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never felt so lost and alone in her life; not even when she’d been shut in her bedroom for hours on end away from her mother and whatever ‘uncle’ was visiting. She’d always known that Aunty Elsie and Bobby were just next door. But now . . .
    ‘Here we are.’ Mr Tomkins stopped in front of a small cottage with a thatched roof. The door opened straight on to the road and white net curtains veiled the front windows. Dark green ivy covered most of the wall. It was very quiet, with no sign of life except for a tiny wisp of smoke curling up from one of the chimneys. They seemed to wait an age before anyone came in answer to his knock. Then they heard a shuffling behind the door and it creaked a little way open.
    ‘We don’t use this door, Mr Tomkins. Please go round to the back. My sister is waiting for you.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lister. Of course. I do beg your pardon.’
    The door closed and Mr Tomkins cast his eyes heavenwards before gesturing them to follow him down the side of the house, through a dilapidated gate and into a backyard, beyond which was a small, badly overgrown garden, the flowers choked with weeds.
    ‘What a shame!’ Miss Chisholm murmured.
    ‘The Miss Listers are too old now to manage gardening.’
    ‘Are you sure they’ll be able to manage a child?’
    Doubt crossed Mr Tomkins’s face. ‘I hope so. They want to “do their bit”, as they’ve put it. They lost two nephews – young men who were very dear to them – in the last war and they’re appalled that it’s all going to start again. They do have a young girl living with them – a maid. No doubt she’ll look after, er – ’ He consulted his clipboard.
    ‘Jenny Mercer,’ Miss Chisholm reminded him.
    ‘Yes, yes, quite so. I’m sure she’ll be all right and my wife, Mabel, will call in often just to see . . . And you’ll be staying for a day or two, you said, so . . .’
    They had arrived at the back door and an elderly woman stood there dressed from head to toe in black. She stooped a little and her small face was covered with lines and wrinkles. Her white hair was a wispy cloud around her head. She did not smile a welcome, but held the door open for them to step inside.
    They crowded into the small sitting room, the three visitors and the two Miss Listers. It was dingy and uninviting, the only natural lighting coming from one of the small front windows.
    ‘So, this is the girl you want us to house,’ the elder of the two women – the one who had opened the back door and ushered them in – began. They saw now the other sister for the first time. She was taller than her sister, thin and straight-backed. Her grey hair was scraped back from her face into a bun. She, too, was dressed completely in black.
    ‘Yes, Miss Lister.’ Mr Tomkins almost bowed with respect. ‘Her name is Jenny Mercer and she’s – er – ’ Again he consulted his clipboard. ‘Ten years old.’
    The taller of the two sisters – Miss Agnes – looked the girl up and down. ‘Rather young. We were hoping for someone older, Mr Tomkins. Someone who could help Christine about the house.’ She sniffed. ‘This child is going to be more of a hindrance than a help.’
    ‘Jenny’s a very willing girl,’ Miss Chisholm put in. ‘I’m sure she’ll help with whatever jobs she can.’
    Jenny was growing more anxious by the minute. She didn’t like the look of these two old women. The house was dingy, the room cluttered with ornaments and the horsehair sofa, she knew, would scratch the back of her bare legs.
    She tugged on Miss Chisholm’s hand. ‘I don’t want to stay here. I don’t like—’
    ‘Hush, Jenny, there’s a dear.’
    Mr Tomkins cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there are no other billets left. If you could just—’
    ‘I see,’ Miss Agnes said primly, her mouth pursed. Although the younger of the two sisters, she now seemed to speak for both of them. ‘We’ve been given the dregs. The child no one else wants, have