‘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