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About the Author

JACQUELINE WILSON wrote her first novel when she was nine years old, and she has been writing ever since. She is now one of Britain’s bestselling and most beloved children’s authors. She has written over 100 books and is the creator of characters such as Tracy Beaker and Hetty Feather. More than forty million copies of her books have been sold.

As well as winning many awards for her books, including the Children’s Book of the Year, Jacqueline is a former Children’s Laureate, and in 2008 she was appointed a Dame.

Jacqueline is also a great reader, and has amassed over twenty thousand books, along with her famous collection of silver rings.

Find out more about Jacqueline and her books at www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk

RHCP DIGITAL

RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

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First published Doubelday, 2017
This ebook published 2017

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978–1–448–19806–1

All correspondence to:

RHCP Digital

Penguin Random House Children’s

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL

For Joan and Barbara

‘WOULD YOU LIKE to go on a little holiday?’ asked Mum, the moment she’d shaken me awake.

I sat up in bed and stared at her.

‘Don’t wrinkle your nose like that!’ she said. ‘You look like a rabbit.’

‘I like rabbits,’ I said. I’d been begging her for a pet rabbit for months. I’d given up on the idea of a dog, because I was at school all day and Mum was planning to go back to work so there would be no one at home to look after it. I tried asking for a cat instead but Mum said they smelled. It was only Miss Jessop’s ginger tom that ponged a bit, and that might not be his fault because Miss Jessop herself was a bit whiffy, so Mum was talking nonsense.

She was clearly talking nonsense now. A holiday? We never went on holidays. We’d been on a coach trip to Clacton once, and I’d paddled in the sea and had a cornet and a sixpenny ride on a donkey. I’d thought it was the best day ever, but the men in the coach drank a lot of bottled beer on the way home and had a rude sing-song. Dad sang too. I thought it was funny, but Mum said it was common and we never went on a coach trip again.

‘Do you mean another coach trip, Mum?’ I asked.

‘No, you’ll be going by train,’ she said.

This was even more exciting. I’d never been on a train before. I loved standing under the railway bridge when they thundered overhead. You could scream all sorts of things and no one could hear a word you were saying.

‘A train!’

‘Yes, a train,’ said Mum. ‘We’ve to be at Victoria station to catch the ten o’clock so we’d better look sharp. What would you like for breakfast? Boiled egg or porridge? Or would you like both?’

I never had both. In fact, most days it was bread and dripping or bread and jam. Now I couldn’t decide. Boiled eggs were good, especially with toast soldiers, but sometimes there was a weird little red thing in the yolk, which Mum said was a baby chick. I felt like a murderer eating a baby, especially when it hadn’t even been born. Ever since, I’d eaten boiled eggs with my stomach clenched.

Porridge could be good too, but sometimes it was too sloppy and sometimes it was so stiff it had a slimy edge, and that turned my stomach too.

‘Make your mind up, Shirley!’ said Mum.

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Could I perhaps have bread with butter and sugar as a special treat instead?’

‘There’s no goodness in that,’ Mum started. Then she sighed. ‘But all right. You’d better have a glass of milk with it. I’ll bring it up on a tray, shall I? I daresay you’d like breakfast in bed.’ She went downstairs.

I fished Timmy Ted out from under the bedcovers and shook my head at him. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ I said, and made Timmy nod in agreement.

I was quoting from my Christmas present – Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I’d read it three times in the last nine months, and I agreed with Alice that I only liked books with pictures and conversation. However, I didn’t like all the riddles and the feeling that nothing made sense. It was especially odd when babies turned into pigs and royalty became playing cards.

Mum seemed different too. Why was she making such a fuss of me? And why, why, why were we going on holiday? Indeed, how were we going on holiday when we didn’t have any money? It was the thing Mum and Dad rowed about most. And what about Dad? How could he come on holiday when he’d just gone away to be a soldier?

Mum came back with the wooden tray and my sugar sandwich and cup of milk carefully set out, along with a cup of tea and her pack of Craven A cigarettes and the matches.

I took a quick hungry mouthful of my sandwich while she was lighting up.

‘Mum, what about Dad? Won’t he feel sad if we’re going on holiday while he’s away being a soldier?’ I asked.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ said Mum, drawing deeply on her cigarette. ‘There’s no need to feel sorry for your dad. He couldn’t wait to get away from us. Honestly, what does it look like, joining up before they’ve even started the bally war!’

‘He’s being brave,’ I said, chewing. ‘He wants to fight for Britain.’

‘Your dad’s not brave,’ said Mum. ‘He squeals every time he sees a spider. Him, fight? He couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.’

The sandwich turned lumpy in my mouth but I couldn’t swallow. I hated it when Mum talked about Dad like that. I suddenly missed him so much. I took a big gulp of milk and spluttered.

‘Oh, Shirley, for goodness’ sake! And look, you’ve spilled milk all over your sheets, you mucky pup. Here!’ Mum put her hand under my chin and tipped up my face so she could have a good look at me. ‘You’re not crying, are you? Whatever for?’

‘I miss Dad terribly,’ I said.

‘For heaven’s sake, he’s only been gone a couple of weeks!’

‘Yes, but I miss him so. I’m scared someone might ambush him and shoot him.’

‘You’ve seen too many cowboy films at the Saturday morning pictures! He’s not fighting yet anyway, he’s still at training camp. Now eat that sandwich quick, before I take it off you,’ said Mum.

I ate. Mum watched me, her head on one side. Then she picked up a strand of my hair. ‘Perhaps we’d better give your hair a good wash,’ she said.

‘But it’s Friday,’ I said, puzzled.

‘I know, but I want to send you off clean as clean. I’ve put the immersion on, so you’d better have a bath and get your hair washed. You can use my Drene shampoo if you like.’

I suddenly felt alarmed. ‘Mum, are you kidding me? I haven’t got to go to no hospital for my tonsils, have I?’

I’d had my tonsils and adenoids out two years ago, and I’d been scrubbed from top to toe first. Hospital was really scary and my throat had hurt horribly, though they’d given me ice cream and jelly for dinner instead of meat and potatoes, which was an unexpected treat.

‘I haven’t got to go to any hospital,’ said Mum. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want you growing up talking common just because we live in this awful dump now. And of course you’re not going to hospital to have your tonsils out. How can you, when they’ve already been taken out, you daft sausage?’

‘You promise?’ I said, still suspicious. ‘You’re acting all funny this morning.’

‘Promise,’ said Mum, but she suddenly sat on the edge of my bed and gave me a hug, almost tipping the tray over.

That seemed odder than ever, because Mum always said she wasn’t one for lovey-dovey stuff and hardly ever hugged. She hadn’t even given Dad a hug when he went off to be a soldier, just a quick peck on the cheek.

I breathed in Mum’s lovely smell of scent and powder. She rubbed her cheek on the top of my head and gave an odd little sniffle, but then pushed me away. ‘Enough of that,’ she said, as if I’d started it. ‘Get into the bathroom spit-spot and start washing. Don’t forget your neck now, and behind your ears.’

‘Spit-spot, spit-spot, spit-spot,’ I said, running to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet while the taps ran. Mary Poppins said spit-spot. I loved Mary Poppins. She could be a bit snappy like Mum, and she wasn’t one for hugging, either, but she worked the most amazing magic. She knew some wonderful people too. I especially loved Maia, the youngest of the star sisters, who came down to Earth to do her Christmas shopping. I’d had her as an imaginary friend for a while, and sometimes she took my hand and flew me right up into the sky to meet Orion and the Great Bear and the Little Bear. Sometimes she walked to school with me and held my hand tight when Marilyn Henderson gave me a thump on the back and called me a la-di-da, toffee-nosed nitwit.

Maia still came visiting occasionally, but I didn’t need her so much now because I was the fourth Fossil sister, and Pauline, Petrova and Posy looked out for me. Ballet Shoes was my absolutely favourite book.

I played a quick Ballet Shoes game now, muttering under my breath because Mum hated me playing imaginary games and said I was soft in the head. We discussed our auditions for Madame Fidolia’s new production of Sleeping Beauty, and they all agreed I’d be picked for Princess Aurora, with Posy as a little Lilac Fairy. Pauline hoped she’d get to be the Prince, as there weren’t any boys at our stage school. Petrova wanted to be the hundred-year-old bramble at the end, so all she had to do was sway in the breeze and try to scratch the Prince with prickly fingers. We all laughed at her.

‘What are you giggling about?’ Mum called. ‘I can’t hear any splashing. Get on with that bath!’

‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, and did as I was told.

It was a treat washing my hair with Drene when I usually just rubbed it with Lifebuoy soap. I had to keep dunking my head in the bath to get it squeaky clean. I pretended that each dunk was making my hair grow longer. It sprang out of my scalp inch by inch, right down to my shoulders. I could almost feel it swishing this way and that when I turned my head.

When I wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror and saw that my hair still only came down to the tip of my ears I felt disappointed. I hunched my shoulders up but I couldn’t make it look any longer. While it was wet it did look a bit curly, but by the time I’d rubbed it with the towel it was poker-straight again.

‘Clean vest and clean knickers and clean white socks,’ Mum commanded when I went back to my bedroom. ‘And your pleated skirt and your Fair Isle jumper.’

I quite liked my pleated skirt with its sewn-on white bodice. I sometimes held out the pleats and pretended it was a ballet dress. I kept Dad’s penknife in the pocket. I’d tried to give it back to him when he went to join the army, but he said I could keep it as a lucky mascot. But the Fair Isle jumper was another matter.

‘It’s too hot, Mum. And it itches. It’s not winter yet,’ I said. ‘Can’t I wear a dress?’

‘Not for travelling. But I’ll pack your smocked dress.’

My smocked dress was my best frock – tiny red and white checks with red gathers across the chest and a proper sash at the back. It was to wear to parties with my red patent shoes, though I didn’t get asked to parties at my new school. I loved my red shoes, though they rubbed under the strap and were getting very small for me now; you could see the outline of my toes under the patent leather.

‘Can I wear my red shoes, Mum?’

‘Well, you’re meant to wear stout shoes. Lord knows what they mean by that. I suppose they mean brown lace-ups, but I’m not putting any daughter of mine in clodhoppers – they’re for boys. You haven’t got any stout shoes apart from your Wellingtons, and you’d look a right banana in those, seeing as it’s sunny. So yes, you can wear your red shoes. Now stand still while I do your parting and tie your hair ribbon,’ said Mum.

I stood still, stretching out my toes before I had to cram them into their red cages.

‘You’re doing that nose-wiggling again. Stop it,’ hissed Mum, a hairgrip in her mouth, ready to stab my damp hair into place.

I was thinking over what she’d just said. ‘They?’ I asked.

‘What?’ said Mum, tying my hair ribbon on one side and pulling it out carefully so the ends were even.

‘Who are they?’ I repeated. ‘You said that they said I should wear stout shoes.’

‘Oh, Shirley, stop your silly questions and hurry up! Did you clean your teeth? I thought not. Now, go and give them a good scrubbing, and then I want you to get your toothbrush and the toothpaste and your flannel – squeeze it out properly – and we’ll put them in my sponge bag.’

‘Shall I get your toothbrush and flannel too, Mum?’

‘You leave me to organize myself,’ she said. ‘Now, let’s get you packed.’ She reached up to the top of my wardrobe and brought down my cardboard suitcase. She blew the dust off and looked at it critically. ‘It’s falling to bits! And what have you got inside?’

She opened it up and stared at my colouring pencils and notebooks and my conker doll’s-house furniture and my old toy tea set and my poor plastic Jenny Wren dolly who had lost her eyes inside her head and now gave me the creeps.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘What’s all this junk? And I thought you’d said your teacher had confiscated your dolly when you took her to school … What’s she doing here? And what have you done to her eyes? That doll cost seven and six, miss!’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. She had an accident and I was scared to tell you,’ I said. ‘Her eyes fell in and now they rattle around inside her and won’t come out again. It wasn’t my fault – they just did it, honest.’

‘Honestly. And you’re making it worse, lying like that. You did it, didn’t you?’

Of course I’d done it, though I didn’t mean to. I was playing with Jenny Wren, even though I knew I was too old for such games. After all, I’d turned ten this summer. Jenny Wren was more of an ornament than a doll, but that meant she was pointless. I’d been taken to Bertram Mills Circus at Olympia for a special Christmas treat, so I turned Jenny Wren into a tightrope walker, tying my dressing-gown cord between my wardrobe handle and a knob on my chest of drawers. She was balancing so splendidly in her little knitted socks that I let go for half a second.

She fell on her head and there was an awful click, and then she didn’t have eyes any more, just awful dark blanks, and I had to shut her up in the suitcase quick. Quickly.

‘Well, it’s your loss, because you’re allowed to take one toy, and that doll was your best toy but you can’t take her like that – she looks shocking,’ said Mum, tipping everything out of the suitcase helter-skelter onto the floor.

‘Timmy Ted’s my best toy,’ I said.

‘But he looks awful too,’ said Mum, holding him up by one paw and sniffing disdainfully. She had put him in the wash because he was getting so grubby and he’d never been the same since. He’d gone all droopy and his snout was lopsided, but I still loved him, unlike poor Jenny.

Luckily Mum had dropped him and started fussing about the state of the suitcase instead. ‘Look at that handle! That’s not going to last, is it? The stitches are already unravelling at one end. And it looks so shoddy. Oh dear Lord, it’ll come to pieces before you get there,’ she said.

‘Get where?’

‘The country,’ said Mum, abandoning my suitcase and going into her bedroom.

‘Where in the country?’ I called. I was surprised. Mum had never been keen on the country. She always said there was nothing there but a load of fields and trees, so what was the point.

‘Oh, do give over, Shirley,’ said Mum. ‘Clear up all that mess on the floor and stow it back in that old suitcase. You’ll have to use this one.’ She brandished the big, glossy brown samples suitcase.

‘But that’s Dad’s!’ I said, shocked.

Dad was a commercial traveller, a brush salesman. ‘Any sort of brush, madam – nailbrush, toothbrush, hairbrush, clothes brush – every size and shape of high-quality brushes.’ That was his patter. He sometimes pretended that I was one of his customers. Then he’d flip the lid open, and there were all the brushes lined up in neat rows and I’d take my pick.

‘He’s not needing it now, is he? He’s in the army,’ said Mum.

‘But it’s not even his suitcase. It belongs to the Fine Bristle Company,’ I said, pointing to the name inside the case.

‘Yes, well, they won’t be bothering about that now, not when war’s going to be declared any minute. Help me unslot all these bally brushes,’ said Mum, trying to wiggle each one out from under the tight bands keeping it in place.

‘You’re not meant to take out the brushes,’ I said. ‘Dad will get cross.’

‘Dad’s not here, is he? And he took the only decent suitcase with him, so we’ll have to use this and he can jolly well lump it.’

It was very odd seeing Mum putting my washing things, clean nightie, another set of underwear and socks, my smocked dress, my hairbrush, a pack of three hairgrips and a spare ribbon into Dad’s sample case.

‘Now, this toy … Why don’t you take that nice jigsaw puzzle of the map of the world? It’ll keep you busy for ages and it’s educational,’ said Mum.

‘I don’t really like jigsaw puzzles. And you can’t cuddle them,’ I pointed out. ‘Please let me take Timmy Ted.’

‘Oh, all right then,’ said Mum, sighing. ‘Put him in.’

I tried to make a little bed for him in amongst my clothes so he wouldn’t be bumped around inside the suitcase.

‘I just spent ages smoothing out that dress and now you’re getting it all crumpled,’ said Mum, elbowing me out of the way. ‘Right. Nearly done. You can take one book too.’

‘One?’ I said.

‘Yes, well, I know that’s a bit limited, the way you rush through books. You’ll have read it all on the train journey. Perhaps you can slip in two. Choose. Quickly now.’

I knelt on my bed and looked at the row of books on my new shelf. It wasn’t straight and the edges were rough and gave you splinters if you weren’t careful. Dad wasn’t very good at household jobs. I looked at all the books standing in neat alphabetical order. I’d decided I was going to be a librarian when I grew up and was practising. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Ballet Shoes, Black Beauty, A Little Princess, Little Women, Mary Poppins, Peter and Wendy and The Squirrel, the Hare and the Little Grey Rabbit. I also had Orlando the Marmalade Cat, but it was too big to fit on the shelf, so I’d laid it across the other books, with a little plaster cat made with my modelling kit on top.

I was so pleased with my book arrangement that I often sat up in bed and looked at it for sheer enjoyment. But now my eyes scanned each title anxiously. I loved them all, even Alice. How could I possibly choose?

‘I want to take them all,’ I said. ‘Shame you’ve got to squash all your clothes into the case too, Mum, otherwise there might be room.’

Mum didn’t say anything.

I turned round. I saw her face.

‘Mum?’

‘Hurry up now.’

‘Mum, you are coming too, aren’t you?’ I asked. My voice was suddenly squeaky.

‘Well, no, I’m not coming,’ she said.

‘But you said …’ I went over everything in my head, trying to remember exactly what she had said. ‘So is Dad taking me then?’

‘Shirley, have you gone simple? Your dad’s in the army, for pity’s sake.’

‘Yes, but I can’t go on holiday on my own!’

‘You’re not going to be on your own. You’re going to go with lots and lots of other children,’ said Mum.

‘Which other children?’ I asked anxiously.

‘All your school friends.’

I’d started going to Paradise Road Juniors three months ago. My class still called me the New Girl. I didn’t seem to have any special friends, but I had a Deadly Enemy. Marilyn Henderson made my life a misery.

‘I don’t want to go on holiday with my school!’ I said firmly.

‘It’s not just your school, Shirley. It’s children from all over London. You’re all going on this holiday. You’re being evacuated. It’s to keep you safe if those wicked Germans start dropping bombs.’

‘Are they really going to drop bombs, Mum?’

‘Don’t you worry about it. You’ll be safe in the country, having a whale of a time. Now, choose. Two books, if you must. I’d take Alice in Wonderland – it’s not as tattered as the others, and it was your Christmas present.’

I ignored this idea. I chose Ballet Shoes because it was my favourite, and Mary Poppins because I felt in need of a nanny who could do magic. Then I saw Little Grey Rabbit in her soft grey dress looking at me imploringly, so I picked The Squirrel, the Hare and the Little Grey Rabbit too. I clutched all three to my chest.

‘Can’t you count? And why choose those three? They’re all falling to bits. You’ve read that bally Ballet Shoes at least ten times, and Mary Poppins too. Look, the cover’s all torn. And that rabbit book is far too babyish,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve had it since you were five! People will think you’re backward, when in fact you’re a really good little reader.’

‘I want them. Please, Mum. Especially Little Grey Rabbit. She lives in the country and you said we were going to the country. Only now you’re not coming. Oh, Mum, why aren’t you coming?’ I wailed.

‘Because war’s going to be declared any minute, and all the grown-ups have to stay behind and help. Everyone knows that. I’ve got to do my bit. I’ve applied for a job at Pendleton’s,’ said Mum, tucking my three books into the sample case and then snapping it shut.

‘Pendleton’s Metals, where Dad used to work?’ I asked, astonished. Mum had always hated Dad working in a factory. She made him apply for a job in Grey’s department store instead, but that hadn’t worked out, and then he worked in the hat shop which closed down, so then he was a commercial traveller, but he couldn’t sell many brushes no matter how hard he tried, so we’d had to move to Whitebird Street where the rents were cheaper, and I had to go to a new school where nobody liked me.

‘It’s not going to be Pendleton’s Metals any more, it’s going to be Pendleton’s Munitions, making weapons for the army. They’re changing all the machinery over as part of the war effort,’ said Mum.

‘You’re going to work in the factory?’ I asked, trying to imagine her in overalls with her hair tied up in a scarf like the ladies I saw hurrying to work when I went to school.

‘No, you noddle! You know perfectly well I was a trained secretary before I married your father. I’m going to be Mr Pendleton’s private secretary,’ said Mum.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about your job and my holiday and all this?’ I demanded.

‘Hey, hey, watch your tone, young lady. I didn’t want to tell you before because I knew you’d simply get into a state, just the way you are now. And there’s no time for it – we have to get you to that station, and the buses are a nightmare now. Come on. Put your coat on. Wait while I pin this daft label on you.’

‘But I’m already boiling in this woolly jumper.’

‘You do look a bit pink,’ said Mum, sighing. ‘Well, I’ll pin it on your jumper. Keep still – I don’t want to pull any of the threads.’

I peered down at my chest and read the label upside down. I said it aloud. ‘Shirley Louise Smith, Paradise Road Junior School.’

‘I know. Why you have to have a label at your age I don’t know. You’re hardly likely to forget your own name,’ said Mum. ‘Now, put the coat in your case and then we’ll get cracking. I’m going to put on my hat and jacket.’

She went into her bedroom. I undid the case, folded my coat inside, and then very quickly grabbed all the rest of my books and tumbled them on top of my clothes, even Orlando. I put my gas-mask case strap over my shoulder, then snapped the case shut and hauled it off the bed and down the stairs, thump, thump, thump. I could barely lift it, but I didn’t care. I needed all my books with me. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to enjoy this holiday one little bit.

THE BUS DID take ages. It crawled along, stuck in thick traffic, so when we got near the station Mum made us get out and walk.

‘Come on now, Shirley, don’t dawdle like that. We haven’t got all day!’ she said.

‘I’m coming!’ I stumbled along with the suitcase banging against my knees. My right arm felt as if it was stretching like plasticine. By the time I’d got to the end of the road it felt as if my burning hand were brushing the pavement.

‘Dear goodness, don’t be such a weakling,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve hardly got anything in that case. Here, give it me. But you’ll have to manage it yourself when you get off the train.’

‘No, I’m fine, Mum, really,’ I panted.

Mum sniffed and seized the suitcase. ‘Dear God, what have you got in here? It weighs a blooming ton!’

‘You told me to put my coat in,’ I said.

‘This feels as if it’s got fifty coats inside.’ Mum put the case down on the pavement and snapped it open. I wished I’d hidden all my books under my clothes. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she exclaimed. ‘You naughty, naughty girl! Three books, I said. And you’re only meant to be taking one. Oh, Shirley, why do you always let me down?’

‘I want them all,’ I said. ‘I need them, Mum.’

‘Well, look, we haven’t got time to stand here arguing.’ Mum snapped the suitcase shut and picked it up again with a groan. ‘You’ll have to get one of the lady helpers to carry it for you when you get there.’

‘Where’s there?’ I asked as we ran towards the station. I felt hemmed in by all the big grey buildings, and it was scary when we had to dodge the cars to cross the road.

‘I don’t exactly know where they’re sending you,’ said Mum. ‘They won’t say. Security, I suppose. So when you get wherever it is, you must write the address on a postcard and send it off to me. I’ve tucked one in your gas-mask case, already stamped – and a pencil. There’s a half-crown too, just in case. But don’t spend it on sweets, it’s for emergencies only. Keep it safely hidden.’ She patted the box hanging over my shoulder.

I hated my gas mask. We had to practise putting them on at school, and suddenly everyone turned into hideous monkey aliens, even me.

‘Promise you’ll send the postcard as soon as possible. I’ll be worrying about you,’ said Mum. ‘And make sure you go to a really good family. Keep nice and clean on the journey and tie your hair ribbon properly if it comes undone. I want them to see you come from a decent home. We’re not cockney riff-raff.’

There was a whole stream of mothers and children making for Victoria station now. It was like a vast stone palace and so noisy, absolutely crammed with children. There were big kids, little kids, fat kids, thin kids, every kind of kid, some laughing and larking about, some bawling their eyes out. There were scruffy kids with grubby faces, girls in skimpy summer dresses with their vest sleeves showing, and boys in torn jerseys with scabby knees. There were posh girls in purple school uniforms with straw boaters standing two by two in a long line like Noah’s Ark animals, chivvied into place by four nuns like flapping penguins.

An announcement suddenly boomed out on the station’s loudspeaker. ‘Hello, everyone! Listen carefully!’

‘Oh my Lord,’ Mum murmured. ‘It’s like the Home Service on the wireless!’

The unseen speaker told us all to go and line up with our schools. Mothers were to say goodbye to their children and not try to go on the platforms.

‘Stuff that for a game of soldiers,’ said Mum, taking hold of my hand. ‘I’m putting you on the train myself and making sure you get a good seat next to someone decent.’

‘Which train will it be, Mum?’ I asked, because there were big steam engines at each platform.

‘See all those bossy-looking women in green uniforms holding lists? They’ll know,’ said Mum.

‘Are they in the army like Dad?’

‘No, you soppy date, they’re Women’s Voluntary Services, and they all think the world of themselves.’ Mum elbowed her way through the great crowd, using my heavy case rather like a battering ram. I scuttled along in her wake.

‘Excuse me – could you tell me where the Paradise Road schoolchildren are lining up?’ she asked the nearest Green Uniform.

‘Yes, Mother, over on platform eight,’ the woman replied.

‘Mother!’ Mum hissed to me as we made for the right platform. ‘I’m not her bally mother! Who do they think they are?’

We found platform eight, and I recognized a few of the children in the long straggling line. Oh no – there was Marilyn Henderson, tossing her ringlets and showing off. She was wearing a new yellow dress and a fluffy white bolero made of angora rabbit fur. I’d always ached to have a bolero like that.

‘Are these Paradise Road children?’ Mum asked me.

‘I think so,’ I muttered.

‘Good Lord, what a rowdy bunch! Are you sure?’

‘That’s Marilyn Henderson over there,’ I said. ‘You know, I told you – the girl who pushed me over.’

‘The one in yellow? Well, she looks a right little madam. Pretty hair though,’ said Mum.

‘I don’t want to sit next to her!’ I said.

‘You’re not going to, don’t worry.’

There was another woman in green uniform standing at the entrance to platform eight, holding a clipboard with a great long list.

‘This is Shirley Louise Smith,’ Mum told her.

‘Paradise Road?’ said the woman, barely looking up. ‘Yes, here we are. You’ll be sitting in one of the carriages towards the end of the train, Shirley. I’m afraid you’re all going to be packed like sardines. We’re putting the St Agatha’s Convent girls up at the front.’ She glanced at the orderly parade of purple uniforms marching two by two to platform eight.

Mum looked at them too. Then she peered at the Paradise Road pupils. The children were haring about in all directions, some of the boys bashing each other with their suitcases. ‘Can’t my Shirley sit up at the front with the convent girls?’ she asked.

‘No, not if she’s Paradise Road,’ said the WVS woman, frowning. ‘Now, say goodbye to Mother, Shirley, and go and join the others.’ She looked at Mum. ‘Best not to prolong things. You’ll only upset her. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

She turned away to deal with two children who were crying because they couldn’t find the right platform.

‘Don’t worry!’ said Mum. ‘It’s blooming chaos here. I’m not going till I see you’re all right, pet.’

She only ever called me pet when she was really fond of me, like the time I came home from my old school with a gold star. I hung onto her.

‘Turn round so she can’t see,’ Mum said.

I did as I was told. Quick as a wink, she tore the bottom half off my label – the part that said Paradise Road Junior School.

‘There now! You can join up with the convent girls – they look like little ladies,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll come down the platform and make sure you get a good seat with them.’

‘Will it be a long journey? What if I feel sick?’ I asked. I’d nearly disgraced myself on the coach trip to the seaside.

‘You won’t feel sick on a train – though perhaps you shouldn’t risk reading just to be on the safe side.’ Mum approached the clipboard lady again. She had dispatched the weeping children elsewhere. She sighed when she saw that it was Mum and me again.

‘Haven’t you said your goodbyes yet?’ she asked, though the answer was obvious.

‘I know you’re not allowed to say where the kiddies are going, but could you give me some idea of the length of the journey, please?’

‘Oh Lordy – haven’t a clue,’ she said. ‘I’m not going with them. I have to wait for the next batch at eleven.’

‘But what about their dinner? Will they be served something to eat on the train?’ Mum persisted.

‘You’re not expecting silver service in the first-class carriage, are you? You should have packed her some sandwiches and a flask,’ said the WVS lady, and then turned away to deal with a bunch of children pretending to be trains, choo-choo-chooing up and down, barging into everyone.

‘I’m not having you going hungry,’ said Mum. ‘Wait there, Shirley. Sit on your suitcase. I’ll be back in two ticks.’

‘No! Mum! Don’t go!’ I said, but she’d already started running in the other direction.

I started staggering after her, hauling my case.

‘Hey, you. Shirley, is it? Wait there. You can’t go with your mummy – you’ll be getting on the train in a minute,’ said the lady. She took the case from me. ‘Good Lord, what have you got in here, bricks? It was supposed to be one light case with a change of clothing and a toothbrush. Now, sit on that case and be a good girl. How old are you?’

‘Ten.’

‘Well then, that’s much too old to be a crybaby,’ she said.

‘I’m not crying. I’ve got a smut in my eye,’ I muttered. I sat on the case and bent my head so that she couldn’t see my wet cheeks. ‘Mum! Oh, Mum, come back!’ I whispered.

I sat there in a torment while children shrieked and adults shouted and trains hissed all around me. Any minute now we’d be herded together and put on board and I wouldn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to Mum. At least I’d been able to hug Dad and tell him I loved him and beg him to keep safe. Afterwards he’d called me his little sweetheart and popped a chocolate toffee in my mouth, and although it was still desperately sad saying goodbye, at least we’d done it properly.

I wanted Timmy Ted badly but I didn’t dare get him out in case the other children saw and laughed at me for being a baby. And if bossy Clipboard Lady spotted all my books, I wouldn’t put it past her to chuck half of them in the nearest bin.

I waited with my chin on my chest so no one could see the tears dripping down my cheeks and then dribbling inside the neck of my jumper.

Then the train let out three toots and a whole team of ladies sprang into action. Some wore the Women’s Voluntary Services uniform. Some were vaguely familiar teachers from Paradise Road. I couldn’t see my own teacher, Miss Grimes, a little woman with untidy grey hair and a whispery voice. I didn’t really like her but I felt sorry for her because my classmates mucked around in her lessons.

‘Come along, boys and girls, look nippy!’ shouted the biggest, bustiest lady in green uniform. ‘Say a quick goodbye to any mothers still here and then walk nicely along the platform. No pushing, no shoving, and no glum faces. Tell you what – let’s have a little sing-song. Who knows “The Lambeth Walk”? Any time you’re Lambeth Way, any evening, any day, you’ll find us all, doing the Lambeth Walk – Oi!’ She sang it loudly, marching along, and when she did the ‘Oi’ at the end she stuck her thumb in the air.

The children started singing the song, linking arms and strutting along, some even forgetting to say goodbye to their mothers as they headed down the platform. A couple of St Agatha’s girls linked arms and started singing too, but the nuns frowned at them and pulled them apart, clearly thinking it too vulgar a song for convent girls.

‘Come on, little girl on the big suitcase. Up you get!’ someone shouted at me.

I sat where I was, going Mum, Mum, Mum inside my head.

‘Shirley!’

My head jerked up. There she was, running wildly towards me, turning her ankles in her wedge shoes, a paper bag in one hand and a bottle in the other.

‘Oh my Lord!’ she gasped. ‘The cafeteria was jam-packed. I had to barge to the front of the queue and I was practically lynched! But I wasn’t having you going off hungry. Look, I’ve got you dandelion and burdock cordial. It’s full of vitamins and ever so expensive, but I didn’t want you drinking that fizzy pop – it’s bad for you. The only sandwiches they had left were corned beef and I know you’re not over-fond of it, but at least they’ll fill a hole. I got you a Mars bar too, as a special treat, but mind you wipe round your mouth afterwards – you’re ever such a mucky pup with chocolate.’

She went on gabbling instructions as we lumbered onto the platform, Mum helping haul the case.

‘Come on, madam, get the kiddie on board – we’re off in a tick,’ said a guard standing in one of the doorways.

‘Where are those convent girls?’ Mum gasped. ‘You’re not sitting with that rabble.’

She pulled me onwards, right up towards the front of the train, and spotted a sea of purple through the window. ‘Here! Come on, Shirley, heave-ho,’ she said, pushing me and the suitcase up the steps.

There was a nun in the corridor guarding her girls. ‘Your little girl can’t sit here with us. This is specially reserved. There isn’t a seat to spare anyway,’ she said. She was obviously a lady, but she had a very neat moustache above her upper lip. I wondered if she actually shaved it into that shape.

‘I’m sure there’s plenty of room if your girls all budge up a bit,’ said Mum, pushing me right into the compartment. ‘Yes, just as I thought. And my Shirley’s only a tiddler. She’s been brought up nicely – quite the little lady. You girls with the plaits! She can sit with you, can’t she?’

I got shoved between them before they could object. I clutched my bottle and paper bag dolefully while Mum tried to heave the suitcase onto the luggage rack. It defeated her.

‘It’ll have to stay on the floor,’ she said. ‘Right, come here, Shirley.’

She clasped me to her and whispered in my ear, ‘Be a good girl now and don’t take any notice of Charlie Chaplin with the moustache.’

We both giggled hysterically and then gasped when the train gave a little jerk.

‘Oh Lordy, I’ll have to make a dash for it!’ said Mum, and ran out of the carriage without even kissing me goodbye.

I stared after her, thinking I should make a dash for it myself. I seized the suitcase, but it was so heavy I couldn’t edge it past all the girls’ knees.

‘Watch out – you’ve just bashed me with that blessed suitcase!’ one of them protested.

‘Sorry, I just – I need to go!’ I said frantically, but I was stuck. The train gathered speed.

I decided to abandon the suitcase, and Timmy Ted and all my precious books. I barged past them all and flew to the door in the passageway, but the train was already going too fast. I undid the leather strap, clawed at the window, got it open and leaned out.

I saw Mum far away down the platform, and I waved wildly at her. She waved back and blew me kisses while I yelled, ‘Love you, Mum!’

Then someone hoicked me away from the window, shut it fast and strapped it in place again. ‘There now! Don’t want you falling out, you silly billy!’ She was another Women’s Voluntary Services lady, but she was younger than the others, with short curly hair and a smiley face. ‘Hey there. I’m Miss Haverford, but you can call me Annie. What’s your name?’

‘I’m Miss Smith, but you can call me Shirley,’ I said. I was simply copying her to be polite but it made her chuckle.

‘Thanks, Shirley. Now where have you sprung from?’

I jerked my head at the carriage of convent girls.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘How come you’re not in that purple get-up then?’

‘My mum said I had to wear my best jumper and my pleated skirt,’ I said truthfully.

‘And very nice they look too. Well, better go back to your seat, there’s a good girl,’ she said.

I didn’t have a seat. The two girls with plaits were sitting together again. Someone had put my sandwich in the corner. The bottle had rolled under the seat. I had to bend right down and burrow for it while the girls giggled. I hoped my knickers weren’t showing. They were an embarrassing shade of pink with a lace frill, not plain white like proper knickers. I knew I was blushing when I stood up again.

The nun in the corner sighed at me. ‘Here, you’d better come and sit with me,’ she said.

I did my best to squash into the meagre space between her and a girl with gold-rimmed glasses and black hair in a long ponytail. She didn’t say anything but she gave me a little smile.

She seemed to be the only friendly person in the carriage. The other girls all talked in swanky voices, laughing and joshing each other and making silly jokes. None of them seemed to have proper names. They were all Goofy and Munchkin and Snubby and Pinky.

I thought they were ridiculous, and wished Mum hadn’t shoved me in with them. They clearly didn’t think much of me, either, surreptitiously pulling faces at me when the nun wasn’t looking. Then they started kicking my case, Dad’s special shiny sample case. First the two girls with plaits kicked. One was Goofy, though her teeth didn’t stick out particularly, and the other, smaller one was Munchkin. Then they all started joining in, except for the girl in glasses next to me. They weren’t kicking hard, but their posh Start-rite sandals were making dusty marks on the leather. I couldn’t bear it.

‘Stop it! That’s my dad’s suitcase!’ I said sharply.

They all giggled. Goofy kicked it again.

‘Stop it! That’s my dad’s suitcase!’ Munchkin said, in a funny common accent.

I realized she was mimicking me. She thought I was common. The children at my school mocked me because they thought I talked posh. I couldn’t win. But I could stop them kicking the suitcase. I watched the nun, and when she started delving in her own suitcase for something, my foot shot out and I kicked the Munchkin girl sharply on the ankle.

‘Ow! You beast! Sister Josephine, that girl just kicked me!’ she screamed.

The nun frowned.

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to! It’s just so crowded in here. I was trying to get up because I need the toilet and my foot just went the wrong way,’ I gabbled.

Charlie Chaplin was famous for his cane and this nun could have one tucked up her long black sleeves for all I knew.

The girls were giggling again, even the Munchkin one I’d kicked. ‘She needs the toilet!’ she gasped.

‘Oh, little Totty Toilet!’ said Goofy, and they all shrieked again.

‘Girls! Stop this vulgar nonsense!’ said Charlie Chaplin.

‘She’s the one that said it, Sister Josephine,’ said Munchkin.

‘That will be enough, Monica,’ she said firmly. She looked at me. ‘You’d better go and find the double-you-see then.’ She whispered the weird word as if it was very bad.

Double-you-see? I’d never heard the toilet called that before, but it was clearly what she meant. I didn’t really need to go, I’d just made the first excuse that came into my head, but I was committed now. I stood up and squeezed past my suitcase. Monica gave me a vicious poke as I went, but Sister Charlie Chaplin was watching.

‘Monica, I saw that! How dare you be so unkind! What would Jesus say?’ she snapped.

I didn’t know what Jesus would say, but I said Hurray! The short-haired smiley woman was still guarding the door in the corridor, having a cigarette.

‘Hello, Shirley. I hope you haven’t come to fling yourself out of the window again,’ she said cheerily, and then took a long drag.

‘Is that a Craven A?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s a Player’s. I like my gaspers full strength,’ she said.

‘My mum smokes Craven As,’ I said.

‘Then your mum’s a lady.’

I beamed at her. ‘Please, Miss – er, Annie, do you know where the – the double-something is?’

‘Double what?’

‘I forget what she called it, that nun lady in there. I want the toilet.’

‘Oh! I think she might have called it the W dot C dot. W.C. Short for water closet. Very refined people, nuns. The toilets are at either end of the train, but the one at the front is already out of order. Some kid’s been sick in it. You’ll have to shove your way right to the back. They’ve packed so many kids on this blooming train that some of them are sitting on their suitcases in the corridor. Mind how you go.’

It was a long and precarious trek down the train. There were children spilling out into the corridor. The younger kids from Paradise Road were singing ‘Ten Green Bottles’, holding up their hands and counting it out on their fingers. They looked as if they were having far more fun than the St Agatha’s lot.

There were some older boys larking about further up, riding their cases, pretending to be cowboys.

‘Hey, there’s an old moo-cow – let’s lasso her!’ Kevin shouted. He was in my class, a gangly boy with jug ears, always in trouble.

I glared at him. He whirled his school tie at me. I dodged and the end of his tie flicked me hard.

‘Oh, my eye! My eye!’ I said, holding my head. It hadn’t hurt my eye, it had caught my eyebrow, but it sounded more dramatic.

‘Oh, Kev, what you done?’

‘You’ve only gone and blinded her!’

‘I didn’t do nothing, I was just being Roy Rogers!’

I left them accusing and protesting and pushed my way onwards until I got to a queue of children waiting for the toilet. It wasn’t a happy queue. One little boy had already wet himself – the front of his trousers was soaking. Even his socks were soggy. His big sister was giving him a telling-off, fussing like an old biddy though she was only about six herself. Another girl had been sick and it had dribbled down her blouse. She was plucking at it anxiously, her face screwed up. She was in my class too, a girl called Mary.

When I stood behind her she started to wail. ‘I don’t know what to doooo,’ she said. ‘That lady back there said I should go to the toilet, but how will that help? It’s all down my best blouse and Mum will wallop me.’

‘Your mum’s not here though, is she? So she can’t wallop you,’ I said. My voice wobbled as I took in the fact that my mum wasn’t here, either.

The train jerked and I very nearly fell against the poor girl. I backed away hurriedly because she smelled.

‘You can take your blouse off in the toilet and dab the stained bits with water. It won’t matter if it’s a bit damp after – at least it will be clean,’ I said.

‘Dab it with water? What, from the toilet?’ she asked, horrified.

‘No, you banana. There’ll be a basin, won’t there? And soap so we can wash our hands. So you can wash your blouse. Here, I’ll come in with you and help you if you like,’ I said.

It made me feel a bit better, looking after her. I’d always quite liked Mary, though she was in Marilyn Henderson’s gang. I went into the cubicle with her and got her blouse off and rinsed it under the tap. There wasn’t any soap but I made a reasonable job cleaning it. It still smelled faintly, but she’d just have to put up with that.

We took turns using the toilet, turning our backs on each other politely, and then washed our hands and shook them dry, spraying each other and giggling. She was much nicer than those stuck-up convent girls. I wished I was sitting with her. Maybe we could make friends, and Marilyn Henderson would just have to lump it. I could lend her some of my books, even Ballet Shoes.

We walked back down the corridor together. I remembered to clutch my head and whimper when we passed the cowboys.

‘I’m telling,’ I said, just to torture them. I wasn’t that fussed about being flicked in the face, but I hated Kevin calling me an old moo-cow.

I was about to explain all this to Mary, but she suddenly darted back into her own carriage. Marilyn Henderson greeted her warmly and sat her down and shared a drink with her. Mary didn’t even turn her head to say goodbye or thank me.

I trailed back to the carriage with Charlie Chaplin and the purple pupils.

I SAT SQUASHED up beside Sister Josephine while the train hurtled forward, carrying me miles and miles and miles away from my mum. I did my best to avoid catching any of the girls’ eyes. I looked upwards instead. There was a large luggage rack stacked with all their suitcases. They were plain grey, all neatly bound with purple belts. I wondered how they could tell whose was whose. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Their clothes were all identical.

Underneath the luggage rack there was a picture. It showed apple-green hills and a pale grey sky and a strange white horse. It seemed to be lying down but its legs weren’t tucked up. It was very big, a giant horse, even bigger than the great Shire brewery horses that pulled their wagons around to all the public houses at home.

After reading Black Beauty I hadn’t been able to bear looking at horses pulling carts. I tried to imagine Black Beauty now, no longer working, galloping happily up and down that hill, saying hello to the giant horse. I made the softest little whinny, but it went wrong and I found myself snorting.

‘Blow your nose, child,’ Charlie Chaplin commanded.

I dug in my skirt pocket and found a crumpled hankie. I also found an old Merry Maid toffee and seized it joyously. I unwrapped it under cover of my hankie and stuck it in my mouth, but it was a bit of a disappointment. It was covered in grit and fluff and I had to swallow it down quick.