Beach View was a tall Victorian terraced house set on a hill three streets back from the promenade. Surrounded by many similar terraces, there was only a glimpse of the sea from the top right-hand window. Arranged on four floors, the large rooms had been divided up to provide five guest rooms and a bathroom on the top two floors, her bedroom on the hall floor, along with the kitchen and guest dining room. The square entrance hall led through a glass-panelled front door to a flight of stone steps which overshadowed the basement window and ran down to the pavement.
Peggy bustled about her kitchen, aware of the time passing as she peeled carrots, onions and potatoes for the stew they would have tonight. Rationing hadn’t started yet, but she’d already registered with the local butcher and grocer, and the ration cards were sitting on the mantel above the fireplace where the Kitchener range warmed the kitchen.
It was her favourite room, which was a good thing, because she spent a lot of time in there. The window overlooked the garden and the backs of the houses behind it; the lino was worn, but colourful, and matched the oilcloth she’d spread over the table, which could seat eight at a pinch. There was a picture of the King and Queen on the wall, shelves were laden with crockery, and hooks above the range held pots and pans. The wireless stood proudly on top of the chest of drawers where she kept her best linen tablecloths, and the kettle was set to one side of the hob, filled and ready to put on to boil. There was always time for a cup of tea.
‘I’m hungry,’ whined Ernie, as he jealously watched the other children eating the sandwiches their mothers had packed so tearfully that morning.
Sally was hungry too, but after Ernie’s breakfast of bread and dripping, there had been nothing left in the larder to bring with them, and no time or money to buy something on the way. ‘Sorry, luv. You’ll just have to wait until we get to wherever we’re going.’
‘But I’m hungry now,’ he muttered.
‘I know,’ she sighed, the guilt flooding through her again. He was so small and skinny and he relied on her for everything. She’d let him down. Then she remembered the toffee in her coat pocket. She’d been given it the day before at work – one of the girls had brought in a big bag of them and she’d popped it into her pocket, meaning to enjoy it the night before. Rummaging, she found it, and brushed off the fluff. ‘Suck it slowly,’ she advised as she unwrapped it. ‘It will last longer if you don’t chew.’
Mollified and content, Ernie closed his eyes and savoured the sweet.
Sally folded her hands on her lap and looked out of the window. She reckoned they’d been travelling for at least an hour, and the sights of London were far behind them now, replaced by endless fields, narrow lanes, thatched cottages, sprawling farmhouses and big open skies.
She looked down at the fast-running river as they clattered over a bridge, gazed in awe at the sight of the great rolling hills that seemed to tower over the tiny villages nestled beneath them. She had never seen such emptiness before, and wondered how people managed without shops and neighbours close by. What did they do all day? How did they make a living?
The sound of the door to their compartment sliding open made her turn. It was the bossy woman again.
‘We shall be arriving in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave anything behind, and that includes your rubbish,’ she said, with a pointed glare at the sandwich wrappings on the floor. Her gimlet gaze settled on Sally. ‘I will hold you responsible for the children in here. Make sure they are ready to alight once the train comes to a standstill.’ She shut the door with a sharp click and moved on down the swaying corridor to the next compartment.
‘I don’t like her,’ mumbled Ernie through the toffee. ‘I ’ope she ain’t staying with us.’
‘I expect she’ll be going back to London,’ replied Sally, as she pulled down the cases and parcels from the luggage shelf. Having checked that each child had been reunited with the correct items, and that the wrappers and sweet papers were tidied away in an empty paper bag, she slipped on her coat and hat and hid the bag in her pocket. She didn’t want the fat woman finding fault – it could make a difference to where they were billeted.
She fussed with Ernie’s blazer, mackintosh and school cap, and held his squirming chin in a tight grip as she gave his face a quick clean with her handkerchief and tugged a comb through his tangled hair. Satisfied he looked reasonably presentable, she glanced in the mirror above the opposite seat, and had to admit she looked tired. The felt hat and draughty coat looked tired as well in the light that streamed in through the window, but there was nothing she could do about it. She sat down again and clutched the handbag on her knees, wondering where they were going, and what the people there would be like.
The train slowed to a crawl and chuffed its way along until it reached the platform. Sally was joined at the window by the excited children, and she looked for some clue that might tell her where they were. But all the signs had been taken down and, as the train took them deeper into the gloom of a large station, Sally realised that wherever they were, this was a fairly big town.
As the train came to a halt and billowed smoke, she clutched Ernie’s hand and steered the other children in front of her as they joined the crush in the narrow corridor that ran alongside the compartments. The noise was deafening as everyone talked at once and the three women in charge bellowed out their orders.
Sally found the twins in the melee and kept them close as they followed the women across the concourse to an area that had been cordoned off with bunting. Beneath the large welcome sign there was a long trestle table manned by an army of smiling women in WRVS uniform.
Sally’s mouth watered and the children’s eyes bulged at the sight of so much food in one place. There were cakes, sandwiches and rolls, milk and cordial and, at the end of the table, a vast urn promised hot, sweet cups of tea. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she hoped no-one had heard it. ‘See,’ she said, turning to Ernie. ‘I told you we’d be fed soon.’
She found him a seat in the rows of chairs that had been set out, and left him in charge of the case and gas masks to join the queue. The older children helped the little ones as the women behind the table served huge slices of cake and iced buns, their cheery smiles making them forget just how tired and frightened they all were.
When Sally had loaded his plate and settled him with a mug of tea, she went back for her own. The hot tea was the best she’d ever tasted – full of milk and sweet with sugar, it slipped down and revived her no end – and no-one minded when she asked if she could have another cup.
The cake, sausage roll and two sandwiches were delicious, and she could have eaten more, but she didn’t want to appear greedy. There were a lot of children to feed. But Ernie had no such inhibitions. He’d polished off his plateful and gone back for more. ‘I don’t mind the country if the food’s like this,’ he said, through a mouthful of chocolate cake.
‘You’ll make yourself sick,’ she warned, hastily wiping chocolate off his blazer. ‘And do mind what yer doing, Ernie. Yer supposed to eat the cake, not wear it.’
He’d finally eaten his fill, and Sally polished off the discarded sausage roll before returning the plates to the nice WRVS ladies. As she returned to the seat beside him, she became aware of a crowd of people standing on the other side of the cordon. She guessed they had to be those who’d volunteered to take in the evacuees, and she studied them carefully as, one by one, the children were led away.
She noticed that siblings were kept together, and that some people took three or four of the kids, while others only took one. Some of the people looked very smart in good winter coats and polished shoes, and she rather hoped that one of them would take her and Ernie.
The twins went off happily enough with only the merest wave goodbye, and Sally noted the pleasant-faced woman who led them away. They would be all right.
As the numbers dwindled, Sally realised she and Ernie were being scrutinised closely before being passed over. So, she thought, that’s the way of it, is it? Well, if they don’t want us, we can always go back home, and good riddance. She held Ernie’s hand and tried not to care that she and her brother were being muttered over as if they were on a butcher’s slab – and found wanting.
‘Miss Turner. Mr and Mrs Hollings have kindly offered you a place in their home. Please bring your belongings with you.’
Sally gathered everything up and helped Ernie to his feet.
‘Just you, dear. Your brother has been assigned another billet.’
She shot a glance at the middle-aged couple, caught the way she was being ogled by the husband and sat down again. ‘I ain’t going nowhere without Ernie,’ she replied, ‘and especially not with them.’ She glared at the man, who at least had the decency to redden and look hurriedly away.
‘Your brother will be hard to place, Miss Turner, which is why we have made arrangements for him to go to the local orphanage.’
Sally felt a chill run down her spine as she leapt to her feet and stood in front of Ernie. She didn’t trust this woman not to grab him and try to haul him away. ‘He ain’t no orphan, and he ain’t going nowhere without me.’
The woman shrugged and turned apologetically to the couple, her voice loud, the tone scathing. ‘This is what you get for trying to help. Really, these East End girls have no manners at all. I do apologise.’ She hustled them away.
‘What’s an orph … orphan … ?
‘Nowhere you need worry about, luv.’ Sally grimaced as she returned to her seat and held him close. If this was an example of what she could expect in this place, then she and Ernie would be better off in the Smoke. At least people didn’t judge them there.
She was battling with her angry tears, trying to remain in control of her emotions for his sake. Being so young he, thankfully, didn’t understand what was going on. She looked around her. Most of the children were gone now, and soon they would be the only ones left. It was galling to be unwanted – and shaming. Nothing like this had happened to either of them before.
Mrs Finch had come into the kitchen and, wanting a bit of company, had chattered on over several cups of tea. Peggy felt sorry for the poor old duck – after all, she’d reasoned, Mrs Finch was a widow whose sons had migrated to Canada many years before, and rarely wrote to her. She was, to all intents and purposes, alone in the world. It did no harm to gossip as she worked. But my goodness she could talk.
Peggy had glanced at the clock and almost left her in mid-sentence as she tore off the apron and headscarf, grabbed her coat and bag and rushed off. To make matters worse, she’d missed the trolleybus, and the old car had taken longer than usual to get started.
As it groaned and complained up the hill to the station, she was aware of the passing time – and that now she was very late. She parked haphazardly, slammed the door and hurried on to the concourse.
One glance told her everything, and her heart went out to the skinny girl who was sitting so stoically beside the frail, crippled little boy. They were poorly dressed and looked half starved, and the boy’s pinched little face made her want to bundle him up and carry him home.
‘Mrs Reilly? You’re late. I’m afraid there’s only those two left, and the girl is a troublemaker. Perhaps you’d be better off waiting until the next train?’
Peggy tore her gaze from the girl’s large hazel eyes and regarded the woman coldly. ‘In what way has she caused trouble?’
She lowered her voice. ‘She refused to let us place her brother in the orphanage – and turned down the chance of staying with a very nice family who live in Havelock Gardens.’
It was a leafy street on the better side of town, and Peggy held no illusions about the snobs who lived there. Her sister Doris was one of them. ‘Havelock Gardens isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ Peggy answered with the withering look she’d perfected over the years of running a boarding house. ‘And why should the boy go to the orphanage?’
‘He’s a cripple,’ she said, making it sound as if it was something contagious, ‘and therefore rather difficult to place.’
‘I’ll take the pair of them,’ said Peggy, adjusting the ancient fox fur that hung around her neck.
‘Really, Mrs Reilly, I don’t think …’
‘No, you don’t do you?’ Peggy’s look was scathing as she turned away. The girl and her brother were watching her, and she thought she could see the hint of a smile touching the girl’s mouth as she stood to greet her.
‘My name’s Peggy Reilly, and I’d like you to come and stay with me. How do you feel about that?’
The girl’s smile faltered, her gaze darting between Peggy and the woman in charge. ‘Ernie too?’
‘Of course,’ she said firmly. ‘I have two boys of my own, and I’m sure he’ll settle in just fine.’
‘What’ya think, Ernie? Would you like to go with this lady?’
Ernie was eyeing the fox round Peggy’s neck with some suspicion as he slowly nodded. ‘That’s a dead fox, ain’t it?’
‘It most certainly is,’ she said with a warm smile, ‘but back home, Granddad Ron has some real live ferrets – and a dog. Would you like to see them?’
‘What’s a ferret?’
Peggy laughed. The little boy might look wan and half starved, but he was as inquisitive as Bob and Charlie and, she suspected, as mischievous. ‘It’s long and furry and likes nothing better than going down holes after rabbits.’