reading

To my friends Sally and Mike, for all the kindness and fun times we had together, and to Sharon, Chris and Mary for being there for me in a time of trouble.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

At the outbreak of war between Britain and Germany, the government advised that parents’ evacuated their children from the nation’s cities to the safety of the countryside.

Less is known about another government directive advising that all household pets are destroyed. Their advice was based on the likelihood of an enemy blockade of food supplies and the severity of rationing. There would be no food to spare for pets.

The government surmised that, following intensive bombing, packs of maddened dogs would form, attacking and eating anything they could.

The majority of pets were put down humanely, but a lot were abandoned, knocked over the head with a hammer, drowned or left tied up in sacks to slowly starve and suffocate to death.

It is estimated that 300,000 were destroyed in the first ten days following the outbreak of war. This does not take into account those less than humanely killed or abandoned to die. It is estimated that 750,000 dogs and cats were put down by the end of the war.

CHAPTER ONE

Joanna’s whispered words hissed softly into the darkness, her lips barely moving. Even at the tender age of nine, she knew from experience that if she opened her mouth too much she would breathe in the dusty air and swallow the gritty coal dust.

The coalhouse was not underground as it was in older houses, but beneath the stairs and adjacent to the kitchen. Being locked in here was the ultimate punishment, the one she hated the most. The sound of the normal life of the house continued on the other side of the door.

It was light and warm on the other side of the door. In the coalhouse it was dirty, dark and she was very alone.

Elspeth, her stepmother, had told her it was all her own fault, that she was bad and nothing but a nuisance. ‘I’ve got things to do without bothering with a cocky little kid like you.’

Joanna couldn’t recall exactly what she’d done wrong. Elspeth always turned nasty after she’d put on her makeup, curled her hair into the latest style and put on her best costume – a tightly fitted jacket and skirt. It was a mixture of red and green, like paint splashes, though ordered not random. Last on was the strong-smelling perfume that Elspeth favoured, but which made Joanna retch. Perhaps that was the reason for her punishment, retching and wrinkling her nose. Sometimes she thought she heard a man’s voice beyond the door, though it didn’t sound like her father’s.

She’d been locked in the coalhouse under the stairs for so long she’d counted to one thousand again and again, her eyes tightly closed, the smell of coal in her nostrils and dust clinging to her throat.

Keeping her eyes closed helped her maintain an illusion of normality, that the darkness was of her own choosing and not because her stepmother had yet again found an excuse to lock her up.

Counting helped her cope. Counting and closing her eyes had become a habit, even in school.

Her teacher had noticed she did it, but merely commented that if it helped her count then it was a good thing. But her teacher didn’t know about her stepmother. Neither did her father.

Elspeth – she couldn’t bear to call her ‘mother’, and Elspeth couldn’t bear being called that except when Joanna’s father was home – twisted her stepdaughter’s arm up behind her back and made her swear never to tell that she was sometimes locked in the coalhouse. Joanna had cried. She used to cry a lot until Elspeth began throwing her under the stairs even for doing that.

Now she only cried at night, and even then silently so neither her stepmother nor her father would hear.

Sometimes she fancied a soft hand stroked her hair before she fell asleep, a gentle voice telling her not to cry, that she was loved and everything would be all right.

Her mother had died three years before. Her happy face became pale and drawn, and she began spending more and more time in bed. Joanna had no idea of what her mother’s illness was called, only that it took her away from her when she was young and still in need of her.

Lonely, and thinking his daughter needed a mother, her father had met and married Elspeth. She’d presented a caring picture, even bringing Joanna sweets and ribbons, cooing and fussing over her as though she was the most precious thing in the world.

Joanna’s father knew nothing of how his new wife treated his daughter, or perhaps he couldn’t face the fact, preferring to bury himself in work than see how difficult life had become for his only child.

He’d worked long hours as a lathe turner at the aircraft factory in the weeks before war was declared; they’d known even then there was going to be a war. When he came home from work Elspeth went out of her way to behave differently.

She made a point of making herself look good even on those days when she didn’t lock Joanna in the coalhouse and she went off to meet one of her fancy men. There was nothing like making a bit of extra money and, anyway, old habits died hard.

Housework and looking after Joanna took second place to being dressed and made up as glamorously as possible even if she was only going shopping, and certainly in time for Tom Ryan coming home from work.

Sometimes she made Joanna wash and change too. At other times she didn’t bother, and if Tom did frown and look concerned she put the blame on Joanna’s shoulders, blaming the girl herself for being dirty and ragged.

‘Out playing with the boys again! Mark my words, young lady, boys will only get you in trouble!’

Then she’d smile her best smile and laugh as though they were the happiest family in the world.

The darkness was total. Her stomach began to rumble which was not surprising seeing as she’d only had a piece of bread and dripping for breakfast. Elspeth had been too busy to prepare lunch. It was Saturday and she’d had a hairdressing appointment.

There were few women in their street able to spend money on hair appointments but Elspeth was a regular at the tiny shop that smelled nasty and was very hot.

Elspeth’s hair never looked that different when she got back from a weekday appointment. The only time it did look different was when she went to the hairdressers on Saturdays.

On the one occasion Joanna had been brave enough to ask why that was, Elspeth had slapped her face and told her not to ask questions. She’d also demanded that she say she was sorry for criticising her hair.

‘After all the trouble I take to make it look nice! Just like this house. It was never like this when I first came here. Right rubbish tip it was.’

Joanna thought it felt like home with its comfy sofa and mismatched chairs, a standard lamp throwing its yellowish glow over her father’s chair and the Bakelite radio that sat on a small table with bamboo legs.

Elspeth liked ornaments. Lots of ornaments, mostly of ladies in crinoline dresses wearing poke bonnets, and gentlemen in tight trousers with curly moustaches. She also liked brass plaques and fire irons. It was Joanna’s job to clean these, a job she hated. Her father had called her a little trouper when he’d come home early one Saturday and caught her doing it. She’d smiled and thrown her arms around him, only barely holding back the tears. She’d so wanted to tell him she hated cleaning the brass but that Elspeth would punish her if she didn’t.

‘Seven hundred and seventy-seven . . . seven hundred and seventy-eight . . .’

On hearing the sudden rattling of the key in the lock, she stopped counting, blinking as bright light fell from the narrow gap onto her face.

The gap widened. Her stepmother, hair bleached the colour of light honey, appeared in the doorway.

Unlike Joanna who had dark hair, her stepmother’s dyed hair replicated that of Joanna’s mother. Even her features were similar to those of her mother. Joanna knew this from the black-and-white wedding photograph she’d found in the back of the sideboard drawer one day. The one thing Elspeth couldn’t change was the hard look in her eyes. She also wore too much makeup, and had yellow fingertips thanks to incessant smoking.

‘Right,’ she said, reaching in and dragging Joanna out. ‘I’m out of spuds. Get down to Gingell’s and get me five pounds. Here’s the money . . .’

Joanna blinked. The light was still too strong for her eyes but she dared not complain. She was just so glad to be out.

‘You can keep the change, but only if it’s a few pennies. And spend it right away. I don’t want your dad thinking that I’m a wicked stepmother – like that Goldilocks . . .’

Seeing anger flare in her stepmother’s eyes, Joanna knew it was time to make a quick exit. She grabbed the brown leather shopping bag set aside for vegetables. Elspeth rarely shopped for vegetables. That job she either left to Joanna or bought from Charlie Long, who came round on a cart pulled by a brown-and-white horse named Polly. Joanna was fascinated by the dependable old horse who waited patiently while Charlie served the street with vegetables. Polly had even let her stroke her muzzle and Joanna had been fascinated by its softness.

Charlie had said the horse didn’t let everyone touch him like that. ‘It means she likes ye. Animals know who they like and who they don’t like.’

‘Leave the animal alone. You might get fleas,’ she’d snapped, a comment which brought a surly look from Charlie.

‘My horse ain’t got fleas, missus, and don’t you forget it. Say it again and ye won’t be buying any of my potatoes, I can assure ye of that.’

Charlie always said ye, thou or thee. Joanna didn’t know why and didn’t care to ask. She liked the way he spoke.

It wasn’t Charlie’s day to come clopping up the street with Polly so the potatoes had to be bought from the shop at the bottom of the hill. Joanna didn’t mind running downhill to the shop, her hair flying behind her and arms outstretched as though she could fly. Running downhill felt like freedom. She wished there was some kind of magic that would turn her arms into wings and she could fly away.

There were a few people in the vegetable shop when she got there. One or two looked at her with pity in their eyes. She was careful to look away. Fifteen minutes later and she was off back home, shoulder sagging one side as she lugged the heavy bag, a lollipop stick hanging out of her mouth. Slogging back up the hill with a heavy bag of potatoes was slower and the prospect of arriving home far from liberating.

Halfway up The Vale, as their street was named, she looked back down the hill, half expecting to hear the rattly roar of her father’s motorbike coming up behind her. He’d been called up to fight in the war just a week ago, yet she still expected to see him riding up that hill between the red-brick council houses.

Ever since she was a little girl she’d always ran halfway down the hill to meet him, riding pillion for the remainder of his journey home.

Her mind went back to the time when he’d brought the kitten home for her. She could still see him now, wearing a leather flying helmet, gauntlets and goggles even when the weather was warm. His smile was always there and his voice always rang with the same invitation. ‘Sweetheart! Hop on!’

On the day when he’d brought her the most wonderful gift of all, he couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

‘Tell you what,’ he’d said, ‘you hold something for me, and I’ll heave those potatoes up here between me and the tank.’

Joanna stopped, making the lollipop stick twist and turn as she remembered what he wanted her to hold. She’d handed him the potatoes, which he bundled up in front of him, the weight resting on the tank.

‘Here,’ he’d said, reaching inside his jacket, his smile undiminished. ‘Her name’s Lottie.’

‘It’ll be your job to look after Lottie from now on,’ her father had said.

‘Well, she belonged to Fred, the night watchman at the factory. His cat had kittens and then Old Fred died, so Lottie here has nowhere to go.’

Tucking the purring cat inside her cardigan, Joanna had scrambled on behind her father, wrapping her arms around him tightly enough not to fall off while at the same time being careful not to squash the cat.

On hearing the sound of the approaching motorcycle, Elspeth had appeared at the front door, done up to the nines, ready to play the ideal housewife. As usual her lips were painted bright red, her dress was clean and glossy curls bounced around her shoulders.

She’d waved a manicured hand, the fingernails the same bright red as her lips. ‘Darling!’

Joanna always winced at the sight of those bright red nails and that waving hand, bringing to mind as it did the slaps she’d often received.

‘Look what my dad’s brought me,’ had said Joanna, unable to control her happiness.

‘A cat. That’s nice for you. Make sure you look after it.’ She’d thrown a disapproving look at Joanna’s father. ‘Tom. You shouldn’t have.’

Joanna interrupted what could have been the beginning of a quarrel. ‘It’s a girl. Her name’s Lottie.’

From then on the cat had shared her bed and Joanna had looked after her, feeding her and bringing her in from outside when Elspeth had shut her out at night, even when it was bitterly cold. Once she was sure her father and Elspeth were gone to bed, Joanna would sneak back downstairs and let Lottie in. Together they had fallen asleep, Joanna’s arm around her very best friend.

One week ago, her father stood there on the doorstep, wearing his brand-new uniform and looking in two minds to go.

‘It’ll be just you and me, darling,’ her stepmother had said just before her father had left.

Joanna had trembled at the thought of it, though she didn’t dare say a word. Her stepmother had made a show of being kind to her that day. Her father was not to know that things were not always like that – not that there were ever any bruises to show, bruises would have to be explained. (Joanna feared that would change once her father was gone.) – instead, she endured cutting words and cruel treatment. But now, there would be no shoulder for Joanna to cry on, no kind voice to soothe the loss of her mother.

Elspeth had tolerated Lottie while her father was around, but once he was called up to serve his country, her stepmother took to throwing the cat out even during the day.

Joanna was brave in the defence of Lottie, her little chin firm and her eyes bright with intent. ‘My dad brought her home for me.’

‘Well,’ snapped Elspeth, pushing her face close to Joanna’s so there was only a hair’s breadth between them. ‘Your dad is not here. He’s off fighting in the war. Animals are of less importance now than they’ve ever been. The whole lot of them should be put down!’

CHAPTER TWO

The first Joanna knew that something was horribly wrong was as she was walking home from school up The Vale. Her friend Susan was with her, prattling away about her day in school as though she were the only one who went there.

Joanna heard her but didn’t really take it in. Going home today, the first day of school since her father had gone to war, had left her feeling very apprehensive.

All the way up the hill red-brick houses sat behind privet hedges. The houses had been built in the late twenties and early thirties for people who had been moved out from the city centre when their homes were demolished to build a chocolate factory. Some of the privet hedges framing the handkerchief sized front gardens were neatly trimmed. Others were left overgrown until the occupants were shamed into taking action by their neighbours. People took pride in their gardens as much as they did their houses. Her father had been no exception. He’d taken care of his garden.

Joanna admired the little gardens and particularly liked the smell of the privet flower, its blossom a sign that hedge trimming time was imminent, the perfume hanging in the air as the shears did their work. She wondered who would take care of theirs now her father was away fighting in the war. Elspeth hated gardening, saying it destroyed her fingernails. She resolved to do what she could, though because the shears were so heavy cutting the grass and hedges was out of the question.

Although it was September, the smell of privet flowers still hung in the air, resurrected by the crisp freshness of the first month of autumn.

Normally Joanna would be elated, but the thought of going home to a house without her father’s presence made her subdued. When she got home only Elspeth would be there, and as soon as she walked in the door, she’d tell her to get her own food, that she was too busy to bother with the demands of a child.

Joanna’s only solace would be that her cat would be there, greeting her with a purr the moment she entered the garden gate.

The Vale had been bustling for days with people delivering sandbags and Anderson shelters. Some people whose back gardens were bigger than average had been ordered to have a block-built shelter erected for the benefit of those who didn’t have room for an Anderson or were too old to or incapacitated to install one.

‘That Miss Hadley told me I should think more before I read aloud,’ Susan said petulantly. ‘I don’t care for reading. I don’t care if I never read another book ever again.’

Joanna laughed. She didn’t understand Susan’s reluctance to read. She herself loved books and Miss Hadley had commended her on how well she read.

‘I like her too,’ Susan admitted grudgingly. ‘It’s the books I don’t like.’

Joanna’s attention had shifted to Mrs Goodson in number 15, a formidable woman most of the time, the sort who refused to give a ball back when it bounced into her garden. She was leaning on the garden gate, crying into her handkerchief and blowing her nose.

Joanna had never seen Mrs Goodson be anything but fierce; never, ever had she seen her crying. She couldn’t help but stop and ask her what was wrong.

Mrs Goodson’s glare of recognition that these were some of those badly behaved kids was short-lived, riddled by sobs. ‘It’s the war. The filthy war! How would I have been able to feed him?’

Clarence was a Pekinese with short legs, a snub nose and sharp teeth. Just like his owner, he didn’t like children, and the children didn’t much like him, but old Mrs Goodson had doted on him. Joanna had even glimpsed her feeding him a square from a Fry’s Five Boys chocolate bar.

Joanna glanced over the garden gate to the front step where Clarence usually lay stretched out with his eyes closed, until somebody chanced to walk past. At the sound of footsteps he was always up, racing to the gate and yapping until the intrusion on his territory had passed by. Once he was sure no threat lingered, he went back to lying on his step.

‘Is he dead?’ Joanna asked. She had got used to his noisy ways, his squashed face and his needle-fine teeth.

Mrs Goodson dabbed at her eyes. ‘The man from the Animal Committee told me he’d be found a home in the country, a place of safety, he said. He pointed out that with a war on I wouldn’t be able to feed him and also the noise of bombs falling and guns firing might send him mad.’

Joanna felt Mrs Goodson’s pain. The old lady had loved her dog. ‘I hope he’ll be happy there,’ she said.

Impatient to be going, Susan tugged at her arm. Together they continued the long trek up the hill.

‘Imagine living in the country,’ said Susan. ‘I know our Bertie would like it. He chases cats and if the cats get moved to the country he’ll chase them there.’

‘I’m not letting Lottie go to the country,’ Joanna said adamantly. ‘She’s staying with me. We’ll both get bombed together!’

Her tone was defiant, but inside she was scared. And her fears were intensified when she saw the van outside John Baker’s house. John, a freckle-faced lad with a thatch of auburn hair, was in the same class as her and had a scruffy old dog named Dandy. He and his mother were standing by the gate, looking sad.

Joanna’s heart almost stopped when she saw Dandy being led to the van. The van shook and echoed with barking of dogs. Joanna glimpsed a cage, saw the man reach in and open it. Dandy was loaded into the cage. From the heart of the frenzied interior she glimpsed the fear-filled eyes of caged cats and dogs, staring out at the world where they’d wandered free.

Joanna tugged at Susan’s sleeve. The two girls quickened their pace and caught up with John.

John shook his head sadly. ‘He’s a bit too old to move so they say it’ll be kinder to put him to sleep.’

They were running now, Susan lagging behind and calling for Joanna to slow down. But Joanna was desperate to get home to Lottie as fast as she could.

The van caught up with them. Breathless from running and fear, Joanna saw it pass, a black shape swaying from side to side. A sick feeling of dread swept over her as it stopped outside her house. Elspeth, her stepmother was at the gate, a closed cardboard box in her arms.

Lottie hated Elspeth as much as Elspeth hated her. Somehow her stepmother had lured the cat into that box and taped down the lid. Joanna ran faster.

‘Take no notice,’ Elspeth said to the man to whom she gave the box. It wasn’t lost on Joanna that her stepmother was giving the man her most winning smile. But most of all her heart was breaking. She could hear Lottie mewing pitifully from within the cardboard box.

Susan, who had always feared Elspeth Ryan, backed away. Joanna was vaguely aware of her saying she would see her in school tomorrow.

She lunged towards the van, but firm hands dragged her backwards. Sharp nails dug into her shoulders. Her stepmother jerked her back before she could attempt to snatch the box from the man’s hands.

‘Now now, young lady,’ he said, his thin lips stretching into a lax smile. ‘It’s all for the best. There’s a war on and it ain’t fair for animals to be in the city. Your cat will be fine.’

Elspeth smiled at the man and pressed more forcefully on Joanna’s shoulders. ‘This gentleman represents the National Air Raid Precautions Animal Committee. It’s his job to take animals to places where they’ll settle away from the chance of being bombed.’

Her stepmother gave her what was supposed to be an affectionate shake. ‘Of course not, silly.’

Joanna knew her stepmother well enough to know that she’d get more than a shaking of shoulders when they were indoors. Likely she’d be sent to bed with no chance of getting herself supper. But she didn’t care. Not if Lottie wasn’t there.

Joanna sobbed as she saw the van carry on up The Vale, stopping to collect a dog here, a cat there, even a guinea pig from the Connor twins at the top of the hill.

Joanna almost tripped over the front step as she was pushed into the house. Once the door was closed she was spun roughly round to face her stepmother. Elspeth’s eyes were narrowed and her teeth were showing between her bright red lips, a sure sign that she was very angry.

Elspeth shook her far more violently than she had outside the front door. Once they were in the house and without Joanna’s father around, she was capable of doing anything.

Her shoulders were gripped even harder, and there was a pleased smirk on her stepmother’s face. ‘Well, you can’t have her. Do you hear me? She’s gone and that’s that!’

‘I’ll tell my daddy about you,’ Joanna cried, her face wet with tears, her whole body shaking from the force of her sobs.

Elspeth pursed her red lips, her eyes blazing. ‘You do that, little miss, and you will rue the day you were born! Off to bed with you and no supper for a start.’

‘Then go without. Now get out of this house.’ She clouted Joanna’s ear as she reached for the catch and opened the front door. ‘I don’t want to see you until bedtime. And even then I don’t want to see you. Straight to bed with you. Now get out of my sight.’

One more smack across the back of her head before Joanna gladly ran from the house, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She ran unseeing down The Vale, heedless of anyone who called out to her. She ran past the rank of shops at the bottom of the hill before skidding dizzily into Gibbs Lane and onto the stony path leading to the allotments bordering the railway line.

Lottie was gone! No longer would she snuggle up to the comforting furry bundle lying beside her. No longer would she hear her cat’s satisfied purr as she whispered about her day at school or confided her fear and loathing for her stepmother and her sincere hope that the war would end and her father would be home soon.

Her rain-soaked hair flying out behind her, Joanna headed downhill past the allotments with their neat rows of vegetables and tall canes supporting the last plump runner beans of the year. The path was steep and grew more slippery but she couldn’t stop running

Stones slid out from beneath her feet and she was running so quickly only the fence bordering the railway line at the bottom of the slope stopped her from tumbling out onto the track.

A train hurtled past, steam billowing from beneath its wheels and out of its stack, its brakes hissing and clanking as it slowed on the approach to Bedminster Station.

Breathless and totally despondent, Joanna squatted down between the bushes that grew there and buried her head in her hands. Lottie, with her soft black-and-white fur, had been the only way she could bear life with her stepmother.

A sudden rustling of bushes and a sprinkling of water startled her. She looked up to see the cheeky grin and tousled hair of Paul Green.

He slid down beside her, wrapping his hands around his dirty knees. ‘What’s up then, Jo?’

Paul was her best friend. He wasn’t the tidiest of boys, being from a family of seven children – six boys and one girl. He was the youngest boy, so the clothes he wore, hand-me-downs from his older brothers, had seen better days. His sister was a year younger. It was a tight squeeze in their three-bedroom council house.

Joanna sat with her arms slouched across her knees, her head bent forward. Paul’s cheeky grin and freckled face were usually enough to make her smile, but not today.

Joanna rubbed at her eyes. Although she attempted to stifle her sobs, they kept coming. ‘Lottie’s gone. A man came and took her.’

Paul’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Good riddance to Clarence, but Dandy?’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Who would ever have thought it?’

‘The man said that he was taking them to the country to be rehomed.’ She turned her tear-filled eyes on Paul. ‘Do you think they would let me visit her?’

Paul swallowed. Joanna wasn’t to know it but when she turned her big eyes on him his insides turned to mush. She was the only girl in the street that he really liked. He’d do anything to make her smile again.

‘I knows where they takes them,’ he said, his accent as careless as usual. ‘How about I go there and see about gettin’ her back? I mean, she’s yer cat, not yer stepmother’s.’

Paul had only an inkling of where Lottie might be but he was desperate to help. ‘Leave it with me. I’m like a cat meself, you know. Can climb and go anywhere I please without anyone noticing.’

Paul’s father was ‘away’, as neighbours whispered to each other, and not in the army. Rumour was that he was a cat burglar, so to Joanna it followed as only natural that Paul should be following in his father’s footsteps and rescuing a cat.

Despite the sorrow still gripping her heart, Joanna smiled through her tears. Paul had given her hope.

CHAPTER THREE

Victoria Park Junior School had been built at the beginning of the twentieth century. It was a red-brick building surrounded by a large playground segregated into infants, junior boys and a separate school and playground for junior girls. Boys and girls were segregated once they reached eight years old.

The infants entered through the gate on Raymond Road. The entrance to the girls’ junior school was on St John’s Lane and the boy’s entrance was further along.

Miss Sally Hadley had only been at the school for two years, but to her it was like coming home. She’d grown up around here and attended both the infants and junior schools before winning a scholarship to Colston’s Girls’ School. Having obtained a degree in English at Bristol University, followed by a teaching course at St Matthias Teacher Training College, she had completed a few student teacher assignments before acquiring the situation at her old school.

In some ways the school had remained the same as it had when Miss Hadley went there, and so had the children attending it. Some were very badly off and lived in the old Victorian terraces close by, some in the bay villas surrounding Victoria Park. The remainder lived in red-brick council houses built in the twenties and thirties on what had been a green hill.

It had been a long hard day in a long hard week, and although she firmly believed in keeping her worries at home separate from those in school, she didn’t always succeed.

Worrying about her father was like a toothache, throbbing and untreatable. When would he be his old self again? Why couldn’t he see how much she worried about him? She sighed. No matter how much she’d tried to help him, he just would not be helped. He would not adjust to life as it was now.

Her mother had died sixteen months ago. Grace Hadley had been a fine figure of a woman, very typical of the late Victorian and early Edwardian age in which she’d come to womanhood. And yet, her fine physique didn’t stop her from collapsing on the street one day when she was out doing her shopping. It was instant, the doctors told Sally and her father, she would have been dead before she had even hit the ground.

She missed her mother a great deal, but had steeled herself to get on with life. Unfortunately, her father was still in deep mourning for his beloved wife. He barely spoke, ate little and sat staring into the distance, an unlit pipe in his mouth.

No matter what Sally did, she could not get him to snap out of his despair and get on with his life. He was retired and had no interests, nothing to fill his days.

Before her mother died he’d loved his garden and a piece of allotment down near the railway line. Seb and Grace Hadley had gardened together, growing the most beautiful flowers, enjoying the exercise and the effort, and working side by side.

He still went down to the shed down there. She’d assumed he would resume his gardening, looking after it as well as he had done so when her mother was still alive. Hoping it would be so, and keen to encourage him, she’d taken him some sandwiches and a Thermos flask. To her profound disappointment she’d seen nothing had been done. Where once brightly coloured blooms had grown there were now only straggly plants, their flowering long over, their leaves brown and tangled with woodbine. Other weeds besides woodbine grew in profusion, thistles and nettles thrusting and spreading between rotting flower stems. The allotment hadn’t been touched for a very long time and nature was claiming it back as its own.

Yesterday, she’d gone down there because he hadn’t been home for his dinner – brisket, roast potatoes, cabbage, carrots and parsnips followed by rice pudding.

He was sitting on an upturned water butt pretending to read the paper, which he was holding upside down, his mind obviously elsewhere.

Sally tried to blank out the fact that all the other allotments were already devoid of flowers and turned over for the sowing of seedlings. Potatoes, cabbage, beans, carrots and onion were in far more demand than flowers.

She was aware that a few of the other allotment holders were glaring in her father’s direction.

‘When you going to get rid of them flowers and grow something useful?’ one of them shouted out.

‘And do some weeding,’ shouted another. ‘One year’s seed is seven years’ weed! When you going to do some weeding, eh?’

‘When hell freezes over,’ muttered her grim-faced father without looking in the direction of the speaker.

Something else shouted was drowned out by the piercing whistle of a passing train.

Her father grunted something inaudible then looked up at her. She noticed his eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Your mother loved these flowers. I can’t rip them up until she’s ready to let me.’

Every week when her mother was alive he had carefully dug around each of his flowerbeds, where dahlias, moon daisies and chrysanthemums grew in ordered glory. His flowers had won prizes, and despite the urging of government to turn all available land to the growing of vegetables, he’d held out. They were his Grace’s choice. She’d helped him plant them and he saw them as the last link with her and with the happy times they’d had together.

A lump in Sally’s throat drowned any chance of retorting. She hurried away. If her mother had still been alive she would have insisted that they dug up the ground to plant vegetables. But her father refused to move on, at least for now. All Sally could do was hope and pray that he’d return to his old self before very long, though she had no way of knowing when that would be.

And she had someone else to be worried about now. Joanna Ryan loved reading and always put her hand up to be the next to read out loud. Today she did not and had seemed quite distracted all day.

Sally had harboured misgivings, but every child could have an off day. What happened next confirmed that something was indeed very wrong.

‘Please, miss.’ Susan Crawford, a pink-cheeked girl with dark hair, looked at pointedly at Joanna sitting beside her. ‘Jo’s crying. The man in the black van came and took her cat.’

Sally dismissed the rest of the class but before Joanna could leave, she walked between the desks and laid her hand on Joanna’s shoulder.

The sound of slamming desk lids was followed by that of scrabbling feet and excited chatter as the children fled the classroom and headed home.

Joanna had remained sitting at her desk, her head in her hands. Even though her face was half hidden, Sally could see it was wet with tears.

Joanna’s friend Susan lingered, shifting from one foot to the other in her leather sandals and baggy socks, settled in wrinkles around her ankles. Sally told her to go outside and wait for her friend there.

Silence reigned in the big square room, the smell of ink and chalk hanging in the air. The classroom was full of light. One wall was occupied by a series of tall windows. Dominating the rear wall was a map of the world, upon which the countries belonging to the British Empire were shaded in red: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, India, Africa and many more. The map was surrounded by pictures painted by the children and diagrams of fractions, shapes and the whole sequence of times tables, all the way from two to the twelve times table. A huge radiator occupied the wall nearest the door, and the blackboard the other wall behind Sally’s desk.

Sally squeezed herself into the space beside Joanna, vaguely aware that this might have been her desk when she was a pupil here.

‘Why are you crying, Joanna?’ She didn’t repeat what Susan had told her but preferred to hear it from Joanna herself.

Joanna kept her face hidden. She liked Miss Hadley a lot but even her soft words failed to heal the hurt in her heart.

Sally had always considered Joanna a smart girl and on the whole well cared for, but that was before her mother had died and her father remarried.

Just of late her hair, her clothes and the spark she’d seen in her eyes seemed to have faded. She’d also noticed she was usually the last to leave the classroom, and the last to leave the playground at four o’clock when the children swarmed like bees towards the school gate and home.

‘That’s a girl who doesn’t want to go home,’ she’d once remarked to Miss Burton, the headmistress.

Miss Burton was a solid figure with a gentle face framed by cotton fine grey hair. A misty look came to her eyes. ‘There are many children with a less than ideal home, Miss Hadley,’ she said. ‘I’ve learned over the years that it’s best to keep focused on one’s vocation. It’s difficult not to get emotionally involved, but one has to try.’

Sally stroked the girl’s hair back from her eyes, aware that her attention was above and beyond the call of her profession.

Sally felt her heart lurch at the look on the little girl’s face. Joanna had seemed markedly different when she returned to school on Monday. Perhaps it was time to have a talk with her parents, even though Miss Burton had warned against that too.

‘Tell you what,’ she said, placing an arm around Joanna’s shoulders. ‘How about I walk home with you and you tell me exactly what the matter is.’

Joanna nodded. Her foremost hope was that Miss Hadley could persuade her stepmother to get Lottie back. If she could do that she didn’t care about anything else.

Joanna shook her head. The cardigan she was wearing had holes in the elbows and was hand knitted from thin wool. Her dress was of cotton and faded from many washes. Sally wondered whether she actually owned a coat.

‘Never mind.’ Sally went to her desk to pack the last of the children’s exercise books into her attaché case. She buttoned her jacket, part of a teal-coloured costume that was her daily uniform. ‘The rain’s stopped now. Come on. Let’s go.’

She held out her hand. The little girl took it pensively, her big blue eyes still moist but her sobs less than they were.

Together the two of them crossed the empty playground. Joanna looked towards the school gate to see if Susan had waited for her. If she’d been alone she would have been disappointed to see that Susan had not waited. Miss Hadley’s presence helped her cope with that too.

Sally had enough experience to sense that Joanna was the victim of neglect at home. There were no signs of bruising on the child’s arms and legs, but she didn’t doubt that Joanna was victim to some form of cruelty. It did occur to her to ask Susan, but children were often loath to tell tales on their classmates. She tried again, concentrating on school rather than home.

‘Joanna, you must tell me if anyone in school has been nasty to you. I can make it stop.’

Sally looked down at the bowed head. They were halfway up The Vale and Joanna had only just begun to unload her unhappiness.

‘Who’s Lottie?’ she asked gently, even though Susan had told her it was a cat. In these situations it was always best to let the child concerned tell what was the matter in their own words.

Sally gritted her teeth. Official notices had been appearing in newspapers and on the wireless besides falling through every letterbox in the country. The directive was explicit: it was best to put your pets down rather than have them starve to death or be upset by bombs. They even offered a ‘humane’ gun that fired a bolt into the brain. Goodness knows what other damage these guns could do if they fell into the wrong hands.

Sally swallowed hard as she thought about her next move. She couldn’t possibly upset Joanna by telling her the truth that household pets were being put down in their thousands. Others were being abandoned and left to die in out-of-the-way places.

‘I hear they’re being found places in the country away from cities,’ said Sally. It was just one of the euphemisms for being put to death, the fate that would befall most of them.

Joanna looked up, a desperate look in her eyes that made Sally’s chest tighten. ‘Will there be other cats in the country?’

Sally almost choked on the lie but told herself it was necessary. It was the only answer she could give without exposing Joanna to the absolute truth: Lottie was probably already dead. And Joanna was upset enough as it was.

Without asking, Sally already knew this meant nobody was at home – or at least that was what she thought.

She remained on the doorstep while Joanna stepped into the tiny hallway. A set of stairs arose on the right-hand side. Numerous coats and hats hung in a space behind the door at the bottom of the stairs.

Looking both cowed and embarrassed, Joanna pushed open the living room door. From where she stood, Sally saw a blonde-haired blowsy woman sitting in an armchair. Red fingernails held a magazine. Judging by the glossy paper it was an old issue. Since the outbreak of war both the quality of paper and size of publications had decreased phenomenally.

‘About bloody time. Get and put the kettle on. I could do with a cup of tea, you lazy little cow!’

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ Her tone was nasal, raspy from tobacco smoke.

For a moment the woman in the chair seemed to freeze. Once she’d recovered she threw an accusing look at Joanna before turning her attention to the slim young woman standing on the doorstep.

‘Oh,’ she said, pasting on a deceitful smile. ‘If I’d known we were having an important visitor I would have laid on cocktails and put on me best frock.’

Smoothing her dress and fluffing up her hair she came to the door knocking Joanna aside with her hip in the process.

Miss Burton had advised Sally to always adopt a professional veneer – even a superior one – when dealing with some parents.

‘It’s the only way to deal with latent aggression. Show weakness and you won’t stand a chance.’

With Miss Burton’s advice ringing in her ears, Sally held her ground. ‘Are you Joanna’s mother?’

‘No. Thanks to that bloke Hitler he’s gone off to serve his country. He needn’t have gone. He was in a reserved occupation up at the aircraft factory, but wanted to go off and do his bit. Stupid sod. He left me with the kid.’

It crossed Sally’s mind that any sane man would prefer to leave a woman like Elspeth and go off to fight. The downside was that Joanna was also left behind. Did her father know how his daughter was being treated? Obviously not, she decided.

‘Joanna was very upset in school today. In fact, she hasn’t been her usual bright self for a while.’

Elspeth folded her arms over her large breasts. The neckline of her dress was cut very low and showed her ample cleavage.

Sally took a deep breath. ‘It’s not only that, Mrs Ryan. It’s her clothes and general appearance. She’s a lot thinner than she used to be.’ She said all this very quietly but firmly and only once she’d ensured that Joanna was out of earshot. The poor child had enough to cope with by the looks of her stepmother.

Elspeth Ryan stiffened. ‘Look. I’ve only got so much to keep her on. Army pay.’

‘Certainly not. If a man can’t keep his wife and family then there’s no point in being married. Not in my book!’

Sally pointedly cast her gaze over the peroxide-blonde hair, the red fingernail polish, the dress with its scattered flowers and lace borders. The state of the house was much the same as Joanna: dirty and neglected. Elspeth shone in the midst of it like the brassy piece she was.

Sally decided the time was right for her to lay down the law, to be professional and non-emotional.

‘If you feel you can’t keep her, then I can make a recommendation for her to be evacuated.’

‘Fine. Then you won’t mind if I get in touch with her father and explain to him that Joanna is being removed from a home where I suspect neglect. Only you can say what his response might be to that!’

Recognising she was in the ascendant on this, Sally carried on. ‘Of course, sending Joanna away will mean a cut in your husband’s army pay, which I’m sure will decrease the allowance that he sends to you . . .’

‘Oh yes I would! And if I don’t see an improvement in that child’s health and general well-being, that is exactly what I will do. First things first: does she have a winter coat?’

Mrs Ryan’s features stiffened before she answered, less stridently this time. ‘She did, but grew out of it. I can’t keep up with her.’

She could have offered to find a coat among parents’ donations of items of clothing their own children had grown out of, it was sheer cussedness that she did not.

Elspeth’s nostrils flared and red pricks of colour dotted each cheek. She prided herself on being able to stand up to authority, but this young woman with her flawless complexion and shoulder-length auburn hair had boxed her into a corner. Tom had always been good where money was concerned. Half the time he’d hardly been left enough for petrol in his motorbike. The sooner she got rid of this woman the better. With that end in mind she made an effort to look as though she were eating humble pie. ‘All right. I’ll see she gets a new coat and stuff. Is that all?’

CONTENTS

Also by Lizzie Lane:

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE