Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © HarperCollins 2017

Cover photography © Jeff Cottenden 2017

Cover design © Charlotte Abrams-Simpson 2017

Molly Green asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008238940

Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008238957

Version: 2018-01-23

Dedication

To my dear friend June who was an evacuee in the Second World War, although nothing she experienced has found its way into this novel.

To all Dr Barnardo’s orphans during the Second World War who were the inspiration for this series.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Before …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

After …

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading…

About the Author

About the Publisher

Before …

Cambridgeshire, 1936

June raced home from the last class of the day, wanting to make sure the bedroom she shared with her younger sister Clara was free so she could do her homework in peace. Good, she thought as she opened the front door. She could hear Clara downstairs talking to their mother.

‘Mum, I’m home,’ June called as she pulled off her coat and hat and hung them on a hook in the narrow hallway. She put her head in the kitchen door.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, June, and a piece of sponge?’ Her mother began to cut a slice from the cake. ‘I’ve just taken it out of the oven.’

‘I’ll come down in a bit. I’ve got two lots of homework, and we’ve got an English test tomorrow.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Where’s Dad?’

A shadow crossed her mother’s face. ‘He won’t be here yet. He’s up at the stadium.’

June blew out her cheeks in relief as she ran up the stairs, two at a time, to her room. She settled at the small table under the window, and had finally worked out how to solve the mathematics problem when she heard her sister flying up the stairs and footsteps thundering behind – her father’s. June’s heart pounded as she threw down her pencil and rushed to the door.

‘Don’t, Daddy! Don’t hit me!’ Clara screamed as she tried to kick out to escape their father’s powerful arms. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Leave her alone!’ June used every ounce of her strength to wrench her sister away from her father’s grasp. What little thing had Clara done this time to make her father so angry?

‘Stop interfering, you!’

For a split second June was caught by his maddened eyes. She smelled the beer on his breath as he made to snatch Clara back. He cursed as Clara’s foot caught him on the shin. June rushed towards her father, her hand up ready to hit him. Clara ducked out of his way and turned to run but she slipped on the rug, losing her balance. June tried to grab her but her hand clutched air. She could only stand frozen in horror as Clara slowly fell backwards down the stairs.

She didn’t know if it was she or her younger sister who screamed.

Chapter One

Liverpool, December 1941

The train to Liverpool was nine hours late pulling out of Euston Station. When it finally departed, at five minutes to ten at night, it was to a cacophony of clanking and shouting, belching steam, and conductors constantly blowing their whistles. June stuck her head out of the nearest grimy window to catch the last glimpse of her aunt running along the platform. She kept up for a few seconds, her handkerchief a small white flag, but as the train gathered speed she fell back and her outline faded into the mist. Dearest Aunt Ada. June was going to miss her.

June drew back her head and took in a deep breath. She’d done it. Even though the train had been delayed for such an interminable time, causing her to spend hours sitting on the stone floor of Euston Station because there were no available seats, June could not suppress her joy. She’d been pressed up like a bookend against one of a small group of WAAFs who chatted nonstop whilst she waited, though thankfully a soldier had given up his seat for her aunt. And now she was on her way up north. Against all odds.

She only hoped that Liverpool was far enough away from London that her father wouldn’t come after her. She’d been brave enough not to give him the address; she hadn’t even told him the village. ‘Somewhere near Liverpool,’ she’d said vaguely. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m there.’

Her heart beat a little faster as her father’s words rang in her ears: ‘All of you have left me now. First Stella, then Clara …’ He’d bowed his head as he uttered Clara’s name and for a second or two she thought there might be some sign of remorse reflected in his eyes. ‘Then your mother,’ he’d carried on, ‘and now you.’ He’d looked up slyly and she saw then that his eyes were as cold and grey as concrete.

Clara. June bit her lip. No, she mustn’t think of her sister for the moment. She had to concentrate on what lay ahead. Think about her new job at Dr Barnardo’s. But first she needed to find her compartment.

She struggled to manoeuvre her suitcase through a line of soldiers standing in the corridor, most of them puffing on cigarettes, and caught snatches of their talk as she tried to squeeze past.

‘Where are you stationed?’

‘The Isle of Tiree.’

‘Oh, bad luck, old chap. That’s the Met station, isn’t it? Pretty desolate, I’m told.’

‘Not the best posting but at least I probably won’t get shot at. I’ve got a couple of days’ leave before I go so I’m nipping in to see the parents – they’re near Liverpool and—’

‘Excuse me,’ June said, now completely blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered man in an RAF greatcoat – an officer by the two bars on his shoulders – who appeared to be deep in conversation, his back to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. He turned round and even though the peak of his cap partly shaded his face, June found herself looking into eyes the colour of a summer sky. An appreciative smile spread across his even features. ‘I’ll be glad to help with that case.’

‘No, I’m all right, thank you. I just need to get by,’ June said, a little unnerved by his directness.

‘Are you sure? That case looks heavy to me,’ he said, briefly glancing down, then catching her eye again.

‘I’m absolutely sure.’

The man held her gaze for a few more seconds, then shrugged and stepped aside, leaving a few extra inches of space. June nodded her thanks, conscious that she was forced to brush hard against him as she shouldered her way through.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a mocking smile. He was doing this deliberately! She was glad he couldn’t see her face grow pink.

Drawing admiring glances and a few whistles, she pushed her way through the heaving mass of soldiers along the corridor, the smoke from their cigarettes catching in the back of her throat. She was thankful to finally spot her compartment. She slid open the door to find it was already occupied by four uniformed women, chattering away, and a harassed-looking mother, her arms around a sobbing child sitting on her lap, trying to soothe her. A second child, a boy, was tapping his mother’s arm, whining for something to drink.

Instinctively June smiled at the mother, who sent back an apologetic look and mouthed that she was sorry.

‘Don’t worry,’ June said, heaving her case onto the rack. ‘I’m used to children. My sister’s got three boys who are little monkeys. I’ve been looking after them lately.’ She sat down beside the mother, who was trying to hush the little girl’s sobs. ‘They must be tired at this late hour. How old are they?’

‘Joe’s six and Millie’s five,’ the woman explained. ‘I’m Doreen, by the way.’

‘And I’m June.’ She opened her bag. ‘I have some boiled sweets in here somewhere. Perhaps I could give them one and tell them a story?’

‘Would you?’ Doreen’s face softened with relief.

‘If you’ve got a cardigan or a shawl or something, we can tuck it around Millie so she’s ready to go to sleep for a few hours. She’ll feel better in the morning.’

The little girl stopped crying and looked at June with wide tear-filled eyes.

‘The nice lady has a sweet for you, love, and she’s going to read you a story.’

It worked like magic.

If only Stella’s boys had been that easy, June thought wryly, a twinge of apprehension rolling down her spine. Instead of Stella’s three boys, she’d be faced with ten times that many at the orphanage.

It was early the following morning when June alighted at Kirkdale railway station. The muscles in her legs and shoulders were stiff from being in the same position for so long. Rubbing the back of her neck and ignoring her rumbling stomach for the time being she opened the piece of paper with the written instructions she’d had from the matron of the Dr Barnardo’s home – and her new home.

Catch the no 6 bus outside Kirkdale station. Ask the driver to put you off at the Ferndale stop. Turn left and after about five hundred yards turn left again down a lane. Walk for a few minutes and you’ll come to a private drive on the left. It’s uphill. Follow it all the way and you’ll see a large red-brick house in front of you. That’s Bingham Hall.

June was desperate for a cup of tea and something to eat before she could attempt one more minute of travelling or she was sure she’d faint. Maybe the station would have a café. She folded the piece of paper and tucked it in her coat pocket, then doubled back onto the platform.

She looked at her watch. Not even six o’clock. Everywhere was quiet except for the last stragglers coming off the train she’d been on. They too looked bleary-eyed, as though they hadn’t slept much. She hadn’t either, squashed between the mother with her two children, the other four women, and a tall uniformed man who’d rushed into the compartment at the last minute. For a moment, she’d thought he was the man in the greatcoat that she’d brushed against earlier; she’d felt an unexpected flicker of disappointment when she saw this man was a lot older. He’d given her an apologetic smile and settled in immediately, closing his eyes and only letting out a grunt and a snore now and then, much to the little boy’s delight when he awoke.

The man with the blue eyes flashed through her mind again. She wondered where he was stationed; she hadn’t noticed him get off at Kirkdale. There was no way of telling the colour of his hair under the peaked cap … but those eyes. They were such a bright blue they looked as though they’d been painted in by an over-enthusiastic child. She’d been rather abrupt when he’d only offered to help her. She ought to have been better mannered. Her mother would have reprimanded her. Then she remembered the way he’d enjoyed her discomfort and with a flicker of annoyance she marched into the station café. She sat down, ordered some tea and scrambled egg on toast, and opened her book, the one Aunt Ada had slipped into her bag for the journey. June grinned as she turned the page to her bookmark. Mary Poppins couldn’t be more appropriate.

‘Sorry it’s powdered,’ the waitress said as she put the plate down in front of her. ‘We haven’t had our usual order of eggs delivered this week.’

‘I’m one of those strange people who quite like powdered egg,’ June said with a smile.

‘Most of the customers understand, but we’ve got one who grumbles every time. I always remind him there is a war on, and he gives me such an old-fashioned look. He don’t know if I’m being saucy or not.’ The woman chuckled, showing a wide gap in her teeth.

‘I’m glad you remind him,’ June said, her smile broadening.

‘Where are you off to, if you don’t mind me asking?’ the waitress asked.

‘I’m going to be working at Bingham Hall.’

‘What used to be Lord and Lady Bingham’s big house.’ The waitress put both hands on her hips, her expression one of genuine interest. ‘It’s now the orphanage, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Dr Barnardo’s. Do you know how far it is?’

The waitress frowned and pulled one of her earlobes as though it might help her to think.

‘It’s quite a way from here. Are you going on the bus?’ June nodded. ‘It’s about eight miles but the bus will stop at every stop so it’ll feel three times as long. Anyway, you enjoy your breakfast and I’ll go and bring you a pot of tea.’

June shivered as she rubbed her hands together through her gloves. The queue at the bus stop was long, the women chatting in such a strong accent she couldn’t catch all they were saying. Stamping her feet, which were turning numb, she was thankful to see a number 6 bus approaching.

A large lady squeezed in by the side of her, pinning her against the window. June tried to read her book but the constant jolting made her feel nauseous and she was forced to give up. She turned her head to look out of the window, which was crying out for a good clean, and glimpsed hills and valleys and trees and the occasional small village. But her mind was busy with the thought of Bingham Hall. What would it be like? Could she make a real difference to the children’s lives? June’s thoughts rushed back to Clara. Even though the accident had happened more than five years ago it was still difficult to believe she would never see her sister again. Tears stung the back of her eyes. Somehow she had to make up for Clara’s tragic end.

I want to do my bit in the war as well as everyone, she thought, as the bus rumbled along. She recalled that on the very day she’d received the offer from Dr Barnardo’s she’d had a letter from the Auxiliary Territorial Service telling her she was to report for duty. She’d almost forgotten she’d applied in her excitement at Aunt Ada knowing someone at Dr Barnardo’s and putting in a word. Thank goodness the ATS agreed that her position in an orphanage was important, and even essential, and they’d immediately released her. It had been such a relief to make her own decision about her future. Working with children, especially those who had very little, was her hope, her dream. An orphanage such as Dr Barnardo’s just felt right.

The large woman beside her spread out even further and gave a long grunt of a snore. She smelled as though it had been some time since she’d had a bath. June sighed. She mustn’t judge her. Who knew what her circumstances were? Just get this journey over and you’ll be fine, she told herself.

But the time dragged. Once the bus turned round in a complete circle.

‘We can’t get through,’ called out the conductor. ‘There was a raid last night and our road is completely blocked. We’ll have to do a detour. Probably add another half-hour on to the journey.’

The half-hour turned into an hour. Every time the driver tried to take a detour, the detour road would come to a full stop and he’d have to turn back and try another route, negotiating his way past recently bombed buildings. Somehow she hadn’t thought she’d see such depressing scenes so far from London, as Pathé News at the cinema always seemed to draw attention to London devastation. She prayed her aunt would keep safe. Dear Aunt Ada. When she’d been undecided about whether she should choose the ATS or the orphanage, her aunt had encouraged her to take up the position with Dr Barnardo’s.

‘You’re a natural with children,’ she’d said to June. ‘And you don’t want to waste your nursery nurse training. But don’t forget to have a bit of fun sometimes. There’ll be plenty of time for sadness if this war carries on much longer.’ She’d looked June up and down, her eyes full of affection. ‘You’re very young still, and pretty as a picture, so don’t tie yourself down to one man … and that includes Howard Blessing.’

Howard Blessing. June had had a crush on him when they’d first begun dating, but the attraction had quickly petered out – on her side, at least.

‘Don’t forget, you were the one who introduced me to him,’ June said with a laugh.

‘That’s as maybe. But he was supposed to take you to the pictures and dancing, not ask you to marry him – at your age.’

‘He was only kidding,’ June said. ‘Anyway, I don’t love him and never did, so there’s nothing to worry about. I just want to concentrate on my new job, but if I ever settle down it will be for love … though I shan’t hold my breath.’

‘You’re also too young to be cynical,’ her aunt had said with feeling. ‘You’ll fall in love, no doubt about it, and when it happens it’s the best thing on earth.’

The conductor broke into her thoughts as he called out, ‘Next stop, Ferndale. That’s yours, hen,’ he said, walking towards her, smiling.

Hen? Was he referring to her? What a strange expression. She was sure she had a lot to learn coming all this way from London.

‘Oh, thank you.’ June scrambled to her feet, which was difficult in the confined space. The large lady struggled up to let her out and June moved towards the front of the bus. Someone had shoved her case into the luggage space, and as she tried to lift it out the bus jolted to a stop, pitching her forward.

‘Steady,’ the conductor said, holding her arm. He glanced at her curiously. ‘Where’re you off to, hen?’

‘Dr Barnardo’s home. Do you know it?’

‘Aye. It used to be Lord Bingham’s house. That’s where it got its name: Bingham Hall. It’s up the lane on the left, then left again. A good twenty minutes’ walk, I’d say, as it’s quite a climb.’ He threw her a cheeky grin. ‘But you’re young … you’ll probably do it in less than that.’ His eyes swept approvingly over her ankles before he asked, ‘Are you a teacher … or visiting one of the young’uns?’

‘I’m working there – matron’s assistant.’

‘You’ll be working for Mrs Pherson, then.’

June nodded, pleased that someone knew her new employer.

‘Well, good luck, hen, is all I’ve got to say. I think you’ll be needing it – and not just with the young’uns.’

She wondered what he meant by this, but there was no time to think. The conductor had already kindly set her case down outside and waved her goodbye.

June’s eyes stung in the bitter morning air as she watched the back of the bus disappear. She was the only passenger who had alighted. It was foggy now they were out of Liverpool and she wondered how far away the orphanage was from the nearest village. Wherever it was, and however far, there was no going back. It had started to drizzle and grey clouds had begun to pile up. Pulling her scarf more snugly around her neck, and pushing back strands of the honey-coloured hair that whipped from under her hat, she clutched the handle of her mother’s suitcase, somehow feeling close to her, and began the long trudge up the lane.

The house came into view almost brick by brick. The first things that struck her were the tall chimneys poking up into the heavy sky, smoke curling out of them. As she got nearer, the house looked even more impressive with its crenellated front, giving the air of a castle. Was this mansion really going to be her home? She thought of the little terraced cottage where she’d grown up – the small back yard – and pulled herself up sharply. She was being disloyal.

June wondered what had happened to Lord and Lady Bingham. Had the family fled when war was declared? How did the house come to be a children’s home? Had he lent it to them just for the duration of the war? But what did it matter how the house came to be a Dr Barnardo’s? Whatever had happened in the past, the house was providing orphaned children with a home. As she walked up the long drive the house took on such magnitude that she felt quite overwhelmed. Whatever must a child think, seeing a house like this for the first time?

At this moment she didn’t feel much more confident than a child, but she allowed herself a rueful smile as she craned her neck to look up at the dozens of windows peering down at her, imagining them slyly weighing her up as to whether she was welcome or not. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life.

She pulled the bell cord beside the massive oak door and waited. No sound at all. No scuffling of shoes. No running footsteps. Nothing. She pulled again, harder and longer. This time she heard a man’s voice shout something but she couldn’t make out the words.

The door swung back, groaning on its hinges, and a short figure of a man appeared, dressed in black from head to toe, back bent as though he’d worked in the fields all his life, grumbling and swearing under his breath.

‘I heard you the first time.’ His tone was irritable. ‘I’m not deaf, you know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ June said. What a rude man. She hoped she wouldn’t have much to do with him.

‘Are you the new assistant?’ He looked at her through dazed watery eyes.

‘Yes. I’m June Lavender.’

Was he ever going to ask her in?

He continued to stare at her. Did she have a smut on her nose or something? Her feet were beginning to freeze. She stepped forward into the doorway, forcing the little man back. ‘May I please come in?’

He gave a grunt. ‘You’d better come this way.’

June found herself in a magnificent hall. Her eye was immediately drawn towards the biggest fireplace she’d ever seen. It was built of stone, and rose twice as high as a man. A fire flared and snapped but from where she stood she couldn’t feel any heat; most of it was probably going straight up the chimney. Unlit candles in sconces were set in niches near the fireplace, and several chandeliers shaped like individual flares hung from the ceiling, which was painted with what appeared to be hundreds of coats of arms. In the middle of the flagstone floor was a huge oriental rug, rucked up at the side.

It was just as she imagined the great hall of a castle would look. This was a grand house indeed. She took a deep breath to still the nervous fluttering of her heart.

‘Is that Miss Lavender, Gilbert?’ A strident voice came from above and a woman poked her head over the curving oak staircase.

‘Yes, ma’am. She’s arrived.’

The figure made her way slowly down the stairs, holding on to the banister. She was an exceptionally tall, large-framed woman, her grey hair scraped into a tight bun on top of her head. She stopped short, and from behind a pair of rimless spectacles her piercing steel-grey eyes regarded June from top to toe.

‘You’re not very big.’

‘I’m five foot four.’ June drew herself up to her full height. ‘And I’m not a weakling.’

‘Mmm.’ The woman pursed her lips, her head cocked to one side. ‘We’ve nearly all boys here. They can be a rough lot.’ She glared at June. ‘You sounded much older in your letter but you don’t look more than sixteen.’

‘I’m twenty-one next summer,’ June said firmly. ‘And I’m used to unruly children. As I said in my letter, I’ve been looking after my sister’s three boys for the last two years and they’re quite a handful.’

‘Not such a handful as thirty-three little devils, not counting seven girls who never stop crying.’ June was about to answer when the woman said, ‘I’m Mrs Pherson, the matron. And that’s what you call me – Matron,’ she repeated, as though she had no doubt that she was dealing with a simpleton.

June offered her hand but the matron barely touched it with her fleshy fingers. ‘Take Miss Lavender’s case upstairs, Gilbert.’ Her eyes swept back to June. ‘There’ll be a cup of tea for you in the kitchen.’ She pointed to a corridor at the far end. ‘First right along the passage. I will meet you back here in’ – she pulled the chain of her watch towards her and glanced at the hands – ‘twenty minutes exactly. Please don’t keep me waiting.’

She certainly runs a tight ship, June thought tiredly, remembering the conductor’s words, which now made a lot more sense. For the moment, all she wanted to do was get to her room, drop her suitcase and find the kitchen. Her mouth was dry from the little she’d had to drink during the long journey from London, and the thought of a cup of tea was bliss.

‘Tea would be very welcome, thank you.’ June glanced at Gilbert who was standing nearby, a sullen expression spread across his small mean features. ‘I can carry my own case upstairs if you’ll just show me where to go.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Gilbert stomped up the stairs in his scuffed black boots with June following, heaving her case. Then another flight, and another. When they reached the fourth floor she thought she would drop with tiredness. Gilbert waved her towards a door and nodded.

‘That’s it, yon,’ he said, and, muttering to himself about having more work to do with extra staff, he vanished.

It wasn’t a good start, June thought. The first two people she’d met weren’t in the least welcoming, but then she was used to difficult people. She’d had plenty of training with her father and, although she’d loved her mother, she’d not been easy to look after when she’d been drinking. And her sister Stella was always known for her quick temper. June breathed out a long sigh. She would just have to do her best to get into Matron’s good books by showing her she could cope with thirty-three boys and seven girls. They couldn’t be that bad.

She opened the door and a smell of damp filled her nostrils. By the look of it, the bedroom hadn’t been occupied in months. Gingerly she stepped inside and shivered even though she still had her coat on. The room was big enough to warrant a fireplace, though there were no ashes, nor logs nearby for the next fire to be lit. An ugly brown wardrobe and mismatched chest of drawers had been pushed against one wall in a lopsided manner, and when June went to inspect a table under the window she pulled back in disgust. Unrecognisable flowers were festering in a glass vase with an inch of slimy green water. June wrinkled her nose as she unfastened the window, letting in a blast of air. It was freezing, but it couldn’t be helped, she thought. The room needed fresh air. She couldn’t see much of a view as it was still foggy so she’d have to be patient until it lifted.

How was she ever going to sleep in such an atmosphere? Or was she being too fussy after Aunt Ada’s neat-as-a-pin flat? Her own mother had done her best to be tidy and clean before she became sick but her father had never taken any notice, tramping in from the garden in his boots no matter how many times her mother asked him to remove them, and leaving his dirty clothes on the floor for her to pick up and wash.

June pushed the image of her father away. She’d give the room a good clean the first chance she had, but first, even before her tea, she decided to unpack.

She hung her few clothes in the wardrobe, which smelled of mothballs, set out her brush and comb and placed her bag on a cane-seated chair, though most of the cane poked underneath like a long fringe. There was no mirror to check if she looked tidy but she mustn’t complain. Plenty of people were much worse off. At least the house was quite a few miles from Liverpool, she reasoned, and the drive itself must be a half a mile long, so the children should be safe from any bombs.

Although June was getting more tired by the minute, her mouth curved into a delighted smile. There’d be wonderful gardens to walk in and where she would play games with the children. She’d soon make her room homely. It was just a matter of getting used to everything.

Chapter Two

Five minutes later a maid directed her to the kitchen where a pot of tea and some cups and saucers were grouped on a scrubbed pine table. Two young girls were scurrying round a plump woman in a wraparound apron and white cap who stood over an enamel bowl as big as a baby’s bath, hands flying up and down as she crumbled in fat and flour for her pastry. She looked up as June entered.

‘Are you the girl come to help with the children?’ she demanded, though her tone was friendly.

‘Yes. I’m June Lavender – just arrived from London.’

‘Och, you talk funny.’ The woman wiped her hands on her apron and stuck out a floury hand. ‘Name’s Marge Bertram. Call me Bertie. Everyone does. I’m from Scotland. Buried the second husband and decided to have a change and cross the border.’ She laughed. ‘It’s a couple of degrees warmer here, I’ll give it that. Little did I realise how close Jerry would be, trying to smash the docks to smithereens.’ She looked at June, who was waiting to be told to take a seat. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear all that right now. You must be worn out. Tea’s on the table. Help yourself, hen. You’ll have to excuse me getting on as I’m in the middle of cooking dinner.’

‘What time will that be?’ June asked, a little embarrassed but hearing her stomach rumble again. One piece of toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg at six this morning hadn’t gone very far to stave off her hunger.

Bertie looked up at the wall clock, which showed five minutes past eleven. ‘Not until one o’clock.’ Her eyes pierced June’s. ‘Here, I’ll cut you a slice of cake. Don’t tell anyone, mind. It’s supposed to be for the children’s teatime.’

‘I haven’t heard any sound from them,’ June ventured, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘Are they out somewhere?’

Bertie snorted. ‘No, dear, not at this time of the morning. They’re all in class. These walls are solid. The Victorians really knew how to build. You’ll not hear a peep unless they’re in the next room or right on top of you. Except the wee bairn in the corner.’ She jerked her head to where a child sat silently watching on a three-legged stool in the unlit corner of the room.

June glanced where Bertie had gestured and saw a little girl with pale blonde hair tied up in plaits, and a face like an angel, sucking her fingers. How could she have not noticed her? And there was something familiar about the child. June looked closer and her heart suddenly gave a great lurch. She gasped. The little girl looked the spitting image of her sister Clara when she was that age.

‘Say hello to the nice new lady who’s come to look after you and the other children,’ Bertie said to the child, then turned her head to June and lowered her voice. ‘Poor wee lass doesn’t talk. She’s not said a word since she came here … that’d be a coupla months now. We all thought she was dumb at first. Now we know it’s a mental thing.’

Poor little girl. Whatever could have happened?

June half rose from her chair, but Bertie put a warning hand out. ‘Maybe not come too close at first … don’t want to frighten her any more than she is already.’

‘How old is she?’ June whispered.

‘Three and a half.’

Her eyes filling with tears at such a likeness to her sister, June managed to smile across at the child. ‘Hello, little one. Can you tell me your name?’

‘She won’t answer,’ Bertie cut in. ‘Her name’s Lizzie. But it doesn’t seem to mean anything to her. No reaction or nothing. I’ll explain later – when she’s taking a nap – how she ended up here.’

‘Hello, Lizzie,’ June said, still smiling. The child stared. Even from several feet away she could see that Lizzie’s eyes were dark, unlike Clara’s, which had been a grassy-green just like June’s own, but the child’s other features, the shape of her face – it brought back all the pain again. She felt herself tremble, her nerves on edge. Trying to calm herself she sipped her tea, her heartbeat slowing. She’d be all right. She’d be safe here. Mustn’t go to pieces or she’d be no help to the children. Bertie was right. It was best to keep a distance until Lizzie began to trust her. Something terrible must have happened that had shocked the child.

She finished her tea just as a nurse, a halo of dark curls escaping from her cap, put her head around the door.

‘Oh, there you are. The Fierce One told me you’d arrived.’ She grinned and came into the room.

‘The Fierce One?’ June questioned.

‘Matron.’ The nurse laughed and Bertie joined in. ‘That’s what we all call her – Pherson, the Fierce One.’ She looked June up and down and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Iris Marchant. And you are …?’

‘June Lavender.’ June took Iris’s warm hand in her own cold one.

‘Well, we should get on a treat,’ Nurse Marchant said, shrieking with laughter, ‘what with us being a couple of flowers.’

June laughed too. How wonderful that there was a young woman, not much older than herself, working at Dr Barnardo’s. She was sure they’d be friends. Iris poured herself a cup of tea and gulped it down in a few mouthfuls.

‘And months,’ June added, grinning. Nurse Marchant looked puzzled. ‘June and March … ant. And I was born in June – hence my name.’

‘Oh, I get it.’ The nurse chuckled. ‘By the way, I’m Iris when we’re off-duty – and you’ll be June. But definitely not in front of the Fierce One, whether we’re working or not.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ June said, glancing at the clock. ‘She sounds a stickler.’

‘She is.’ Iris nodded. ‘You need to keep on the right side of her, which is difficult, as it’s nigh impossible to tell what her right side is.’ She chuckled again.

‘You don’t sound like a northerner,’ June said.

‘Me?’ Iris pointed to herself. ‘Definitely not. I couldn’t live up here for good if you paid me. I’m from Kent. Not a good place to be in this bloody war.’ June flinched at the swear word. ‘Though it was quite thrilling seeing the Battle of Britain going on right above my head. My two young brothers went mad with excitement. Daft little buggers. They can’t wait to be old enough to join up.’

June took a piece of Bertie’s delicious fruit cake, barely taking in all Iris was telling her. ‘I’ve been sent here and here I’ll stay,’ Iris rattled on, ‘but not a moment longer after the war’s over … whenever that will be. Luckily, the children keep me on my toes with their various shenanigans. And there’s plenty of food. That’s a draw in itself.’ She grinned.

‘Isn’t the food rationed?’

‘Some things,’ Iris said. ‘But the government looks after institutions, particularly when there are children. And we grow our own vegetables and have a few chickens so we do all right here.’

June put her cup down. The twenty minutes must be up by now.

‘I’m to meet Matron after I’ve finished my cup of tea,’ she said.

Iris pulled a face. ‘She’s such a tartar. Barely gives you time to unpack before she has you working. You’d better get going then. Don’t want to get in her bad books on your first morning.’

With more than a flicker of apprehension June went in search of Matron, who was already waiting outside her office, tapping her large foot impatiently.

‘Right, there you are at last,’ Matron said abruptly. ‘We’ll do the classrooms first.’

With that, she strode down the corridor, June following closely. She opened a door without knocking, then marched into a classroom of about fifteen children. Immediately the children scrambled to their feet, even two small boys not more than five or six years old, looking wide-eyed at the new lady in their midst. The older children, maybe ten or eleven years old, shuffled as they stood, and June saw a yellow-haired boy dig a dark-skinned child in the ribs. The child gave a yelp. All of them stared at her.

‘Miss Graham?’ Matron said, almost as a demand.

A woman of about June’s own height and figure, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a soft, shining Victory Roll, finished wiping the blackboard and put the rubber neatly back on the ledge. June couldn’t help being conscious of her own hair, so thick it refused to be properly styled and would simply fall to her shoulders in unruly waves if she didn’t keep it tied back. The young woman, Miss Graham, came towards them with quick determined steps, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.

‘Miss Graham, this is Miss Lavender,’ Matron said. ‘She’s my new assistant – come to help me with the load.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Miss Graham had a clipped accent. Her hazel eyes held no gleam of enthusiasm as she extended her hand to June. ‘I’m Athena Graham.’ June sent her a questioning look. ‘Yes, ghastly, isn’t it? Blame it on my mother, who was a Greek nut. I teach English and mathematics, by the way – to all ages, as you can see.’ She dropped her hand. ‘I hope you’ll be happy with us.’

Athena Graham didn’t sound a particularly happy person herself. Maybe the boys played her up, yet somehow June couldn’t see her allowing them to get the better of her.

‘I’m sure I will be.’ June smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Miss Graham turned towards the class. ‘You may sit.’

There was a scuffling of chairs as they sat down with expressions of undisguised curiosity. June looked over at the sea of faces. All boys. They began muttering and one of them gave a low appreciative whistle when June sent them a shaky smile.

‘Enough of that, Jackson,’ Matron admonished. ‘Where are your manners?’

‘Left them in the dorm this morning, Matron.’

The other boys sniggered.

‘What did you say your name was, Miss?’ another boy asked cheekily. He had a too-thin face and dark, greasy hair which flopped into his eyes.

‘I didn’t say,’ June began, ‘but I’m Miss Lavender.’

The boy flicked his head back and the swathes settled into place for a few moments. ‘How do you do, Miss Lavender?’ he said in what he obviously thought was an upper-class accent. The boys giggled again.

‘Hello to all of you.’ June smiled. ‘I hope to get to know your names very soon. It’ll take me longer than you because there’s only one of me, but I’m sure—’

‘That’ll be all, Miss Lavender,’ Matron said, taking hold of June’s arm. ‘We must continue our tour. No doubt we’ll see you at dinner, Miss Graham.’ And with a nod she firmly escorted June out of the door.

‘Now the art studio,’ Matron said. She opened the door and June inhaled the familiar smell of paint and turpentine. It took her straight back to her home in March, where she would help Clara to make a painting for their mother. June noticed the atmosphere in the studio was far more relaxed than Miss Graham’s class, as this teacher was walking around, looking over the children’s shoulders and smiling encouragement at their work.

‘That’s coming along really well,’ she was saying to one of the girls.

‘Mrs Steen – needlework and art,’ Matron snapped out as though she was contemptuous of Mrs Steen’s particular subjects.

‘Barbara,’ the teacher said in an undertone so the pupils wouldn’t hear. She grinned as Matron flashed her a warning look, and her friendly grey eyes lit up her plain features. She took June’s hand firmly in her own plump one, and June warmed to her instantly.

‘And the third teacher we have is Miss Ayles,’ Matron said, as they left the art studio and she strode ahead into the next classroom. ‘She’s the senior teacher and has the older children. She teaches religious instruction, history and geography with particular emphasis on our glorious Empire.’

From Matron’s tone, history and geography were far more acceptable.

Miss Ayles was thin as a stick, with spectacles halfway down her nose, and an abundance of liver spots on her face and hands. Her grey hair was drawn back into a severe bun, every hair held in place at the sides by two black combs.

‘Miss Lavender is my new assistant,’ Matron said, edging June forward.

June smiled and put out her hand. Miss Ayles’s lips lifted a fraction at the corners in acknowledgement, but her dry handshake was brief and gave nothing away.

It was plain that some of the staff didn’t seem best pleased to have her there. June pressed her lips stubbornly together. She’d show them she was a hard worker who would put her heart and soul into whatever was in store for her. Her thoughts flew again to Lizzie. She was just about to summon the courage to ask if they could go up to the nursery, when Matron said:

‘We’ll put our heads in the door of the sick ward. Don’t want to go in and catch anything. Nurse Manners will be there. She’s got two of the girls in, both with tonsillitis. They’re twins – Daisy and Doris Smith – and when one gets something, so does the other. They’ve been ill for a week now.’ Matron sniffed and spread her fingers wide down her navy-blue dress as though smoothing out a crease, and June couldn’t decide if she was annoyed with the twins catching everything at the same time or didn’t have much confidence in Nurse Manners’ nursing abilities.

‘I’ve met the other nurse – Nurse Marchant. She seems very nice.’

Matron’s lip curled. ‘She’s nice enough though she’s an argumentative little madam and I won’t tolerate it. She wouldn’t get away with such behaviour if nurses weren’t so thin on the ground because of the war – which the British shouldn’t have been involved with in the first place.’

June managed to hide her astonishment at Matron’s outburst. She’d hardly been in the orphanage more than an hour or two. It made her feel uncomfortable that Matron should say such things about Iris, whom she’d taken to immediately. What a dragon. She wondered how many years Matron had been at the home and how the staff got on with her, having such threats hanging over them.

They walked down some steps at the far end of the house. Matron hesitated, then knocked and opened the door. June hovered outside, not wanting to disturb the two sick little girls.

‘It’s better to wait for me to tell you it’s all right to come in,’ a voice said in a firm tone, and a short, stocky young woman appeared, her face flushed and frowning, her arm thrust out as a barrier.

‘I’m the matron. I can come in whenever I choose.’ Matron tried to brush the nurse’s arm aside, but the younger girl’s arm was strong.

‘No, I’m sorry, you can’t. The girls are sleeping and I won’t have them disturbed. You know I’ll call you if they take a turn for the worse.’ The nurse gave June an apologetic smile. ‘I’m Kathleen Manners.’ She turned to Matron. ‘I’ll come over later with a full report on the girls when Iris takes over this evening.’

‘See that you do.’ Matron’s face was red with annoyance as she turned. The door clicked behind them.

Someone else who wasn’t going to take orders from Matron. June was pleased that Kathleen hadn’t succumbed. But she made a mental note that Matron was displeased if anyone didn’t agree with her.

‘Saucy slip of a girl,’ Matron was saying. ‘I’ll be putting in my own report.’ Her chest was heaving with frustration and her breathing was loud enough to reach June’s ears.

‘I was hoping I might see Lizzie,’ June ventured, wanting to change the subject. ‘Poor little mite. What happened to her that she can’t speak?’

‘Refuses to speak,’ Matron said with such vehemence June took a step back in shock.

‘Oh, surely not.’

‘Surely so. It’s obvious. The child’s seeking attention. She’s got another think coming if she reckons she’s going to get it. That’s why I’ve kept her separate. The other children think she’s peculiar and then they start acting up, pretending not to hear or speak, the way she does.’

‘May we go and see her?’ June asked.

‘No. My legs won’t carry me up the all those flights more than once a day. The nursery’s on the top floor. Where you and the maids are. But you’ll meet Hilda, the nursery assistant who looks after her, soon enough. The girl eats like a horse. She’ll be first down to supper, mark my words.’

‘So Lizzie sees the other children at mealtimes?’

Matron threw her a sharp look. ‘No. I’ve just told you the child has to be kept separate. She has her meals in the nursery. Hilda’s a fast eater. She bolts hers down and then brings Lizzie hers.’

‘Do you mean Lizzie is alone while Hilda goes to have hers?’ June asked. She didn’t like to think of the scared little girl locked in a room on her own. ‘Isn’t there someone who could keep an eye on her for a short time – in case something happened?’

‘No,’ Matron said. ‘We’re short-staffed and I’m on a tight budget.’ She drew her eyebrows together. ‘The child is hardly “alone”, as you call it, not with everyone here.’ She gave June a sharp look. ‘You ask rather too many questions on your first day, my girl, and you’ll do everyone a favour to keep those opinions of yours to yourself.’ With that she stomped down the stairs leaving June trailing after her, her heart beating a little faster than it should.

‘I must get on,’ Matron said over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got paperwork to do so perhaps you can get one of the others to finish showing you around.’

June chewed her lip as she gazed after the unbending figure. She had a horrible feeling Matron wasn’t going to take any notice of her experience as a nursery nurse. She was the kind of woman who knew best, that was plain to see, and wasn’t interested in anyone else’s suggestions.

She felt bad thinking such things when she’d only just arrived but Matron certainly didn’t put herself out to make people feel at ease. June was determined she wasn’t going to make an enemy of her. That would be fatal. She squared her shoulders and began her tentative exploration of this mansion she must now call home.

Chapter Three

No one took the slightest bit of notice of June as she opened all the doors on the ground floor, taking note of the common room, the dining room, the cloakrooms, and a few steps down to the laundry room, where she could just make out two figures who were plunging what looked like poles into two enormous copper boilers and giggling through the steam. One of them looked up, sweat pouring off her forehead, and waved. There was also a playroom and a grand library. She had a few minutes’ quiet browse around the shelves, looking over her shoulder every so often in case she was spotted and reprimanded. What a luxury if she was allowed to borrow a book now and again, although most of these seemed very highbrow. She couldn’t see any novels, for one thing. At home she’d built up a small collection of books but she’d had to leave them behind when she went to London, and her room here felt bare without them. They’d been her friends when she’d had no one else. She shook herself. Mustn’t think.…

She climbed the main staircase and looked into the bedrooms. There were five large rooms, laid out like dormitories, containing eight identical narrow beds with a small locker next to each one. And near the door there was a larger single bed, she guessed for one of the adults to keep an eye on the children. Everywhere was clean and neat. Nothing out of place. It didn’t look as though any children lived here.

She thought of the state of her childhood home. Before she’d left at 16 to train as a nursery nurse, it had been chaos. Stella had already left home three years before to get married and move to Wisbech, leaving June with their violent father and a drunken mother. A mother who when Clara died had only found solace in drink, and as a consequence had neglected the home. June had done her best to keep everything going but it was almost a relief when her mother drifted into a coma one sunny morning in her bed. A once attractive woman lay on the pillow, her mouth open, her eyes wild, looking haggard and beaten before she gasped her last breath. June swallowed hard as the memories reached out to pull her back in – forcing her to relive it as she had already done, over and over, hundreds, maybe thousands of times, since it had happened. She’d been left with her father, an unkempt bully of a man, with a temper which erupted at any moment. He’d had not a shred of decency or compassion for comforting his grieving wife after Clara’s death.

The only time June had seen any sign of distress in him was after her mother’s funeral when June told him she was leaving home and going to live with Aunt Ada. He’d realised with a jolt of fear there was no one left to look after him. June’s lip curled in disgust, willing the old images to stop replaying. But they were too strong.

June had flown down the stairs to where Clara lay crumpled at the bottom. She cradled her sister’s head in her arms. Clara’s eyes were wide with terror. Thank God she was still alive.

‘Clara, darling, I’m here. You’re going to be all right.’

Clara smiled – an angel’s smile. Her eyes held a wise expression and June felt her heart sing with joy that her sister would indeed recover. She smiled back at her.

And then June heard a long sigh escape Clara’s lips as her head lolled to one side.

Clara had just had her eighth birthday.

As long as June lived she would never, ever forgive her father. And one day she would see that justice was done.

Tears fell from June’s eyes as she pulled the dormitory door shut. Would she ever stop reliving that nightmare? She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand, hoping against hope that no one would spot her and ask what was the matter. She could never tell anyone.

A bell sounded.

She heard footsteps behind her and spun round to see Iris.

‘I came to see how you were getting on. If I could answer any questions.’ Iris looked at her sharply. ‘You’ve been crying. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m all right.’

Iris didn’t look convinced. ‘By the way, that was the bell for dinner. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving,’ June said, thankful the subject of her crying was closed. She followed Iris back into the hall. A noise like thunder crashed over her head and seconds later a stream of children came flying down the stairs, pushing and shoving and calling out.

‘Where on earth’s Matron?’ Iris sounded irritated as she glanced about her.

‘I’m here.’ Matron appeared from one of the oak doorways. ‘Right, children.’ She clapped her hands loudly and they immediately stopped their noise. ‘Before you go in, I want you all to know Miss Lavender is going to help keep you lot in line.’

‘Hello, Miss. You came in our class,’ a boy of about ten with a cheeky grin shouted over the banister. ‘Have you got any sweets for us?’

‘You’re not allowed sweets,’ Matron told him. ‘Now come on down, all of you, and line up, so Miss Lavender can take a look at you all … and keep your traps shut for once.’

June flinched. This was not the sort of language she ever used to keep children in order, but she knew she mustn’t make a comment – not yet. The children lined up, still shuffling and muttering, but they were obviously in awe of Matron as they’d quietened right down.

‘Can you all tell me your names and how old you are?’ June said, smiling at the first child and letting it travel along the row until it fell on the last. ‘I shan’t remember them all right away but I’ll do my best, and I’m sure you’ll remind me.’

‘You can do that after we’ve had dinner,’ Matron interrupted, clapping her hands again. ‘It’ll be cold at this rate. File in, all of you.’

‘I’m worried about the little girl, Lizzie,’ June whispered to Iris. ‘Matron said she has her meals in the nursery.’

‘I don’t agree with it at all,’ Iris said under her breath, ‘but Matron says she’s a disruptive influence over the other children.’

‘What did she do that’s disruptive?’

‘When she first came they put her in the dining room with all the other kids,’ Iris explained, ‘but if one of the teachers told her she had to eat what was on her plate and she didn’t like it, she’d throw the plate on the floor.’ Iris smiled ruefully. ‘We lost a lot of plates that week. Matron got angry and said Lizzie had to have her meals in the nursery from now on.’

‘But she’ll never learn to behave if she’s taken out of a normal situation like eating with the others,’ June protested.

‘I said as much to Matron but she ignored me. Matron is always right. You’ll soon find that out – if you can put up with it.’

June knew that Iris was warning her that she might not be able to put up with it; that Iris wouldn’t be at all surprised if she left. June pressed her mouth tight, resolving that it would take a lot more than that for her to give in her notice. In her experience Lizzie needed to know she was part of the home, whether she was naughty or good, and mix with the other children. June was sure it was the only way to encourage her to speak.

‘You’ll have to help serve at that table over there,’ Iris said, pointing, ‘and I’ll take this one. Don’t know where Kathleen’s got to – she’s the other nurse.’

‘Oh, yes, I met her in the sick bay.’

‘Of course. She takes the third table … oh, here she is.’

Kathleen shot in and gave Iris a wave, smiled at June, then rushed to her place, and the dining room became a crescendo of noise again until Matron appeared and banged on the table.

‘Fold your hands together for Grace,’ she said, raising her chin, her eyes rolling back in their sockets, her hands clasped, as though she were in direct contact with God. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ repeated the children.

There was a clatter of plates and cutlery as two kitchen maids brought in the steaming bowls of stew and potatoes. When June had served all sixteen boys at her table, there was another kind of noise – slurping, gulping, hiccupping – but at least they were clearing their plates. She took a few bites but the excitement of the day seemed to have rid her of her appetite.

But now she had a purpose. She was going to look after the children who lived in this huge old house. Try to make it up to Clara. Make sure she would never forget her dearest sister.

After the children had all taken turns to tell June their names and ages, she looked round for Matron, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what to do next, she went to Matron’s office and tapped gently on her door but there was no sound from within.

‘Are you looking for Matron, Miss Lavender?’

June turned to see Miss Ayles, the history and geography teacher, regarding her from behind her spectacles.

‘Yes. I was wondering what she’d like me to do. And if sometime this afternoon I could clean my room. It smells of damp and I don’t think it’s good to sleep in such an atmosphere.’

‘I’m not surprised. It’s been empty for quite a while. We’ve not had an assistant to Matron since the war started but now we’ve got ten more children – evacuees – it’s not been easy with the shortage of books and pencils.’ Miss Ayles peered at June. ‘So I should go and get your room done, Miss Lavender, while Matron takes her hour-and-a-half nap.’ She wrinkled her thin nose. ‘Some nap,’ she added under her breath. ‘This might be your only opportunity before bedtime.’

‘Does everyone live in?’

‘The teachers and nurses are up on the third floor, the maids on the fourth. I have my own cottage as do Cook and Matron.’ There was a note of triumph in her voice and June hid a smile. ‘Is there anything else I can answer?’

‘No, you’ve been most helpful,’ June said. ‘I think I’ll go to the kitchen and ask Mrs Bertram where I can find some cleaning things.’

Cleaning took longer than she’d thought. She went downstairs more than once to check Matron wasn’t looking for her but all was silent. The children were in class, or if they were in the younger group they were having a nap themselves. But, two hours later, June ran her eye over the room. She’d managed to straighten the wardrobe, get rid of the dead flowers and clean out the vase, and she’d washed everything down, including the windows and frames and wainscot, with soap and vinegar and bleach. It was a remarkable improvement though the room still looked sadly stripped of homely items. Somewhere she had a photograph of herself and her sisters with their mother. She delved into her travel bag, unwrapped it from its newspaper and smiled as she set it on the shelf above the fireplace. She stood back to admire it. One photograph, but it made all the difference.

A few paintings – prints of course – would brighten the room but she had no money to buy anything extra. Maybe she’d find something in a second-hand shop when she’d settled in properly and saved a bit of cash. Until then, she was satisfied the room looked infinitely cleaner and smelled infinitely fresher. After the long journey she’d surely sleep tonight.

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