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.
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