’s first thing in the morning, soon as Jimmy’s gone to work.

It was well after nine the next morning when Lily left for Ship Street. The day was still chilly but the drizzle of the day before had disappeared and there was a pale winter sun in the pale winter sky. She walked slowly through the comfortably familiar streets, her mind calmer now, despite the dull ache that she’d carried with her ever since she’d received Rita’s letter. She didn’t hurry. Lily wanted to be sure that Jimmy had gone before she arrived; she needed uninterrupted time with Mavis.

It was a haggard-looking Mavis who opened the door to her knock. Still in a grubby dressing gown, her feet bare, her hair lank and uncombed, and with a screaming baby on her hip, Mavis was the picture of exhaustion.

One look was enough. Lily dumped her bag and her stick on the hall floor and reached out to take the crying child into her arms, cradling him against her, his hot, sticky face buried in her neck.

‘Ssh, now, Ricky,’ she soothed. ‘Ssh, now. What’s the matter with you then, eh?’

Wordlessly, Mavis turned and led the way into the kitchen, where the remains of breakfast lay on the table and last night’s supper dishes filled the sink.

‘He won’t stop crying.’ Mavis was almost in tears herself. ‘I been up most of the night with him, and he won’t stop, and Jimmy’s shouting at him and shouting at me. I’m so tired, Mum, I don’t know what to do.’

It was clear that Mavis was in no state to talk about the girls now, so Lily, still rocking the baby against her shoulder, said, ‘You go up to bed for an hour’s kip, love. I’ll look after him for a while and wake you later.’ Mavis needed no second bidding and moments later she was crawling back into her unmade bed.

By the time she resurfaced, Lily had cleaned the kitchen and made a scratch meal from odds and ends she found in the pantry and was feeding a clean and dry Richard.

‘Mum, you’re a wonder,’ Mavis said as she took in the quiet baby and the tidy kitchen.

‘Well, we’re all right just now,’ agreed Lily, ‘so you go back up and get yourself dressed. Have a bath and wash your hair. Make you feel much better, that will. Go on,’ she encouraged as Mavis hesitated, ‘up you go. Then I want to talk to you.’

Half an hour later, a much-refreshed Mavis reappeared in the kitchen. Together they ate the soup and sandwiches Lily had made, while Richard slept in his pram.

‘Well,’ said Mavis at last, ‘you said you wanted to talk to me. What about? You ain’t come round here just to clean my house, have you?’

‘I come to see how you and Ricky was getting on,’ replied Lily, ‘but I do need to talk to you about something.’ She paused awkwardly, not knowing quite how to go on. She’d rehearsed it at home, but now, faced with Mavis’s expectant expression, she wasn’t sure where to begin.

‘Go on,’ urged Mavis, ‘spit it out!’

‘I had a letter,’ began Lily, and then, since there was no going back, she went on, ‘I had a letter, from Rita.’

‘From Reet?’ Mavis sounded incredulous. ‘What she write to you for?’

Lily ignored the question and asked one herself. ‘Mavis, do you know where your girls are?’

‘What d’you mean, “where they are”?’ Mavis was immediately defensive.

‘I mean where they are now. Where they live.’

‘Course I do. You went there, that EVER-Care place, down at Russell Green.’

‘No,’ replied Lily flatly. ‘They ain’t.’

‘What? So where they gone, then?’ Mavis asked, wiping the last of her sandwich round her soup plate and stuffing it into her mouth.

‘You don’t sound very interested,’ remarked Lily, watching her chewing on the bread.

Mavis looked up in surprise. ‘Course I’m interested,’ she said. ‘They’re my kids, ain’t they?’

Another time Lily might have asked Mavis if she remembered that herself, but now she simply said, ‘Then I’ll tell you where they are, Mavis. They’re in Australia.’

‘Australia!’ echoed Mavis. ‘What d’you mean, Australia? They can’t be. We put them in EVER-Care.’

‘And EVER-Care put them in Australia.’

‘They can’t do that,’ said Mavis, as if dismissing the idea.

‘They can and they have,’ snapped Lily. ‘Your girls is in Australia.’ She reached down for her bag and pulled out Rita’s letter. ‘Here, see for yourself.’

Mavis took the envelope and pulled out the letter. She stared at the first few lines, and then at the blacked-out words. She turned to the second sheet, fingering the paper as if to feel the words that had been concealed. She read the letter again and then looked up at her mother in disbelief.

‘It don’t say they’re in Australia,’ she said. ‘It don’t mention Australia. Where’d you get that daft idea from?’

‘They’ve gone somewhere in a ship. Reet says it took six weeks.’

‘Don’t mean Australia,’ replied Mavis mulishly. ‘It’s Reet having a joke, that’s what it is. She’s made some mistakes, look, and scrubbed them out. She ain’t really in Australia.’

‘Look at the envelope, Mavis,’ said Lily, holding it out. ‘Look at the stamps. They’ve got Australia on them. That’s where they are.’

‘They can’t be,’ Mavis whispered. ‘They’re in EVER-Care.’

‘No, they ain’t,’ Lily repeated. ‘I went round the EVER-Care again and they ain’t there.’

‘It don’t mean they’re in Australia,’ cried Mavis. ‘They can’t be. How will they get home again?’

‘Mavis, they ain’t coming home again,’ responded Lily, knowing as she said it that it was true. Australia was too far away, their girls weren’t coming back.

‘What you mean, they ain’t coming back?’ demanded Mavis. ‘Course they’re coming back. They’re coming home here when Richard’s a bit bigger.’

Lily stared at her in disbelief. Surely Mavis didn’t still believe that. Didn’t she know she’d signed them away when she’d put them into Laurel House? She must know.

‘But Mavis, you signed the papers.’

‘Yeah, well, just for now, right?’

‘No, Mavis,’ cried her mother. ‘Not just for now. You signed your kids away for good.’

‘No,’ Mavis burst out. ‘It was just till I got sorted with Richard.’

‘But they came home, didn’t they? They ran away from the EVER-Care place and Reet brought them home. You sent them back.’

‘I didn’t, it was Jimmy…’ stammered Mavis.

‘And you let him.’

‘I wasn’t ready then, was I? Richard was only new. I couldn’t look after them and him proper.’

‘Mavis,’ Lily’s voice was icy cold, ‘Mavis, you knew you wasn’t ever going to have them back. You chose Jimmy ahead of your own kids.’

‘I didn’t!’ Mavis shrieked. ‘It was only till I got sorted.’

‘But you signed them papers,’ Lily repeated in despair, ‘to give your kids to EVER-Care.’

‘I didn’t know what they said, did I?’ Mavis protested feebly.

‘Then what you sign them for?’

‘I don’t know! I just signed, OK? I just signed what Jimmy told me to sign.’

‘You can bet your life Jimmy knew what they said,’ sighed Lily. ‘You have to face it, Mavis, he didn’t mean them girls to come back.’ And nor, if you’re honest, did you, she thought.

Mavis was now realizing the truth; she’d lost her daughters for good. She stared at Lily, ashen-faced, and the tears began to slide down her cheeks. ‘What am I going to do, Mum?’ she whispered. ‘How am I going to get them back?’

In the face of Mavis’s despair, all Lily’s anger at her stupidity melted away. It was all too late. Lily reached out and took her hands. ‘I don’t know, love. I been to the home and I been to the Children’s Officer, and they both say we can’t do nothing about it. We don’t even know where in Australia they are.’

‘But the letter,’ Mavis cried. ‘The letter from Reet. That must tell us where.’

‘There’s nothing on the letter to say. And you saw lots of what Reet wrote was censored.’

‘What d’you mean, censored?’

‘You saw. All crossed out so we can’t read it. Like in the war when they blacked out bits of letters so’s not to let the Germans know where our troops was. You remember.’

‘But why do that to Reet’s letter?’

‘I don’t know, just so we couldn’t find her, I s’pose,’ answered Lily. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘they couldn’t do nothing about the postmark. It’s smudged, but you can read the letters, NSW. New South Wales, which is a big part of Australia, very big, not a town.’

‘Well, you can write back—’ began Mavis, but Lily cut her off.

‘Mavis, I can’t write back. Ain’t you been listening to me? We ain’t got an address to write to, have we?’

‘Why’d Reet write to you and not to me?’ asked Mavis angrily. ‘I’m her mum, not you!’

Lily looked at her in despair, but all she said was, ‘I expect she was afraid Jimmy’d find the letter. Look, love, don’t worry about that now. We need to be thinking how to find our girls. There’s probably ways we can find out more if we put our thinking caps on.’

Mavis had dissolved into tears again, and Richard began to wail as well. Mavis ignored him, and it was Lily who reached over and lifted him from the pram.

‘Why don’t I take Ricky home with me for the night?’ she suggested. ‘That way you can get a good night’s sleep, eh? And you and Jimmy can have an evening to yourselves.’

An hour later Lily was wheeling the pram down Ship Street on her way home. Tucked in beside Richard was a bundle of clothes and some nappies. The clothes were dirty, but Lily didn’t mind. She’d been determined to get the baby out of the house before Jimmy came home. When Mavis told him about the girls, there would be a row, and Lily didn’t want Richard in the middle of it. She planned to keep him for more than one night; it would give Mavis time to rest, and Lily wanted to be sure that things had calmed down before he went back home.

When Lily had gone, Mavis dropped her head in her hands in despair. Where were her girls? She’d never see them again. Never. She went to a drawer in the kitchen dresser and pulled out the photograph that Carrie had given her, Rita and Rosie in their new dresses. She’d kept it hidden from Jimmy, tucked into an old magazine at the bottom of the drawer. Now, she looked down at her girls, so happy, so trusting, and it was as if something collapsed inside her. How could she have let them go? For the first time for months she thought of Don. Where was her picture of him? That had disappeared. Jimmy must have taken it and thrown it away. Clutching the snapshot, Mavis began to sob. Later, her tears exhausted, she fell asleep with her head on the table.

29

Jimmy Randall was not in a good mood. He’d had a lousy day, clearing a bombsite in the teeming rain.

Knocking off at the end of the day, Jimmy and Charlie made straight for the Red Lion. Charlie bought the first round, and when they had downed that in double quick time Jimmy went for the second. He was in no hurry to go home to a miserable wife and a squalling baby. When Charlie got up to leave, Jimmy stayed, bought himself another pint and sat, brooding, in a corner.

‘The trouble with Mav,’ he’d moaned to Charlie earlier, ‘is that she’s let herself go, know what I mean? And she don’t want it no more. Says she’s too tired. Too tired for a good fuck? I said to her, I told her, what she needs is a good seeing to, but, no, she won’t have none of it. Says the baby’s making her tired. The baby, I ask you? How can looking after a baby make you tired? He sleeps most of the day!’

Charlie, the father of five himself, nodded and taking another pull at his pint, replied, ‘Women get funny about that sometimes, mate. But she’ll get over it, you’ll see.’

Well, thought Jimmy, as he finished his pint and treated himself to a whisky chaser, she can bloody well get over it tonight. She’s going to get a bloody good seeing to, and no mistake. I’ve had enough. One more drink for me, and then I’m off to sort her out.

He bought himself another whisky that he couldn’t afford, thinking as he handed over the money that Mavis would have to go short on the housekeeping this week, but that was tough, he needed a drink.

When he got home, he found the house in darkness. A street lamp gave him enough light to fit his reluctant key into the lock, and when finally Jimmy managed to open the door, he staggered into the dark hall.

‘Mavis!’ he bellowed. ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’

There was no reply, but he heard a sound in the kitchen and slamming his hand on the switch, he flooded the hall with light.

‘Mavis!’ he shouted again. ‘Mavis, what’s going on? Where are you?’

A reply came from the kitchen. ‘In here.’

‘What the fuck are you sitting in the dark for?’ he demanded, as he pushed open the door. His words were slurred, his step unsteady and he lurched against the door frame, flicking on the kitchen light, before slumping heavily onto a chair.

Mavis was sitting at the table, her eyes red from weeping and bleary with sleep. He stared at her for a moment, trying to focus his own eyes, then he looked round and seeing no sign of the pram, asked, ‘Where’s the kid?’

‘Mum’s got him,’ Mavis replied wearily. ‘She’s keeping him for the night, so’s I can get some real sleep.’

‘Is she now?’ Jimmy gave her a lewd grin. ‘Well, that suits us just fine, don’t it? Means we can have some fun, you and me. Not have to think about him.’

Mavis still didn’t get up from the table, and Jimmy looked round him.

‘Where’s me tea?’ he demanded. ‘You ain’t got the kid to look after, and you ain’t even got me tea on the table when I get home, you slut.’

Mavis got shakily to her feet and reached for the kettle. Jimmy grabbed her wrist as she went past him and jerked her towards him. ‘I said, what you been doing all day? Where’s my tea?’

Mavis tried to snatch her hand away, but his fingers bit into her wrist.

‘Let me go,’ she screamed, grabbing at the table to steady herself. Jimmy’s eyes swivelled to the table and fell on the photo of Rita and Rosie still lying there. Letting go of Mavis, he snatched it up, waving it at her in fury.

‘What the hell’s all this?’ he roared. ‘Where’d you get this? That what you’ve been blubbing about? Well, you can cut that out. Them kids is nothing to do with us no more!’

‘No,’ shrieked Mavis, grabbing at the photo. ‘Give that to me!’

Jimmy laughed and pushed her away, keeping the picture out of reach. ‘Know what I’m going to do with this?’ he jeered. ‘This is what I’m going to do with this!’ He held the photo high above his head, and with great deliberation, ripped it across and across, dropping the four pieces onto the floor and scuffing them with his feet.

Mavis gave a wail of anguish as he trampled them under his boots. ‘My babies!’ She launched herself at him trying to push him off the pieces of photograph. Jimmy caught her by her shoulders and gripping tightly, shook her so violently that her head jerked back and forth like a broken doll’s.

‘Them kids have nothing to do with us,’ he shouted again. ‘Get it? They… don’t… live… here… no… more.’ And with each word he banged her shoulders against the kitchen dresser.

‘Because of you, you bastard!’ screeched Mavis, her fury overcoming her fear. ‘You sent them to Australia! It’s your fault that I ain’t got my kids. They’re the other side of the world, and it’s your fault.’

‘Australia! Don’t be daft!’ snapped Jimmy, giving her a shove so that she staggered sideways and had to grab hold of the gas cooker to stop herself from falling. ‘They’re in Russell Green, you stupid cow, and you know it.’

‘No, they ain’t!’ screamed Mavis. ‘They’ve been sent away.’

‘Good riddance!’ snarled Jimmy. ‘Australia’s welcome to them.’ He slumped back onto his chair. ‘Now, where’s my tea?’

‘There ain’t none,’ Mavis said flatly.

‘Ain’t none?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Then we’ll get on with the next thing!’ shouted Jimmy. ‘And don’t you tell me you’re too tired, ’cos I don’t give a flying fuck.’ He gave a drunken laugh as he tried to grab her, ‘and that’s what we’re going to do, you and me, whether you like it or not.’

‘Don’t you touch me!’ shrieked Mavis. ‘Get your hands off me.’

‘Why? Don’t like it no more?’ jeered Jimmy. ‘Was a time I remember when you couldn’t get enough of it. Like a bitch on heat, you was. Couldn’t wait to get your knickers off. Well, tonight’s your lucky night, bitch.’ He lurched to his feet, and made another grab at her, blocking her escape to the door.

‘Keep away from me, you bastard!’ hissed Mavis. ‘You sent my kids away, and I let you. But you’ll never touch me again.’

‘Says who?’ grinned Jimmy. He could feel his manhood stirring in his trousers, growing with excitement as she faced up to him across the table. He’d always enjoyed a bit of resistance, a glint of fear. Oh yes! Once he’d got hold of her, it would be the fuck of all fucks.

‘Leave me alone,’ she was shouting, backing away from him. ‘Get away from me!’

Jimmy laughed aloud now, enjoying her terror. She couldn’t escape. He could see the bolt was across the back door, and if she made a dash for it, he’d be on her long before she got the door unlocked. Slowly, deliberately, he walked towards her, looming over her as she cowered into the corner beside the dresser.

‘Now, bitch, we’re going to have a little fun,’ he slurred. He made a grab for her, and catching hold of her by the hair, dragged her, shrieking out of the corner. Her cries excited him even more and holding her against him with one hand, he undid his belt with the other. Twisting away from him, Mavis caught up a kitchen knife from the dresser and slashed it at him, only missing his face by inches. With a roar, Jimmy caught hold of her wrist and wrenching it violently, tried to force the knife from her hand. But Mavis had firm hold, and hampered as he was with his trousers sliding down his legs, he couldn’t twist it from her grasp. Together they staggered back against the wall, Jimmy turning the knife away from him as he tried to wrest it from her. Unable to do so, he rammed her hard against the wall, crashing the back of her head against the uneven plaster. Despite the explosion of pain in her skull, Mavis still gripped the knife, and it was only when Jimmy bent her arm back at an impossible angle that she released her hold and he pulled it out of her hand. Still struggling to free herself from his grasp, Mavis kicked out, catching her feet in his loose trousers and together they collapsed into a heap on the floor. Jimmy landed on top, crushing her beneath him, the knife still in his hand. Mavis’s scream, cut off, transmuted into a gurgle as a fountain of blood exploded upwards, spraying them both. Jimmy rolled away and heaving himself to his hands and knees, stared down in horror at Mavis and the kitchen knife now protruding from her neck. He knelt, staring unbelievingly as the blood continued to pump from the wound, spreading in a crimson pool on the floor. Mavis stared back up at him, her lips moving, but no sound coming from them, just a few bubbles of blood. Jimmy reached for the knife and with one determined twist ripped it free. With the blade came another gush of blood, and before his eyes Mavis’s head lolled sideways as life drained from her.

For a long, stunned moment, Jimmy looked at the knife in his hand and then with sudden rage he threw it across the room.

‘Stupid, bloody bitch!’ he bellowed. ‘What d’you pick up the knife for? Stupid, stupid, bloody bitch!’

He heaved himself up onto his feet and looked down at her again, the familiar anger rising in him once more. Mavis was dead, there was no doubt about that, she lay on the floor like a discarded rag doll, and it was all her fault. If she hadn’t said no in the first place, he wouldn’t have lost his temper. She was his wife, for God’s sake, she had no right to say no. All he’d wanted was his right as a husband, and she’d been screeching at him. Any man would’ve lost it.

He felt a sudden burst of panic. She was dead, and they’d say he’d done it. That bitch Lily would never believe it was all Mavis’s fault.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ he shouted to the kitchen. ‘Shit!’

What was he going to do? For several moments his mind seemed a blank, but staring down at Mavis, who returned his stare with sightless eyes, he tried to think. A plan. He needed a plan. Christ! He turned his back on her. Couldn’t think with her staring at him.

Get rid of her body somewhere? Somewhere she’d never be found. Then he’d say she’d run off and left him. If he could just get rid of her body and clean up the kitchen a bit… Then he looked at the blood all over his clothes, the blood pooled on the floor, the blood spattered on the wall, and knew that it would be impossible to clean up the mess that was Mavis’s death.

No, his brain was working now, no, his only chance was to get out, and get out fast. With luck she wouldn’t be found until tomorrow or even the next day, if that interfering cow Lily didn’t come poking round. Twelve hours, maybe more, for him to disappear into the melting pot of London.

Without looking again at the rag doll that lay at his feet, Jimmy staggered from the room. Had to get out of his blood-stained clothes. Had to clean himself up. He hauled himself upstairs and into the bathroom. There he shed his clothes and standing in the bath, scrubbed himself down. The water turned pink as Mavis’s blood was sluiced away, and when at last it ran clear, he towelled himself dry before going into the bedroom and dressing in clean clothes from the skin out. Quickly he packed a grip with another set of clean clothes, neatly ironed by Mavis, his demob suit, and adding his razor and toothbrush, he zipped up the bag and made his way to the front door. Gingerly, he removed his cash from the pocket of his bloody trousers. The trousers he left discarded with the rest of the blood-soaked clothes on the bathroom floor; with Mavis lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor there seemed to Jimmy no point in trying to hide them.

He turned off all the lights before opening the front door and taking a quick look along the street. The night was cold, frost sparkling on the pavement, with a new moon and a sky bright with stars. The street was empty, and without a backwards glance, Jimmy stepped out and walked away into the night.

30

Lily had had a broken night with Richard. He had woken up several times, apparently crying for no reason. Each time she’d soothed his distress he’d sleep for a maximum of half an hour and then start to cry again.

If he’s been doing this ever since he was born, Lily thought, I’m not surprised that poor Mavis is like a limp rag, nor, she had grudgingly to admit, that Jimmy had found it difficult to cope with as well.

At six o’clock she gave up and made up another bottle that Richard guzzled down as if he were starving, after which he fell asleep. With immense relief Lily sunk back into bed and instantly fell into a deep sleep herself. Neither of them woke again until well after nine.

Lily took her time getting them both up and dressed for the day. By ten they were both ready, and she decided to walk back over to Ship Street. Mavis is probably enjoying a well-earned lie-in, Lily thought. Still, by the time we get there, she’ll be ready for a cuppa and some breakfast.

When she reached Mavis’s front door, there was no sign of life within the house, but the door was on the latch, and leaving the pram outside, Lily picked up Richard and carried him indoors.

‘Mavis! Mavis?’ she called, but there was no reply. The house seemed eerily still. Lily paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up to the landing, wondering if Mavis was still in bed. It was getting on for eleven, and even if she was having a lie-in, surely she’d be up by now. She called again. ‘Mavis? You awake, love?’ Maybe she’d already slipped out to the shops. With luck she’d had a good night’s sleep and was feeling better today.

Lily put Richard back in the pram, which she then manoeuvred into the tiny hallway. Mavis would see him there the minute she got in, and meanwhile, she’d pop the kettle on.

Lily pushed open the kitchen door and froze. Mavis was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, a pool of congealed blood about her head and neck. For a heart-stopping moment Lily stared down at her unable to believe her eyes. She took a step forward, and found herself gazing into Mavis’s glazed and staring eyes.

‘Mavis?’ she croaked. ‘Mavis? Oh my God, no!’ For a moment the room seemed to spin and closing her eyes, Lily clutched at the table to stop herself falling. She slumped onto a chair and put her head between her knees, feeling the blood pounding in her ears. Once the world stopped whirling, she raised her head again, and with a deliberate act of will made herself look again at Mavis’s broken body. Fighting down the nausea that threatened to overcome her, she got unsteadily to her feet and reached down to her daughter’s face, stone-cold to the touch. As she withdrew her hand, she felt the stickiness of Mavis’s blood on her fingers, and the full horror of what she had found flooded through her, stirring her to action.

The police. She must call the police. Jimmy had done this to Mavis, and must be on the run. They must get after him at once. The surge of hatred for Jimmy Randall that coursed through her brought her new strength, and she groped her way to the front door. As she passed the pram in the hallway she saw that Richard had fallen asleep again. No need to move him, he was safe enough there. Jimmy certainly wouldn’t be coming back. She had to get to a telephone and the nearest call box was at the far end of the road. She set off along the pavement, going as fast as she could with no stick to support her. Her legs were shaking, her breathing ragged and the tears were now streaming down her face. At that moment Carrie emerged from her house, almost colliding with Lily as she passed. She grasped Lily’s arm to stop her from falling and then saw her face.

‘Mrs Sharples?’ she cried. ‘Mrs Sharples? Are you all right? Oh my God, what’s happened?’

‘Mavis, it’s Mavis.’ Lily’s breath came in shuddering gasps. ‘That bastard’s done for her. She’s dead. On the kitchen floor. Got to call the police.’

‘Dead?’ Carrie stared at her, unbelieving. ‘Mavis is dead?’

‘On the floor. We must get the police. I got to get to the phone box.’

‘I’ll go,’ Carrie said. ‘You come into my house and wait, I’ll go and ring 999.’

‘No.’ Lily shook her head. ‘You ring 999, I’ll go back to Mavis. Ricky’s still there, in his pram.’

‘But you’re in shock.’ Carrie looked uncertain. ‘You sure, going back there? Being in the house with…’ Her voice tailed away.

‘With Mavis,’ Lily finished for her. ‘With my daughter. You get the police, Carrie, and I’ll wait for them… with Mavis.’ Without waiting for Carrie to agree, Lily turned back towards number 9. Carrie took one look at her stooped but determined figure and raced off down the road to the phone box.

Lily went back into the house and sat on the stairs, one hand on the handle of the pram, rocking it gently although Richard was still blissfully asleep. She couldn’t bring herself to go back into the kitchen, but she needed to be near her daughter. Now there was nothing further she could do, Lily’s strength drained away and she began to sob.

Constable Chapman found her five minutes later. On his beat, he was met by the distraught Carrie rushing to the phone box. Seeing him, tall and strong, a visible police presence, she’d grabbed him by the arm and blurted out what had happened. He did his best to calm her.

‘You go on and dial 999,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and see to the lady. Mrs Sharples, you said?’

‘Yes, number 9. It’s her daughter, Mavis, what’s dead.’

‘Go on and ring,’ Constable Chapman said. ‘I’ll go and wait with her until help comes.’

When he reached the house, he knocked on the open door and walking in found Lily sitting on the stairs, sobbing.

‘Mrs Sharples?’ he said gently. ‘Mrs Sharples, I’m Constable Chapman.’

Lily looked up at him and gestured towards the kitchen door, whispering, ‘In there.’

The constable pushed open the door, and what he saw made him recoil. Mavis Randall was on the floor, and clearly she’d been stabbed, though from where he stood he could see no sign of the murder weapon. There was no need to check to see if she were dead, the staring eyes and the blood loss confirmed that. Nevertheless he went over to her and touched her cheek, alabaster pale and icy cold. Clearly she’d been dead for several hours. No doubt the police doctor would be able to estimate time of death.

For a long moment he stared down at her. She looked familiar. Where had he seen her before? Then he remembered. It was the house to which he’d brought two lost little girls, and this pale woman had been sitting at the table, nursing a baby. He remembered the misery of both mother and children when they’d been dragged screaming from the house, taken away by some social worker. The memory of that night flooded through him, the anger, the despair, the misery that had filled the little house… and the fear. The mother and the girls had all been terrified of the husband. He remembered standing outside in the street when the girls had been driven away, watching the husband slamming out of the house, headed for the pub. He’d known then that there was no love in that house, but there had been more, a brewing violence which had finally boiled over into murder.

Jumping to conclusions, he reminded himself. We don’t know if it’s the husband who’s killed this woman so brutally, but, he thought as he closed the door again, it seems the most likely explanation.

Lily was still sitting in a huddle on the stairs. Her sobs had subsided, but she was still shaking. The big policeman sat down beside her and took her hand.

‘Can you tell me anything about what’s happened here?’ he asked gently.

‘He’s killed her, that’s what’s happened,’ Lily replied. ‘That bastard Jimmy Randall’s been and killed her, my lovely Mavis.’

‘How can you be so sure it’s him?’ asked Chapman.

‘’Cos he was always knocking her about,’ Lily said. ‘Often saw her with a black eye, or other bruises. I told her he was a violent bastard, even before they was married, but she wouldn’t admit it, not to me, not to no one.’

Chapman looked at the baby in the pram. It must be the one he’d seen Mavis nursing. ‘And what about him, or is it a her?’

‘Him. Richard. He was with me for the night. I took him home ’cos Mavis weren’t getting no sleep. He had her up at all hours, and that Jimmy, all he could do was threaten her and shout at the baby when he cried. Thought I’d give her a break.’

‘You don’t live here, then, in this house?’

‘No, I got my own place. I should have taken the both of them,’ she cried. ‘If Mavis had come to me last night, he’d still have his mother.’

As she spoke, Richard stirred in the pram, waking up with a whimper. At once Lily scooped him up into her arms, holding him close, burying her face in the soft fluff of his hair, comforted a little by his warm softness.

‘Are there any other children?’ Chapman asked, wondering about the girls.

Lily raised bleak eyes to his. ‘Yes, two little girls, but they’ve been took to Australia.’

‘Australia!’ Chapman repeated, startled.

‘It’s a long story.’ Lily was too drained by the events of the morning to say more. In her heart she knew that this was the reason Mavis was dead. She must have confronted Jimmy with the news about Australia and they’d had a fight. ‘She loved them,’ Lily said softly. ‘She wanted them back.’

The insistent clanging of bells announced the arrival of two police cars sweeping into the street. At the same time Carrie reappeared hovering on the pavement outside.

‘Wait here,’ Chapman said to Lily, and went outside to greet his plain-clothes colleagues. Detective Inspector Marshall listened for a moment and then, with a brief nod, came into the house. Lily was still standing in the narrow hallway with the baby in her arms. She held him closer as the policeman came through the front door, as if afraid he might take him away, but the detective merely nodded towards the kitchen and said, ‘In there?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Lily, averting her eyes. The man paused before opening the door and said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait outside, madam. We’ll need to search the whole house.’ Adding in a surprisingly gentle voice, ‘And I expect that little chap will be needing a feed soon. Is there a neighbour you could go to?’

Lily nodded. She could go to Carrie, for a while, anyway. Holding Richard tightly in her arms she went outside. A crowd was gathering now, attracted by the police cars, and Constable Chapman was holding them back. More plain-clothes men hurried into number 9, and another car arrived from which a doctor emerged, carrying his black bag. A murmur ran through the crowd as they watched, so far unaware of what had actually happened. The speculation was rife, and several of those at the front of the crowd tried to pump Constable Chapman. He remained solidly silent, his expression blank, giving nothing away. When Lily appeared, one or two recognized her.

‘Hey, Lil,’ cried someone, ‘what’s going on, then?’

‘Yeah,’ called someone else, ‘anybody hurt?’

Lily ignored the questions, and turning her back on the crowd joined Carrie and asked, ‘Can we wait at your house? Ricky needs a feed and a change.’

‘Course you can, Mrs S,’ responded Carrie immediately.

‘I’ll need the pram,’ Lily said. ‘It’s got my bag and Ricky’s stuff in it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Carrie said, ‘I’ll fetch it.’

Lily paused by Constable Chapman to tell him where she was going.

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘We’ll know where to find you when we need you. I’m sure one of the detectives’ll be in to see you shortly.

It was an hour or so before there was a knock on Carrie’s door and a young man with dark hair and a neat moustache came in.

‘Mrs Sharples?’ he asked.

‘In here,’ replied Carrie, and led him into the front room. She’d already put a match to the fire, and the room was warm and comforting. Carrie didn’t know what John would say about having a daytime fire, but she felt this was an emergency. Lily was in shock and needed to be kept warm. She had refused anything to eat, but Carrie had made sure she drank some tea, adding a generous spoonful of her own sugar ration.

Lily had told Carrie that she’d shown Mavis Rita’s letter.

‘What did she say?’ asked Carrie.

‘She was very upset, course she was,’ said Lily. ‘She was going to have it out with Jimmy…’ her voice broke on a sob, ‘…and I suppose she did. I shouldn’t have told her.’

‘You had to tell her, Mrs Sharples,’ said Carrie. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Lily had dealt with Richard’s needs and he was sitting on the floor, propped up with a cushion, happily playing with some toys belonging to Carrie’s children. Lily herself sat in a chair by the fire, but despite the warmth from the leaping flames, she felt cold, chilled to the bone.

‘Mrs Sharples,’ said the detective, ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Stanton. I am so sorry for your loss.’ He hesitated before going on awkwardly, ‘I know it’s a difficult time, but I do need to ask you some questions. Do you feel up to answering them now?’

‘If it’ll help you catch that bastard, Jimmy Randall, you ask me anything you like,’ replied Lily vehemently.

‘Thank you,’ said DS Stanton and drawing up a chair, he sat down opposite her. ‘Well, we do suspect that your daughter was probably stabbed by her husband, but of course we aren’t sure yet.’

‘Aren’t you? I am,’ snapped Lily. ‘He was always knocking her about, weren’t he, Carrie?’

Carrie, who was still standing by the door, nodded in agreement.

‘Thank you, Mrs…?’

‘Maunder.’

‘Mrs Maunder. We’ll be needing a statement from you in due course.’ Stanton turned back to Lily. ‘Can you give me some background information about your daughter and son-in-law? It sounds as if their marriage wasn’t a happy one.’

‘Happy!’ snorted Lily. ‘It was a disaster from the start and before.’ Stanton made a quick note, but he asked nothing more and Lily went on, ‘They only got married ’cos he’d got her in the family way.’ Her eyes strayed to Richard, sitting between them on the floor. ‘And everything went from bad to worse when he got rid of her daughters.’

Stanton looked startled. ‘Got rid of her daughters? How d’you mean?’

Lily told him everything, and as she talked he took notes, his pencil flying over the pages, so that he missed nothing.

When at last she lapsed into silence, he asked, ‘Can you tell me anything about Jimmy Randall’s family, or his friends?’

‘Not much,’ admitted Lily. ‘His father’s still alive. Jimmy used to live with him till he moved in with my Mavis.’

‘Do you know his address?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Lily, ‘but somewhere in Leyton Street, I think.’

Stanton nodded and made another note. ‘And his name?’

Lily shrugged. ‘I only met him once, at the wedding, and I called him Mr Randall. Never heard his Christian name.’

‘What about friends?’

‘His best man was called Charlie. Don’t know his other name, but I do know they worked together.’

‘Do you know where he worked?’

‘On a building site somewhere.’

‘You don’t know where?’

‘No. I never heard.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Jimmy drinks at the Red Lion, I expect someone there’ll know.’

DS Stanton made another note. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sharples. I think that’s all for now.’

‘No, it ain’t,’ Lily told him. ‘You ain’t told me what you found yet, in the house, I mean.’

‘Well, I’m not sure—’ began Stanton, but Lily interrupted him.

‘Well, I am. It’s my daughter what’s been murdered, I’m entitled to know what you found.’

‘I’m afraid all I can tell you, Mrs Sharples, is that the doctor has pronounced her dead—’

‘Anyone could see that, for God’s sake,’ cried Lily in frustration.

‘And her body has been removed to the mortuary so that a post-mortem can be performed.’

Lily looked at him, horrified. ‘You ain’t going to cut her up!’ she cried in dismay. ‘What you got to do that for?’

‘It’s just normal procedure,’ replied Stanton uncomfortably, ‘to establish cause of death and—’

‘I can tell you how she died,’ exploded Lily. ‘He cut her throat!’

‘It isn’t as simple as that,’ Stanton tried to explain, ‘there may be clues that will help us identify the killer—’

‘But we know who killed her.’ Lily stared at him in disbelief.

‘We know who may have killed her,’ Stanton said patiently, ‘but we have to find the evidence to establish it beyond doubt.’

Lily seemed dumbfounded, and Stanton took advantage of her silence to say, ‘Now, if you could just give me your full name and address, Mrs Sharples, someone will be round tomorrow to take a formal statement.’

‘What was this then?’ demanded Lily. ‘Weren’t this a statement?’

‘Not exactly, Mrs Sharples, we needed some information to work on, and you’ve given us that. And I can assure you,’ Stanton went on hastily, ‘that we shall be following up all the leads that you’ve given us today.’ He snapped his notebook closed and getting to his feet, turned to Carrie, who had stood listening to the whole interview.

‘Thank you, Mrs Maunder,’ he said. ‘You knew Mavis Randall well, I assume.’

Carrie nodded. ‘Yes, she was my best friend.’

‘Then we’ll want to talk to you, too,’ he said.

‘Well, what did you think of that?’ asked Lily dully when Carrie returned from showing Stanton out.

‘S’pose he had to ask them questions,’ Carrie said carefully. She didn’t want to upset Lily, but she’d thought the detective had been quite sensitive in his questions. ‘They have to find out what’s been going on, don’t they?’

Richard, tired of sitting on the floor, began to grizzle, and Lily leaned down and picked him up.

‘Come on, young man,’ she said, ‘we’d better get home.’

‘Will you be OK,’ asked Carrie, ‘going home by yourself?’

‘Course I will,’ retorted Lily. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I always go home by myself.’

‘Yes, well, I know,’ said Carrie, ‘but you’ve had a dreadful shock today, ain’t you? Why don’t you wait till my John gets in, and he’ll come with you? I’d come myself, but the kids’ll be home from school directly.’

‘I’m sorry, Carrie,’ said Lily. ‘I’ve taken up your whole day.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Carrie took her hand. ‘You’ve had a bloody awful day, and I’m just glad I was here to help you.’

‘So am I. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, honest. But I need to get home, feel my own things round me; look after Ricky. Let’s face it, he ain’t got anyone else, now, has he?’

In the end Carrie gave up trying to persuade her to wait for John.

When Lily emerged into the street, she was relieved to see that the crowd of on-lookers had dispersed, but glancing back at number 9, she saw Constable Chapman standing outside it, and on impulse she went over to him.

‘Why are you standing outside the house?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t they finished?’

‘No one’s allowed inside,’ he replied, ‘still a crime scene.’

‘Can I go in?’ asked Lily. ‘I need to get some things for the baby, clothes and stuff.’

‘’Fraid not,’ answered the constable. ‘No one’s allowed in.’

‘When can I?’ asked Lily. ‘I need stuff.’

‘Few days, I should think. They’ll be able to tell you more down at the station. They’ve taken a whole load of things away to look at. I expect they’ll let you back in when they’re sure they don’t need anything else. What’re you going to do now?’ Chapman asked.

‘Me, I’m going to go home and start bringing up my grandson.’

‘Won’t the Children’s Department offer you some help there?’ suggested Chapman. ‘I could have a word—’

‘Don’t you dare!’

Constable Chapman looked taken aback by her vehemence, but before he could say any more, Lily went on, ‘We won’t be going near them, thank you very much. They’ve took two of my grandchildren already, and they ain’t getting their hands on this one.’ And with this she set off down the street, pushing the pram that carried her grandson to the safety of her home.

‘That’s one brave and determined lady,’ Constable Chapman murmured as he watched her go. And thinking back to the courage and determination he’d seen on Rita’s face all those months ago, he realized where the little girl had got it from.

31

Lily went into her house and closed the door. The warm familiarity of her home enveloped her, and suddenly she felt completely exhausted. She had been running on adrenaline ever since she’d found Mavis, and now, back in her own kitchen, she was so tired she could hardly stand. She lifted Richard out of the pram and holding him close, sank down onto a chair. Although she knew he needed changing, she hadn’t the energy to do it. She simply sat on the chair, rocking him in her arms, the tears slipping down her cheeks, soaking into his soft baby hair; and this was how Anne Baillie found her.

She’d heard about Mavis from a customer in the shop and she’d stripped off her apron and gone straight round to Hampton Road.

She reached out and took the baby from Lily’s arms. ‘I’ll see to him,’ she said. ‘You put the kettle on and make some tea.’

Lily did as she was told, mechanically going through the familiar routine, and when Anne returned to the kitchen with Richard, clean and comfortable, Lily had made tea and set out cups. As soon as she saw Richard, Lily reached out for him.

Anne poured the tea and then said, ‘I heard about Mavis, Lily. Is there anything Fred or I can do?’

With Richard cradled in her arms, Lily began to speak. In a low voice she described what she’d found, and as the vision of Mavis lying dead on her kitchen floor filled her mind, she began to sob again. The tea cooled, ignored, on the table as Lily relived the events of the morning and Anne sat and listened in horror.

‘She was just laying there,’ Lily wept, ‘just laying on the kitchen floor. The blood was all round her… so much blood, and her eyes, just staring and staring.’

When she lapsed into silence Anne took the now sleeping Richard and laid him gently in the pram. ‘I think I should come and stay with you tonight,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be by yourself.’

Lily was about to refuse, but suddenly she knew Anne was right, she didn’t want to be alone, not for tonight. She had Richard to look after, and she felt so tired, so very tired. ‘You’re very kind, Anne. But just for tonight. I’ll be all right tomorrow, looking after Ricky and that.’

So Anne stayed the night, and it was she who answered the door to Sergeant Stanton and a Constable Turner.

‘We’ve come to take a formal statement from Mrs Sharples,’ Stanton explained.

They sat in the kitchen and Stanton took Lily through the questions he’d asked the day before, while Turner scribbled busily in his notebook, making careful record of her answers.

‘I wonder,’ Stanton said at last, ‘have you a photo of Jimmy Randall?’

‘Only this one,’ Lily replied, reaching for a framed wedding photo on the dresser. She handed it to the sergeant. ‘The bride and groom,’ she said bitterly.

Mavis beamed with happiness at her new husband; Jimmy smiling too, his dark head thrown back, his eyes turned away from the camera. A tall man, with strong shoulders and his demob suit looking uncomfortably tight across his chest, he had a tight grip on his bride’s arm, as if proclaiming ownership. ‘May I take this?’ Stanton asked. ‘I’ll return it to you as soon as we’ve made copies.’

‘I don’t want it back,’ Lily said. ‘I never want to see it again.’

That afternoon Lily persuaded Anne to go home. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve Ricky to look after, he’ll give me plenty to keep me occupied.’ She grasped Anne’s hand. ‘You’re a true friend, Anne. Thank you for staying last night.’

‘We’re still here if you need us,’ Anne replied, ‘if you need help with the baby or anything.’

‘I’ll remember,’ promised Lily, ‘but we got to get used to each other, Ricky and me, ’cos I’ll be taking care of him from now on.’

‘Will the social let you?’ wondered Anne.

‘Let them try and stop me,’ replied Lily fiercely. ‘Ricky’s mine now, just let them try and take him away.’

Anne was about to go home when there was another knock at the door. She opened it, preparing to send away whoever it was.

‘Yes?’ Her tone was unwelcoming. On the step was a good-looking man in a smart suit. He greeted her with a disarming smile.

‘Good afternoon, madam, I’m Terry Knight from the Belcaster Chronicle. Mrs Sharples?’

‘No, I’m a neighbour,’ Anne replied. ‘What do you want?’

‘We were so sorry to hear of the dreadful murder of Mavis Randall… Mrs Sharples’ daughter, was it?’

Anne nodded.

‘Of course the Chronicle is leading with the story, but my editor sent me round to talk to poor Mrs Randall’s mother, to make sure we had all our facts right.’

‘I’m afraid she isn’t seeing anyone at present,’ Anne told him. ‘The police’ve been here already and that’s enough for one day.’

‘I suppose you couldn’t help me with a little background information about the family?’ Terry Knight treated Anne to his most engaging smile.

‘No, I couldn’t,’ Anne said firmly. ‘It’s not my business, nor yours, neither.’ She began to close the door, saying, ‘You ought to know better than to come bothering someone at a time like this.’

Unperturbed, Terry smiled again and said, ‘Please just pass on my condolences to Mrs Sharples and tell her I called.’ He still had others to interview, Mavis’s neighbour for instance. She’d been very quickly on the scene.

‘Who was that?’ asked Lily.

‘A reporter,’ replied Anne. ‘I sent him away with a flea in his ear.’

Terry Knight knocked on the door of number 5 Ship Street and greeted the woman who opened it with a wide smile. ‘Mrs Maunder?’

‘Yes,’ replied Carrie. ‘Who are you?’

‘Terry Knight, Belcaster Chronicle. I wondered if I could have a word.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Carrie warily.

‘I understand that you were poor Mavis Randall’s best friend and you were there when she was found.’

‘Yes, I was,’ said Carrie.

‘I’m writing a report for the Chronicle and I just wanted to be sure I’d got all the facts straight. Could you help me with that?’

‘You’d better come in,’ said Carrie.

Half an hour later Terry’s notebook was covered in shorthand as he’d written down everything Carrie had told him. ‘It’s certainly a sad story,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘And those two little girls are now in Australia, you say?’

‘Yes, that EVER-Care place sent them without telling anyone.’

‘Thank you so much for your time, Mrs Maunder, you’ve been a great help. I don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph of Mavis, have you?’

Carrie thought of the snaps John had taken at the wedding. ‘I might have,’ she said and rifled through the kitchen drawer. She still had a copy of the one of Mavis and Jimmy together. ‘You can have this one,’ she said. ‘It was took on their wedding day.’

Terry Knight thanked her, tucking the photo into his wallet, and extracting two five pound notes. ‘For the photographs, Mrs Maunder, and your time.’

Terry Knight was delighted with the interview; it had garnered him far more information than he’d anticipated. The murder was the big story at present, and all the other papers would be on to it soon, but this background story, the story behind the murder, would probably be the bigger story in the end. Terry remembered the encounter with a woman when he’d been to interview Emily Vanstone. She’d been shouting about them stealing her grandchildren, hadn’t she? Was that Lily Sharples, Mavis’s mother? His interest had been aroused at the time, but he’d never discovered the name of the woman he’d seen at Vanstone House. No one had admitted to knowing it. Now, though, his reporter’s instinct told him that it had indeed been Lily Sharples. Now he would make following up this strange story a high priority. A human interest story to tug at the heart strings, he thought, and one that could run for several weeks as he allowed it gradually to unfold.

Emily Vanstone sat at her desk drinking a cup of tea, scanning the papers that Miss Drake had brought in. There was nothing that interested her particularly in The Times or the Telegraph, and so she turned to the Belcaster Chronicle, which she always read cover to cover. She liked to keep up with what was happening round her; keep her finger on the local pulse.

She had been pleased with the piece Terry Knight had recently written about her in his series on rising business women. At the end of it he had also mentioned her charitable work, noting that the EVER-Care Trust, which looked after destitute children, had been founded by her.

A good paper, the Chronicle, she’d thought at the time. A good, traditional paper. Trustworthy. Speaking for all right-thinking people, not like the gutter press, stirring up muck at any opportunity.

Turning to this pillar of the community now she saw the two-inch headline blazoned across the front page.

YOUNG MOTHER SLAIN

Below was a grainy wedding photograph of a young couple, under which was printed

Mavis and James Randall on their wedding day.

Shocking! thought Emily Vanstone. Such a horrifying thing… and here in Belcaster, too. She peered at the picture, but the names and faces meant nothing to her. She read on.

The Belcaster police are seeking Jimmy Randall (33), labourer, to help with their enquiries into the vile murder of his wife, Mavis. Mavis Randall, recently married and mother of baby Richard, aged five months, was found by her mother earlier this week, lying in a pool of blood in her own kitchen. She had been stabbed with a kitchen knife, later found by the police. Mavis Randall, whose two daughters by a previous marriage had, without her knowledge or consent, been sent to Australia by the EVER-Care Trust…

The name leaped out at Emily and she skimmed through the rest of the article before flinging the paper aside. Colour flooded her cheeks as rage flooded her mind. How dare they! How dare they print such things! She’d sue them! She’d ring the editor and tell him if he made no retraction, she’d see him in court. She’d demand an apology. She’d… she’d…

Suddenly she felt giddy, a sharp pain behind her eyes, and the room spun round her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She pushed her chair back, her heart pounding, but she couldn’t stand. She managed to reach the bell on her desk, and Miss Drake came at once to its summons. She took one look at her employer and rushed to her side.

‘Miss Vanstone! Miss Vanstone, are you all right?’

Clearly she wasn’t. She had collapsed back into her chair, her breathing was ragged and the colour, so high just moments earlier, had fled her cheeks, leaving her ashen-faced.

Frightened by what she saw, Miss Drake said, ‘You must lie down, Miss Vanstone. Here, let me help you to the couch.’ She took hold of her employer’s arm and supporting her as best she could, managed to get her across to the sofa.

‘I’ll ring for an ambulance,’ she said.

‘No!’ Miss Vanstone spoke vehemently, though her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘No ambulance!’ Then, more gently, she said, ‘Just a glass of water. I’ll be fine again in a minute. Just felt faint for a moment, that’s all. Happened before. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Shall I call the doctor?’ suggested Miss Drake. ‘I really think I should.’

‘No,’ repeated Miss Vanstone firmly. ‘No, thank you. Just the water.’

Reluctantly Miss Drake left her and went to fetch the water. When she came back she was pleased to see her employer looking a little better, colour creeping back into her cheeks. She helped her to drink, holding the glass to Miss Vanstone’s lips.

‘Thank you.’ Miss Vanstone gave her a weak smile. ‘I’ll be fine now.’ She looked at her secretary who was still staring anxiously down at her. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this little episode to anyone. It’s nothing, and I’d hate my family to hear of it and begin to worry.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Miss Drake still sounded less than happy with the situation.

‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Vanstone, swinging her legs round so that she was sitting up. ‘There’s no need to trouble the doctor. I’ll just sit here for a while and then I’ll go home. Be good enough to pass me the Chronicle,’ she pointed to the paper which was now lying on the floor, ‘and then I’d like a cup of tea.’

She was sounding much more her usual self now, and it was with some relief that Miss Drake handed her the paper and left her sitting up on the couch, while she went to make the tea.

Emily was more frightened by her sudden turn than she was prepared to admit, even to herself. This had happened to her once before, at home. Her housekeeper had been on hand that time, and she, too, had been sworn to secrecy. Deep breaths were the thing, slow, deep breaths. By the time Miss Drake returned with the tea tray, Emily was breathing normally and feeling much better. She sipped the tea gratefully, and then turned her attention back to the article in the paper.

Mavis Randall, whose two daughters by a previous marriage had, without her knowledge or consent, been sent to Australia by the EVER-Care Trust, is thought to have confronted her husband over his part in this decision, and it has been suggested that it was this that started a fight that ended so tragically in her death.

Suggested? Suggested by whom, I’d like to know, thought Emily fiercely.

Randall, known to be violent, has not been seen since the evening preceding the murder, when he stopped off at the Red Lion public house on his way home from work. The police are asking for anyone who might know his whereabouts to contact them at Belcaster central police station. He is considered dangerous, and should not be approached by members of the public.

The couple’s infant son, Richard, is being cared for by his grandmother, Mrs Lily Sharples.

Lily Sharples! Emily immediately recognized the name. Lily Sharples! So she was at the root of these scurrilous rumours. This Mavis Randall, who’d been murdered by her husband, must be the mother of the Stevens girls; Lily Sharples’ granddaughters.

I might have known, she thought. I might have known she’d be behind this. You’d think she’d have more important things to worry about with her daughter dead on the floor, the murderer still at large and her grandson to look after.

She remembered Lily’s fury at having the girls sent so far away. Well, thought Emily now, wasn’t I right to send them? They were indeed at risk in that dreadful household. Early rescue from that man has probably saved their lives!

She thought about the letter she’d sent to Daphne soon after her last encounter with Lily Sharples, and she felt that what she’d said was now justified by these subsequent events. Yes, indeed, now she’d got over the shock of reading the account of the murder and the suggestion that EVER-Care was responsible in some way, she began to see that once she put her side of the story, she would have the public on her side. Children should not be left in the homes of such violent men, they should be removed and placed where they could be cared for, and brought up in safety. Her belief in herself and the work of EVER-Care was still rock-solid. She knew she had done, and was doing, the right thing.

Feeling revived by the tea, Emily Vanstone went back to her desk and rang the Belcaster Chronicle. When the call was put through she demanded to speak to Mr Chater, the editor.

‘This is Emily Vanstone of Vanstone Enterprises, and the EVER-Care Trust,’ she began when she was finally connected.

‘Good morning, Miss Vanstone,’ cut in Philip Chater, ‘and how may I help you today?’

‘It’s about the article in today’s edition of your paper,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who’s been casting such unsubstantiated slurs on EVER-Care, but I have to tell you, Mr Chater, I expected better of the Chronicle. I take great exception,’ she repeated the words, ‘great exception to such statements being made about the EVER-Care Trust without any reference to me.’ She paused but when the editor said nothing she went on, ‘The EVER-Care Trust maintains the right to decide what is best for individual girls in its care. We never divulge what those decisions are, to protect the child.’

‘I understand your concern, Miss Vanstone, but the Chronicle has to keep in mind PUBLIC INTEREST.’ Philip Chater spoke the last two words in capital letters. ‘Public Interest is what we consider when printing a story. Have these two young girls been sent to Australia without the consent of their family?’ It was his turn to pause, but when Emily made no answer, he went on, ‘People will want to know, Miss Vanstone. It’s in the Public Interest.’

‘It has nothing to do with the public,’ she snapped, ‘and I have no intention of confirming or denying anything about any of my girls. EVER-Care never discusses our children with outsiders.’

‘Well, I’m afraid, Miss Vanstone, I don’t see that I can be of any help to you,’ said Philip Chater. ‘Indeed, I’m not at all sure why you wanted to speak to me.’

‘I want a retraction, Mr Chater, and an apology for slandering EVER-Care.’

‘Out of the question, I’m afraid,’ said the editor smoothly. ‘If EVER-Care has been sending children to Australia, there is no slander, no libel, as we have simply printed the truth.’

‘And what I also want to know, Mr Chater,’ Emily went on as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘is where you obtained this information. Who made these suggestions that there is a connection between this dreadful murder and EVER-Care?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Vanstone,’ said the editor, sounding anything but, ‘we never reveal our sources. If you would like to make a statement of rebuttal for us to print in our next edition, of course, we’d be happy to have it, but otherwise I fear there is little more I can do to help you.’ And he cut the connection, leaving Emily Vanstone gripping the telephone in impotent fury.

‘Insolent man,’ she muttered as she replaced the receiver in its cradle. ‘Insolent and insufferable man! We’ll see about you. I’ll speak to Martin.’

‘Have you seen the paper?’ she demanded as soon as Martin answered the phone.

‘Which paper?’ asked her brother-in-law.

‘The Chronicle,’ replied Emily. ‘They’re suggesting that there’s some link between EVER-Care and this murder.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Martin. ‘Yes, lot of nonsense if you ask me.’

‘But it’s slander.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ answered Martin. ‘It’s no more than an idea that’s been floated, it’s not a statement of fact.’

‘People will take it as fact,’ said Emily angrily. ‘They’ll believe what they read in the paper, whether it’s true or not. So, what do we do about it, Martin?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ shrilled Emily. ‘Why not? We must refute it.’

Martin sighed. ‘Emily,’ he said, ‘the less we say about it the better. Ignore it. Say nothing, do nothing, and it will all be forgotten in a couple of days. Making a song and dance about it will only give credence to the whole thing.’

‘But—’ began Emily, but Martin cut her short.

‘Emily, you asked for my advice and I’ve given it to you. What you do with it is up to you.’ And, for the second time in half an hour, Emily found herself holding a silent telephone.

She thought about what Martin had said. His advice had been sound, she knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to take. Her fury at the Chronicle and its arrogant editor was unassuaged. She wanted to vindicate herself and EVER-Care for the decisions she’d made, but she couldn’t do that without revealing the way she’d gone about it.

She was about to leave the office, when Miss Drake told her that the Daily Drum was on the phone and wanted to speak to her.

‘That rag?’ said Emily. ‘What on earth do they want?’

‘They didn’t say, Miss Vanstone, they just asked to speak to you.’

Emily thought for a moment and then sighed. ‘You’d better put them through,’ she said, and picked up her phone.

‘Emily Vanstone.’

‘Ah, Miss Vanstone, good afternoon. This is Steve Roberts from the Daily Drum. I was just ringing to see if you had any comment to make about the murder of Mavis Randall and her connection with the EVER-Care Trust… her children being sent to Australia without her knowledge?’

Emily drew a sharp breath. ‘No, Mr Roberts, I have not. No comment whatsoever.’ And this time it was Emily who slammed down the receiver.

32

‘Hey, Betty,’ Sean Bennett called as he came into the room. ‘What was the name of the place you come from?’

‘Belcaster,’ replied Betty, not looking up from painting her nails bright red.

‘No, I know that. No, the name of the home you was in.’

This did catch her attention and she looked up. ‘Laurel House,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Here, in the Drum.’ He held up a newspaper. ‘Laurel House, part of the EVER-Care Trust. That the one?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Why, what does it say?’

‘Says they kidnap kids and send them abroad without asking their families,’ answered Sean. He held out the paper. ‘Some woman been kicking up a stink about it. Here, have a look.’

‘Where’d you get this?’ she said, glancing at the date. ‘It’s a week old.’

‘I know, it’s my prop,’ said Sean.

Sean worked the tube stations, quietly lifting wallets and purses. With a newspaper under his arm as he hurried through the rush hour crowds, he was almost invisible. Sometimes he waited on platforms, and then he read the paper. He had today, and saw the name Laurel House; the place that Betty had told him about.

‘But have a read of it, Bet,’ he said.

Betty skimmed through the article. It told her nothing she didn’t already know and left out much that she did.

Miss Emily Vanstone, founder of EVER-Care, had refused to be interviewed, the Drum announced, and declined to comment. Why would she do that, enquired the Drum, if there was no substance to the allegations? If there was nothing to hide? ‘What,’ it asked, ‘goes on behind closed doors at EVER-Care?’

Betty tossed the paper aside and blew on her nails to dry them.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘that’s the place.’

‘And do they?’ demanded Sean.

‘Do they what?’

‘Do they kidnap kids and send them to Australia?’

‘Not ’xactly, no,’ Betty said, ‘but they did send kids out there. Telling them it was better. I’d have gone, anything must be better’n that place, but she didn’t send me.’

‘Who didn’t?’

‘Old Emily.’

‘The one in the paper?’

‘Yeah, her. She’s the cow what’s the boss,’ went on Betty, ‘she’s the one what holds the purse-strings. It’s her pays the Hawk and them others to keep the place running, but she don’t care what they do, as long as there ain’t no trouble.’

‘Paper says some woman’s saying they took her granddaughters. Said they’d been adopted when they’d really sent them to Australia.’

‘Yeah, I know. I knew them kids an’ all. They was sisters and their gran come looking for them.’ Losing interest in the subject Betty shrugged. ‘More important, Sean, d’you get anything today?’

‘Nope,’ Sean replied, ‘nothing.’ He flung himself down on the bed. ‘How much you got left, then?’

Betty opened her purse. She had precisely three shillings and tuppence three farthings.

‘That ain’t gonna get us far,’ groaned Sean.

Betty had met Sean not long after she first got to London. He was a good-looking charmer who lived off other people. He had got chatting to her in a seedy café in Poplar and soon learned that she was new to London, and even as he smiled at her, his eyes gleamed at the thought of an easy pickings. He’d intended to relieve her of the little money she had and move on, but something about her waif-like figure and the way her brown eyes glared fiercely at him from her pale, pointed face had given him pause.

Tarted up a bit, he thought, she wouldn’t be half bad. Not a looker, but she had something, something perhaps that Sean could use to his advantage. Men were always on the lookout for girls, and Sean already had one or two girls he looked after. Betty was, Sean decided, a definite possibility, so he suggested she shack up at his place, ‘just till you find yourself somewhere’.

Betty had discovered that in London even menial jobs were hard to come by, and though nervous about his offer, she’d accepted, relieved, at last, to have somewhere to sleep. His ‘place’ was one grubby room, with a toilet shared by six other lodgers, in a dilapidated house in Shoreditch, but at least it was dry and a huge improvement on the church porches that had been her shelter since she’d arrived. It boasted a narrow single bed, a wobbly table and a scarred bentwood chair.

‘It ain’t much,’ he said as he opened the door and ushered her in, ‘but the bed ain’t bad. Have a lie down and see.’

They’d both had a lie down and Sean had introduced Betty to another reason to go to bed. Despite being terrified at first, and cowering as far from him as she could, Betty had discovered that she rather liked what he was doing to her, and she shuddered as sensations such as she could never have imagined from her own private fumblings flooded through her.

Not usually a man of great sensitivity where women were concerned, Sean realized that, with a little care, a lot more could be unleashed in Betty. She proved to be a fast learner and to his surprise he found she gave him far more pleasure than the usual quick screw. He decided not to hire her out to his punters but to keep her to himself, at least for now. They’d stayed together and he’d taught her his trade. Already a natural thief, Betty had been a fast learner in this area, too.

‘Got to get some cash,’ he said now, ‘or we’ll lose the room. Mickey ain’t gonna take no excuses come Friday.’

Betty had been thinking about this, too, and now an idea struck her. She waved her hand at the discarded newspaper.

‘There’ll be cash in Old Emily’s desk,’ she ventured.

‘What? Her in the paper?’

‘Yeah,’ Betty nodded. ‘Trouble is getting to Belcaster.’

‘That ain’t a problem. We can hitch. What sort of cash are you talking about?’ Betty told him what she’d taken before she’d made her escape.

‘That’s not much,’ scoffed Sean. ‘Hardly worth going unless we get at least a fiver or more.’

‘It could be worth our while,’ insisted Betty, remembering the knick-knacks up in the Hawk’s abode. ‘There’s other stuff worth having in that place.’

‘Yeah, but there’s always someone there, ain’t there? We don’t want no trouble.’

‘Not on Sundays,’ said Betty.

‘Sundays?’

‘They all have to go to church, and Old Emily’s always in church. Shows everyone how holy she is.’

‘So,’ Sean said thoughtfully, ‘no one’s home on Sunday.’

‘Not in the morning, they ain’t,’ replied Betty. ‘We can watch them all marching along to church, check they’ve gone. Then we’ve got a good hour, hour and a half, before they all come back again.’

‘Hour’s plenty,’ said Sean, who was warming to the idea. ‘Don’t want to push our luck. How’re we going to get in?’

‘Kitchen window. It don’t latch proper. It’ll be stiff, but you can pull it open.’

The next morning found them beside the A4, and with Betty standing, thumb out, at the roadside, it wasn’t long before a large lorry drew up beside her and they had their ride.

They arrived in Belcaster on Saturday evening. It was cold and dark and there was rain in the air.

‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Betty, reluctant to go anywhere near Laurel House until she had to.

‘You tell me, kiddo,’ answered Sean. ‘’S your town.’ But Betty had been incarcerated in the orphanage for as long as she could remember, only emerging to go to school and church.

‘I dunno, do I?’ she snapped. ‘We better find somewhere. I ain’t sleeping rough here.’

Sean actually had nearly ten shillings he’d removed from the offertory box in a Catholic church in Shoreditch, but he didn’t want to use that if they didn’t have to.

‘I ain’t sleeping out,’ Betty repeated adamantly. ‘Come on, Sean, I know you got money. We got to find a proper room.’

Sean gave in, and they found a room in a pub; two bob each, but no breakfast.

With the key safely in Sean’s pocket, they set out to have a look at Laurel House. Following the landlord’s directions to Russell Green, they finally reached streets that Betty recognized, and she was able to lead him to the EVER-Care home. They strolled past, arm in arm, a couple walking out on Saturday evening.

‘Grim-looking place,’ Sean said as he paused to look over the hedge.

‘You don’t know the half of it!’ growled Betty, pulling on his arm. There was a light in the tower room, the Hawk’s nest, but otherwise the house stood in darkness.

At last Sean moved on, and with a wave of relief that left Betty feeling weak, they turned the corner into the next street.

‘Where do we watch from?’ Sean asked.

Betty led him along the familiar route towards Crosshills Methodist Church. ‘They have to pass here,’ she said. ‘You can stand there,’ she pointed to the park gates, closed now for the night, ‘and count the adults.’

Next morning Sean stood leaning on the gate, smoking a cigarette and watching the world go by. Betty was inside the park, well concealed by the bushy hedge. As she had predicted, the small crocodile of girls came past, led by a hard-faced woman, whom Sean assumed was the Hawk, the last few pairs being chivvied along by two other women. The Dragon and Ole Smithy?

As soon as she saw the Hawk, Betty turned her back. The sight of her arch-enemy make her feel physically sick and the sight of the girls, many of whom she knew well, walking obediently in twos, made her suddenly angry. She wanted to shout at them, ‘You don’t have to stay! Break out! I did!’

When the croc had disappeared round the corner, Sean tossed his cigarette end on the ground and grinned. ‘Well then, kiddo,’ he said, ‘let’s get to it.’

Betty tested the back gate; it wasn’t bolted. A sharp push from Sean, and they were into the yard, and safe from prying eyes.

‘Where’s this window, then?’ Sean looked round him, noting a second escape route through the orchard.

‘Round here.’ Betty led him to the kitchen window, which, to her relief, was still open a crack; a fear that it had been repaired unfounded.

Sean grabbed hold of it and with a screech of un-oiled hinges, he pulled it wide.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you a leg up, then you can open the back door for me.’

Betty squirmed through and once inside looked round the all-too familiar kitchen, immediately recognizing the ever-present smell of boiled cabbage, and the general air of gloom.

‘Open the door!’ Sean hissed through the window, and jerked from her reverie, Betty hurried to let him in. He wrinkled his nose at the stale smell and said, ‘So, where’s Emily’s office, then?’

Betty took him through the cold and silent house, memories flooding back as she led the way to Emily Vanstone’s office. Sean paused, looking round, taking stock of what was there: the polished desk in the middle of the room, the metal filing cabinets against the wall, the silver clock on the mantelpiece, the paraffin heater in a corner.

To Betty, Emily’s desk looked just as it always had, polished to a shine, with the pen and blotter lying on the top; only the paperknife was missing, sold by Betty for half a crown on her first day in London. She’d warned Sean about the locked drawers and he’d come prepared with a sturdy pocket knife.

The lock on the centre drawer provided little resistance and when they pulled open the drawer they found the familiar cash box. Sean picked it up and shook it. It clinked loudly and was reassuringly heavy. He pulled a cloth bag from under his jacket and without attempting to open the tin box, stowed it in the bag. ‘Let’s see what else we’ve got,’ he said and quickly sorted through the drawer’s other contents. Apart from a new fountain pen still in its case and a few postage stamps, there was nothing further of value. The pen and the stamps joined the cash box in his bag, as did the silver clock from the mantelpiece, before he looked across at the metal filing cabinets standing against the wall.

‘What’s in them?’ he asked.

Betty shrugged. ‘Dunno – papers?’

‘I’ll have a dekko, you look through them other drawers.’

While Betty worked systematically through the side drawers, Sean set his penknife to work on the lock of the first filing cabinet. ‘If she keeps it locked,’ he said as he brought pressure to bear with the blade of his knife, ‘there might be more valuables. Ah! Got it!’

The cabinet drawer yielded to the knife and sprang open to reveal a range of manila folders, all neatly labelled. Sean ran his fingers through the files.

‘Here, Bet,’ he called, ‘look at that. There’s a file here with your name on it.’

‘What?’ Betty looked up from the last drawer, where she’d found an unused National Provincial Bank cheque book. Sean pulled out one of the manila folders and carried it over to Betty. When he saw the cheque book, he almost snatched it out of her hand.

‘We’ll have that,’ he said, as he handed her the folder. He turned his attention to the second filing cabinet but finding it only contained yet more papers, he said, ‘Nothing else of interest here. What about the Hawk woman’s rooms. You said she had stuff.’

Betty shuddered. ‘I ain’t going up there,’ she said flatly. ‘I ain’t never going into that woman’s place again.’

‘OK, OK,’ agreed Sean. ‘No bother, I’ll go and see what’s what. You go on looking downstairs. Never know what you might find, eh?’

Betty knew there’d be nothing else of value downstairs, until she thought of food. They could always do with food, so, with the manila folder tucked underneath her arm, she headed back to the kitchen to investigate the pantry. As she came through the door, she glanced at the old kitchen clock. They’d been in Laurel House only half an hour, but she felt stifled by the place and its memories, and she couldn’t wait to get out. She inspected the pantry and took a wedge of cheese from the shelf. There was bread, too, and some sausages.

They’ll make us a decent supper, she thought as she gathered them together ready to add to Sean’s bag. The huge pot of Sunday stew stood on the range but there was no way they could carry it, so the inmates would have their lunch. Sean was still upstairs somewhere, so Betty perched on the edge of the table and opening the file, she started to read.

Elizabeth Grover

Date of birth: 12/7/32

Father: John Grover (ex-convict) MIA presumed dead

Mother: Alice Grover (deceased)

Paternal aunt: Jane Marks

There were other details which Betty skimmed through and then, held together with a paperclip, there were some letters. The first was dated 4 January 1946, and as she read it, Betty felt suddenly cold. She didn’t recognize the address and she didn’t know the handwriting, but the letter itself…

Dear Miss Vanstone,

I believe my sister Jane left my little daughter, Elizabeth, with you when my wife was killed in an air raid. As she told you at the time, I was posted as missing presumed dead. She felt that this was best for Betty as she couldn’t look after her.

As you see I was not killed, but taken prisoner. Now I am home again and I am longing to fetch my little girl home to live with me. I am about to remarry, and my future wife and I look forward to having Betty home to live with us. Thank you very much for looking after her while I couldn’t. Please tell me when I can come and fetch her.

Yours truly,

John Grover

Betty stared at the letter. Her father wasn’t dead at all. The Germans hadn’t got him, he was alive. He’d come home and he’d asked for her; he wanted to come and fetch her. But he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he come? The letter was dated two years ago; why hadn’t he come to find her? Had he changed his mind?

She picked up the next sheet of paper, which she realized with a jolt was a carbon copy of Emily Vanstone’s reply.

8 January 1946

Dear Mr Grover,

Thank you for your letter. I was indeed surprised to receive it, and I am pleased to know that you survived the war. However, not knowing this earlier, I arranged for Elizabeth to be adopted. Her adoptive parents are a charming couple from up north, living in the country. They are devoted to Elizabeth and she to them.

I am afraid it is not EVER-Care policy to reveal the names and addresses of the families who have come forward to give our children secure family homes. I regret that Elizabeth is now lost to you, but you may rest assured that she is well and happy herself. I wish you every happiness with your new wife.

Yours sincerely,

The letter was unsigned, but under the space for the signature was typed the name

Emily Vanstone

Founder of the EVER-Care Trust

Betty stared at the letter in disbelief. ‘How could she?’ she murmured in a grief-stricken whisper. ‘How could she do that? How could she tell him all those lies?’ With eyes blurred by tears, she turned to the next letter, dated 15 January 1946.

Dear Miss Vanstone,

I can’t believe what you told me in your letter. You gave my Betty away without so much as a by-your-leave. Not asking any of her family. You had my sister’s address, surely you should have told her what you were going to do. How could you just hand Betty over to strangers without even asking? I’m going to talk to a lawyer and then I shall be coming to see you. Please will you send me Betty’s new address so that I can at least let her know I’m still alive. If she has settled so well with these people, maybe she should stay put, but she needs to know I’m not dead and then perhaps we can at least see each other.

The letter was signed by her father.

There was one more letter in the bundle, dated 19 January 1946, the second one from Emily Vanstone.

Dear Mr Grover,

I understand your distress, and regret it, but there is really nothing I can do to lessen it except to repeat that Betty is well and happy with her new family. When Mrs Marks brought her to us at EVER-Care, we became her legal guardians. This gave us an absolute right, as I’m sure any lawyer you may consult will confirm, to settle Betty where we thought best for her, in this case, with adoptive parents. We never divulge names and addresses of such parents, and I have no intention of breaking our rule in this case.

I regret that I am unable to enter into further correspondence with you on this matter.

Yours sincerely,

Again there was no signature, but the carbon copy of the letter had been initialled ‘EV’.

Betty dropped the letters onto the table beside her and sliding down onto a kitchen chair, buried her head in her hands and began to sob, deep heaving sobs that convulsed her whole body. When Sean came into the kitchen, his bag bulging with trinkets and ornaments from the Hawk’s flat, he stopped dead.

‘Hey kiddo!’ he cried, dumping the bag onto the floor. ‘What’s up?’

Wordlessly, still sobbing, Betty handed him the letters. He skimmed through them swiftly, and then as their import hit him, read them all again.

‘Fucking hell!’ he breathed. ‘The fucking bitch!’

‘He’s alive, my dad,’ Betty sobbed, ‘and she sent him away!’

Sean looked at two other papers in the folder. One was typed, a brief account of a meeting with ‘JG and lawyer’, and the other notes about Betty and her family. A handwritten note had been added at the bottom.

Entirely unsuitable as a father. Betty stays here. Saved from a life of depravity.

‘We’ll take these an’ all,’ Sean said, stuffing the file into his bag. ‘Come on.’ He was about to turn to the back door when he came up short. ‘Shit!’ he muttered. ‘If she finds your folder missing, she’ll guess who’s turned the place over.’ He hurried back to Emily’s office. The filing cabinet stood open, revealing at least a hundred similar files. He pulled out several files at random and up-ended them onto the floor. Papers flew everywhere, but though it certainly was a mess, if someone did bother to re-sort them, Betty’s file would still be missing. Then the small paraffin heater, standing cold and unlit in the corner of the room, caught his eye and the answer came to him.

‘Betty!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here and help!’

Betty appeared, red-eyed, in the doorway and watched as Sean pulled more and more folders from the cabinets, shaking their contents all across the room and out into the passage.

‘Sean!’ she cried. ‘Sean, what are you doing?’

‘Going to have a bonfire!’ he announced. ‘Going to burn the whole bloody place down. Emily fucking Vanstone kept you from a life of depravity, did she? An’ all them girls we saw this morning, too, I s’pose. Well, it ends here. With luck the whole house’ll burn down, and them kids’ll be took away from her.’

Betty stood transfixed, horrified. ‘Sean!’ she cried. ‘We can’t!’

‘We bloody can,’ retorted Sean. ‘Look lively.’ He handed her another batch of files. ‘Go and empty these all round the hall. We’ll go out through the kitchen.’

Betty still hesitated, the enormity of what he proposed enveloping her. ‘S’posing it don’t catch,’ was all she could think of to say.

‘Will when I’ve finished with it,’ Sean assured her. ‘Now get on with it, girl, or it’ll be too late.’ He gave her a push, and she took the papers into the hall as instructed and tossed them all over the floor and up the stairs. Once she’d started she felt suddenly reckless. She’d show Emily Vanstone! She’d pay her back for the years of misery she’d lived through in this place. Not allowed up the front stairs? Well, she was going up them now, all right, going up them, strewing papers like confetti, all the way up to the landing.

‘Ready?’ called Sean, poking his head into the hall.

‘Ready!’

‘Right, go to the back door and open it,’ Sean said. ‘Take my bag and wait outside. Be ready to run… I’ll be coming out fast.’

Betty did as she was told, picking up Sean’s bag and stuffing in the parcel of food she’d packed earlier. She could hear Sean banging about further inside the house, but she followed his instructions and waited outside in the yard. Suddenly Sean erupted out of the door and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, kiddo,’ he cried excitedly, ‘time to go! We can’t hang around, but whatever you do, don’t run.’

When they walked past the front gate of Laurel House, neither of them could resist the temptation for a last look at the house. Light flickered in the downstairs windows, and even as they watched, thin coils of smoke began to leak from those on the first floor.

‘How did you make it burn so quick?’ Betty asked breathlessly, as she scurried along beside him.

‘Paraffin,’ he replied. ‘Tipped the paraffin out of that heater in the office and spread it about a bit. Went up with quite a whoosh!’

‘Blimey!’ muttered Betty.

‘Time to go,’ said Sean. ‘Someone’s going to notice that smoke soon.’

Fifteen minutes later they were safely on the London train.

33

When the service at Crosshills Methodist Church ended, chivvied by Mrs Hawkins, the girls formed their usual crocodile and set off, back to Laurel House. As they were passing the park two fire engines swept round the corner, bells clanging wildly. The croc straggled to a halt, staring after them.

‘Walk on,’ shouted Mrs Hawkins from the back of the croc. ‘Mrs Smith, lead these girls on. There’s no need to gawp, you’ve all seen a fire engine before.’

‘Mrs Smith, I can see smoke,’ cried Janice, one of the pair leading the croc, forgetting the silence rule in her excitement.

‘So can I,’ cried her partner, Elaine, ‘an’ I can smell it an’ all.’

‘Not surprising, is it, dear,’ remarked the cook, ‘seeing as we’ve just seen fire engines in a hurry.’

As they continued their walk home the air was rent with more clanging bells, and another fire engine hurtled past them, closely followed by a police car. Above the houses a cloud of black smoke was rising, swirling and billowing in the wind.

Mrs Hawkins hurried to the front of the crocodile and calling a halt, ran forward to the street corner where the police car had pulled up, blocking much of the road.

As she reached the corner and pushed her way through the gathering crowd of by-standers, a large police constable stepped forward and barred her passage.

‘Sorry, madam, but you can’t go down this way, there’s a fire.’

‘I can see that,’ snapped Mrs Hawkins. ‘But I’ve thirty children with me, and we live in this street. I need to get them home.’

‘I’m very sorry, madam, but even so, you can’t go down this street. It isn’t safe. The fire brigade are dealing with the fire now, but it’s still burning out of control.’ Then with sudden realization he said, ‘Thirty children! Are they the orphanage children?’

‘The EVER-Care children. We live at Laurel House… oh my God!’ Mrs Hawkins clapped her hand to her mouth in horror as the realization hit her too. ‘It’s Laurel House, isn’t it?’ She pushed past him, edging into the road to see for certain.

The constable put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Yes, madam, I’m afraid it is.’

Mrs Hawkins spun round and marched back to the waiting children. Taking the cook and the matron aside she spoke grimly. ‘It’s Laurel House. That policeman says it’s burning out of control.’ She glared at Mrs Smith. ‘You must have left something on the stove, you stupid woman, and now the whole bloody place is on fire.’

‘I certainly did not,’ returned the cook with some spirit. ‘Nothing was left on the stove, nothing was left in the oven. This fire has nothing to do with me and I won’t take the blame for it!’

‘For goodness sake,’ interrupted the Dragon, ‘that doesn’t matter now. The important thing now is to decide what we do with this lot.’ She jerked her thumb at the waiting children. ‘We can’t just stand in the street!’

‘We’ll go back to the church,’ said Mrs Hawkins. ‘They can wait in there until we find out what we’re to do with them. From what I could see there’ll be no going back to Laurel House for some time.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘You take them back to the church. If it’s locked, one of you go to the Manse and get the keys. I’ll go and tell Miss Vanstone what’s happened.’ She smiled grimly. ‘After all, they’ll be her problem, not ours.’

When they reached the church, the minister was just closing the doors. The Hawk left the Dragon to do the explaining, and set off in search of Emily Vanstone.

Although she knew the address, Mrs Hawkins had never been to Emily’s house. They were not social equals and in all the years she’d been superintendent at Laurel House, she had never received an invitation to Maybury House. As she strode through the town on her way there now, she began to think about what was going to happen to her, now that Laurel House was gone. She had probably lost her home and all her possessions. From what the policeman had said, and from what she’d seen herself, Mrs Hawkins was under no illusions; the EVER-Care home was gone for good.

Wonder how Old Vanstone’ll cope with that, thought Mrs Hawkins with a malicious smile, realizing that she was actually going to enjoy telling Emily about the fire. Her resentment at the way Emily had spoken to her and treated her over the years boiled up inside.

It took her nearly half an hour to walk to the more affluent area of Mountjoy where Emily lived. Maybury House was an attractive Georgian house, set back from the road with a broad drive sweeping through a large, well-kept front garden. Mrs Hawkins paused at the gates and looked at it.

Just the sort of house I’d expected, she thought with a sniff. Well, she’d never been invited to cross its sacred threshold before, but she sure as hell was going to cross it now, and she marched up the drive to the front door under its arched portico and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a smartly uniformed maid. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said.

‘I need to see Miss Vanstone,’ said Mrs Hawkins without bothering to return the greeting. ‘It’s a matter of great urgency.’

‘If you’d care to step into the hall for a moment, I’ll see if Miss Vanstone is at home. Whom shall I say is calling?’

See if she’s at home! thought Mrs Hawkins angrily. We both know perfectly well she’s at home. But she controlled her anger and said, ‘Tell her it’s Mrs Hawkins from Laurel House, and tell her I need to see her urgently.’

‘Please take a seat.’ The maid indicated a straight-backed chair just inside the door, and disappeared into the house.

It was several minutes before she returned, and saying, ‘Come this way please,’ showed her into a drawing room.

It was a beautiful room, elegantly furnished, with French windows that opened onto a terrace, and from there to a wide expanse of carefully tended lawn. Not wanting to sit down on one of the plush sofas, Mrs Hawkins went over to the windows and looked out. Flowerbeds flanked the lawn, and a smooth gravel path led through a neatly clipped box hedge to an orchard beyond. Everything was beautifully kept, and everything about both house and garden whispered, ‘Money.’

She spun round as Emily Vanstone sailed into the room. ‘Mrs Hawkins,’ she said with some asperity, ‘what can be so important that you come to disturb my lunch on a Sunday? You know I’m visiting Laurel House this afternoon. Surely whatever it is could have waited till then.’

‘I’m afraid not, Miss Vanstone,’ answered Mrs Hawkins. ‘You won’t be visiting Laurel House this afternoon; there is no Laurel House.’ Seeing the expression of bafflement on Emily’s face she went on with relish, ‘Laurel House has burned to the ground.’

‘It can’t… When…? How…?’ Miss Vanstone tottered forward and dropped down onto one of the sofas. Mrs Hawkins watched her with interest, seeing the colour draining from her cheeks, and sweat breaking out on her brow. Miss Vanstone had clutched at her head and was gasping for breath, but it was several moments before Mrs Hawkins said, ‘Are you all right, Miss Vanstone?’ Her tone was concerned, but her eyes gleamed with malice.

‘I will be in just one moment,’ gasped Emily, ‘if you could just ring for Freeman…’ She waved her hand in the direction of a bell-pull beside the door.

Mrs Hawkins gave the bell a tug, and moments later the maid appeared at the door.

‘You rang, madam?’

Emily was looking slightly better now, and though her breath still rasped in her throat, she managed to say. ‘Just a glass of water, please, Freeman.’

‘Certainly, madam.’

The maid was back almost immediately with a glass of water. She handed it to Emily who sipped it gratefully. Gradually the muzziness in her head began to clear and her breathing quietened, beginning to return to normal.

Mrs Hawkins watched the colour slowly return to Emily’s face, keeping an expression of concern on her own, but with her mind whirling. It was clear to her that Emily Vanstone wasn’t well, and not only that but that she must have had such turns before. Freeman knew what to do. She must have dealt with them before. There was no suggestion that they call a doctor, though Mrs Hawkins was tempted to suggest it herself just to see the reaction.

‘Sit down, Mrs Hawkins,’ Emily said. ‘I shall be fine again directly. Just a moment’s giddiness.’ Then turning to the maid again she said, ‘Thank you, Freeman, that’ll be all.’

Mrs Hawkins sat down and then wished she hadn’t. The advantage of towering over her stricken employer was lost.

‘Now,’ said Emily, taking one final drink of water and then setting the glass aside, ‘tell me exactly what has happened.’

‘That I really can’t say,’ said Mrs Hawkins. ‘On the way home from church we were overtaken by fire engines and a police car. When we got to Shepherd Street the police had blocked off the road. The constable there said that it was Laurel House that was on fire, and that it was burning so fiercely that the fire brigade were having trouble bringing it under control.’

‘But how did it start?’ demanded Emily, sounding more like her usual self.

Mrs Hawkins shrugged. ‘I don’t know. All I do know is that we have to find somewhere for thirty children to spend the night tonight and for the foreseeable future.’

‘Where are they now?’ asked Emily, her mind beginning to kick into action.

‘In the church with Mrs Smith and Mrs Reynolds,’ Mrs Hawkins replied. ‘We had to get them off the street, but obviously they can’t stay there.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Emily, and suddenly she was all action. Her moment of weakness had passed and she was on her feet, and ringing for Freeman.

Mrs Hawkins stood up, too, hardly able to believe the transformation from droopy old woman, turning grey and gasping for breath, to the dynamo that was now Emily Vanstone. Freeman was despatched to the kitchen to make a mound of sandwiches for the children’s lunch. Foster, the chauffeur, was called to drive them back to the church and then on to Laurel House.

Within the hour she had contacted Miss Hopkins, the Children’s Officer, and demanded placements for all the girls left homeless by the fire. Miss Hopkins, daunted by such a task, protested she couldn’t find so many places all of a sudden and on a Sunday, but bullied by Emily, she was persuaded to go into her office and try.

While May Hopkins was beavering away in her office, Emily and Mrs Hawkins returned to the church, handed out sandwiches to the hungry children, and were then driven to Shepherd Street.

The street was still closed to traffic, a fire engine standing outside the remains of Laurel House. The big constable was still on duty and though the car was halted he let the two women pass when they explained who they were.

Together they walked down the street and standing by the fire engine, stared up at the blackened shell, still wreathed in drifting smoke.

Emily was angry. How could the place in which she’d invested so much time and money simply disappear in a matter of minutes?

‘Everything I owned was in there,’ said Mrs Hawkins bitterly. ‘I’ve only the clothes I stand up in, now.’

Emily turned to her in surprise. She’d been so concerned with EVER-Care, the loss of the house and the immediacy of finding places for the children, she had given no thought at all to the adults who lived in the home and had lost everything.

‘I suppose you have,’ replied Emily. ‘Mrs Hawkins, I’m so sorry.’ She thought quickly. ‘You and the other staff must move into a hotel at once. EVER-Care will pay, and advance you each some money for clothes.’

‘Advance?’ Mrs Hawkins pounced on the word. ‘What do you mean “advance”?’

‘Well, I expect there’ll be insurance money, but that won’t come through straight away, so in the meantime, I’ll advance what you need. I’m sure you can get emergency coupons in the circumstances.’

‘I see,’ was all Mrs Hawkins said, but inside she was gleeful, planning her claim for all that she’d lost and for much that she hadn’t.

Just then two firemen emerged from the front door. ‘No doubt about it,’ one was saying to the other, ‘definitely deliberate. The chief’s already in touch with the police.’

‘What did you say?’ cried Emily, overhearing his words. ‘What did you say, my man?’

The fireman stopped short, seeing the two women for the first time.

‘What are you doing here, lady?’ he asked. ‘No one’s allowed in here till we’ve finished damping down.’

‘What did you say just then,’ repeated Miss Vanstone at her most imperious, ‘about it being deliberate?’

‘Nothing I can tell you, madam.’

‘Indeed you can,’ asserted Emily. ‘I own this house.’

‘I can tell you nothing, madam,’ repeated the fireman, looking to his mate for confirmation. ‘You’ll be told through official channels. Now please go back out of the gate.’

As soon as she got home again, Emily phoned her brother-in-law. ‘Martin, Laurel House has burned down,’ she began.

‘What!’ he exclaimed.

She explained what had happened, adding, ‘And I overheard one of the firemen say that it was deliberate.’

‘He told you that?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me anything. Said I’d hear about the fire through “official channels”. But I heard him say it was definitely deliberate and that the chief was already in touch with the police.’

‘Did you speak to the chief?’

‘He wasn’t there. By the time I got there, they were damping down. Martin, I assume we’ve got the place well insured.’

‘Yes, of course we have,’ said Martin, ‘but if the fire was started deliberately, it may take a while for them to pay out. They have to be sure we didn’t burn the place down for the money.’

‘As if we would with thirty children in there,’ protested Emily.

‘But they weren’t in there, were they?’ Martin pointed out. ‘They were in church. Everyone who lived there was in church, so they were never in danger.’

‘Martin, I can’t believe you’re saying this,’ said Emily.

‘Emily,’ he said patiently, ‘I’m only saying what other people will say; and we have to be prepared for it.’

‘So, what do we do?’ asked Emily testily.

‘We put in a claim in the usual way and wait and see what happens.’

Half an hour later Emily received a call from her other brother-in-law, Edward.

‘Emily,’ he roared down the phone, ‘what’s this I hear about that home of yours being set fire to?’

‘We don’t know it was set fire to, yet,’ Emily said, irritated as always by Edward’s bombast. ‘We haven’t been told it was arson.’

‘Well, Martin seems to think it won’t be long before you are, and that’s bad. That’s very bad.’

‘I agree,’ said Emily, ‘but we’ll deal with it when and if it happens.’

‘Thing is, Emily, I’ve been talking it over with Amelia, and I think, well, we both do, that we’ve had enough bad publicity already, what with that thing about kidnapping children which was all over the papers. Can’t go on, you know.’

‘But that was rubbish, spread by that rag the Drum. It wasn’t true.’

‘Yes, I know,’ drawled Edward, ‘but it was mud, and mud sticks. So we’ve decided, Amelia and I, that we can’t lend our names to the association any more. You must see that the good name of the Sherrington family is at stake here. Sorry, Emily, but as from now I am withdrawing my name as the patron of EVER-Care. I shall have to make a brief announcement in all the papers, so that there is no chance that I, or my family, will be associated with anything that transpires.’

‘In that case, Edward,’ answered Miss Vanstone, ‘this will be the last time we speak to each other… ever.’

ARSON AT EVER-CARE! shrieked the headline. ORPHANAGE BURNS! was scrawled on the billboard beside the news-stand. Lily stared at the headline and then scrabbled in her purse for coins and bought the paper.

When Terry Knight’s article about the background to the murder had been published in the Chronicle, Lily had been horrified.

‘Who could’ve told the paper all that?’ she’d wondered to Anne as they sat together reading the paper Anne had brought round.

‘I sent that reporter away,’ Anne said stiffly.

‘Oh, Anne,’ cried Lily, ‘I wasn’t suggesting it was you, but I hate the idea of our dirty linen being washed in public.’

‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘I expect it would have all come out in the end. Can’t hurt your Mavis now, can it? But never mind that, Lil, how’re you keeping?’

Lily didn’t know how she’d have managed without the Baillies. She had known them for years, but in the days that followed Mavis’s death, their support had been a lifeline and had cemented the friendship.

She smiled at Anne now. ‘I’m all right. Bit tired, you know. Ricky don’t sleep well at night.’ Lily felt tired all the time now, though she wasn’t going to admit it, not even to Anne. Looking after Ricky was exhausting; he was a lovely baby, but he certainly wasn’t an easy one.

She could see Anne had a point about the newspaper story. It might do some good. Too late for her girls, but it might make another mother think twice before handing her children over to EVER-Care. It wasn’t just the Chronicle: the Daily Drum had also spread the story of Mavis, Jimmy and the two little girls, and it had greatly upset Lily.

‘I expect they picked up the story from the Chronicle,’ Anne said, always the voice of calm. ‘That’s what them big London papers do sometimes.’

‘Well, I wish they hadn’t,’ retorted Lily. The Drum had sensationalized the foul murder of a defenceless young mother and what was headlined as THE EVER-CARE SCANDAL. It had run for several days before the Drum had lost interest.

Now, the ‘Arson’ headline shrieked at her, another huge EVER-Care story. Lily tucked the paper inside the pram and took it home to read properly.

Under the headline there was a picture of the blackened shell that had been Laurel House, its roof gone, its window frames bent and twisted by the heat. The grey stone walls and the squat little tower topped only by a few charred roof beams, stood stark against the sky, all that was left of the EVER-Care home. A smaller headline proclaimed:

MIRACLE ESCAPE FOR ORPHANS!

The children living at Laurel House, the EVER-Care home in Shepherd Road, Russell Green had a miraculous escape on Sunday when the orphanage was torched by an unknown intruder. Laurel House, recently facing questions about its adoption and migration policies, was empty at the time of the fire. The orphans were at church on Sunday morning when the house was broken into and ransacked. To cover his tracks the burglar used paraffin to set fire to the house. The fire rapidly took hold and by the time the alarm was raised and the fire brigade called, the place was an inferno.

‘I can’t imagine who would do such a thing,’ said Mrs Hawkins, the superintendent of the home. ‘What a cruel thing to do to children already orphaned. Laurel House was their security, their sanctuary, and now it has gone. They have lost everything.’ Laurel House is now nothing but a shell. The children have all been rehoused by the Children’s Committee in foster homes in the area. Asked by the Chronicle for an interview, Children’s Officer Miss May Hopkins was unavailable. A source has revealed that the records of all children passing through EVER-Care, kept at Laurel House, were lost in the fire. Is this the end of EVER-Care, the charity set up by Miss Emily Vanstone in the thirties to rescue destitute children from the streets? Who can tell? Miss Vanstone, when approached by this paper, was also unavailable for comment.

‘We are following several promising leads,’ said Inspector Carter, police officer in charge of the case. ‘Whoever did this had knowledge of the orphanage’s routine. They knew the house was always empty on a Sunday morning.’ The police investigation continues.

As Lily read the piece through again she was struck by a dreadful thought. All the records gone. Now there’s nothing left to tell me where my girls are, she thought bleakly. I’ll never know where they was sent. Who could have done this dreadful thing? And why?

Later that afternoon, Anne looked in, copies of the Chronicle and the Drum under her arm. ‘I wondered if you’d seen this, Lil,’ she said, putting the papers on the table.

‘Seen the Chronicle,’ Lily said. ‘Has the Drum got it too?’

‘Yes, here.’ Anne pointed to a piece on the front page. The article was not long, and it had a different slant.

INSIDE JOB?

Was it really just luck that no one was inside the EVER-Care home, Laurel House in Belcaster, when it went up in flames last Sunday? The home, recently the subject of another story in our paper, burned furiously for some time before firemen managed to get the blaze under control. Investigators from the fire brigade say that the fire was deliberately set and now the police are hunting the arsonist. Have they got far to look, we’d like to ask them?

In a statement to the press, Inspector Carter of Belcaster, the senior officer investigating the case, said that whoever it was knew the routine of the house, and knew that no one would be at home on a Sunday morning. So, was this really a burglary? Or is it something more sinister?

Could the blaze have been started by a disaffected former resident? A girl with a grudge? A family with a grudge? Or perhaps we should be asking the insurance company who stands to gain from this fire? Miss Emily Vanstone, founder of EVER-Care, when approached by this paper was, again, unavailable for comment. However, the Drum notes with interest that Sir Edward Sherrington has publicly withdrawn his patronage from EVER-Care. Does Sir Edward know something that the rest of us don’t, we ask? The investigation continues, and we at the Daily Drum will be watching the outcome with interest.

‘Well,’ said Lily when she’d read it, ‘someone’s keeping the Drum up to date.’

‘You think it was arson?’ asked Anne.

‘I don’t know, do I?’ replied Lily. ‘All I know is all the records was destroyed. I’ll never find my girls now.’

When Anne had gone, Lily made up a bottle for Ricky. As she fed him she thought about what the papers had said. Someone had set fire to Laurel House. Someone who knew it would be empty on a Sunday morning. A burglar, or was the Drum right? Was there a different motive? The children were now all in foster homes. Had that been the motive? To get the children moved from that dreadful place?

Hundreds of kiddies must have been through EVER-Care, she thought. Where are they all now? Had any of them really been adopted, or had they, like Rita and Rosie, simply vanished? Had someone read the story of kidnapped children spread across the Drum and realized they’d been lied to? Had someone decided to take matters into their own hands?

No, thought Lily, that really is a bit far-fetched. But a tiny corner of her brain was telling her, ‘I might have, if I’d thought of it and I’d had the nerve!’

A tiny part of Lily had hoped that if she persevered long enough, she’d discover where her girls were; that one day she would find them and bring them home. That hope was now extinguished. Laurel House had gone, the children were dispersed and their records were ash.

‘Well, Ricky my boy,’ she whispered to the baby on her lap, ‘it’s just you and me now. You’re all I have left of Mavis, but I won’t forget your sisters.’ She glanced up at the photo of the two girls in their rose-patterned frocks, beaming down at her from the mantelpiece. ‘We’ll remember them together, you and me.’

Lily was not the only one to read both the Chronicle and the Drum that day. Miss Drake had left both the papers on her employer’s desk before going to lunch. Emily came in soon afterwards and finding the newspapers laid out waiting for her, she picked them up, and took them over to the sofa to read in peace. The headline shrieked at her from the front page of the Chronicle, but it wasn’t the Chronicle to which she turned first; it was the Drum.

INSIDE JOB!

Inside Job! Inside Job! How dare they! As Emily read the article she felt the rage boiling up inside her. How dare that rag imply that Laurel House had been burned down for insurance purposes? And Edward… Edward had carried out his threat to distance himself from EVER-Care, and had announced as much to the papers, to the Daily Drum.

You can bet your life Miss Vanstone wasn’t available for comment, Emily thought furiously, as she thrust the paper from her. She has nothing to say to gutter press like the Drum, except ‘see you in court!’ Surely this must constitute libel, she thought, surely they can’t suggest such a defamatory thing without a shred of evidence to back it up. I must ring Martin at once.

As she reached for the phone, the familiar dizziness overcame her. A fierce pain lanced through her head and she staggered backwards, the offending papers cascading from her hand as she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

34

Daphne Manton opened the letter from England with a sigh. Surface mail and dated six weeks earlier, it was another epistle from Emily. She skimmed through the opening paragraph, and then, unable to believe what she’d read, read it again.

Dear Daphne,

How could you have let this happen? Rita Stevens has written home to her grandmother. Not only that, but it must have been with your permission as there was a fair amount of censorship within the letter. What on earth were you thinking to allow such a thing? The repercussions here have been grave. The grandmother is accusing me of kidnapping her granddaughters. The press were there when she came to my office, but luckily they didn’t latch on to what she was saying.

You know my most important rule is that once we have a girl in our care, that girl is to have absolutely [the word absolutely was heavily underscored] no further contact with her family. I was about to deal with the situation, once and for all, when the matter was taken out of my hands. God moves in mysterious ways, and before I could take any action, the child’s grandmother had a stroke, from which she did not recover. She was struck down in her home, but pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. This is of course very sad (and I know I can rely on you to break it gently to the child), but at least it means there will be no further problems from that quarter. However, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the letter occasioning all this trouble should never have been sent and I wish you to ensure that there are no further letters.

Daphne stared at the letter. How had Rita written home? Who had given her the paper, the stamps? And who had censored her letter before it was sent? Only one possible person, Daphne thought in fury, that interfering Watson woman. Well, she’d interfered for the last time. This time she’d have to go.

‘So, what’re you going to do about it?’ Joe said when she showed him the letter.

‘I’m going to sack her,’ replied Daphne. ‘We can’t have the house-mothers going behind our backs like that.’

‘And who will you get to replace her?’ asked Joe mildly. ‘You haven’t replaced that Garfield woman yet. You can’t afford to be without another house-mother.’

Daphne glared at him, knowing he was right. Joe looked up from his paper and added, ‘And what about the child? What about Rita? You have to tell the poor kid that her grandmother is dead.’

‘Delia Watson can do that,’ retorted Daphne, ‘that’s her job as her house-mother.’

‘So you aren’t going to sack her?’ ventured Joe.

‘Haven’t decided yet,’ replied his wife, sighing, ‘But you’re probably right, I can’t afford to get rid of her just now, it being school holidays and all.’

The long summer holidays were always difficult at Laurel Farm. There was work to be done, but there were times when the girls had little to do and the house-mothers took it in turns to arrange some sort of activity. Mrs Watson often took them for a picnic by the nearby lake. Dusty grass ran down to a small stony strand and there was plenty of room to spread out. Under her supervision, they were allowed to bathe. The little beach shelved gently, and even those who couldn’t swim paddled in the cold water. Mrs Watson’s ‘day’ was always looked forward to by everyone.

No, Daphne Manton decided reluctantly, she couldn’t afford to let Delia Watson go, but she would certainly reprimand her.

That afternoon, while the girls were playing hide and seek, vaguely supervised by Mrs Yardley, Mrs Manton sent Irene to find Mrs Watson, and waited for her in her office to indicate that this was an official meeting.

The house-mother came in wearing a blue cotton frock, looking cool and comfortable, and strangely younger than usual.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Manton,’ she said with a smile. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Ah, Mrs Watson,’ Daphne Manton did not return the smile, but looked at her over the rim of her spectacles, ‘I have just received this letter from Miss Vanstone.’ She passed over the letter. ‘I wondered what you had to say about it!’

Delia Watson took the letter and read it with a sinking heart. She and Rita had been found out and it sounded as if there’d be hell to pay, but as she reached the closing paragraph and read of the death of Rita’s grandmother, her dismay was replaced by a profound sadness. Poor Rita! As if the child hadn’t had enough to put up with.

Still holding the letter she raised her eyes and said, ‘The poor child! How very sad. You’d like me to break it to her, would you?’

‘I would, yes,’ agreed Mrs Manton, ‘but that is not why I sent for you. I sent for you because I am extremely angry that you allowed one of our girls to write home to England. How dare you go behind our backs like that?’ As her voice rose in righteous indignation, two spots of colour appeared on her cheeks, mottling her skin.

As if she’s applied too much rouge, thought Delia, and the irrelevance of the thought made her smile.

‘I can assure you, Mrs Watson,’ spluttered Mrs Manton when she saw the smile, ‘that this is no laughing matter. The letter, which you must have posted, has caused a great deal of inconvenience to Miss Vanstone. The lady who pays your wages!’ This last was spoken slowly, as if punctuated between each word. ‘So, what have you got to say for yourself, eh?’

‘Firstly,’ Mrs Watson said, apparently unintimidated by the other woman’s anger, ‘the letter was sent in reply to one Rita received from her grandmother, in which that lady actually stated that Miss Vanstone had agreed to forward a letter from her to Rita and Rosie. It was addressed to them here at Laurel Farm and so I assumed, apparently erroneously, that it had been sent by Miss Vanstone. I passed the letter on to Rita and she wanted to write back. I saw no harm in it, as her letter had been sanctioned by Miss Vanstone herself. You can see from this,’ Mrs Watson waved Miss Vanstone’s letter in the air, ‘that I took the trouble to censor the letter before I sent it, so that there was little in it to cause alarm.’

‘You took a great deal upon yourself, I must say,’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘Who, may I ask, is the supervisor of this place?’

‘You, of course,’ agreed Mrs Watson mildly. There was nothing to be gained, and much to be lost, by antagonizing Mrs Manton further. ‘But I am the child’s house-mother, responsible for her day to day care. It isn’t for me to come running to you with every little query about individual children. You have the responsibility for the whole farm, you have no time for trivialities such as this.’

‘I don’t consider this a triviality,’ retorted Mrs Manton, ‘and nor does Miss Vanstone.’

‘So I see, and I’m sorry if what I did was wrong, but,’ Mrs Watson extended the letter in her hand, ‘it would seem that, as Miss Vanstone says, things have been decided for us, and the poor child has lost her grandmother.’ She smiled sadly. ‘To me that is the most important thing about this letter, the sad news it brings Rita.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Manton, ‘it seems you had reason to think that Miss Vanstone had sanctioned the letter from England, so, anyway, all’s well that ends well.’

All’s well that ends well! Delia Watson wanted to shriek. All’s well for who, you unfeeling bitch. Not for poor little Rita Stevens, and not her grandmother either, dead on arrival at the hospital. God moves in mysterious ways, indeed! If that’s how God works, she thought furiously, then I’m glad I no longer believe in Him!

‘And you’ll break the news to Rita, will you?’

Forcing her voice to remain calm, Mrs Watson said that she would and that she would choose a suitable time at which to do so.

‘Fine,’ said Mrs Manton briskly, ‘I’ll leave it to you then.’

Back at Larch Cottage, Delia Watson went to her own quarters, pacing the room until her rage had subsided a little. Then she went to the window and looked out into the garden, where the desultory game of hide and seek was coming to an end. The girls would be coming back to the cottage for their tea before very long. The two on duty today to prepare the evening meal were Rita and Daisy.

‘Hurry up, or we’ll be late,’ Daisy was saying as they came in, ‘and the Watchdog’ll be after us.’

Mrs Watson smiled. She was quite proud of her nickname, the Watchdog. She did watch over them, she watched over them all, and just wished there was more she could do to make their lives happier, but she was confined by the strict EVER-Care rules as much as they. And now she had to find a way to tell Rita that her grandmother was dead.

‘Whose day is it tomorrow?’ asked Daisy as they spread marge on slices of bread.

‘Can’t remember,’ said Rita. ‘Hope it’s not Old Dawes.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Daisy fervently, ‘her days are soooo boring.’

‘Never mind,’ Rita said, ‘at least it’s the Watchdog the day after that. Her days are always fun. I love going to the lake, don’t you?’

That’s the answer, Mrs Watson thought as she listened to the conversation from the hallway. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take Rita to the lake tomorrow and tell her then.

‘Rita, I need you,’ Mrs Watson said the following day. ‘I’ve told Mrs Dawes you won’t be joining in the scavenger hunt.’

‘Lucky you!’ cried Daisy when she heard. ‘What does she want you for?’

‘How do I know?’ asked Rita, sounding a little anxious. Was there another letter? she wondered.

‘Well, whatever it is, it’s got to be better than whatever Old Dawes has got lined up.’

After lunch Rita waited in Larch, wondering what Mrs Watson wanted her to do. When the house-mother appeared she was carrying a basket.

‘Right, Rita, off we go.’

Surprised, Rita followed her out into the garden, through the orchard, and onto the path that led across the dusty paddock towards the lake.

‘Please, Mrs Watson, where’re we going?’

‘You’ll see,’ replied the house-mother, and strode on so quickly that Rita almost had to run to keep up with her.

When they reached the lake, Mrs Watson took a rug from her basket and spreading it on the ground, sat down. Rita, surprised but delighted, ran to the water and paddled her hot feet in the cool water. Then turning back she said, ‘Why’ve we come here, miss? What do you want me for?’

‘Come and sit down here, Rita,’ said Mrs Watson, patting the ground beside her. ‘I want to talk to you.’ Reluctantly, Rita came out of the water and flopped down on the dusty grass.

‘Rita, Mrs Manton asked me speak to you,’ began Mrs Watson, and then she paused. It was so difficult, breaking yet more bad news just as Rita seemed to have settled down to her new life. ‘She’s had a letter…’

Rita, staring at her wide-eyed, murmured, ‘Is it Rosie? What’s happened to her?’

‘No, no,’ Mrs Watson said, ‘it’s not Rosie. As far as I know she’s fine. No, I’m afraid it’s your grandmother—’

‘Gran? What’s the matter with her?’ A note of hysteria crept into Rita’s voice. ‘Gran got better, she wrote to me. Gran got better.’

‘I know she did,’ Mrs Watson said gently, ‘but then she had what’s called a stroke, sudden bleeding in her head, and though they took her straight to hospital, I’m afraid she didn’t get better this time.’ She reached out and took hold of Rita’s hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Rita.’

‘Is she dead?’

‘Yes, my dear, I’m afraid she is.’

Rita pulled her hands away and got to her feet. ‘Then I ain’t got no one now, have I?’

Mrs Watson let her go, watching a little anxiously as she took the path that ran along the lake shore.

Rita followed the stony track beside the lake, staring unseeingly out across the smooth expanse of water. She had no tears, but there was an unbearable pain in her throat, and despite the heat of the afternoon, she felt cold. She passed some trees that threw silver shadows to dance on the water, and found another tiny beach in their shade. Sitting on the strip of shingle, she heard the words again in her head… I’m afraid she didn’t get better this time.

Rita looked out miserably across the lake. She thought of home, of Mum and Gran, remembering them as she’d not allowed herself to do for weeks. She thought of Gran waiting for them at the school gate on a Thursday, and playing snap and snakes and ladders in her kitchen after tea. She could still conjure up her mother’s face, tired and strained, Gran’s smile that crinkled her eyes, even Uncle Jimmy’s face, fierce and threatening, but not their voices, their voices had all slipped away.

A wave of desolation swept through her. Daddy was a vague memory, only kept alive by the precious photo still hidden under her mattress. Mum didn’t want her, and Rosie had been taken from her, vanishing into the vastness of Australia, and now Gran, beloved Gran, had had this stroke thing and had died. There’d be no more letters from Gran, no possible chance that one day in the far distant future, when Rita was grown up and had left Laurel Farm, that she might manage to go back and find her. There was no going back.

The painful lump in Rita’s throat finally erupted and she began to sob. Sitting in the shade of a tree, alone in Australia, she wept for all she’d lost, the tears pouring down her cheeks, her body wracked with sobs, until there were no more tears to come and a strange calm overtook her. She had no handkerchief to wipe away her tears, so she went to the water’s edge and scooped up handfuls of water to cool her burning cheeks. She remembered the promise she’d made herself that they wouldn’t make her cry, ever again. Well, she’d broken that promise now, but it was for the last time.

‘You’re on your own now, Rita,’ she said, and standing by the lake she made a new promise. ‘You don’t need no one else.’

Slowly she threaded her way back through the trees, to where Mrs Watson still sat, waiting for her, on the grassy slope.

‘We can go back now, miss,’ Rita said. ‘Thank you for telling me about Gran.’ And without waiting for her house-mother to reply, she ran, barefoot through the hot, dusty grass, back the way they’d come.

Daphne Manton heaved a sigh of relief when the long summer holidays ended, and the girls reverted to their tighter term-time routine.

Mrs Watson had broken the news of her grandmother’s death to Rita Stevens, but though the child seemed withdrawn and looked a little wan, Daphne could see very little difference in her; she was simply relieved that Rita was causing no more trouble. No more letters came from Emily, so no more news from England. That was, until the phone call that completely changed her life.

Daphne and Joe had been going to bed one night when they heard the phone ringing downstairs. Daphne put on a robe and went down to the office. When she picked up the receiver she was greeted with a hiss and a whistle, and then an operator’s reedy voice. ‘Putting you through, caller. Go ahead, please.’

‘Hallo?’ Daphne almost shouted into the receiver. ‘Who’s there?’

‘I need… Manton.’ The line was bad, crackling with static, and she could hardly hear the man on the other end.

‘Daphne Manton speaking. Who’s there?’

This time the voice was a little clearer, and she heard him say, ‘This is Martin Fielding, trustee of EVER-Care. I’m ringing from England. Is that Mrs Daphne Manton?’

‘Yes,’ Daphne replied loudly. ‘Yes, Daphne Manton speaking.’

‘I’m a trustee of EVER-Care. I’m ringing from England. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Emily had a massive stroke a fortnight ago, leaving her in a coma, and she died yesterday.’

‘Died,’ echoed Daphne, stunned.

‘A stroke,’ repeated Martin. ‘Look, I haven’t much time before we’ll be cut off. She has died, and so we’re winding up EVER-Care, here in England. There’ve been problems recently, so, as the sole trustee, I’ve decided that enough is enough.’

‘You can’t… I mean, what about—’ began Daphne, but Martin Fielding ignored the interruption.

‘With regard to Carrabunna, obviously we have a duty of care to those children already living at Laurel Farm, and funds will be available for their upkeep until they turn sixteen and are able to leave school to make their way in the world.’

‘But…’ stammered Daphne Manton.

‘Please hear me out,’ said Martin Fielding firmly. ‘As the girls leave your care, they will not be replaced. As the numbers fall, there will naturally be fewer staff required to look after them. The cottages will be amalgamated and house-mothers given notice. You and your husband will be able to stay on at the farm and EVER-Care will make it over to you in recognition of your hard work. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is an equable solution for everyone concerned.’

Martin gave Daphne no chance to comment. ‘I will be putting all this in writing,’ he went on, ‘you’ll get it in the next few weeks, but I wanted to tell you of Emily’s death, and about the changes. So, I think that covers everything for now, Mrs Manton,’ Martin continued briskly, ‘except to offer you my condolences at the death of your cousin. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye.’ And the line went dead.

Daphne replaced the receiver. So, Emily was dead. Daphne felt no sadness at the news, she’d never particularly liked her. No, what she felt was more akin to anger, anger that Emily should have died so unexpectedly and left EVER-Care to the mercy of her dry stick of a lawyer brother-in-law. Was Martin Fielding really going to wind up the trust? Could he? Just like that?

Slowly she went back upstairs. Seeing the shocked expression on her pale face, Joe said, ‘Who was it?’

‘Martin Fielding, Emily’s brother-in-law. She’s dead, Joe.’

‘Who is? Emily? Thought she was indestructible.’

‘She had a stroke. She died yesterday.’

‘That’s sad,’ said Joe, cheerfully.

‘It’s more than sad,’ retorted his wife. ‘It’s disastrous. He’s going to close us down.’

‘Close us down?’ echoed Joe. That piece of news really did grab his attention. ‘He can’t do that, can he?’

‘He says he can,’ insisted Daphne. ‘He says that he’s winding up the trust and not replacing girls as they leave.’

‘That’ll take some time. Nothing to worry about yet.’

‘I’m not so sure. But at least he said they were going to make Laurel Farm over to us, to you and me,’ Daphne told him. ‘We shall still have somewhere to live.’

‘That’s all right then,’ said Joe. ‘We can sell it and move somewhere decent.’

‘For God’s sake, Joe, grow up,’ snapped Daphne. ‘The next few years are going to be incredibly difficult as the farm winds down.’

‘You could always resign,’ suggested Joe. ‘Let them find someone else to take it on. Their headache then, not ours.’

‘Don’t be obtuse, Joe. If I do that, they certainly won’t give us the property. Anyway,’ she said as she got back into bed, ‘this Martin Fielding is going to send me all the details.’

‘Then I should wait for his letter,’ Joe advised. ‘Don’t do or say anything to anyone until you’ve got it all in writing.’

Daphne’s brain was whirling. How could Emily not have made provision for the continuation of the trust after her death? Emily was practical, organized. Surely she’d made a will, and surely, in it, she’d stipulated what was to happen to EVER-Care. She would never have left anything that was so important to chance. Was Martin Fielding the only trustee? she wondered. If he was, was it really, entirely, his decision? Laurel Farm had been a comfortable billet for them, with a salary from EVER-Care and all the other perks and extras that she skimmed off the budget. Mrs Garfield had not been replaced. Her departure hadn’t been mentioned to EVER-Care in England and her salary had been syphoned off into the Mantons’ bank account.

The Mantons had quite a nest egg in their account, but even so, it wouldn’t be enough to live on. At last she fell asleep, but in the morning the force of the problem came back to hit her again. Laurel Farm was a fair-sized property, but she and Joe would be hard-pressed to make it pay as an actual farm. Could they sell it? Might Martin have second thoughts?

Now his letter had come, and as she read it, Daphne’s heart sank. Martin had no second thoughts, and his new proposals were even more stringent.

We shall, of course, require copies of the accounts for the past five years, as there are none in our files. Also details of all the children now accommodated with you, as their records here were destroyed in the fire at Laurel House…

Fire at Laurel House! Daphne knew nothing about a fire at Laurel House.

…their names, ages and the expected date that they will leave Laurel Farm. We encourage you to find foster placements for the younger children if no adoptive parents can be found. It is our intention to close Laurel Farm within the next six months.

‘Six months!’ cried Daphne. ‘For God’s sake, how do they think I’m going to get rid of more than twenty children in that time?’

Should this not be possible, funding will continue for the girls still living at Laurel Farm, but we shall expect progress in establishing those children elsewhere. No doubt the New South Wales authorities will assist you in finding suitable homes, either with foster parents or in other institutions.

The property of Laurel Farm will revert to you and your husband on the day that the last child leaves. This will be subject to a signed statement that you will make no further demands whatsoever on the EVER-Care Trust or the Vanstone family in the future.

All documentation with regard to the children who have passed through the farm is then to be destroyed, and no information contained in that documentation is to be disclosed to any third party, now or in the future. Please consider this letter as notice given to you and all your staff. As the numbers of girls decrease, and the house-mothers become redundant, a small amount of severance money will be paid to each. EVER-Care thanks you for your hard work in the past, and I know that I, and Sir Edward Sherrington, who is now a co-trustee, may rest assured of your ready cooperation in the proposal outlined here. I look forward to receiving all the documents I have requested at your earliest convenience.

‘Six months!’ Daphne said again, and went to find Joe.

‘Better get cracking, then,’ he said when he’d read the letter. ‘You sort out the children, I’ll sort out some accounts. Did you send any to Emily recently?’

‘No, not for some time,’ answered his wife.

‘Good,’ Joe said with a grin, ‘that’ll make it a lot easier.’

35

From that day things began to change at Laurel Farm. Gradually the children were found places elsewhere, many of them leaving the only home they’d ever known. In ones or twos they disappeared to other children’s homes, or occasionally a foster home was found. As the numbers dwindled, two of the cottages were closed, the disgruntled house-mothers forced out into the world, and the remaining children spread among the remaining houses.

Rita was still there, but Daisy had gone. She was sent to a children’s home south of Sydney. Delia Watson begged Mrs Manton to send someone else, any one of the other children, as she knew that, since Rosie had gone, both girls were desperate to stay together.

‘Do I have to go?’ Daisy cried, distraught. ‘Can’t Reet come with me?’

‘Couldn’t we both stay here?’ begged Rita. ‘We absolutely promise not to get into any more trouble, don’t we, Dais?’

‘Yes, we promise!’ Daisy agreed fervently. ‘Honest!’

But Mrs Manton was adamant. Daisy should go and Rita should stay.

‘I’m surprised you aren’t sending Rita,’ Delia said. ‘You’ve always disliked her.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘There’s only one place there, and Daisy Smart is going. I’ll find a place for Rita eventually.’

Was it pure spite? Delia wondered. Because the woman regarded Rita as a trouble-maker? Did she want to make Rita’s life as miserable as possible? Could anyone be that malicious? Yes. Daphne Manton. Delia had never seen her commit a single generous act, or show a moment’s kindness to any of the girls in all the time she’d been at Laurel Farm.

Well, Delia decided, that was enough. She, too, would leave Laurel Farm and return to Sydney. She didn’t particularly want to live in the city, but the chances of finding work there were much greater, and when she thought about it she realized she’d had enough of living out in the sticks and needed normal people, living normal lives, around her. She began writing for jobs, letter after letter, but though she had worked with children most of her adult life, she had no qualifications on paper and no one wanted to employ her. Eventually she received the offer of a job as a general assistant in a children’s day-care centre. The salary was minimal, but the proprietor offered a little house in Randwick at reduced rent as part of the deal. Life would not be easy, money would be short, but the chance of shaking the dust of Laurel Farm from her shoes seemed heaven-sent, and Delia leaped at it.

The very next morning, when the children had left for school, she crossed over to the Mantons’ house and knocked on the door.

Daphne, having a late breakfast, was less than pleased to see Mrs Watson on her doorstep.

‘Can’t it wait, whatever it is?’ she demanded petulantly.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Delia Watson replied.

‘Oh, very well,’ sighed the superintendent, ‘you’d better come in.’

She led the way into her office and seating herself behind her desk, looked across at Mrs Watson, her least favourite house-mother. Her least favourite, but, as Joe was always reminding her, her most efficient. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve come to give you my notice,’ Delia replied.

‘Your notice?’ Mrs Manton was startled. ‘What do you mean, “your notice”?’

‘Just what I say.’ Delia spoke calmly. ‘I’ve been offered another job, and I intend to accept.’

‘And what is this job?’ demanded Daphne. ‘Who would employ you? You have no qualifications.’

‘I only have to give you a week’s notice,’ Delia said, ignoring the superintendent’s rudeness, ‘and it starts today.’

Daphne Manton was extremely put out by this turn of events. She had already decided Mrs Watson should be the last house-mother to leave Laurel Farm, and now it was clear that Delia Watson had other plans. She glowered at her across the desk.

‘You must suit yourself,’ she said coldly. ‘I only hope you don’t live to regret it.’

‘I understand,’ Delia interposed, ‘there’s a small severance payment.’

‘There would be if we made you redundant,’ agreed Mrs Manton sourly. ‘But,’ her eyes gleamed with malice, ‘as you’re giving notice, that won’t apply.’

Delia was furious. She couldn’t afford to wait to be made redundant, she’d lose the job in Randwick. She had to seize this opportunity; it might be the only one. She had a little money saved out of her pittance as Larch’s house-mother; she’d have to live on that until she received her first pay cheque.

‘In that case,’ she returned, ‘I shall work out my notice and leave at the end of next week,’ and she stalked out of the office without another word.

That evening, as she supervised their tea, Delia looked at the eight girls still living in Larch as they sat round the table and knew a feeling of guilt. She was leaving, escaping from the miserable institution that was Laurel Farm, while these poor children were forced to stay here at the mercy of Daphne Manton. Since Daisy had gone, Rita had lost her spark. She clearly missed Daisy dreadfully. The two girls had been inseparable, each keeping the other afloat in the muddy waters of Laurel Farm. Delia hadn’t seen Rita as quiet as this for months. When Rosie had been taken, when her grandmother had died, each time Rita’d withdrawn into herself, but with Daisy staunchly beside her, her natural courage and determination had reasserted itself and she had gradually re-emerged and settled back into the familiar, if strict routine of Laurel Farm.

Delia had done her job as the ‘Watchdog’, and watched over all her charges, but particularly over Rita. She admired the girl’s courage. She encouraged her to work hard at school. A decent education would be a stepping stone out of the mire of an EVER-Care home to a much happier life.

‘If you go on working as you are now,’ Delia had told Rita, ‘you’ll pass your exams with flying colours and you’ll have lots of opportunities when you leave school.’

How will they all manage without me? Delia wondered as she watched them eating their tea. But in truth Rita was her particular concern.

I could always take her with me.

Where had that thought sprung from? As an idea it seemed to burst, fully formed, into her mind. Could I? Could I really take responsibility for her for the next seven years? Why not? You’ve got a job to go to and a house to live in. The Manton woman doesn’t want her here. The idea of leaving this dreadful place, taking Rita with her, filled Delia with a peculiar sort of exhilaration. What a commitment to take on, the fostering of a child; but not impossible given that she already loved that child. She’d never thought she could love another child since the death of her own son, but now she discovered Rita had crept, almost unnoticed, into her heart. Surely Rita’d want to go anywhere that took her away from Laurel Farm. But, Delia knew that she couldn’t ask her. If she so much as hinted at the possibility and then was unable to carry it through, poor Rita would have to cope with yet more disillusionment, another desertion, another apparent rejection. No, Delia decided, if she was going to do this, she must do it, officially, through Mrs Manton.

That night she lay in bed thinking of the obstacles Mrs Manton would surely put in her way. Children were only to be fostered by couples or families. It would be better for Rita… when had she ever cared about Rita?… to be brought up in an environment she was used to, with other children around her. Delia wouldn’t be able to support her on the wages she was to receive.

Delia found an answer for each difficulty. No couple or family had come forward to give Rita a home. She, Delia Watson, was doing so now. The child needed somewhere to go when Laurel Farm finally closed, and Delia was offering that somewhere. She was offering Rita a proper home and somehow they would manage on her money.

‘And,’ Delia spoke the words out loud, ‘there is no possibility that I shall fail. I will not allow that child to be brought low again.’

Next morning when the girls had gone to school, she marched back into the superintendent’s office.

‘I’d like another word with you, Mrs Manton,’ she said without preamble.

Mrs Manton looked up from the letter she was writing, startled at the intrusion. ‘Second thoughts, I suppose,’ she said tersely. She’d wondered if Mrs Watson might have them when she heard there would be no severance money. She had already decided not to accept a change of heart; she and Joe would keep the severance pay.

‘No,’ snapped Delia, ‘certainly not. I shall be gone by the end of next week, and I shall be taking Rita Stevens with me.’

‘Taking Rita Stevens?’ echoed Daphne Manton, incredulously. ‘Taking Rita Stevens where?’

‘I shall take her to live with me in Sydney.’ Delia had finally decided in the early hours of the morning that the way to handle this was to state her intention rather than ask permission. So, she spoke calmly but firmly. ‘I have a job to go to and a place to live. Rita needs a home and I intend to provide her with one.’

‘You can’t just—’ began the superintendent.

‘I can and I will,’ declared Delia. ‘We shall both leave Laurel Farm at the end of next week, and you need never think of either of us again. EVER-Care will have discharged its responsibility towards the child by ensuring her a loving home to go to, and I will provide that loving home.’

‘The state authorities may have something to say about this,’ said Mrs Manton sourly.

‘If you handle this properly, the state authorities will be delighted to have one less child on their books,’ replied Delia. ‘All I require is for you to sign the requisite forms, entrusting Rita to me as her foster mother. Of course she’ll be a ward of state, but I’ll be her day to day guardian. You’ve already done this for at least four other children. There is absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t do the same for Rita.’

‘And if it all goes wrong?’

‘It won’t,’ said Delia. ‘I won’t let it.’

The two women regarded each other for a long moment, then Daphne Manton shrugged. ‘If you really want her, take her,’ she said dismissively. ‘Let’s hope you’re not making a big mistake. I will not take her back.’

‘I have no intention of sending her back.’

‘Have you talked to Rita about this?’

‘No, not yet,’ admitted Delia.

‘Supposing she doesn’t want to go with you. Have you thought of that?’

‘Of course I have,’ returned Delia. ‘It’ll be her decision, but let’s face it, Mrs Manton, what child in her right mind wouldn’t want to get out of this hell-hole?’

For a moment Delia thought she’d said too much. Daphne Manton’s pinched face took on a vicious look, the twin spots of colour reappearing on her cheeks. This time, however, Delia did not smile; her own eyes met and held the superintendent’s, challenging and defiant… and the battle had been won.

When Rita came home from school that afternoon, she was on her way out to work in the farm garden with the other girls, but Delia called her aside.

‘Rita,’ she’d said when they were safe from inquisitive ears, ‘can you keep a secret?’

‘Yes, miss,’ Rita answered, round-eyed. ‘What secret?’

‘I’m leaving Laurel Farm next week,’ began Delia and as the colour drained from Rita’s face, she hurried on, ‘and I’m taking you with me.’

Rita stared at her. ‘Me, miss? But where are we going?’

‘Sydney,’ replied Delia. ‘We’re going to live in Sydney.’

‘Live in Sydney?’ repeated the child. ‘For a holiday, miss? When are we coming back?’

‘Never!’ answered Delia firmly. ‘Never, never, never.’

Rita gazed at her in silence, and Delia went on, ‘I’ve got a new job and a little house to live in, and I thought you might like to come and live in it with me.’

‘Just me, miss? What about the others?’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t room for the others,’ explained Delia, ‘so it’ll be just us, you and me. Would you like that, Rita?’

The colour had flooded back into the little girl’s cheeks and her eyes sparkled. ‘You mean it, miss?’ she breathed, not daring to believe. ‘You really mean it?’

‘I really mean it,’ Delia assured her. ‘I’ll be working at a nursery, and you’ll go to a new school.’

‘And never come back here?’

‘Never, I promise you.’

Rita’s reaction had brought tears to Delia’s eyes and she swore then that she would never, never let her new daughter down.

They had left Laurel Farm, as arranged, at the end of the following week, carrying all their worldly possessions in two suitcases. Delia had retrieved the rose-patterned dress from the common clothes cupboard and tucked it into her own suitcase. Apart from Rita’s picture of her father, the letter from her grandmother and an extremely battered-looking Knitty, Delia knew it was the only link Rita had with her life in England.

On the day they were leaving, Delia went to the office to collect the necessary paperwork, checking the forms carefully to ensure that they were correct.

‘Thank you for sorting this out,’ she said, managing to smile at her ex-boss. ‘But there is just one more thing I wanted to ask you before we go.’

Daphne Manton raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

‘Please will you give me the name and address of the couple who adopted Rosie, Rita’s little sister?’

‘No,’ answered Mrs Manton. ‘I will not.’

‘But surely it can do no harm now?’ pleaded Delia. ‘Just to know the name, so that maybe, one day, Rita can find her.’

‘She is nothing to do with Rita,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘All Rita has now is you, and I wish her joy of you.’

‘I don’t know how you can live with yourself, Daphne Manton,’ exploded Delia. ‘I don’t know how you can face yourself in the mirror. You’re a callous, cruel, mean-minded old woman, and I hope you rot in hell!’ And leaving Daphne Manton spluttering with rage, Delia stalked out of the door.

Daisy Smart jumped off the bus and walked the last two blocks to the hostel where she had a room. She had just spent the day with Rita, who now lived with Mrs Watson in Randwick. Daisy thought Rita extremely lucky to be living in a proper home, but she didn’t begrudge her luck. Somehow, Daisy felt, it was due to her. Rita had always had more courage than Daisy, to stand up for herself and Rosie. Since Rosie had been adopted, Daisy and Rita had become inseparable, until Laurel Farm closed and Daisy was sent to a children’s home outside Sydney. Even then Rita had not abandoned her friend. As soon as she and Mrs Watson moved into the little house in Randwick, she’d insisted that they visit Daisy and take her out for the day.

‘I wish she could come and live with us,’ she said, pleading in her voice.

‘I know you do, darling,’ Delia Watson replied, ‘but not only do we not have enough room for her,’ she raised a hand to cut off Rita’s protest that she and Daisy could share the tiny bedroom that was hers, ‘but I really can’t afford to keep her. You know how careful we have to be with our money.’

Rita did know and sadly, she let her protest lapse. She knew how incredibly lucky she was to have a legal foster mother to live with instead of being moved to yet another children’s home like poor Daisy.

‘I know, Deeley,’ she sighed, ‘but I feel so sorry for poor Dais stuck in that awful place.’

The day they walked out of Laurel Farm, Delia had taken Rita’s hand and said, ‘Since you are now officially my foster daughter, I don’t think you can call me Mrs Watson any more, do you?’

Rita looked at her in surprise. ‘What shall I call you then? We used to call you the Watchdog, Dais and me.’

Delia laughed. ‘I know you did, but I don’t think you can call me that either. My name is Delia. I know you won’t want to call me Mum or Mother, but what about Aunt Delia?’

‘Aunt Deeley,’ repeated Rita, tripping over the unfamiliar name.

‘Deeley,’ cried Delia. ‘I like that. Call me Deeley.’

Rita had been enrolled in the local school as Rita Stevens, but she was proud to be known as Deeley’s daughter.

Once a month on a Saturday, they took the train together and rescued Daisy from the grim institution where she lived. They took a picnic and went to the beach, played in the woods or went to the cinema. When Rita turned thirteen, Deeley let her go by herself and despite their different circumstances the two girls remained firm friends. At fifteen Daisy left school. She had to stay in the home until she was sixteen, but with more freedom and a little cash of her own in her pocket.

Rita stayed on at school until she graduated and was able to go to teacher training college, but they continued to meet on Saturdays.

As soon as she was allowed to, Daisy left the home and moved into Sydney.

‘Where will you live?’ Rita asked when Daisy told her of her plans.

Daisy shrugged. ‘Dunno, I’ll find somewhere. An ’ostel or somefink.’

She found a room in a girls’ hostel in Kings Cross.

‘Not a very salubrious area,’ Deeley remarked doubtfully when she heard.

‘It’s all she can afford,’ Rita pointed out. ‘And at least she can come and go as she likes. She’s got a new job at Woolworths, so she’s got her own money.’ Which is more than I have, she added silently. Rita didn’t envy Daisy her new freedom, it had been long enough coming, but she did envy her the small wages she took home each week. Deeley’s tiny income was stretched to the limit to allow Rita to stay on at school rather than get a job and bring in a regular wage, as Rita suggested she should.

‘No,’ Delia insisted, ‘it is most important you stay on. Education is everything.’

So Rita stayed on, passed her exams and went to college, and occasionally as she sat on the bus and looked out at the bustling streets of the city, at the crowds who thronged the pavements and crushed themselves into buses on their way to and from work, she would think about Rosie and wonder what had become of her. She must be out there somewhere, Rita thought despondently. I could pass her in the street and never know it.

Delia told her that she’d tried to get the name of Rosie’s adoptive parents from Daphne Manton. ‘I’m sorry,’ Delia said, ‘but she refused point blank to tell me their name, let alone their address.’

‘Oh, I know their name,’ Rita replied, ‘it’s Waters.’

Delia stared at her in amazement. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘Mrs Manton called him Mr Waters.’

‘And you’ve remembered all this time?’

‘I wrote it in my journal,’ Rita said, and she went and found the old exercise book that had been her first diary, and showed Delia what she’d written.

Today Rosie was took away to be adopted by some people called Mr and Mrs Waters. I wasn’t let say goodbye proply and Rosie was screaming becos she didn’t want to go, but they pushed her into a car and drove away. When I’m grown up I’m going to find Rosie and rescue her from them.

After that, without telling Rita, Delia had searched for Mr and Mrs Waters, but could find no trace of them. Eventually, when she had finally given up, she told Rita what she’d been doing. ‘I’m afraid they could be anywhere,’ Delia said. ‘Australia is so big, I don’t think we’ll ever find her now.’

Rita hugged her tightly. ‘I know I’ve lost her,’ she said. ‘And I think we have to accept that, but thank you, dearest Deeley, for trying to find her for me.’ She sighed. ‘She’d be quite different from the Rosie I remember, anyway, wouldn’t she? But thank you, thank you for looking.’

‘We’ll never find Rosie now,’ Rita had confided to Daisy one day as they sat in Centennial Park, sharing the sandwiches and bottle of ginger beer Daisy had brought with her from Woolworths. ‘Deeley’s done all she can, but we can’t find Rosie anywhere.’

‘You need a private dick,’ Daisy said.

‘Oh yeah?’ laughed Rita. ‘An’ where we going to find the money to pay one?’

Daisy shrugged. ‘I dunno, do I? Maybe when you’ve finished all this college stuff and get yourself a job.’

‘Well, I sold another story the other day, so maybe when I’m a rich and famous author I’ll hire one then.’

Daisy laughed at that. ‘You and your writing,’ she teased. ‘I meant a proper job.’

36

Jean lay, rigid, on her bed and listened as the key turned in the lock. As always, Dad was locking her in after his evening visit. She heard him go downstairs, but she didn’t move. She heard her mother come in from her church meeting, but still Jean didn’t move. It wasn’t until she heard them come up the stairs together, go into the front bedroom and shut the door, that she slowly sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She could feel the stickiness between her legs, she knew the smell of him, on her body and lingering in the room.

She crossed to the chest of drawers and pouring water from the jug into the bowl that stood beside it, she took her flannel and scrubbed herself violently between her legs, across her stomach, round her breasts. As always she cleaned her teeth, brushing the taste of him from her mouth. It was what she always did, but tonight it was different. Tonight would be the very last time. Tonight she would leave this horrible house once and for all. She had made her plans over the last couple of months and now it was time to carry them out.

Her adoptive father had been a regular visitor to her bedroom for nearly ten years. At first he had only wanted to cuddle her, to kiss her, to have her fondle him, and if she did not he simply put her over his knee and spanked her. She was terrified of him, but her fear seemed to excite him. As she began to comply with his desires, he found he needed to become more violent, simply to see the fear in her eyes, her fear increasing his arousal.

On one occasion he made a mistake and she was left with a black eye. It was clearly visible in the morning, and Edna said, ‘Poor Jean, you’ve bumped you eye. I thought I heard you fall down the stairs. You must be more careful, darling.’

Gerald had threatened Jean that if she said anything to Edna about his visits to her room, she would be sorry. ‘It’s our little secret, Jeannie,’ he soothed after one of his more brutal visits. ‘Very private. If you say a word to anyone, even your mother, I’ll have to punish you. You do realize that, don’t you, little girl?’ He was gripping her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him.

Terrified, Jean nodded, and he had smiled his crocodile smile and said, ‘That’s a good girl.’

But when Edna commented on her black eye, Jean burst out, ‘I didn’t fall down stairs, Mum, Dad hit me.’

Edna looked amazed. ‘Dad did? He’d never hit you.’

‘He does,’ Jean insisted, ‘when he comes into my bedroom and makes me do things.’

‘He doesn’t come into your bedroom,’ exploded Edna. ‘He doesn’t make you do anything. You’re a wicked, wicked girl to say such things about your father.’

At that moment the door opened and Gerald walked in. ‘What’s this?’ he began, jovial as he always was when they were all three together. ‘What’s my little girl been saying about me?’

‘She’s got a bruise on her face,’ Edna said. ‘She says you came to her room and hit her.’

‘She what?’ Gerald’s joviality fell away. ‘Says I hit her?’

‘She says you came to her room, made her do something, and hit her,’ repeated Edna.

‘And you believed her?’ Gerald was incredulous.

‘No, of course not,’ said his wife. ‘She’s a very naughty girl to tell such lies.’

‘She certainly is.’ Gerald took hold of Jean’s wrist and pulling her out of the room, dragged her back upstairs. Once inside he locked the door and took off his belt.

After that, however, though the bedroom visits continued, he was more careful and there were seldom marks which couldn’t be explained away at school. His final warning, as he returned his belt to his trousers, had been, ‘If you tell lies like this at school, I’ll beat you till you beg for mercy. Understand?’ And Jean, sobbing with pain and fear, had nodded, so that he turned away satisfied. ‘You’re not going to school today,’ he said. ‘It’s better, as you’ve had a fall down the stairs, that you spend the day quietly here, just so we’re sure you haven’t hurt yourself too badly. I’ll phone the school and explain that you’ll be back on Monday.’

Now, aged nearly fifteen, Jean was going to escape. Over the previous months she had been collecting money. She wasn’t given pocket money as such, just the occasional sixpence or shilling, perhaps to be sure she had no cash, but she set about acquiring more and wasn’t too fussy where it came from. Often she raided Edna’s purse, taking a few coins here and there, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed. At school she went through the pockets of coats hanging up in the cloakroom, classroom desks, collecting odd pennies and shillings. Never taking all she found, though thieving was suspected, she’d never been caught and the coins joined her stash in an old flowerpot in the garden shed. She was certain Edna would’ve found it if she’d hidden it in her bedroom. One Sunday she was given a whole pound by a visitor to the church after she’d told him the history of the building. He had folded her hand round the note and said softly, ‘Put that in your money box.’ He gave her a wink and said, ‘Our secret.’ The familiar words chilled her, but she managed to smile and the pound joined the coins in the flowerpot.

Recently, on a day when Edna was out when Jean got home from school, she took her chance to pack some things into her old suitcase. With her ears cocked to hear the sound of the front door, she pulled it out from under the bed where it had been ever since she arrived. Opening it she found a childish frock lying in the bottom. She remembered that Edna had particularly disliked the dress, and Jean had for some reason loved it and had hidden it. She’d forgotten all about it over the years, but now here it was again. She knew it was special, but couldn’t quite remember why. Had she brought it with her when she was adopted? Yes, probably that was it, indeed that was probably why Edna didn’t like it. She shook it out, about to chuck it into a corner when she suddenly changed her mind and refolding it, placed it in the bottom of the case. Carefully she chose a few of her clothes that she thought would not be missed. She had no idea when she would be able to leave, but knew it must be soon. To the case she added some biscuits and a bottle of Edna’s sleeping tablets. She had stolen these some months ago to take after Gerald’s visits, helping her drift into deep sleep and fend off the nightmares which haunted her. Once the case was packed she took it out into the yard and hid it under the shed. Now she was ready to go the moment the opportunity presented itself.

Two nights later that opportunity came. Edna was out and Gerald appeared in her room as he always did on such occasions. He still maintained the pretence that Edna didn’t know what he was doing, what he was subjecting their adopted daughter to. As always Jean bore with his attentions, but thought with a jolt of angry triumph as he locked the door behind him, That’s the very last time he’ll do that to me.

Now all was quiet, she dressed quickly, pulling on slacks, a blouse, two jerseys for warmth and a light rain jacket.

She listened again at her door, but the house was silent, and sure that both parents must now be asleep, Jean opened the tiny window and peered out into the night. There was fitful moonlight as clouds drifted across the face of a quarter moon; enough to see without, she hoped, being seen. She hoisted herself up onto the sill and squeezed through. Gripping the opening, she lowered herself first onto the flat scullery roof below and then dropped down into the garden. The noise of her descent sounded very loud to her ears, and the moment she was on the ground she scurried to the shelter of the shed. She glanced back up at her window, but there was no sudden light in her bedroom, no light anywhere in the house, so taking her courage in both hands, she stuffed the money from the flowerpot into her pocket, picked up her case and slipped out onto the road. A quick glance up at her parents’ bedroom window assured her that it remained dark, and she set off down the street. Most of the houses were in darkness, and by staying in the shadows Jean hoped to escape any inquisitive eyes. Moments later she was out of her own street and cutting through another towards the centre of the town. She’d looked up train times to Sydney, for she’d decided she must disappear into the anonymity of the city, and knew the first train was at 4.30 a.m. She could only hope that Gerald didn’t discover her flight before that and follow her to the station.

She hid in the domain across the road until the station clock showed 4.20, then she picked up her case and walked across the road. When she presented herself at the ticket office, the clerk looked at her in surprise.

‘You’re an early bird,’ he said.

Prepared for such a remark, Jean said, ‘Yes, got a job interview in Sydney. Exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Job, is it?’ said the man as he took her money and gave her the ticket. ‘Good luck to you, then.’

There were several others on the platform awaiting the early train, but they paid no attention to her, and when the train came into the station Jean hurried to board. Once inside the carriage she kept her head down; she was still terrified that Gerald might appear at the last minute and haul her off the train. But he did not. The whistle blew and the train drew out of the station, heading for Sydney.

When Jean alighted at Sydney Central Station, she was immediately engulfed in the crowds that thronged its concourse. People hurrying in every direction on their way to work pushed past those who stood looking at timetables, or ambled along at a more leisurely pace.

Determined to put as much distance between her and any pursuit as possible, Jean emerged from the station, case in hand, and started to walk. She trudged along the streets, turning down side roads and keeping away from the main thoroughfares. Now she had made the break and she was actually in Sydney, she had no idea where to go or what to do. Her planning had stopped at the actual escape, perhaps because she’d not really thought she would succeed. At length she stopped at a coffee bar and bought herself a sandwich and a cup of tea. As she sat at a metal-topped table in the corner, she looked out at the busy streets beyond. The first thing to do, she decided, was to find somewhere to sleep. She took her money from her pocket and looked at it. Five pounds and a few pence left. She took her time eating her ham sandwich and drinking her tea, but the place was filling up and eventually she had to leave. Further along the road she saw an information office and went inside. The woman behind the counter provided her with a map and when Jean asked her where she might find a cheap hostel, she tutted a little saying, ‘You shouldn’t be on your own, duck.’

‘Just for a night or two,’ Jean said quickly, ‘then my parents will be here.’

The woman looked at her askance, but she wrote down the names of two women-only hostels and marked them on the map. As she left the office, Jean looked back and saw the woman reaching for the telephone, and certain that she was reporting her to someone, she hurried away. She spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the town. The woman had told her that hostels weren’t generally open during the day, and it was near to six o’clock when she finally risked going to one of those marked on her map. The door was opened by a woman dressed in a housecoat, a cigarette hanging from her lip who, in answer to her query, said, ‘No, nothing here. You might try Lawsons, in Flint Street, Kings Cross.’

Jean thanked her. Lawsons was the other one marked on her map. She trudged the extra mile to Flint Street, only to be met with the same answer. ‘No rooms free here. Sorry.’

‘Can you suggest anywhere else?’ she asked wearily.

The woman considered for a moment and then said, ‘Marks House, two streets over. They might have something.’ Jean thanked her and crossed the road.

Marks House was a decrepit-looking building and she paused outside, unwilling to go in. She knew she had to find somewhere, but the grubby windows and the peeling paint made her hesitate. Just then a young woman came up behind her and started up the steps to the front door.

‘Excuse me,’ Jean called, ‘do you live here?’

The woman turned round and looked down at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘you talking to me?’

Jean nodded. ‘I just wondered if you lived here.’

‘Yup,’ replied the woman, ‘’fraid so.’

‘Do you think they might have a room free?’ asked Jean.

The woman thought for a moment and then said, ‘Actually you might be in luck. I think someone moved out a couple of days ago. Want me to go and ask?’

Jean stepped forward, still clutching her suitcase. ‘Would you?’

‘Sure,’ came the reply. ‘Wait a mo.’ She pushed her way through the door and minutes later came back, beaming. ‘You’re in luck. Come on in.’

Jean hurried up the steps and went inside. In the hallway beside the young woman was another, older, woman.

‘This is Mrs Glazer, our warden,’ the young woman said. ‘She does have one room free.’

‘Name?’ said Mrs Glazer, giving Jean a penetrating look.

‘Jean.’ She hesitated a fraction of a second before adding, ‘Smith.’ She’d so nearly said Waters.

‘Well, Miss… Smith,’ she, too, lingered on the name, ‘thirty bob a week… in advance.’

Jean took out her money and counted out the thirty shillings.

‘She’ll have Miss Crawford’s old room, Miss Smart. Will you take her up?’

Taking her acquiescence for granted, Mrs Glazer handed her a key and disappeared through the door to her own quarters.

‘Typical!’ grinned Miss Smart. ‘Lazy Glazy don’t do anyfink she can pass on to someone else.’ She looked at the thin girl waiting beside her, her fair hair lank, her face pale with a wary expression in her dull blue eyes. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘My name’s Daisy,’ she added, as she led them up the stairs. ‘My room’s just across the landing from yours.’

When they reached the second floor Daisy unlocked a door and Jean followed her into the pokey room.

‘It ain’t too bad,’ Daisy said. ‘None of these rooms is much cop, but at least you can shut the door and call it your own.’

Jean looked round the room. It certainly wasn’t much of a place, but it had a bed and a chest of drawers and to her it was a refuge. Most importantly, it had a lock.

‘Thanks,’ she said and dumped her case on the floor.

‘I’m just across the landing,’ Daisy said, ‘if you want anyfink. Kitchenette’s just down the passage and the bathroom is one floor down.’

Jean simply nodded and said, ‘Thanks.’

‘You got any food with you?’

‘Not hungry,’ Jean said, not meeting her eye.

‘OK,’ shrugged Daisy and crossing the landing to her own room, she left her to it.

As soon as Daisy disappeared, Jean shut and locked her door. For the first time since she had climbed out of her bedroom window, she felt safe from pursuit. Even if Gerald Waters chased her to Sydney he’d surely never find her in the myriad of streets and houses. Daisy’d asked if she had food, and she realized that she had had nothing to eat since her sandwich hours ago, and had nothing except the few biscuits in her case until she could go out and find something in the morning. Still she didn’t care; hungry or not she wasn’t going to venture out into the darkening streets again. She put her case onto the bed and unpacked the few things she’d brought with her.

As she was eating her biscuits, there came a knock at her door, followed by Daisy’s voice, ‘Jean?’

Jean didn’t answer and Daisy knocked again. ‘Jean? You hungry?’

‘No.’ Jean’s reply came loud and clear offering no further opening for conversation. She had no intention of getting to know anyone else who lived in this house. She wanted to keep herself entirely to herself, leaving no trail for Gerald to follow.

‘OK, suit yourself,’ Daisy called, and Jean heard her go along the landing to the tiny communal kitchen.

Maybe she’s just being kind, Jean thought. But kind or not, Jean would trust nobody, certainly nobody she’d only met a few minutes earlier.

In the kitchen, as she heated up baked beans and made toast for her own supper, Daisy thought about the new girl. There’s something odd about her, she decided. Her name was probably Jean, but whether it was Jean Smith, that was another matter. Looks pretty down, thought Daisy. Wonder where she’s come from.

Over the next few days Jean saw nothing of Daisy. She heard her leave for work in the mornings, and though Mrs Glazer didn’t allow anyone to remain in the hostel during the day and Jean had to be out by 8.30, she was usually back before Daisy in the evening.

The following week Jean had to find another thirty shillings. Her money had dwindled to almost nothing and she was desperate to earn some somehow. All week she’d been trying to get a job, but she could find nothing. No one wanted to employ a young girl with no experience and no qualifications. She was getting desperate, for she knew that if she didn’t find the rent for her room Mrs Glazer wouldn’t hesitate to turf her out onto the street.

She was walking home later than usual, through the backstreets of Kings Cross, when a man suddenly materialized out of a doorway and grabbing her by the wrist hissed, ‘How much?’

Jean froze. The man smelled of Gerald. ‘What… what d’you mean?’ she faltered.

‘What d’you think I mean?’ growled the man, still gripping her wrist. He jerked his head at the dark doorway. ‘Quick plunge, eh? I’ll give you a pound.’

A pound. It would save her from being chucked out by Mrs Glazer. Jean realized bitterly that she wouldn’t be doing anything she hadn’t done, or been doing for years, only this time she’d get paid for it.

‘Show me the pound,’ she said, and the man laughed.

‘You’re a one,’ he said as he pulled her into the doorway.

It was all over very quickly, and as the man zipped his fly he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the promised pound. ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘Same time next week.’

‘What!’ Jean grabbed the pound note, hitching up her knickers as she did.

‘I’ll be round here same time next week,’ said the man. ‘Another pound, doll, if you’re here too.’

‘You make it sound like a dentist’s appointment,’ Jean said, edging away.

The man gave a shout of laughter. ‘Better than the dentist!’ And with these words he disappeared into the darkness.

It was two weeks later that disaster struck. Her punter had come back the next week, and though she knew she was stupid but in desperate need of money, Jean went back and earned another pound.

‘When I come next week,’ he said as if it were a regular arrangement between them, ‘I know a place we can go; do it properly, not just a quick knee-trembler.’ He cocked an eye at her as she snatched the pound from his hand. ‘Pay you more, too,’ he said, and as before he melted into the dark even as she was still adjusting her clothes.

So she went again, and when they met he took her hand and led her along the road, just as if they were friends out for a stroll. Jean, tense as a bowstring when they met, began to relax. It’s easy money, she thought. Isn’t as if I don’t know what to do.

They turned into a narrow street and walked to the far end where a light shone above a door. The man took a key from his pocket and opening the door, pushed Jean inside.

‘Upstairs,’ he said, and Jean, beginning to realize just how stupid she had been to leave the safety of the open street, stumbled up the steep staircase ahead of him. At the top was another door, and when he opened it and shoved her into the room, she was confronted by three men, all of them eyeing her eagerly.

‘You was right, Clive,’ one said as he reached forward and ran a hand down Jean’s leg. ‘She is a young’un. Just as I like ’em.’

Jean flinched away and turned for the door, but Clive was barring the way.

‘Now then, doll,’ he said, ‘don’t be like that. You done it with me. Now my friends want a turn.’

They all laughed, and Clive said, ‘You first, Jerry.’

He propelled Jean into the arms of a man with ginger hair that stuck up round his head like a bottlebrush. She could smell the alcohol, the stale sweat and his putrid breath as he began to pull at her clothes. Jean screamed and he gave her a backhander across her face, before pulling her down onto a bed in the corner.

When they had all finished, Clive, the last to take his turn, gave her a shove towards the door. ‘Beat it,’ he said, ‘I can see Jerry’s up for it again.’

Clutching her clothes, Jean staggered to the door and almost fell down the stairs. She had coped with the rape as she had always coped with Gerald, closing her mind, leaving her body to the abuse it was suffering, but now it was over she was shaking with terror. When she reached the street she stumbled through the darkness towards the lights of the broader thoroughfare beyond. Twice she tripped and fell on the muddy cobbles, grazing her hands and bruising her knees, and by the time she reached the hostel she had tears streaming down her face, and knew she couldn’t face Mrs Glazer in such a dreadful state. She didn’t climb the steps to the front door, but slipped into the alley that ran down one side of the building and sat curled up against the wall sobbing, and that was how Daisy found her half an hour later. Daisy had been to the flicks and was coming home when she heard the sobs. Pausing on the corner, she peered into the darkness and called softly, ‘Anyone there?’ No one answered but there was a scuffling in the deep shadows, where the light from the street couldn’t penetrate.

Daisy flicked on the torch she always carried in her bag and directed its beam into the alley. There she saw a crumpled figure, a hand shielding her eyes from the light. For a moment Daisy didn’t recognize her, but there was something familiar about the cowering shape and she said, ‘Jean? Is that you?’

There was another sob and Daisy hurried to kneel beside her. The beam of the torch picked out the cuts and bruises on Jean’s grimy face, a swelling black eye, a gash across the back of her hand.

‘Jean!’ Daisy exclaimed in horror. ‘Whatever happened? Who did this to you?’

Jean didn’t answer, but tears streamed down her face as she heard the kindness and concern in Daisy’s voice.

‘Right,’ said Daisy, taking charge. ‘Let’s get you indoors.’ She helped Jean to her feet and supported her as they walked up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in, Daisy called out, ‘Only me, Mrs Glazer, Daisy. Goodnight.’

As she’d hoped, Lazy’s door stayed closed and they were able to get up to Jean’s room unseen. Once inside Daisy closed and locked the door.

Leading Jean to the bed, she said, ‘Lie down and I’ll get some water to clean you up.’

It took a while. Daisy carefully wiped away the blood, mud and grit, bathing the grazes on Jean’s cheeks and hands, pressing a cold towel gently against the swelling eye. Then she made a cup of tea, ladled sugar into it and, placing it into Jean’s hands, said, ‘So what happened, Jean? Who done this to you?’

Jean, now propped up on her bed, looked at her warily for a minute or two and didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Jean,’ Daisy urged. ‘You can tell me. I ain’t going to dob you in, am I?’

‘Dunno,’ murmured Jean.

‘Well, I ain’t,’ said Daisy stoutly, ‘so come on, tell.’

‘There was a man,’ began Jean, ‘and I…’ She hesitated and then shrugged as if to say what did it matter anyway.

‘And you went with him for money,’ supplied Daisy.

Jean nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I hadn’t got the money for my room. Mrs Glazer’ll turn me out.’

‘So you sold yourself for this poxy little room,’ Daisy said flatly.

‘Why not?’ demanded Jean with a spark of defiance in the eyes. ‘Why not? I done it before. I know what to do. Christ, I been doing it for years!’

‘Doing it for years?’ echoed Daisy faintly. ‘How old are you, Jean?’

‘Nineteen,’ replied Jean.

‘Pull the other one,’ scoffed Daisy. ‘Fourteen, more like!’

‘Fifteen,’ admitted Jean sullenly.

‘OK, fifteen,’ agreed Daisy, knowing this was, at least, closer to the truth. ‘So how come you been doing it for years, for Christ’s sake?’

Jean took a gulp of the hot, sweet tea and a touch of colour came back into her cheeks.

‘My dad,’ she replied.

‘Your dad? You been fucking your dad?’

‘No,’ said Jean fiercely, ‘he’s been fucking me. Ever since I was a little girl.’

‘But what about your mum?’ demanded Daisy. ‘I mean, didn’t you tell her?’

‘Course I told her,’ snapped Jean, ‘but she called me a liar and slapped my face. ‘

Daisy took Jean’s hand. ‘Tell me.’ So Jean told her, of her life with the Waters and her final escape.

‘So you’re on the run,’ said Daisy. ‘I thought you might be.’

‘Yeah, well, my money’s gone,’ Jean said, ‘so I thought I’d make some more. Done it a couple of times and it was OK. Enough money for my room and some food.’ She spoke defiantly, but Daisy ignored what she’d said.

‘Won’t they be looking for you?’ she asked. ‘Your mum and dad?’

‘Maybe,’ said Jean, ‘but if I keep my head down I’ll be OK. If they do find me,’ she added defiantly, ‘I won’t go back. Not ever. I’d rather kill myself than go back there. If they find me I shall tell the police what the bastard’s been doing to me… fucking his own daughter for the last ten years! But I won’t go back, I swear it.’

‘No,’ said Daisy gently, accepting as true what Jean had told her, ‘course you won’t.’

Silence lapsed round them as Jean finished her tea, and Daisy tried to get her head round what she’d just heard.

In the end Daisy said, ‘So what happened tonight?’

‘Took me to a room,’ replied Jean bleakly. ‘There was four of them.’

‘You’re lucky they didn’t kill you, Jean.’

‘Am I?’ sighed Jean. ‘Not so sure of that myself.’

‘Well, you ain’t going back on the streets no more,’ Daisy said firmly.

‘All right for you to say that,’ snapped Jean. ‘You got a job to go to. I seen you go off every morning. And the other girls.’

‘Well, we’ll have to try and get you a job, an’ all,’ said Daisy. ‘You go back out on them streets, you’ll end up dead in a gutter.’

When Daisy went into work next day she approached her supervisor to ask if there were any jobs going.

‘Might be some part-time,’ her supervisor said. ‘Why?’

‘Know a girl what’s looking for a job, that’s all,’ replied Daisy casually.

‘Bring her in to see me,’ said her boss, ‘and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I’ll take you to see her when your face is better,’ Daisy promised Jean. ‘And in the meantime stay in. I’ll bring in food for the both of us. You just make sure old Lazy don’t see you with your face messed up. Steer clear of her, Jean. We ain’t meant to be here in the daytime, remember? So, stay in your room and stay quiet. OK?’

Jean promised, and all that week she stayed in her room. Daisy brought in food for both of them, and as they ate their meals Daisy told Jean a little about her own life.

‘Brought up in a kids’ home, me,’ she said. ‘Never had a proper home. Me mum dumped me on a doorstep and I ain’t a clue who me dad was. At least you know who your dad is.’

‘Yeah, well, Dad isn’t my real dad. I was adopted as a kid. Don’t remember much before that. Think I was on a ship.’

‘On a ship?’ Daisy looked at her sharply. ‘What sort of ship?’

‘Dunno, just a ship. Think there was lots of us kids.’

‘When? When was you on a ship?’

‘When I was a kid. Then I was adopted by these people, the Waters, and I went to live with them.’

Daisy’s mind was racing. She thought about Deeley’s and Rita’s fruitless search for Rosie and her adoptive parents. What had their name been? Daisy couldn’t remember.

‘You told Lazy that your name was Jean Smith,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m not stupid, am I?’ scoffed Jean. ‘I’m not going to tell her my real name, am I?’

‘But you’ve always been called Jean,’ Daisy said casually.

Jean shrugged. ‘Suppose so. I remember Mum telling me she’d always wanted a daughter called Jean.’

‘So, did she change your name to Jean, then? When you was adopted?’

Jean shrugged again. ‘Maybe. Christ, Daisy, I dunno. It’s all so long ago, what does it matter? I only have the haziest memory of any of it. Can you remember what happened when you were five?’

‘Some of it,’ answered Daisy. ‘My life was pretty much the same, always in a kids’ home. Except when we come to Australia. I come on a ship, too.’

‘Did you?’ Jean seemed uninterested. ‘Wonder if it was the same one?’

‘Doubt it,’ Daisy said. ‘There was lots of them.’

At the end of the week Daisy took Jean to Woolworths and she was offered a job as a cleaner, working in the evenings when the store had closed. To Jean it was marvellous. The anonymity of the work, hidden away until all the paying customers had gone, with a wage packet at the end of the week, was the security she’d dreamed of.

37

Jean settled into her work at the store and as she received each pay packet she handed her rent over to Mrs Glazer. She began to relax, feeling safe behind the locked door of her room. Surely Gerald Waters could never find her there. But she reckoned without Gerald’s determination to trace her.

Several weeks later she was walking home from work, and as she passed the police station at the end of the road, she saw a poster on a board outside which brought her up short.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

JEAN WATERS, MISSING FROM HOME.

REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Underneath was a photograph of her in her school uniform, and though it made her look much younger, it was undeniably her. In panic she hurried back to her room and locked herself in. She wanted to tell Daisy what she’d seen, but when she banged on Daisy’s door, she wasn’t there.

The knock on her own door came next morning when she was still in bed. Sleepily she went to the door and opened it a crack. Mrs Glazer stood on the landing and when the door opened she put her foot into the gap so Jean couldn’t close it again.

‘Mrs Glazer…’ began Jean.

‘Miss Smith,’ sneered Mrs Glazer, ‘or is it Miss Waters?’

‘What?’ Jean managed to look puzzled. ‘Who?’

‘You’re a runaway, Miss Jean Smith Waters,’ said Mrs Glazer. ‘You’re a runaway, and the police are looking for you.’

‘No,’ said Jean, though the truth showed in her face. ‘You’re wrong. My name’s Jean Smith.’

‘Not what it says on the poster,’ said Mrs Glazer, triumphantly. ‘Says you’re Jean Waters and you’re missing. There’s a reward, too!’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ Jean said, rallying. ‘Who’d offer a reward for me?’

‘That’s what we’ll find out, isn’t it,’ crowed Mrs Glazer. ‘Your poor parents maybe.’ And in one smooth movement she had shoved Jean backwards into the room and snatched the key from the inside of the door. ‘You’re going to stay there till the police come and have a look at you,’ she said and slamming the door, she locked it behind her.

Jean sank down on her bed, her head in her hands, tears of despair coursing down her cheeks. Mrs Glazer had seen the poster and recognized her. The police would recognize her, too, and Gerald and Edna would come and claim her, drag her back to the nightmare of her former life.

‘No,’ she shouted at the empty room. ‘I won’t go. I’d rather die.’

She tried banging on her door in the hope that Daisy or one of the other residents might come to see what the matter was, but Daisy and the other girls had all gone to work and wouldn’t be back until the evening, and by then, Jean knew, it would be too late.

She went to the window, wondering if she might get out that way. It was almost as small as the window through which she’d escaped from the Waters’ house, but even if she could squeeze through, she was on the third floor of the hostel and the drop to the pavement was thirty feet or more. She tried leaning out of the window and shouting, but her voice was lost in the sounds of the street below, and though one or two people did look up, no one paid any attention to her cries. She went to the door and rattled the handle, but there was no way it would open. She could see through the keyhole that Mrs Glazer had taken the key with her.

She flung herself back down on her bed as visions of Gerald’s face, smiling with anticipation, filled her mind. She buried her head in her pillow to blot him out, but his face was imprinted on her memory. She could hear his voice, chilly with contempt, saying, ‘You’ve been a very wicked girl. I’m going to have to punish you. Take your clothes off.’

Jean blocked her ears, but she could still hear his voice, hissing his intent. All her safety, so carefully achieved, was gone. The police would come, Gerald would come, and the nightmare would begin again.

I must do something, she thought, but what? Her mind spun as she tried to think of something, some means of escape. Perhaps when Daisy comes home… But that’ll be too late. There’s nothing I can do.

Despair flooded through her and she lay back on her bed and wept. ‘I won’t go back,’ she moaned, ‘I’ll never go back.’

She went yet again to the door, hammering on it with her fists, but there was no response. If Mrs Glazer could hear her she certainly didn’t change her mind and come back. With her hands bruised and aching Jean finally gave up and turned back into her room. It was then that the bottle of sleeping tablets she had stolen from Edna caught her eye. It stood beside the bowl and ewer on the chest of drawers. Occasionally Jean still took one of the tablets, as she had on the night she’d been beaten up, a night she needed to sleep dreamlessly and forget, for a few hours, what had happened to her. Now she picked up the bottle and looked at it. It was still more than half full. She had the means to do as she’d threatened, but did she have the courage? She shook it gently, a bottle of tablets that would be the ultimate escape from Gerald Waters, the ultimate escape from a life of abuse and misery that had brought her to this despair. Had she ever been happy? Jean couldn’t remember. All recollection of her early life had been blotted out by the misery of later years. The only connection she had with it was a rose-patterned dress, something she was sure came from happier days.

Gerald’s malevolent face floated before her again and with sudden determination Jean poured herself a glass of water and opening the pill bottle, began to cram the tablets into her mouth, gulping and swallowing, until she had consumed every one. Then she opened her little case stored under the bed, and pulled out the dress. ‘My gran made it.’ Somewhere from the depths of her mind, Jean knew she’d said this. When, she didn’t know, but the very thought of it comforted her and she clutched the dress to her as she drifted off to sleep. She’d had a gran and that gran had made her a beautiful dress with roses on it.

38

After hearing that Jean thought she’d come to Australia by ship, an incredible idea was beginning to grow in Daisy’s mind. Could Jean, by any miraculous chance, be Rosie? She didn’t want so much as to hint at it to Jean; not until she’d been to see Deeley, until she’d been told the name of Rosie’s adoptive parents. No word to Rita, either. Raising her hopes only to have them dashed again would be the ultimate cruelty. Studying her carefully, Daisy wondered if she could see the childlike face of Rosie in the gaunt and scared face of Jean. She had fair hair, though scraped off her face and lacklustre it had none of the youthful curls Rosie had had. Her eyes were blue, but shadowed with permanent fear, nothing like the bright, round eyes of the five-year-old Rosie.

I’m just trying to make what she’s told me turn her into Rosie, thought Daisy despondently. There must be hundreds of little girls who arrived on a ship and were adopted by Australian families.

So, she kept her thoughts to herself, deciding that the best thing to do would be to speak to Deeley in private.

On her next half day Daisy managed to get off work early and went to catch Deeley as she left the nursery.

‘Daisy!’ Delia greeted her in surprise. ‘Hallo! What brings you here?’

‘Need to talk to you, Mrs Watson. Private. Without Reet.’

‘Rita’s got a late lecture at college,’ said Delia. ‘We can go home.’

‘No,’ Daisy insisted. ‘She might come back early.’ She glanced along the street and seeing a tearoom further along, said, ‘Can we go there?’

Delia shrugged. ‘If you really want to, Daisy. What’s all this about?’

They ordered a pot of tea, and once it was poured, Delia looked expectantly at Daisy. ‘Well, Daisy. Come on, tell me.’

‘What was the names of them people what adopted Rosie?’

Delia looked at her sharply. ‘Waters. Why do you want to know?’

‘I think I may have found Rosie,’ Daisy said. She spoke calmly, trying to suppress her rising excitement when she heard the name.

‘You what?’

‘I think I may have found Rosie.’ And she told Delia all about Jean.

Delia listened in horrified silence until Daisy had finished. ‘And you think this could be Rosie?’

‘Dunno, Mrs Watson, but she said her new name was Jean Waters. I couldn’t remember the name of the people you’d been looking for, but…’

‘It’s the same,’ murmured Delia.

‘We can’t tell Reet, not till we’re sure,’ Daisy said, ‘so will you come and see her? Come and talk to her?’

‘Of course,’ Delia agreed at once, and picked up her bag. ‘I’ll come now. Is she at your hostel?’

‘I hope so,’ Daisy said. ‘She should be. She’ll go out to work, but not till later.’

They arrived at the hostel door to be greeted by Mrs Glazer.

‘Ah, Miss Smart,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think we’ve got a runaway upstairs.’

‘What?’ Daisy stared at her. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I think you know what I mean, Miss Smart,’ Mrs Glazer smirked. ‘I’m not green, Miss Smart. I’m not stupid. You’ve been hiding her, pretending not to know her when she first came here.’

‘I didn’t know her,’ protested Daisy.

‘So you say, but I know better. This is a respectable house, Miss Smart, and I won’t have runaway girls here.’

‘Why do you think she’s running away?’ asked Daisy, wondering if it was just a guess and Lazy was expecting her to confirm it.

‘There’s a poster with her picture on it outside the cop shop up the road. Looking for Jean Waters.’

‘But her name is Jean Smith,’ Daisy said.

‘She says her name is Jean Smith, but it’s her all right. When I went up and faced her with it, I could tell. So I told her I was calling the police,’ Mrs Glazer said righteously. ‘Her poor parents must be out of their minds with worry. I locked her in and I called the police.’

‘And what did they say?’ asked Daisy.

‘Said they’d come as soon as they could.’

‘And did they?’

‘Not yet, but I expect them anytime.’ Suddenly aware of Delia standing behind Daisy, she said, ‘And who’s this, may I ask?’

‘A friend…’ began Daisy.

‘Friends of any sort must be out by nine o’clock,’ sniffed Mrs Glazer. ‘And if I find you’ve been hiding a runaway child, Miss Smart, you’ll have to go, too.’ With this parting shot, Mrs Glazer retired to her own quarters to await the police, leaving Daisy and Delia to hurry upstairs to Jean’s room.

Daisy banged on the door. ‘Jean! It’s me, Daisy. Can you hear me? Jean? It’s Daisy.’ She tried the door, but as Mrs Glazer had said, it was locked. Daisy called again, banging on the door with her fists, but there was no response.

‘What do we do now?’ Daisy turned to Delia in despair.

‘We go and demand the key,’ Delia said.

‘We can try, but she won’t give it us,’ Daisy said, ‘she’s a real mean bitch.’

‘Can but try,’ Delia said.

‘Perhaps mine’ll fit,’ Daisy suggested, taking out her key. It fitted the keyhole, but wouldn’t turn the lock. ‘No, no good.’

‘You go on trying to get Jean to answer you,’ Delia said, ‘I’ll go back down to Mrs Glazer.’

At that moment there was the sound of boots on the stairs and a puffing Mrs Glazer appeared followed by two uniformed police officers. The first, a sergeant, paused at the top of the stairs and glanced enquiringly at Delia and Daisy.

‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what’s going on here?’

Before Mrs Glazer could catch her breath to speak, Delia stepped forward. ‘Mrs Glazer has locked a young girl into this room,’ she said, indicating Jean’s door. ‘We’ve tried knocking, but she doesn’t answer.’

‘And who are you, madam?’

‘My name is Delia Watson and this is Daisy Smart. We are friends of this girl and are extremely concerned that she has been locked in her room all day.’

‘They’re just busybodies,’ Mrs Glazer began to bluster. ‘That girl ain’t answering ’cos she’s hiding. That’s what. She’s that runaway you lot’re looking for.’

The policeman looked at her. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to unlock this door, madam.’ He spoke politely enough, but it was clear he did not approve of what she had done. Disgruntled, Mrs Glazer stepped forward and did as he asked.

Daisy pushed past her into the room and then stopped short with a cry of dismay. Delia and the policemen crowded in behind her and both stopped in horror at what they saw. Jean lay, curled up on her bed, eyes closed, her breathing stentorian, and on the floor beside her bed lay a small glass bottle.

The sergeant caught it up and looked at the label. ‘Sleeping pills,’ he said, and turning to his companion he barked, ‘Ambulance, Andrews! Sharpish!’

Andrews disappeared downstairs, as Delia and Daisy ran to the bedside, kneeling beside the unconscious girl. Delia tried to turn her over, and then they saw it, clutched in Jean’s arms, a child’s rose-patterned dress.

Daisy burst into tears and Delia held her close as the policeman tried to resuscitate the girl on the bed.

‘Anyone know her name?’ he asked.

‘Rosie Stevens,’ Delia said firmly before Mrs Glazer could say anything. ‘Her name is Rosie Stevens.’

The ambulance arrived and two sturdy ambulance men carried the unconscious Rosie down the stairs. Delia and Daisy went with her in the ambulance and as the ambulance streaked through the streets, siren blaring, they watched as the medic continued to work on Rosie, trying to bring her round. Daisy was clutching the glass bottle, its label telling them what drug Rosie had taken. When they reached the hospital, Rosie was rushed inside, and Delia turned aside to deal with the admission formalities. She stuffed some money into Daisy’s hand and said, ‘Fetch Rita. Take a taxi.’

Daisy raced outside to the taxi rank and gave the address in Randwick. ‘And please be quick,’ she cried, as the driver pulled away from the kerb. ‘I think she’s dying.’

Daisy had never been in a taxi before, but she had no time to think about the new experience. The sight of Rosie lying, unmoving, on the bed, filled her mind. She had to find Rita and get her to the hospital before it was too late.

‘Wait here,’ she called to the driver as they drew up outside the house. She leaped out of the cab, and running to the front door she kept one hand on the bell and banged on it with the other.

‘Hey,’ called Rita in surprise as she opened the door. ‘Dais? What’s all that about?’ Then she saw the expression on Daisy’s face. ‘Deeley,’ she cried. ‘Has something happened to Deeley?’

‘No,’ Daisy said, grabbing at her hand to pull her out to the waiting taxi, ‘but you got to come now, Reet. Deleey’s at the hospital, she’s with Rosie.’

Rita stopped short, and the colour drained from her face. ‘Rosie?’ she whispered.

‘Yeah!’ Daisy pulled at her again. ‘With Rosie. She’s took an overdose. Come on, Reet, come on!’

Rita allowed herself to be dragged into the taxi and within moments they were headed back the way they’d come.

When they reached the hospital Daisy paid off the taxi while Rita dashed inside to where Delia was waiting for her.

‘Where is she?’ Rita cried. ‘Where’s Rosie?’

‘They’ve pumped her stomach out,’ said Delia, putting her arms round Rita and holding her close. ‘They’ve done everything they can, but darling, I think you must prepare yourself for the worst.’

‘Can we see her?’ Rita begged. ‘I must see her.’

‘They said they’d call us, but I’ll ask again.’

Delia went in search of someone to ask as Daisy joined Rita in the waiting area.

‘Where did you find her?’ Rita asked. ‘How…?’

Before Daisy could start to explain Delia reappeared with a doctor in a white coat.

‘I believe you’re her sister,’ he said, taking Rita’s hand. ‘You can come in and see her now, just for a moment or two,’ adding as Delia and Daisy moved forward, ‘only one of you.’

He showed Rita into a side ward and said, as he closed the door behind her, ‘Just a few minutes.’

Rita looked down at the girl in the bed. She was thin and angular, her face the colour of putty, her fair hair, now tied back off her face, greasy and lank. The sheet covering her scarcely rose and fell as she breathed with faint, shallow breaths. Rita crossed to the bedside and gently took one of her hands and pressed it to her cheek. It was cold as ice.

‘Rosie,’ she whispered, ‘it’s me, Reet. Can you hear me, Rosie? I’ve come to get you. To take you home. Rosie? It’s Reet.’

Rosie’s eyelids flickered and for a moment Rita thought she was going to open her eyes, to see her there beside her, but then the hand in hers seemed to relax and with a last sigh her breathing ceased. With a wave of desolation Rita knew that though they had finally found Rosie, they’d found her too late.

Later, much later, when Rosie was properly laid out on a bed, her hair washed and brushed, her eyes closed in eternal sleep, Delia, Daisy and Rita were able to come back and sit with her for a while.

‘Poor Rosie, poor darling Rosie,’ Rita wept, holding her sister’s cold hand between her own. ‘What a dreadful life she had. What a cruel, cruel life.’

Daisy, ever practical, said, ‘Do we have to tell them, them Waters, what’s happened to her?’

‘No,’ Delia replied firmly, ‘we do not. They have no claim on her. She’s Rita’s sister, she’s formally identified her and we will take care of her now.’

‘Won’t the police tell them?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Delia replied. ‘We told them her name is Rose Stevens, not Jean Waters, and they seem to have accepted our identification.’

It was strange, Daisy thought as she looked down at the pale, peaceful face, framed by the soft golden hair, but now I can see it’s Rosie, just Rosie grown up. Why couldn’t I see it before?

They sat in silence for a while and then Rita reached into a bag at her feet and pulled out Rosie’s beloved Knitty. Carefully she tucked him under Rosie’s arm, then replacing her hand under the sheet that covered her, she reached down and kissed Rosie’s smooth, cold cheek. ‘Bye, Rosie,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t look after you better, but you’re safe now. Nobody can’t hurt you any more.’ Then she turned round and said, ‘I’d like to go home now.’

Delia nodded and taking her hand, said, ‘Come on then, darling,’ before reaching out her other hand to Daisy and saying, ‘you too, Daisy.’

39

Delia came in from the day-care centre and dropped into her chair. She was getting older and the days spent with a roomful of toddlers seemed longer and more tiring. Still, this afternoon, Rita was popping in after school for a cup of tea on her way home to David, and Delia was looking forward to seeing her. She’d missed Rita dreadfully since she’d got married and moved into her own home, but Delia knew she was happy, and that was all-important, all she needed to know.

In a minute, she thought, I’ll get things ready, but for a moment I must sit down.

Rita was now the centre of Delia’s life. She had watched her change from an abandoned child alone in the world, into a hard-working teenager, a student, and now a committed teacher. Rita had been courageous as a child, coping with all the unhappiness that the world threw at her, rejection by her mother, Rosie’s adoption, the death of her grandmother. Later she had had to come to terms with the nightmare that was Rosie’s life and her suicide; the dreadful night they’d found her, an empty bottle of sleeping tablets by her bed. Each time Rita had retreated into herself, but in the end, with Delia’s love and support and Daisy’s friendship, Rita had overcome her anguish and moved on with her life. Delia knew Rita would never forget Rosie, but she hoped that Rita had now let her sister linger in the caverns of her mind, remembering her with love, but allowing her to slip into the past.

Life certainly hasn’t been easy since we moved here, Delia thought now as she waited for Rita to arrive. But thank God we did.

Cash had always been very tight, but the two of them had grown ever closer over the years, truly mother and daughter. Rita had left school with excellent exam results, trained as a teacher and now worked in a local primary school. Encouraged by her high school teachers and Delia herself, Rita had continued to write, and in her last year at school she had won a New South Wales short story competition for under eighteens. Since then, in addition to her teaching, she regularly had stories accepted by various magazines, which had helped boost their meagre income. Delia knew it wouldn’t be long before she had to retire from the day-care centre, and she wondered what she’d do with her life then. The boss had promised she could stay in the house, but how would she fill her days?

‘Deeley,’ Rita’s voice broke into her thoughts as she burst in through the front door, and sunshine filled the house. She gave Delia a huge hug and flopped down onto the sofa.

‘Lovely to see you, darling,’ Delia said. ‘Tea?’

‘In a minute,’ replied Rita. ‘I’ve got something to ask you first.’

‘Ask away.’

‘How do you feel about being a grandmother?’

‘What!’ shrieked Delia. ‘Oh, darling, are you sure?’

‘Yup,’ beamed Rita. ‘Just been to the doc. Says I’m about three months.’

Delia found there were tears in her eyes. ‘Oh Rita, that’s wonderful! What does David say?’

‘He doesn’t know yet,’ admitted Rita. ‘I’ll tell him when he gets home tonight.’

‘You should have told him first,’ scolded Delia, though secretly delighted she hadn’t.

‘I know,’ Rita agreed airily, ‘but I’m so excited – I had to tell you.’

‘Well, I’m glad you did,’ Delia admitted, ‘I’m thrilled to bits for you.’

She made a pot of tea and produced a cake she’d made the previous day, and as they sat together in the familiar kitchen, they shared the wonderful news of the baby.

David Harris was over the moon when Rita told him the news. It still seemed a miracle to him that Rita was really his, and now there was going to be a baby as well. Life was so wonderful he wanted to sing, or dance, or both.

He had met Rita in the offices of The Sophisticate, a magazine that had been publishing Rita’s stories for some time. He worked in the advertising department, and in what Rita described as ‘true corny style’ one day they had met at the coffee machine.

David had heard of coup de foudre and never believed in it, but then it happened to him, a stroke of lightning, blazing through him. He saw a girl with straight dark hair and wide brown eyes standing by the machine, trying to fathom how it worked. He’d asked if he could help, and when she’d turned and smiled at him and said, ‘Oh please, could you? I’ve never used one of these stupid things before,’ he was lost. He didn’t know her name, he didn’t know why she was there, but he did know that she was the woman he wanted and would wait for, however long it took. Rita had seen a good-looking young man, with smiling green eyes and a head of fair curls that sprung in an unruly halo about his face.

It had taken David nearly two years to persuade Rita to marry him. Determined not to scare her away, he was patience itself, wooing her gently, gaining her confidence slowly. As she gradually allowed him closer, occasionally permitting him glimpses of the life she had lived, he realized that she was afraid. Afraid, that if she let herself love him, he would disappear or die, as others had disappeared or died, and she’d be bereft once more. He didn’t rush her, he was simply there, David, strong, firm and comforting, until Rita realized, in quiet surprise, that he was part of the very fabric of her life.

Delia had watched as the friendship that was established blossomed into love. She had seen the depth of David’s love, had seen how gently he’d pursued Rita, for, despite his softly-softly approach, it was pursuit, and she’d waited to see if Rita could respond.

On the day that Rita slipped into his arms, holding up her face to kiss and be kissed, David thought his happiness could know no bounds, and Delia knew she had to let go. She had been Rita’s rock for the past thirteen years, but from now on, it would be David to whom she clung.

When they came to tell her that they were getting married, Delia hugged them both, tears bright in her eyes. ‘I know you’ll make her very happy, David,’ she said, a statement of fact, though both of them knew that it was also a warning. Don’t you dare let my Rita down!

‘I’ll do everything in my power,’ David promised, and as they smiled at each other, they both knew that the pact had been made. Nothing should be allowed to hurt Rita again.

They’d been married, now, for two years. Rita continued to teach at the primary school and to write in her spare time. David had been promoted and now ran the advertising department at The Sophisticate. Their house was a comfortable home, and their lives were busy and fulfilling, but they both wanted a family.

Rita was in the kitchen cooking when David got home. She’d meant to wait until they were having tea before breaking the news, but when he walked in the door, looking hot and tousled, she was overcome with such a surge of love for him that she simply dropped the spoon back in the mixing bowl and ran to him.

‘Are you sure?’ David asked, not daring to believe the amazing news she’d just whispered into his ear. ‘Sit down, put your feet up. I’ll cook tea.’ He took her arm, leading her to a chair in the living room. She laughed and hugged him.

‘Darling, I’m not ill. I’m perfectly capable of cooking your tea.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t get tired.’

She submitted to his demand that he should finish the cooking, but sat in the kitchen to watch him.

As they ate their meal, they talked about the baby, and the wonderful fact that they would soon be a family.

‘Do you want a boy or a girl?’ Rita asked him.

‘Both,’ replied David promptly.

Rita laughed. ‘Well, I hope it’s not twins. I think one baby’ll be quite enough to start with, don’t you? So, son or daughter?’

‘I can’t quite believe those words will apply to us,’ David said. ‘I’m going to have a son… or a daughter, and I promise you, darling, I don’t mind which… do you?’

Rita gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Not in the least, but the idea takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?’

‘You must give your notice in tomorrow,’ David said. ‘You don’t have to work any more.’

‘But I like my job,’ protested Rita. ‘And it’s ages yet.’

‘I know you do, but you have to think of the baby now. You mustn’t get overtired.’

‘I won’t, I promise you. I’ll give notice for the end of the term. Gracious, David, what would I do with myself if I didn’t go to school every day?’

‘You could stay at home and write,’ David replied, not so easily put off. ‘You’ve always said you want to try your hand at a novel, rather than short stories.’

Rita laughed. ‘You just want me to write a bestseller, so that you can live on the proceeds.’

‘Quite right,’ David agreed with a grin. ‘And when you sell the film rights to Hollywood, we’ll neither of us ever have to work again!’

‘What does Deeley think?’ David asked as they sat over their coffee. ‘Is she pleased?’

‘How do you know that I’ve told her?’ asked Rita, defensively, aware that she was blushing.

David laughed. ‘Of course you’ve told her,’ he said. ‘How could you not?’

David had got used to the fact that Delia and Rita never had secrets from each other. At first he’d been jealous of their continued closeness. After all, he was going to be Rita’s husband, he’d take care of her now. Of course Rita still loved Delia, but she shouldn’t be using her as a crutch. But, as he got to know them better, David realized that neither used the other in that way. Neither of them had anyone else in the world, so it was only natural that they were so close. He came to recognize that they were simply part of each other; not to the exclusion of him, or of Rita’s peculiar friend, Daisy, who turned up from time to time, but that the bond between them was strong, woven with the fibres of shared sadness and hardship, and would never loosen.

‘She was delighted for us,’ said Rita. ‘She can’t wait to be a granny.’

‘We must tell my parents, too,’ David reminded her.

‘Of course,’ Rita agreed. ‘I thought we could go and see them this weekend, or if they’re busy, next. More fun to tell them face to face, don’t you think, rather than over the phone?’

David’s parents had been more than a little dubious about his choice of wife. Andrew Harris was a barrister, and much in demand as a defence lawyer in the city, and his wife, Norah, was very conscious of their social position. When she heard about Rita, she’d been horrified. A girl like Rita did not fit in with the plans she had for her only son.

‘Where does she come from?’ she asked David. ‘What do we know about her? Her family? Her background?’

‘I don’t care where she comes from, mother,’ David replied. ‘All I know is that I’m going to marry her, and she’ll have my children.’

When his mother had simply stared at him, pouting her lips in the way that so irritated him, David said sharply, ‘I don’t care about her family, mother, any more than I care about yours.’

Norah, descended from two convicts who had stayed in Australia when their sentences were over, had been silenced, but she still eyed her prospective daughter-in-law with misgiving.

As he’d got to know Rita, Andrew Harris had gradually thawed, and began to see who it was his son was marrying. He recognized her qualities of steadfastness, courage and determination, and began to think his son had made an excellent choice.

Norah remained distant and chilly, though always, as her breeding dictated, scrupulously polite.

‘She really doesn’t like me,’ Rita confided to Delia.

‘I expect she’d find it difficult to give her son to anyone,’ Delia soothed. ‘It isn’t just you.’ But Rita hadn’t been so sure.

‘They’ll be thrilled to bits about the baby,’ David assured her. ‘The problem with being an only child is that you have to carry all the hopes and dreams of your parents. There’s no one to share the load. Mum’s always wanted grandchildren.’

They went for lunch that Sunday, and as they took the ferry to Parramatta and passed under the harbour bridge, Rita had a sudden vision of herself, Daisy and Rosie, staring up in amazement as they arrived on the Pride of Empire; Daisy wondering if they’d fit underneath it, and Rosie asking in a tiny voice if it would fall down. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of poor Rosie, brutalized by her adoptive father, running away and trying to survive on the streets of Sydney. It was seven years since Rosie had died, but the sight of her sister, lying pale and still in a side ward of the hospital, was as vivid in Rita’s memory as the night she’d seen her, the night she had held her hand and said goodbye.

‘You all right?’ David asked as he saw Rita’s eyes were bright with tears.

‘Yes, of course,’ answered Rita quickly and looked away, staring at the houses climbing the hill above Lavender Bay. ‘Wind in my eyes.’

David made no further comment. He knew that Rita had the occasional emotional moment, for no apparent reason, and he’d learned she recovered more quickly if he appeared not to notice.

When they reached his parents’ house, they were greeted at the door by his father. ‘Lovely to see you both,’ cried Andrew. ‘Come in, come in. Your mother’s in the kitchen.’

They trooped inside and Norah joined them a moment later, stripping off her apron and giving each of them a powdery cheek to kiss.

‘Now, how about a drink before lunch?’ Andrew suggested. ‘What would you like, Rita?’

‘Got any champagne, Dad?’ asked David casually.

‘Champagne?’ Andrew was startled. ‘I expect so. What are we celebrating?’

David glanced at Rita, but she just smiled and nodded. He should be the one to tell his parents.

‘How do you fancy being grandparents?’ David beamed.

‘What?’ exclaimed Norah, her eyes swivelling to Rita’s stomach, as if searching for signs it was true. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ replied David with a grin.

‘Well, congratulations, both of you,’ cried Andrew, and having pumped David’s hand, he hugged Rita, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘What lovely, lovely news, isn’t it, Norah?’

‘Lovely. When’s it due?’

‘June,’ replied Rita.

‘And how are you keeping?’ Norah asked. ‘Not being sick, I hope.’

‘No, thank goodness,’ answered Rita, ‘just a little queasy in the mornings, but that’s wearing off now.’

‘That’s good,’ Norah said. ‘Now if you want any advice from me, don’t hesitate to ask. Not having a mother of your own to go to, there may be—’

‘I’ve got Deeley,’ said Rita sharply.

‘Yes, of course you have,’ agreed Norah, ‘but she’s not the same as your real mother—’

‘She is to me,’ asserted Rita. ‘She’s far better than my real mother. She loves me.’

‘I’m sure she does, dear,’ said Norah, and rather startled at Rita’s vehement response, she glanced at David.

‘A kind thought, Mother,’ he said briskly, ‘I’m sure Rita’s grateful for the offer.’

Rita had seldom seen her mother-in-law disconcerted. She was often dictatorial, but that never seemed to worry Andrew. Just occasionally Rita had seen him put his foot down and then there had been no further argument. David, on the other hand, often appeared to agree, but then did exactly what he’d always intended.

The awkward moment passed as Andrew reappeared with champagne. ‘Here we are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I thought I had a bottle somewhere waiting for a special occasion, and what could be more special than this, eh?’ He turned to Norah. ‘How about some glasses, chicken?’

Andrew poured them each a glass and then raised his. ‘Here’s to your son or daughter, our first grandchild!’

The rest of the day passed easily enough, and when they finally boarded the ferry for Circular Quay, David took Rita’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’

Rita shook her head wearily. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it was fine.’

‘Better than you thought?’

Rita sat back against him, her face turned to the evening sun. ‘You know me too well,’ she said with a contented sigh.

David slipped his arm round her, holding her close. ‘I’m learning you better every day.’

That night as she lay in bed, with David snoring gently beside her, Rita thought of what Norah had said about not having her own mother. Deeley was her mother now, she told herself, but for the first time for several years, she thought properly about her real mother and what Mavis had allowed to happen to her.

Rita laid a hand on her own stomach where she could almost feel the baby growing in her womb. There was nothing much visible yet, but Rita felt different in herself. With the baby growing inside her, she was already a mother, and as the responsibility of motherhood had enveloped her, she found herself looking at the world from a different perspective. David felt protective of her, constantly telling her to sit down, to put her feet up, to have an early night, but Rita knew it wasn’t she who needed protecting, it was the tiny creature living inside her.

A baby is so helpless, she thought now. A mother’s job is to care for him, keep him safe. She thought of her little brother, Richard. He would be sixteen now, and she’d only seen him once. He was Jimmy’s baby; perhaps her mother had been protecting him from Jimmy.

She didn’t protect us, Rita thought. Maybe she thought we were OK, or that I could look after Rosie. Perhaps it was either us or Richard, and he needed her more.

Rita knew, now, what it was to love a man, to want him with her always, to have his children. Could Mum really have felt about Jimmy what Rita now felt about David? Jimmy, a brute, who knocked her about, shouted at her, frightened her with his sudden rages? Rita couldn’t imagine being in love with a man like that. She wondered if her mother was still with him. Perhaps she’d left him. Rita hoped so; or more likely he’d pushed off and left her. He was the sort of man who’d do that, Rita thought. How had Mum managed with Richard when Gran had died? Had she had any more babies? Have I got brothers and sisters I know nothing about? she wondered. When she finally drifted into sleep, the questions which had begun to torment her had found no resolution.

For the next few weeks Rita was continually buffeted by thoughts of her mother.

‘Put her out of your mind,’ David said when she mentioned her to him. ‘You have to face the fact that, for whatever reason, however good it seemed, she gave you up.’

‘Perhaps she had no alternative,’ said Rita.

‘Harsh as it sounds, darling,’ David replied gently, ‘I don’t think that can be true. You and Rosie were her children, and should have been her first priority.’ He placed his hand on her stomach. ‘You’d never give away this little chap.’

‘Or chap-ess.’

‘Or chap-ess.’

‘No, never.’

‘No, never,’ David agreed.

‘What’s brought this on?’ Delia asked when she talked to her. ‘Why this sudden interest in your mother and her motives?’

Rita shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps because I’m going to be a mother myself. It’s made me more conscious of the difficulties she faced when she found she was expecting my brother, Richard.’

‘Other people have three children and manage without giving two of them away to look after the third,’ observed Delia. ‘Other people lose their children through no fault of their own and would give everything they have in the world to have them back.’

Rita put her hand on Delia’s arm, knowing she was thinking of her own son, Harry, who’d died so tragically young.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I do know, Deeley, really I do. It’s just that I’m trying to understand what went on in her mind. She must have been under immense pressure.’

‘You’re being very generous to her, darling,’ said Delia. ‘Far more generous than I’d be, or than I am, for that matter. I can’t forgive her for doing what she did to you.’

‘But I’ve got you,’ pointed out Rita.

Delia took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Always,’ she said.

‘Perhaps she thought we’d have a better life somewhere else. It would have been hell with Uncle Jimmy.’ She fell silent for a moment and then added softly, ‘It turned out hell for Rosie anyway.’

She talked things over with Daisy, too. Daisy had come over to Randwick one Saturday afternoon and they’d gone for their usual picnic lunch together in Centennial Park. As they sat under the trees, munching cheese sandwiches, Rita told Daisy about the baby and how, since she’d known she was expecting, her mother had somehow invaded her thoughts.

When Daisy heard this, she was characteristically forthright in her opinion. ‘Put her out of your mind, Reet,’ she said, ‘you ain’t been in hers for years.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Rita objected. ‘She might have been thinking about us all the time, wondering how we are, regretting what she did.’

‘Yeah, well, regrets ain’t no good, are they? Waste of time, ’cos you can’t put the clock back.’

‘No, I know that,’ sighed Rita. ‘And let’s face it, I’ve been very lucky, really, luckier than you.’

‘You was lucky the Watchdog took you,’ Daisy agreed, not for the first time. ‘God knows where the Manton bitch’d’ve sent you if you was left there with her.’

‘I wish Deeley’d had room for you, too,’ replied Rita.

Daisy laughed. ‘So do I, sunshine, but it weren’t to be, were it? You both did what you could, coming to see me an’ that, taking me out, an’ I’m grateful, so there’s an end to it.’ She gave Rita a playful punch on the arm. ‘So, what’re you thinking about then, Reet? What you going to do?’

Rita shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Did wonder if I might write to her.’

‘Whatever for?’ demanded Daisy.

‘Well, tell her about the baby and that… you know.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Daisy roundly. ‘I wouldn’t let her near no baby of mine, not after what she done to you and Rosie.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t get near, would she? I mean, she’s in England and the baby’ll be in Australia.’

‘There’s planes,’ Daisy said, darkly.

‘Yeah, well, I can hardly see her getting on one of them,’ laughed Rita. ‘She ain’t got no money.’

Delia had often noticed that when Rita and Daisy got together, Rita slipped back into her childhood vernacular. It made Delia smile to hear them talking, but she was glad that Rita had learned to speak better English as she’d gone through school, and had picked up on Delia’s own, precise, use of language. Most of the time Rita spoke good, colloquial, English, her childhood accent replaced by an Australian one, but when she wrote, her language was fluent, flowing from her pen in a style both descriptive and well expressed. When Rita wrote there was little trace of her earliest years.

‘She might borrow some, or steal some,’ suggested Daisy cheerfully.

‘Not likely. Who’d lend it her? She won’t come, Dais!’

‘Then why write to her? Forget the silly cow, and get on with your life here. Ain’t it good enough for you?’

‘Course it is,’ cried Rita.

‘There you are, then. Hey, Reet, did I tell you?’ Daisy went on, determined to change the subject.

‘Did you tell me what?’

‘That I met this bloke…’

‘Oh Dais, you haven’t…’

‘No,’ laughed Daisy, ‘nothing like that. Honestly, Reet, you got a one-track mind!’

‘No, I ain’t,’ retorted Rita. ‘What is it like, then, if it ain’t “like that”?’

‘He’s called Pete and he come in the store,’ explained Daisy, ‘and we got talking…’

Daisy’s diversion had worked. For the rest of the afternoon they talked about Daisy and how Pete had got her into the athletics club ‘for peanuts, ’cos I’m so good, see?’, and chatted in the easy way they always had. Rita’s mother wasn’t mentioned again, and when they parted, Daisy to return to her bedsit in Kings Cross, Rita to walk home to David, it seemed that Mavis was forgotten.

40

Carrie Maunder came out of her house and looked down the road. Maggie had promised to look in today after she finished work, but she was so much later than usual, Carrie was beginning to wonder where she was. As she looked along Ship Street once again, she saw her neighbour. Madge Holt had moved into number 9 about six months ago, and been avid to learn more of its gruesome history.

When Mavis had been murdered there was talk of the council pulling the house down, but there was such a housing shortage after the war, with so many streets having been flattened, that the house had been reprieved and contract cleaners sent in. Following the big clean-up there had been several tenants, but none of them had stayed more than a couple of years.

Gradually most people forgot that number 9 was the scene of a murder, the horror of that dreadful day becoming a distant memory, slipping back into the recesses of even Carrie’s mind. Until, that was, Madge Holt moved in.

‘I’m not afraid of ghosts,’ Madge asserted roundly. ‘The dead’s dead, and that’s an end to it.’ But gradually, over the following weeks, she returned to the subject of Mavis’s death, asking Carrie, as Mavis’s closest friend, exactly what had happened.

Eventually Carrie started avoiding Madge, ducking back into the house if she saw her. Now as she spotted her bearing down on her, overall flapping like a ship in full sail, she turned back to her own front door.

‘Mrs Maunder! Mrs Maunder!’ Madge cried. ‘Wait!’

Carrie sighed and waited. ‘Mrs Holt,’ she said with thinly veiled impatience, ‘whatever is the matter?’

‘I need a word, just a quick word.’

‘Have to be quick,’ Carrie told her, ‘Maggie’ll be here in a mo.’

‘Just need a word,’ repeated Madge. ‘Don’t know what to do, you see.’

‘Do?’ echoed Carrie. ‘Do about what?’

‘I’m trying to tell you,’ puffed Madge. ‘I got a letter.’

‘Yeah, so? Who from?’

‘Don’t know, but it’s addressed to Mrs Mavis Randall, you know the woman—’

‘I know who Mavis Randall was,’ interrupted Carrie, so sharply that Madge flinched.

‘Yeah, well, all right,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, the letter’s addressed to her, but at my address. Which was her address, of course, all them years ago.’

‘A letter? For Mavis?’ Carrie was incredulous.

Having finally managed to capture Carrie’s attention, Madge beamed at her. ‘It’s got Australian stamps on it, and an Australian postmark.’

‘Then I suspect,’ observed Carrie, ‘that it’s come from Australia.’ The irony in Carrie’s voice passed over Madge’s head entirely.

‘Yes,’ Madge said, nodding vigorously, ‘yes, I think you’re right. But who would be writing to her now, d’you think?’ She drew a blue airmail envelope out from the pocket of her overall.

Carrie took it and turning it over, saw the sender’s name on the back. Mrs R Harris, and an address in Sydney. ‘R’? Could it possibly be Rita, or Rosie? Surely not. Surely someone would have told them of their mother’s tragic death.

‘It’s got a name and address on the back,’ said Madge, ‘so I’d better send it back, don’t you think? Put, “not known at this address”… or,’ she suggested with a gleam of intense curiosity in her eyes, ‘perhaps we should open it, and write back explaining.’ She held out her hand for the letter, but Carrie stuffed it quickly into her trouser pocket.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No, it’s not for us to open. I’ll take it round to Mrs Sharples.’

Madge flushed with annoyance, angry that she’d lost the initiative. ‘And who’s she, when she’s at home?’

‘Mavis’s mother.’

‘Her mother!’ Madge was incredulous. ‘Is she still alive?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Gawd, she must be ancient.’

‘Not at all,’ said Carrie. ‘She’s about sixty-five and alive and well. I’ll take it round hers. Up to her to open it.’

‘But—’ began Madge.

‘Thank you for bringing it over, Mrs Holt,’ Carrie said, ignoring the interruption, ‘that was very kind.’ And Madge Holt was left standing in the street, wishing she’d opened the letter herself before showing it to anyone else.

‘Mrs Maunder’s here, Gran,’ Rick called, as he stood aside to let Carrie in. ‘Go on through. Gran’s in the kitchen.’

‘Carrie!’ cried Lily, getting to her feet, ‘What a lovely surprise. What brings you here?’

‘Don’t get up, Mrs Sharples,’ Carrie said, and Lily subsided gratefully onto her chair. She had some arthritis in her hips now, and getting up from a chair was becoming more difficult.

‘Lovely to see you, Carrie,’ she said. ‘It’s been too long. How are you, dear? How’re John and the children? Well, not children of course now. Did I hear that Maggie got married last year?’

Carrie let Lily run on about the children, her own answers automatic as the aerogramme seemed to be burning a hole in her pocket. She’d wanted to rush round and give Lily the letter, but now she was here, Carrie wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. Perhaps she should have opened it first, after all. What if it was from Rita or Rosie? What if Lily had such a shock she had a heart attack? You never knew with older people, did you? She was suddenly aware of a silence and looked across at Lily and found her regarding her quizzically.

‘Well, Carrie,’ she said, ‘you didn’t just come round to talk about our children, did you? What’s up?’

‘It’s difficult,’ began Carrie.

‘Then spit it out,’ said Lily. ‘Difficult things should always be said straight out. Makes them less difficult, I always find.’

Carrie drew a deep breath and said, ‘OK. A letter came today. My neighbour brought it round. It’s addressed to Mavis….’

Lily stared at her, unable to speak.

‘It’s from someone in Sydney, in Australia…’ said Carrie, and when Lily still said nothing, she went on, ‘someone called R Harris. So I’ve brought it round to you.’

She pulled the letter from her pocket and passed it across to Lily. For a long moment, Lily held it, looking at the name and address on the front, then she turned it over and read the name and address on the back. Then she handed it back to Carrie.

‘You open it,’ she said. ‘You open it and see who it’s from.’

Carrie slit the aerogramme along its sides, and flipped it open. She glanced at the opening and then at the bottom. She saw the words Dear Mum and then that it was signed, your daughter, Rita Harris.

‘It’s from Rita,’ she said softly. ‘And she don’t know Mavis is dead.’

Lily stared at her for a moment, tears flooding her eyes. ‘Read it me,’ she whispered.

Carrie began to read.

Dear Mum,

I expect you’ll be surprised to hear from me after all these years. You didn’t want me and Rosie, well, not enough anyway, and maybe you don’t want to hear from me now. I expect you’ve got lots of other kids now, but I only know about Richard. Gran did write to me once, before she died, but though I wrote back to her I never heard from her again. I’m not really sure why I’m writing to you now, except that I’m going to have a baby in June, and I thought about you and thought you might like to know you are going to be a grandmother. Perhaps you are one already, but anyway, I thought you’d like to know.

My husband, David, wasn’t very keen on me writing to you, but I felt I had to do it, just this once. If you don’t answer you’ll never hear from me again, but if you do, then I will write to you occasionally and tell you how your grandchild is doing.

I also have to tell you poor Rosie is dead. She was adopted by some awful people when we first got here and they made her life hell. She ran away and when they were coming to find her she took sleeping pills rather than go back. She died because she came to Australia, because you didn’t want her.

I’ll say this to you only once. I don’t know how you could possibly have given us away like you did. Thrown us away, more like. I haven’t even had this baby yet, but I know I could never, ever, part with him or her. Still, I suppose it’s all water under the bridge now and it’s no good going on hating you. David says hatred twists your soul. I think he’s right. So, I don’t hate you any more.

From your daughter,

Rita Harris

Carrie looked up from reading and saw the tears streaming down Lily’s cheeks. She was at her side immediately, her arms round her, holding her tightly until her sobs began to subside.

‘Carrie,’ she whispered, ‘oh Carrie, we got our Rita back.’ And her tears began to flow again. ‘But Rosie, poor darling little Rosie…’

At that moment the door opened and Rick came back in carrying a book. ‘Gran,’ he began and then stopped short when he saw her in tears. He looked at Carrie. ‘Mrs Maunder? What’s going on?’

‘Your gran has had some good news.’

‘Good news?’ queried Rick. ‘Don’t look like good news to me!’

‘I’ve brought her a letter that came today. It’s from Rita.’

‘Rita!’ gasped Rick, his eyes flying to the photo of the two little girls in rose-patterned frocks on the mantelpiece. ‘My sister, Rita?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Carrie. ‘And you can see your gran’s a bit overcome.’

Rick dropped into a chair and Carrie handed him the letter. He read it through and then read it again.

‘She don’t know our ma’s dead,’ he said, ‘and she thinks Gran is.’

‘Nobody told her about her mother,’ Lily said through her tears. ‘Nobody bothered to tell her. It’s that bloody Vanstone woman again.’ Lily’s voice shook with rage. ‘But she must have told her I was. How could she? How could she have done such a wicked thing? Rita’s thought I was dead, all these years. What an evil, evil woman!’

‘Well, she’s dead an’ all,’ said Rick.

‘And I hope she burns in hell!’ Lily said viciously.

‘Forget her, Gran,’ Rick said. ‘She’s long gone.’

‘She killed our Rosie,’ said Lily bitterly. ‘She killed our Rosie as surely as if she’d stuck a knife into her. Our Rosie killed herself ’cos she was sent to Australia, ’cos some family what took her and was supposed to look after made her life hell. That’s what Rita said. An’ that woman sent her there instead of letting me look after her.’

‘Yeah, I know, Gran.’ Richard sat down beside her and took her hand. ‘But at least you’ve found Rita. Cry for poor Rosie, Gran, of course, but smile for Rita. Now you know where Rita is we can write to her and tell her you ain’t dead. We could go and see her. We could go to Australia.’

Lily did manage a smile, then, through her tears. ‘Steady on, lad,’ she said with a shaky laugh. ‘We ain’t made of money.’

‘No, all right,’ Rick agreed, ‘not go, not straight away, but we can write and send photos and stuff, and she can do the same for us. And I’ve got my paper round, I’ll start saving!’

‘You do that, love,’ Lily said. She looked across at Carrie who had been watching the two of them, while trying to come to terms, herself, with what she’d read in the letter; the dreadful news about Rosie, the wonderful news about Rita.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Lily murmured. ‘I can’t believe that there’s a letter from Rita after all these years.’

‘It’s wonderful to hear from her,’ Carrie said. ‘And you’re going to be a great-gran!’

Lily smiled. ‘Yes, I s’pose I am.’ Then her smile faded. ‘But Rosie? Our lovely Rosie. And how am I going to tell Rita about her mother? About what happened to her?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Carrie. ‘That’s a hard thing. Just write and tell her, I s’pose. No way of breaking it gently, is there?’ She reached over and took the old lady’s hand. ‘But just think how thrilled she’s going to be to find that you’re still here! That’ll make it easier for her.’

‘Will it?’ wondered Lily. ‘Whatever she did, Mavis was still her mother, and hearing that she was murdered, well, it ain’t going to be easy for her, is it?’ Silence lapsed round them as they all reflected on Mavis’s horrifying end.

When Carrie left, Lily and Rick went over and over the letter from Rita.

‘I just can’t believe it,’ Lily said, ‘Rita, married and having a baby. Just fancy that.’

‘When’re you going to write back?’ asked Rick. ‘Can I put a letter in too?’

‘Course you can, love,’ said Lily. ‘I’ll get one of them airmail letter things tomorrow and we’ll write it together in the evening. Now, finish your homework. You’ve got exams coming up.’

Rick retired to his bedroom to try to finish his history essay, and Lily slowly cleared away the tea things. Rita’s married, she thought as she stacked the dishes in the sink. And to a nice man by the sound of it, a man with sensible ideas, anyway. And going to have a baby; little Rita who’d only been nine years old when Lily had last seen her. But Rosie, her bright, sunny, trusting little granddaughter, was dead; literally frightened to death. Alone in the kitchen Lily buried her head in her hands and wept.

Over the years she had tried to imagine her granddaughters growing up, girls in their teens, young women grown, but she’d never really managed it. In her mind Rita and Rosie were frozen in time, remaining as they were in the photograph on her mantelpiece, two little girls in rose-patterned dresses. Now one was about to become a mother and the other was in her grave.

Rick is right, she thought when, finally, her tears ran dry, I’ve cried for Rosie, but I have to rejoice at finding Rita.

Stiffly she got to her feet and went to the drawer where she kept the letter she’d had from Rita all those years ago, and pulled it from its envelope. Dog-eared and torn down its folds, she spread it out carefully on the table, to read once more. It had been her only link with Rita for sixteen years, and now, now at last, she had another, and this time there was an address on the back; this time she could answer, she could write back and tell Rita she’d been lied to, that she, Lily, was still alive.

She lay in bed that night, trying to compose the letter in her head. There was so much to say, about Rosie, about Mavis, all of it difficult, and when Lily finally drifted off to sleep, she was no nearer to framing the words that would tell Rita that Jimmy Randall had murdered her mother, nearly sixteen years ago.

41

It was a sunny afternoon as Rita struggled home carrying a bag of school books to mark and two bags of shopping. When she got to her front door, she collected the post from their mail box, stuffing the handful of envelopes in with the books.

Deeley was coming round for supper, and Rita had stopped off to buy the ingredients she needed for the meal. She was not an adventurous cook, but she liked to try the occasional new recipe, and tonight it was beef stroganoff.

With the recipe book propped up in front of her, she was chopping the onions and mushrooms, when David came in, early for once.

‘Hallo, darling,’ he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. ‘What’s all that?’

‘Beef stroganoff,’ said Rita. ‘Deeley’s coming for tea. I did tell you.’

‘So you did,’ he agreed, ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘You’re nice and early,’ Rita said with a smile. ‘Good day?’

‘Yes, my last meeting was cancelled. Any post?’

‘In my school bag.’

David took out the post, flipping through the envelopes. Buried among them was an air letter. It was addressed to Rita and came from England, postmarked Belcaster. He stared at it for a moment and then turned it over to look at the sender’s name and address on the back. He glanced across at Rita, who was paying no attention to him.

She had told him that she’d finally decided to write to her mother, just the once, and though he’d thought it was a mistake, and had told her so, he also understood why she felt she must.

‘Rita,’ he said, and then paused.

Rita looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘What was your gran’s name?’

‘Gran? Lily Sharples. Why?’

‘Leave that for a minute, can you?’

Rita wiped her hands on her apron. ‘What’s up? I’ve got to get on, Deeley’ll be here soon.’

‘Come and sit down, darling,’ answered David, and held out his hand to her. She took it and he drew her to the table, pulling out a chair for her and then sitting down next to her.

‘David?’ Her eyes were anxious. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘No,’ David replied, carefully. ‘Something here for you.’ He held out the letter. ‘This was in the post.’

Rita took the aerogramme with shaking hands. ‘From my mother,’ she breathed.

‘I don’t think so,’ David said gently. ‘Look at the sender’s name.’

Rita turned the letter over, and as she saw the name Lily Sharples, and the address in Hampton Road, the colour drained from her face. White as a sheet, she looked up at David.

‘It’s from Gran,’ she whispered. ‘It’s from my gran.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘But she’s dead,’ cried Rita. ‘Deeley told me she was dead! Why did she lie to me? Why did Deeley lie to me?’

‘I don’t suppose she did,’ David said gently. ‘Deeley would never lie to you. I’m sure she believed it to be true.’

‘But why? Why would they tell me she was dead when she wasn’t?’

David shook his head. ‘I don’t know, darling. Perhaps she explains in the letter. Aren’t you going to open it?’

Rita continued to stare at the letter and David asked, ‘Shall I open it for you?’

‘No,’ replied Rita. ‘No, I’ll open it.’ With hands still shaking, she slit open the aerogramme and began to read. Within moments, tears were flooding down her cheeks, and she couldn’t read any more. Wordlessly she handed it to David.

‘You read it, David.’

David took the letter and glanced through it to see what had upset her so much, then he began to read.

My dearest dearest Rita,

Your letter arrived yesterday, and was such a wonderful surprise. We’re so dreadfully sorry to hear that poor darling little Rosie has died. I’ll never forgive that dreadful Vanstone woman for sending you both away when I’d told her I’d give you both a home. My heart broke when I read in your letter that Rosie had killed herself, poor dear child. But to have found you again, Rita, is a miracle. We knew you was in Australia, but we didn’t know where and the EVER-Care people wouldn’t tell us, so we thought we’d lost you. How wonderful to find you again. It seems from your letter that you thought I had died. No, my darling girl, I’m still alive and well and just so thrilled to have found you again. The sad news that I have to tell you is that your poor mother is no longer with us. She died many years ago at the hands of Jimmy Randall. It seems they had a fight and Jimmy killed her in a fit of rage. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you, but clearly as you wrote to her, you did not know. Since she died I have been looking after your brother Richard. We call him Ricky, and he has been looking after me. He is getting some snaps together to send you, but I couldn’t wait for them to be sorted, I wanted to write to you straight away. He’s going to add a bit to this letter.

I send you all my love, my dearest, and can’t wait to hear from you again, to hear about your David and perhaps see some pictures of you both.

And of course I’m thrilled to bits about the baby.

Gran

‘He killed her,’ Rita murmured, the tears continuing to stream down her cheeks. ‘That bastard, Jimmy, killed my mum.’

David dropped the letter on the table and took her into his arms. ‘Oh, my darling girl,’ he murmured, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He held her close, her head on his shoulder, as she wept for the mother who had been murdered all those years ago.

‘I never knew,’ she sobbed. ‘I always thought she’d forgotten us and… and… and she wasn’t even alive. Why didn’t they tell me? Why?’

‘Perhaps they thought it would upset you too much,’ soothed David, stroking her hair.

‘They needn’t have said he’d killed her, just that she’d died. After all they told me Gran had,’ she added bitterly, ‘and that wasn’t even true! They didn’t care about upsetting me then, did they?’

‘My darling, I don’t know,’ answered David, feeling completely helpless in the face of her distress.

Gradually, Rita’s sobs subsided. ‘She was always frightened of him, Uncle Jimmy, we all were,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear the thought that he beat her up so badly that she died. Poor Mum. Poor Mum.’

‘It was all a long time ago,’ ventured David, offering her his handkerchief.

Rita blew her nose. ‘I know, but it doesn’t really make it any easier, does it? She was my mother, whatever she did, and I did love her.’

Silence fell between them and they sat, their hands clasped in mutual support as they thought about what they’d just learned.

‘Perhaps,’ said Rita after a while, ‘perhaps that was why Mum let him send us away. Why she signed the papers to put us into Laurel House, to get us away from him. Perhaps she was scared for us… d’you think?’

‘Maybe,’ David agreed, though privately he thought it unlikely. But if the thought comforted Rita, then he was happy to go along with it.

Now she was calmer, he picked up the letter again. ‘There’s a bit written by Rick at the end. Shall I read that to you?’

Rita nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s my brother.’

David started to read.

Dear Rita,

I’m your brother Rick, and I live with Gran. She never forgot you and there is a picture of you and Rosie on the kitchen shelf. It’s always been there. I’m sorry Rosie died, I’ll never meet her now, but I’m longing to meet you. I am so glad you have written and I hope you will keep on writing to us. I am going to send some snaps of Gran and me. We are both well. Please send some pictures of you as I don’t know what you look like now you’re grown up. Lots of love from your brother, Rick.

P.S. I’ve got a paper round and I’ve started saving so that we can come and see you.

Hearing this last, Rita gave a wan smile. ‘Bless him,’ she said. ‘What is he, sixteen? It’ll take him forever, but it’s a lovely thought.’

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and without waiting for an answer, Delia walked into the house. ‘Only me,’ she called. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Course you can,’ David called back. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’ He gave Rita a quick hug and then turned to welcome his mother-in-law.

Delia breezed into the kitchen, coming up short as she took in Rita’s tear-streaked face. She glanced from one to the other, and demanded, ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’

David said nothing, waiting for Rita to speak. He was very aware that Delia thought he’d done something to upset Rita, and he wanted Rita to be the one to set her straight.

‘Rita?’ Delia spoke gently. ‘What’s the matter, darling? It’s not the baby, is it?’

‘No,’ Rita assured her, ‘not the baby.’

‘Well then?’ Her gaze turned back to David.

Rita saw it and said quickly, ‘And it’s not David either, so don’t look at him like that.’

‘I’m not looking at him like anything,’ retorted Delia, though she knew she had been. ‘So, why the tears?’

‘Give her the letter, David,’ Rita said. ‘You can read it for yourself, Deeley.’

Delia took the letter and began to read, glancing up at Rita as she reached the bit about her mother, and then returning to it again.

‘Oh my darling,’ she breathed, ‘what a dreadful thing! And this is from the grandmother we told you was dead?’

Rita nodded.

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Delia dropping down onto a chair. ‘I don’t understand. There was a letter from Emily Vanstone in England, saying that your grandmother had had a stroke and died. I saw it myself.’ There was a break in her voice. ‘My poor girl. I believed it was true, why wouldn’t I? It was there in black and white. Oh, Rita, I’m so sorry.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Deeley, I know that,’ Rita said softly.

‘Even so,’ Delia’s shoulders sagged under the weight of this new knowledge, ‘and your mother…’ Her voice trailed off as she couldn’t find the words.

‘My mother has been dead for years,’ Rita said bravely, ‘but I’d already lost her before she died, hadn’t I?’ Still clutching David’s handkerchief she blew her nose again. ‘But I’ve got my gran back, Deeley, and a grown-up brother. I’ve got a family again now.’

Rita didn’t see David’s expression at this remark, but Delia did and sympathized; they had both done all they could to make Rita feel part of a family. But she knew what Rita was really saying, that she had her childhood family back, that she hadn’t been forgotten over the years, and she understood how important that was. She just hoped David did, too.

‘I think we could all do with a drink,’ David said, and without reference to either of them he poured three large gin and tonics.

‘Here’s to your gran and your brother,’ he said, raising his glass to Rita. ‘To our English family.’ And Delia knew it would be all right.

Over the following weeks there was a flurry of correspondence between Rita and her family in Belcaster. Rick had sent her recent photos of her grandmother and himself. Gran certainly did look older, but Rita wasn’t surprised, after all she was in her sixties now, but she still had the same smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, and though her hair was grey, it was still done in the same style, making her endearingly familiar, bringing the ready tears to Rita’s eyes. Rick, she decided, was a good-looking boy, intelligence lurking in his eyes and a shy smile on his lips. She studied his face to see if she could see echoes of his father, but Jimmy Randall’s face had dissolved into a merciful blur, and she could see no likeness.

She showed all the pictures to David, and he dutifully admired his new in-laws. Delia took far more interest. And Daisy? Families meant nothing to Daisy and she evinced no interest at all, simply saying, ‘Good snaps, Reet,’ and then telling her about the next athletics meeting she was going to.

When David’s parents heard about the surprising response to Rita’s letter, they were somewhat taken aback. Now the reality of Rita’s family back home had been exposed to all. Norah said as little as possible about them, simply saying that Rita must have been pleased to hear from them after all this time. She did not want to know that Rita’s mother had been murdered by her husband, nor, as they’d subsequently learned, that the murderer had never been caught. Her daughter-in-law the daughter, or at least the stepdaughter, of a murderer, was too much for her to accept with equanimity. It was bad enough that Rita’s sister had committed suicide years ago, and Norah was determined that if she had anything to do with it, the news should go no further than the immediate family.

Andrew had been shocked, too, at first, but when he’d seen the difference it made to Rita, the happiness that had infused her on learning that her beloved grandmother was still alive and well, he had hugged her and told her how pleased he was. He had become increasingly fond of his daughter-in-law, and her happiness delighted him.

‘I may never see them again,’ Rita confided in him, ‘but I’ll know they’re there.’

‘Oh, you never know,’ he said cheerfully, and then changing the subject said, ‘Not long to go now, have you? Thought of any names yet?’

‘Yes,’ replied Rita.

‘And we’re not saying,’ David put in firmly. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.

Rita gave up work at the end of term, and after Easter spent her time at home, preparing for the new arrival. Delia came round and helped her turn their tiny second bedroom into a nursery. Together, they made new curtains and painted the walls a restful apple green.

‘Can’t have pink or blue,’ David said, ‘in case it’s the wrong one.’

Once a week Rita went to antenatal classes, doing exercises, learning to feed and bath the baby, practising changing nappies on a life-sized doll.

‘Won’t be as easy on a real baby,’ laughed Delia. ‘They’re all arms and legs and won’t lie still!’

‘I thought you were going to start work on your novel,’ David teased her one evening when he came home from the office and inspected the ongoing work on the nursery.

‘No time for that,’ Rita said cheerfully, ‘though I did send in another story to your editor the other day.’

‘Certainly won’t be time for writing novels when the baby’s here,’ said Delia. ‘You won’t have time for anything then!’

As her time drew nearer, Rita became increasingly anxious about becoming a mother. Supposing she was no good at it. She’d had no experience with babies, she didn’t know what to do with them. Many of the other girls in the antenatal class already had children, or had helped with nephews and nieces.

They all know what to do, she thought, in panic. Supposing I can’t cope.

She was afraid Norah would think her inadequate, and sweep in to take over and David would realize that she, Rita, was a useless mother. She confided her dread to Delia, who hugged her and said, ‘Don’t worry about it, darling, everyone’s nervous at first, but you’ll be amazed how quickly you get the hang of it.’ And when she saw that Rita wasn’t convinced she added, ‘And don’t worry about Norah, David won’t let her bully you. He won’t want her in the house any more than you do!’

It was one night, three weeks later, that Rita was jolted awake from a restless sleep as a contraction seized her. She sat up in bed, gasping as the pain lanced through her, trying to relax and breathe her way through it, as she’d been taught. As the contraction passed and she felt herself relax, she announced to the darkness of their bedroom, ‘Well, all that deep breathing stuff’s a waste of time, ain’t it!’ And having checked the time on the bedside clock, she lay back waiting for the next contraction. She’d been having twinges on and off all day and not knowing quite what to do, had rung the maternity hospital.

‘First baby, dear?’ asked the midwife on duty.

‘Yes.’

‘Fine,’ replied the woman. ‘No need to come in until the contractions are about fifteen minutes apart. First babies always take their time.’

Now they were definite contractions and they seemed to be coming pretty often. The next made its attack exactly eighteen minutes after the last.

This is it, Rita thought, surprised at how calm she was feeling. I’m going to be a mother, and it’s time we went.

She reached over and shook the still-snoring David awake. ‘Think we’d better go, David,’ she said and then groaned, clutching herself as another contraction gripped her.

David shot out of bed, panic in his eyes. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘All right, now, all right, yes…’ and started dragging on his clothes.

As the contraction released its grip Rita said, ‘It is all right, David, they aren’t that close yet. We’ve plenty of time. First babies always take their time.’

But David wasn’t having any of it. As soon as he was dressed he picked up the suitcase that Rita had packed, ready. ‘I’ll just put this in the car and then I’ll come back and get you. All right?’

Rita assured him that she was, but stopped in the middle of dressing to get through another contraction. David reappeared at the door.

‘Come on, darling,’ he said, panic in his voice. ‘Oh Rita, you aren’t even dressed yet!’ He helped her struggled into her coat. It was cold outside, and she shivered as she walked to the car, David clutching her arm to steady her.

‘It’s all right,’ he kept saying, ‘it’s all right. Won’t be long till we’re there. It’s all right.’

It wasn’t far and one contraction later, they arrived. At the front door Rita was gathered up by a smiling nurse.

‘All right, dear? First baby? Don’t worry, first babies always take their time, and we’ll soon have you nice and comfy.’ She looked at David standing awkwardly by the door, holding the suitcase. ‘Hubby can wait here,’ she said, and pointed to a small room off the hall. She gave David a little push and taking Rita’s case from him, said, ‘I’ll be back in a while to tell you how things are going.’

David pulled Rita to him and hugged her tightly. ‘Love you, darling heart, love you always.’

Rita reached up and kissed him. ‘Don’t worry, David, I’ll be fine,’ she assured him a little tremulously. ‘You’ll be a dad very soon.’

It wasn’t as soon as she’d hoped.

An hour later the nurse went back to David and said, ‘It’s going to be some time yet, Mr Harris, I suggest you go home and get some sleep, and come back in the morning.’

But David knew he could never sleep with Rita going through whatever it was she was going through upstairs, and said he’d rather stay.

‘Up to you, of course,’ returned the nurse, ‘but it may be a long wait. First babies always take their time.’

If anyone else says that… David thought, gritting his teeth, but he knew the nurse meant to be kind and he managed a smile. ‘Thank you, nurse. I’ll wait.’

She smiled back. ‘Difficult for the dads, I know. I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea, shall I?’

It was more than seven hours later when the nurse finally reappeared in the tiny waiting room and beaming at David, told him that he had a beautiful son.

‘Is Rita all right?’ demanded David. ‘Can I see her?’

‘She’s fine,’ the nurse assured him. ‘We’re just getting her tidied up and then you can come in and see them both. You can’t stay long, though. She’s very tired and needs her sleep.’

David crept into the delivery room and found Rita, pale but radiant, sitting up in bed, a tiny bundle cradled in her arms. She held the baby up a little and murmured, ‘Say hallo to Daddy, little one.’

David bent over and kissed her cheek, his face pressing against hers. ‘Oh darling,’ he whispered, ‘you’re safe. You’re safe, and you’re beautiful.’

He looked down at the red, crumpled face of his son, topped with a head of thick, black hair, and added, ‘and he’s beautiful, too.’

‘Isn’t he?’ Rita agreed, her face alight with joy. ‘Just beautiful. Oh, David we’re so lucky.’ For a long moment they both stared down at the tiny form in the blanket, marvelling at the wonder of him.

‘Are you still happy with the names we chose?’ Rita looked up and asked, and David nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘Donald Andrew,’ she said, smiling down at her son, ‘for your two grandfathers.’ She held him out to David. ‘Here, you hold him,’ she said and looked on with love and pride, as David took the little bundle awkwardly in his arms.

‘He’s too small to be called Donald just yet,’ she said softly, ‘so I’ve been calling him Donny.’

‘Donny he is then,’ agreed David. He looked down again into his son’s face, saw the wee snubbed nose and the eyes screwed up in slumber and whispered, ‘Hallo, Donny, mate. I hope you have the most wonderful life.’

The nurse bustled back into the room. ‘Time for Mother to get some sleep. You’ll have to go now, Mr Harris. You can come back and see them again later, after lunch. Fathers only the first day, other visitors from tomorrow.’

David could see that Rita was exhausted and made no demur. He placed Donny back in her arms and then leaned down and kissed them both.

‘I’m so proud of you both,’ he said softly, ‘you’re the two most special people in the world and I swear I’ll do everything in my power to look after you.’

Rita caught his hand to her cheek, and for a moment their eyes locked. Then David pulled his hand away gently and said, ‘I must go.’

‘You will ring Deeley, won’t you?’ Rita reminded him. ‘Straight away?’

‘Course I will,’ he promised, ‘and my parents. I can’t wait to tell them all. You get some sleep now and I’ll be back to see you both after lunch. Promise.’

When he left the hospital he headed straight for a phone box and dialled Delia’s number. There was no reply, and he realized that it was now mid-morning and she would be at work so he headed for the nursery.

‘Delia’s in the Yellow Room, with the fours,’ he was told. ‘Don’t be too long.’

David went in and found Delia beside a sink, wiping red paint off a little girl’s face. She froze for a moment and then, seeing the broad smile on his face, crossed the room and was enveloped in a massive bear-hug.

‘It’s a boy,’ he told her ecstatically, ‘a beautiful boy, with a mass of dark hair. Mum and Baby both fine.’

‘Oh David,’ cried Delia, ‘that’s fantastic news! Oh, I’m thrilled to bits! It’s so exciting, I can’t believe it. And, Rita, is she really all right?’

‘She’s fine,’ David assured her. ‘A bit tired, that’s all. She’s asleep now, but I can go back again after lunch.’

‘When can I go?’ demanded Delia. ‘When can I see them? I can’t wait to hold my grandson.’

‘Tomorrow,’ promised David. ‘Grandparents are allowed to visit tomorrow.’

‘Have you got a name for him yet?’

‘Yes,’ replied David proudly, ‘he’s called Donald Andrew for his two grandfathers. Rita’s calling him Donny.’

‘Donald Andrew Harris,’ Delia said slowly, as if trying it for size. ‘Little Donny Harris. Oh, David, I’m so happy for you both. Give Rita all my love when you go back, and tell her how thrilled I am.’ She beamed up into his face. ‘And if you want to, come round this evening, after visiting, and I’ll cook you tea.’

‘Thanks, Deeley,’ he said, ‘that would be great. I must go now, I’ve got to tell my parents the news.’ He drew her to him, kissed her on the cheek and then left her standing in the middle of the Yellow Room, exulting in the news he’d brought, and the fact that he’d brought it to her first… because she was, truly, Rita’s mother.

David had rung his office and told them he wouldn’t be in, and now he had the rest of the morning to fill before he could go back to the hospital. He didn’t know if his father would be at home, but he was pretty sure his mother would be, and decided to go and tell them in person too, rather than give them the news over the phone.

By the time he reached his parents’ house he’d begun to wish he had phoned. It would be an awful anti-climax if they weren’t there; but a car was parked in the drive. Dad must be working at home today, he thought. Brilliant!

His mother opened the door and one look at his beaming face told her that she had a grandchild, and she was shouting for Andrew almost before David had got into the house.

They were as thrilled as Delia, both of them hugging him in delight.

‘Tell me all about him,’ Norah begged. ‘Is he beautiful?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And what does he weigh?’ she demanded.

‘Seven pounds thirteen.’

‘A good-sized baby, then. You were only six pounds eight ounces.’

‘And how’s Rita,’ asked his father. ‘No problems for her?’

‘Rita’s fine, Dad,’ said David. ‘Tired, but absolutely… well, you can imagine.’

‘Donald Andrew, you said?’ queried Norah.

‘Yes, Mum,’ David answered. ‘Donald was Rita’s father’s name, and Andrew for Dad of course.’

‘I’m honoured,’ his father said simply. ‘Tell her so, when you go back in to see her. And give her my love.’

‘You can go and see them both yourselves, tomorrow.’

‘Not too early in the day for a glass to wet young Donald Andrew’s head, is it?’ asked his father, and minutes later they were raising glasses to the new arrival.

Just before David left to return to the hospital, his father said, ‘There’s something I want to show you in my study, David, if you’ve got a minute before you go.’

David was itching to be back at the hospital, but with only a glance at his watch, he dutifully followed Andrew into his study.

‘Sit down for a moment, son.’ Andrew closed the door behind them. ‘I’ve had an idea I want to run past you, just to see what you think. Haven’t mentioned it to your mother yet, as I wanted to know what you thought about it first.’

David was intrigued. ‘What is it, Dad?’

‘You know I’m very fond of your Rita, don’t you?’

David nodded. ‘Yes, and I’m delighted. It’s made things easier for her than they might have been.’

Andrew laughed. ‘Oh, you mustn’t mind your mother, she’s coming round now she knows her better. And young Donny will be a big help. No, what I had in mind was something I hope will please Rita, but I wanted to see what you think before I did any more about it.’

When David left the house his mind was reeling.

‘Talk to Mrs Watson about it, if you like,’ Andrew had said. ‘Don’t want to put my foot in it.’

‘No,’ agreed David. ‘I’ll have a word with her. I’m seeing her later.’

Back at the hospital David found Rita sitting up in the ward with Donny in a crib beside her. She had more colour in her cheeks now, and looked a little less tired. When she saw David her face lit up with such happiness that his heart contracted with love for her.

‘I’ve just fed him,’ she told David as he peered into the crib. ‘He’s a hungry monkey. I’m quite sore.’

‘You don’t have to feed him yourself,’ David said. ‘You could give him bottles.’

‘No,’ returned Rita firmly, ‘I’m going to feed our baby myself. Part of the job. Were they all pleased?’ she asked when he’d drawn up a chair to the bedside.

‘They’re all thrilled to bits,’ he told her. ‘They all send you their love and I think all three will be in to see you, and admire Donny, at visiting tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Will you bring me in an air letter when you come next time?’ Rita asked him. ‘I must write to Gran and Rick to tell them about Donny. They’ll be so excited.’

‘Of course,’ David promised. ‘You must write and tell them all about him, but I’ve already sent a telegram with the news.’

Rita looked at him, her eyes sparkling with love and happiness. ‘Oh David, have you? Oh darling, thank you.’

The next afternoon both his parents and Delia came trooping into the ward. Norah was carrying a teddy bear wearing a blue bow, Andrew a huge bunch of flowers, and Delia with a blue, crocheted matinee jacket, wrapped in white tissue paper.

‘Oh, Deeley, it’s beautiful!’ cried Rita when she unwrapped it. ‘Were you that sure it was going to be a boy,’ she teased, ‘or did you make another one in pink, just in case?’

‘No, darling,’ Delia said, ‘this was Harry’s. It was the only thing I kept.’

Tears sprang to Rita’s eyes as she reached up to hug her mother. ‘Oh Deeley,’ she whispered, ‘thank you. Thank you for everything.’

As Norah was at the bedside, gazing down at her new grandson, trying to see a likeness to David in his tiny features, Andrew drew Delia to one side.

‘Has David had a word?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Delia, ‘we discussed it last night.’

‘Do you think she’d like it?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ Delia told him.

‘I’ll go ahead, then,’ he said. ‘Mum’s the word.’

42

The letter arrived in Hampton Road one Saturday morning.

‘Hey, Gran,’ Rick cried, passing it over, ‘there’s one from Australia.’

‘Not Rita’s writing, though,’ Lily said, putting on her glasses and looking at the name of the sender. It just said Harris with an address in a place she’d never heard of.

‘Perhaps it’s from David,’ she said. ‘I hope Rita’s all right, and the baby.’ Sudden fears flew through Lily’s mind. Suppose something had happened to Rita, to the baby. Complications after the birth. Unexpected infection. Were Australian doctors any good?

‘Shall I open it, Gran?’ asked Rick.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I will,’ and slitting open the envelope she pulled out the letter. Glancing at the bottom she saw the signature. ‘Andrew Harris,’ she read. ‘It’s not David. Perhaps it’s his father? Wasn’t he called Andrew?’

‘Can’t remember. Come on, Gran, read it out,’ begged Rick. ‘What does he say?’

‘He says… “Dear Mrs Sharples, I am your granddaughter Rita’s father-in-law.”’

‘You were right,’ said Rick. ‘It’s him. Go on, Gran.’

Lily continued to read aloud.

You’ll know by now, that Rita and David have a beautiful son, born a couple of weeks ago. I’m sure Rita will be sending you some photos of him very soon. I have become very fond of Rita, she is a girl of great character, and I know she had to travel a difficult road in her childhood. I would like to reward her for her courage and steadfastness, and I wondered if you and her brother Richard would like to fly out and see her and the baby…

‘Wouldn’t we just,’ groaned Rick. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Gran, her eyes widening as they took in the rest of the sentence.

‘What?’ demanded Rick seeing her expression. ‘What?’

‘“…and if so,”’ Gran read, ‘“whether you would consider accepting your airline tickets as a gift from me.”’

‘What!’ shrieked Rick. ‘Gran, we’re going to Australia!’

Lily looked up at him, equally incredulous, but said, ‘Wait a minute there, Ricky, let’s finish reading the letter, eh?’

Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see Rita reunited with you both after all these years. I have discussed it with David and Rita’s foster mother, Mrs Watson, and they both think it would be the most wonderful surprise for Rita if you agreed to come.

I hope you won’t be offended by this offer. I’ve heard from Rita that Richard is working hard to save up to come over sometime in the future, but I am fortunate enough to be in the position to send you tickets immediately. I know it is a long journey, taking nearly two days, but if you were able to come, you would be able to stay for several weeks and so make that journey worthwhile.

Obviously we’ve said nothing to Rita about this. We didn’t want to get her hopes up, in case you didn’t feel able to make such a long journey. One way or the other, we’d be glad if you would keep the secret too. Perhaps you’d reply to the address at the top of this letter, and if you have a phone number, let me have it, so I can ring you and we can discuss arrangements more easily. I would be happy to phone you at a convenient time in the future.

I hope that you will feel able to accept this gift, and that we shall all see you in Sydney before very long.

Yours sincerely,

Andrew Harris

Lily put the letter down on the table and looked at Rick.

‘That’s fantastic,’ he breathed. ‘Just amazing. Us going to Australia!’

‘It would be wonderful,’ agreed Lily, ‘but I’m not sure it’s on.’

Rick stared at her stupefied. ‘What d’you mean, not on, Gran? Why not? This bloke, Rita’s pa-in-law, is offering to pay for us to go. Don’t you want to go, Gran?’

‘Course I want to go,’ replied Lily, ‘but it ain’t that easy, Rick. It’s a lot of money to take from someone you don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on, Gran,’ cried Rick. ‘We do know him. He’s Rita’s dad now.’

‘Not quite, and even so, it’s too much money,’ maintained Lily.

‘But he ain’t doing it for us, Gran,’ Rick pointed out. ‘He’s doing it for Rita. What did he say…’ Rick picked up the letter and squinted at it. ‘Yeah, here we are… “I have become very fond of Rita, she is a girl of great character, and I know she had to travel a difficult road in her childhood.” This is the bit, “I would like to reward her for her courage and steadfastness.” There you are, see,’ Rick said triumphantly. ‘He’s doing it for her, not for us.’

‘It’s for us as well.’

‘I know, but it’s for her mostly. Look, Gran, he can afford it. He says so, don’t he? He says he knows I’m saving up to come, well OK, but he also knows it’ll take me years to save enough for the both of us. And let’s face it, Gran, you ain’t getting any younger. Don’t want to wait until the journey is too much for you, do you? He sees that, this Andrew bloke. He knows that if we don’t go soon, if you don’t go soon, it could be too late.’ He looked across at his grandmother and flushed red, as he realized what he’d said. ‘Sorry, Gran,’ he muttered, but when she said nothing, he added a little defiantly, ‘It would be dreadful if we didn’t go now and then couldn’t go later, wouldn’t it?’

‘All right, Richard,’ said Lily tartly, ‘you’ve made your point.’

He got to his feet and went to the door, adding as his parting shot, ‘Just think how Rita would feel if she found out we could’ve gone to see her and we didn’t.’

When he’d gone out, Lily sat looking out of the window and thinking about the letter and its offer. She thought back to the day when she’d got the telegram about the baby, and how anxious she’d been when it arrived. Telegrams were bad news, everyone knew that, except those special greetings ones that came at weddings, so when Lily had opened the door to the telegraph boy, it was with a shaking hand that she took the proffered buff envelope. Rick was at school, and she was on her own in the house. She’d looked at the envelope, wondering if perhaps she should wait till Rick came home to open it. But on the other hand, she thought, if it’s urgent enough for a telegram, then perhaps I shouldn’t wait.

She retreated to the kitchen and sitting down at the table, tore the envelope open. When she read the message, she found she was crying, crying with joy at the news it brought.

DONALD ANDREW HARRIS BORN 3 JUNE. MOTHER & SON DOING WELL. LETTER FOLLOWS. DAVID.

Within moments Lily was on her feet, pulling on her coat and closing the front door behind her. Bursting with the news, she hurried to Baillies’ to tell Anne.

‘It’s a boy!’ she cried as she flung open the shop door. ‘Rita’s had a boy!’

Anne came round the counter and gave her a hug. She and Lily had become very close over recent years. ‘That’s wonderful, Lil,’ she cried, ‘I’m so pleased for you.’

‘Donald, after Rita’s dad. Don’t you think that’s lovely? I do. Donald Andrew. David’s father’s called Andrew, I think. Oh, Anne! That I should live to see the day!’

Lily decided she wouldn’t mention Andrew Harris’s generous offer to anyone yet, not even to Anne or Carrie. She would think about it and make her decision, then, if they were going, she’d tell them.

‘Have you thought yet?’ Rick demanded when he got home from school.

‘Sort of,’ replied Lily.

‘Does that mean we can go?’

‘I ain’t decided yet,’ Lily answered, ‘I’m still thinking on it. But, if we do decide to go I’ll have to speak to Mr Harris.’

‘We could get a phone put in,’ suggested Rick.

‘That’d take too long, wouldn’t it?’ Lily hadn’t bothered with a phone, but now she quite liked the idea.

‘No, honestly, Gran, it’ll be done in no time.’

‘I’ll see, but I’ll tell you one thing, young Ricky-me-lad,’ she said firmly, ‘we ain’t going nowhere, not till you’ve finished them exams.’

Rick grabbed her hands and, holding them tight, said, ‘But we are going, Gran, yes?’

‘Yes,’ replied Lily. ‘We’re going, Rick. ’Course we are.’

‘Fan-tas-tic!’ cried Rick, enveloping her in a hug.

‘But we keep it to ourselves for now,’ she reminded him, ‘and certainly no hint to Rita if you write to her again. Right?’

‘Right,’ agreed Rick.

There was no question of them going for at least a month. Neither of them had passports, and Lily had stuck to her guns about Rick having to sit his O-levels.

The phone was put in, and when Andrew Harris rang to discuss the arrangements Lily was still having difficulty accepting such a generous offer.

‘I’d like to try and pay you back,’ she said, ‘for the tickets. It ain’t right for you to pay all that money out for us.’

‘It’s my pleasure, Mrs Sharples,’ he replied gently. ‘I know your grandson is saving up to come, but he can always use that money for a second visit.’

‘It’s too generous,’ Lily said, ‘but I do want to see Rita and the baby.’

‘Of course you do,’ Andrew said, ‘and I know they’d love to see you, so, that’s settled.’

The plans were made and at last Lily was ready to tell her friends.

Characteristically, Anne and Fred were delighted for them. ‘Ain’t that great news?’ Anne said. ‘Fancy! Flying all the way to Australia to see Reet!’

‘Flying,’ confirmed Lily. ‘Rita’s father-in-law has sent us the tickets.’

‘When you off, then?’ asked Fred.

‘Soon as Rick’s finished his exams,’ answered Lily. ‘We got our passports and that, so we’re all set to go.’

Carrie was delighted for them too. ‘How long are you going for?’ she asked.

‘Not decided yet,’ replied Lily. ‘We’ll be back here for Ricky to start in the sixth form.’

The day they were leaving arrived at last. John Maunder had offered to drive them to London Airport. Rick could hardly contain his excitement, but Lily was extremely apprehensive. ‘D’you think I’m stupid to go on such a long journey at my age?’ she asked Carrie. ‘S’pose I got took ill?’

‘No,’ cried Carrie. ‘You’re as fit as a flea, and there’ll be air hostesses to look after you on the flight, and when you get to Australia, well, Rita and her family’ll be there, won’t they?

Lily had listened to Carrie and tried to dismiss her fears, but as they drew near to London Airport, she began to have serious misgivings. She was glad that Carrie had come with them, especially when they went to the airline desk to show their tickets and hand over their luggage.

‘It will get on the right aeroplane, won’t it?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Certainly, madam,’ replied the girl at the desk. ‘I’ve labelled it for Sydney.’

‘And it’ll go there all by itself?’

‘’Course it will, Gran,’ said Rick. ‘Don’t worry about it, it’s all took care of.’ He took the tickets back and stowed them in the leather money belt he’d bought for the purpose. ‘Safe in there, Gran,’ he assured her, giving the pouch a pat, ‘all strapped round my waist, see?’

At last it was time to go through to the lounge. Rick pranced on ahead, turning back now and then to be sure they were all coming.

Lily paused and turned to Carrie and John. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, giving Carrie a hug. ‘Thanks to you both for bringing us up.’

‘Pleasure, Mrs S,’ Carrie assured her, returning the hug.

‘You look after your Gran, young man,’ John said to Rick.

‘Will do,’ promised Rick.

‘He will,’ said Lily and turning away, she walked through the gateway into the lounge.

‘Give our love to Rita,’ called Carrie.

Lily turned and waved once more before she and Rick disappeared from sight.

43

As Lily and Rick finally struggled out through the customs area at the airport in Sydney, Lily was afraid she wouldn’t make it. She had lost track of the times the aeroplane had taken off and landed on the way. Sometimes they had to leave the aircraft, other times they stayed in their seats. Passengers left the plane, others boarded; there seemed to Lily to be continual bustle. When the captain had finally welcomed them to Sydney, she hardly believed they’d actually reached their destination.

It was early morning as they emerged into a wintery sunlight. They stood for a moment, looking round, and then Rick pointed.

‘Look, Gran,’ he said. ‘Over there.’

Two men stood together, one holding a handwritten sign: Mrs Sharples. Rick picked up the two cases and led the way across.

‘Hallo,’ he said to the younger of the two, ‘How d’you do? I’m Rick.’

‘And I’m David,’ replied the other. ‘Here, let me take those cases.’

Lily, following behind, saw the two men glance over Rick’s shoulder, looking for her. This time it was the older man who stepped forward, hand extended.

‘Mrs Sharples?’ he said. ‘Welcome to Sydney. We’re so glad you could come. I’m Andrew Harris, and this is David, Rita’s husband.’

David shook hands as well, and said, ‘You’ve had a very long journey, Mrs Sharples, are you all right?’

‘Tired,’ admitted Lily. ‘Tired to the bone.’

‘We guessed you would be, so we’re taking you straight to my parents’ house. You can rest there and have a good sleep. I’m sure you need it.’

‘Where’s Rita?’ asked Rick, looking about him. ‘I thought she’d be here.’

‘She still doesn’t know you’re coming,’ replied Andrew. ‘Look, let’s get you into the car, and then we’ll explain the plans on the way home.’ He hailed a porter to take the luggage and led the way to the car. There was a chilly wind, and Lily shivered.

‘It is a bit cold today,’ Andrew said, ‘but we’ll soon warm the car up. It’s winter here of course.’

Once they reached the car, Andrew installed Lily comfortably in the front seat, while David dealt with the porter, the luggage and Rick.

‘Comfortable now?’ Andrew asked Lily.

Lily nodded wearily, ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ she said.

As they drove into the city Andrew explained what they hoped to do. ‘What we thought was that, as you’d be so tired when you first arrived, it would be better to take you to my home where you can catch up on a bit of shut-eye, have a shower or a bath, and generally recover from the journey. We’ll look after you, and then as it’s Saturday tomorrow, David will bring Rita and young Donny over for lunch. She won’t know you two are there, so it’ll be a real surprise when she walks into the room and finds you.’

‘So we ain’t seeing her till tomorrow,’ muttered Rick.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ answered Andrew. ‘I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, Rick, but we thought your grandmother would need a while to get over the journey. It would be a pity to spoil her reunion with Rita just because she was too tired, don’t you think?’

‘’S’pose so,’ he grumbled, ‘I just thought she’d be here, you know.’

Lily directed a quelling look at her grandson.

‘Please don’t listen to him, Mr Harris. I’ll be very pleased to have a good rest before I see Rita, I can tell you,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s very good of you both to have thought about it all, isn’t it, Rick?’

‘Yes, Gran,’ came the rather mutinous reply, but Rick’s disappointment faded as he turned his attention to the city, wide-eyed at the buildings, the traffic and the bridge. He heard no more of the arrangements as he pressed his nose to the car window, drinking in the sights and sounds of Sydney.

‘Rita’s foster mother will be coming too,’ David was telling Lily. ‘Delia. You’ll like her. She was the one who got Rita off that dreadful farm.’

‘Yes,’ said Lily. ‘Rita’s told me all about her. I shan’t be able to thank her enough for looking after her when there weren’t no one else.’

When they reached the house in Parramatta, Norah was waiting to greet them at the front door. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting Rita’s grandmother to be like, but when she saw her, tired and pale from the long journey, she hurried out to welcome her.

Lily spent most of the day asleep, as did Rick, despite his best efforts to stay awake. She woke as evening approached, and as she and David’s parents sat down to supper, Norah began to ply her with questions about Rita and her childhood.

‘What happened to her parents?’ Norah asked. ‘All we know is that she was an orphan and was sent out here to start a new life.’

‘Yes, well, that sort of happened,’ agreed Lily. ‘Her dad was killed in the war. Her mum looked after her and her little sister…’

‘Yes, her sister…’

‘Norah,’ interposed Andrew mildly, ‘I don’t think you should be interrogating Mrs Sharples like this. These are questions you should be asking Rita, not her grandmother.’

‘But Rita won’t talk about it,’ objected Norah. ‘She never tells me anything.’

‘Then they’re probably things she doesn’t want to discuss,’ said her husband. ‘So I expect Mrs Sharples doesn’t want to either.’

‘No, I don’t,’ agreed Lily with a firmness in which Andrew heard an echo of Rita. Then fearing she’d been rude to her hostess, Lily went on, ‘You can imagine these things are painful to Rita, so if she’s managed to put them out of her mind, then I’m delighted.’

Lily turned to Andrew, sitting at the head of the table. ‘I’m sure you both realize how difficult it’s been for her. I’m just so happy that she’s found herself a lovely man like your David. After all, it’s the rest of her life what matters now, ain’t it?’

Nobody mentioned Rosie again. Rosie was at peace. Rita was the important one now.

Rita woke on Saturday morning, still feeling tired. She’d been up with Donny twice in the night, once at midnight, and again at four in the morning.

‘Do we really have to go to your parents’ for lunch today?’ she asked David. ‘Couldn’t we cry off, just this once?’

David was alarmed. ‘Don’t you feel well?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I’m all right,’ Rita said, ‘just tired. I thought we’d have a nice quiet weekend just doing nothing. Not that I haven’t got loads to do,’ she added. ‘I need to wash nappies and the ironing’s reaching the roof.’

‘I’ll do the ironing,’ David offered.

Rita gave a shout of laughter. ‘You? Ironing?’

David looked offended. ‘Can’t be that difficult,’ he said, ‘just running an iron over a few shirts.’

Rita put her arms round him and gave him a hug. ‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. It’s sweet of you to offer, but I can do it. I just thought I’d give your mother a call, and suggest we came next week instead.’

‘I really don’t think we can do that at such short notice,’ argued David. ‘She’ll have got food in, and prepared things.’

‘She didn’t think of that two weeks ago when they were coming here for dinner and then didn’t because she had a headache,’ retorted Rita.

‘Oh, come on, Rita,’ David said. ‘She really was ill. You know she went to bed for two days with one of her migraines.’

‘Yeah, well, they seem pretty convenient to me.’

‘Look, Rita, I’m afraid we’ve got to go—’

‘Why?’ snapped Rita. ‘Why have we got to go?’

‘It’s been in the diary for more than two weeks.’

‘So what? We can still not go. Suppose I had a raging fever, we couldn’t go then, could we?’

‘Come on, darling,’ implored David. ‘Be reasonable.’

Rita knew she wasn’t being reasonable, but somehow she couldn’t help herself. She was tired and cross, and the thought of listening to her mother-in-law telling her how to look after Donny was more than she could cope with. ‘I don’t feel reasonable,’ she said petulantly.

‘Look, I’m going to let you into a secret,’ David said, ‘and then you’ll see why we’ve got to go.’

‘Well?’

‘Dad’s got a special present for Donny. ‘He’s got it specially, as a surprise, and he’s going to give it to him today.’

‘What sort of present?’ demanded Rita.

‘It’s just a present, a surprise. Something that Dad thought Donny would like. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get it for him. He’ll be most disappointed if we don’t go.’

‘Couldn’t he bring it here?’ asked Rita.

David sighed. What a day for Rita to be so awkward all of a sudden.

‘No,’ he said, ‘not easily. Look, I’m going to go, and I’ll take Donny with me. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’ll tell Mum you weren’t up to it, she’ll understand.’ He waited anxiously, afraid she might call his bluff.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Rita said sharply. ‘You can’t take him on your own. How will you feed him?’

‘Oh, Mum’s got a bottle and some powdered milk,’ answered David, playing his ace. ‘It won’t hurt him just this once not to be breast-fed. I’m not going to let Dad down, Rita. We’ll manage.’

Rita stared at him obstinately, then she shrugged. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come, if it’s that important to you. But we’re not going to stay all afternoon, are we?’

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ said David evenly, relief flooding through him at her capitulation.

‘I shan’t want to,’ Rita told him. ‘OK, I’ll be ready to go at twelve.’

On the dot of twelve, David put the carrycot into the car, picked up the bag that contained everything they could possibly need for Donny and waited in the driver’s seat with the engine running. Moments later the front door slammed and Rita, smartly dressed in navy slacks and a red jumper, climbed into the passenger seat.

David turned to look at her. ‘You know,’ he remarked conversationally to her stiff profile, ‘I think I love you even more when you’re cross, that stern expression makes you even more beautiful.’

For a moment Rita didn’t move, then she looked at him, a rueful expression on her face. ‘Sorry,’ she said in a small voice and she leaned over and kissed him on the ear. ‘Come on, David,’ she chided, ‘let’s get going, or we’ll be late.’

When they drew up at the house, David lifted Donny, still fast asleep in his carrycot, out of the car. Rita grabbed the change bag and together they walked to the door. Norah opened it before they could ring the bell. She must have been standing at the window waiting for us, Rita thought, a little of her earlier anger creeping back. We aren’t late, well, not much, and here she is on the doorstep.

‘Come on in,’ Norah said, smiling. ‘We’re in the lounge.’

David stood back to let Rita precede him into the room, and the first person she saw was Delia.

‘Deeley,’ she cried in delight, ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here! Why didn’t you say, we could have given you a lift.’ As she went to hug her mother, Rita was suddenly aware of other people in the room and paused to look round. There was an elderly lady sitting in a chair by the fire, and a young lad perched on the window seat.

‘Oh,’ said Rita, ‘sorry, I didn’t realize there were other guests.’

‘Rita.’ It was the old lady in the chair who, very softly, spoke her name.

Rita froze and a waiting silence enveloped the room. She stared at the old woman, who was now struggling out of her chair.

‘Gran,’ she whispered. ‘Gran? Is it really you?’

‘It’s Gran all right,’ said a voice from the window seat, ‘and I’m Rick.’

Rita spun round. ‘Rick? My brother, Rick?’ She looked wildly round the room and found they were all smiling at her. David, his mother and father, Deeley, and miraculously her gran and Rick, her brother.

‘Gran,’ she croaked, ‘oh Gran, I don’t believe it,’ and finally she moved towards the grandmother she hadn’t seen for more than sixteen years, gathering her into her arms, clinging to her, weeping on her shoulder as if she were a little girl once more.

Lily sat down again, and Rita sat at her feet on the floor, still clutching her hand. Having greeted her with an awkward kiss on the cheek and then a bear-like hug, Rick sat beside her. There was so much to say that they didn’t say anything. There were so many years missing, they didn’t know where to begin.

Rita remembered David’s words from earlier in the day, Dad’s got a special present for Donny. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get it for him. He’ll be most disappointed if we don’t go. She looked up at Andrew, who was standing by the door smiling broadly, and getting to her feet, she went over and put her arms round his neck.

‘You did this for me, Mr Harris,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know how to begin to thank you.’

Andrew hugged her. ‘I think you could start by calling me Andrew, or if you can’t manage that, how about Grandad, like young Donny?’

Rita reached up, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Andrew,’ she whispered, tears shining in her eyes, ‘thank you so very much.’

There was an excited buzz of conversation in the room as everyone began to talk at once. Andrew produced another bottle of champagne, and when everyone had a glass, he said, ‘I’d like to propose a toast. To young Donald Andrew and all his family, from both sides of the world.’

‘Donald Andrew,’ they chorused, and raised their glasses.

Diney Costeloe on Finding the Throwaway Children*

After reading my book about Jewish refugee children sent from Germany on the Kindertransport trains, a friend suggested that I might consider the plight of child migrants sent, alone, to Australia. Interested, I began researching the subject. The first book I read was ‘Empty Cradles’ by Margaret Humphreys and from then on I was hooked. Margaret Humphreys, a Nottingham a social worker, set about tracing the families of unaccompanied child migrants, and her book is a fascinating account of her work.

Once I began to read the individual stories about children who were sent without the knowledge of their families, children whose names were changed making them almost untraceable, children who were exploited on arrival by the very people who were supposed to be giving them a fresh start, I realised that this was something I wanted to write about.

It has to be said that many people thought that sending children away from austere, post-war Britain to a new life, was the right thing to do, but the way to hell is paved with good intentions and the system left so much room for abuse that it could never be right.

What I encountered in my research was repeated stories of families being lied to about the whereabouts of their children. Parents who thought they’d left their children in care just while they sorted out the chaos of their post-war lives, found their children had disappeared, ‘been adopted’. Many of the children believed that their parents were dead, that they were orphans whom nobody cared about. They had to learn to survive in a strange place on their own. Some, the strong ones, did well and went on to full and productive lives, others, the not-so-strong, led and maybe still are leading, less than happy lives.

Thanks to Margaret Humphreys, who having begun to help such children to find and reconnect with their families also founded The Migrants Trust, many children who thought they were alone in the world have discovered family they never knew they had.

Once I’d decided that this was the basis for my book, I began some detailed research on the charities and organisations who arranged such migration, but for the book I invented my own charity and my own orphanage.

My ‘children’, Rita and Rosie, come from a family like all too many in the immediate post war years, where the father and breadwinner hasn’t returned and the mother is struggling to support her children alone. I tried to put myself in Mavis’s place, a single mother in 1948, with only a widow’s pension to live on and a lonely bed to return to every night.

The research I did for the Australian end of the book was mainly from memoirs and books written by children who had been sent to, and grown up on, the other side of the world.

My orphanage is entirely fictitious, but what happens there mirrors my research.

My book is fiction, but perhaps it will reach those who otherwise might never hear the story of those throwaway children.

*Originally appeared as a blog piece on www.headofzeus.com

22 May 2015

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First published in the UK in 2015 by Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Diney Costeloe, 2015

Jacket design: KS Agency
Jacket image: © John Chillingworth/Getty Images
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The moral right of Diney Costeloe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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About Diney Costeloe

DINEY COSTELOE is the author of seventeen novels, several short stories and many articles and poems. She has three children and seven grandchildren, so when she isn’t busy writing, she’s busy with family. She and her husband divide their time between Somerset and West Cork.

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This eBook omnibus edition first published in the UK in 2016 by Head of Zeus Ltd

The individual copyright pages at the back of each book form extensions of this copyright page

The moral right of Diney Costeloe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

These are works of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (E) 9781786695185

Head of Zeus Ltd

Clerkenwell House

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London EC1R 0HT

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