Marge Larkin was feeding her hens when Sally and Ronnie arrived. Standing in the doorway of the coop with hen poo blobbed on her cardigan, she watched the children scamper after Farmer Arkwright as he approached her burly husband, Tom, who was smiling a welcome with a lamb tucked under each arm. The newcomers were about the same age as her youngest two but thinner and scruffier. Her experience at fostering gave her the confidence to believe that as much good healthy grub as they could manage during rationing combined with firm handling, lots of fresh air and regular prayers usually worked wonders. Obviously, she had read the children’s report and gathered that they were a handful, but Mrs Larkin had fostered many a ‘handful’ before. The first thing she did in every case was to wipe the slate clean and start afresh. If she started off prejudiced and judgemental, she’d get nowhere. The Pickles kids had had a hard time; they hadn’t seen or heard from their dad for months through no fault of their own and now their mother was sick and ailing. She would do her best; the rest she left to Nature and God.

Sister Theresa took her charges to their room, which they seemed to like; she for one was charmed by the old-fashioned oak-beamed room with a creaky, uneven, polished wooden floor. Sally and Ronnie seemed more interested in a box of toys and some comics they found on their bedside tables, little gifts of welcome that instantly helped them to relax. After Sister Theresa had helped the children unpack their sparse belongings, they all clattered downstairs to the big, untidy but homely kitchen that smelt of sheep and dogs. Mrs Larkin laid a whopping big teapot on the table and some hot toast with the thinnest scraping of their precious butter, which was shared out among six children in a flash. Seeing the newcomers looking awkward, Mrs Larkin turned to May, her eldest and only daughter. ‘Why don’t you take little Sally into the garden to feed the rabbits?’

Sally’s eyes grew round as saucers. ‘Real hoppy rabbits?’ she squeaked.

‘Aye,’ May laughed as she extended her hand to Sally. ‘Come on, we’ll change their bedding too.’

Enthralled, Sally followed the older girl, while the three boisterous boys roared out on to the fell, dragging Ronnie in their wake.

‘Do you think they’ll be all right?’ Theresa finally asked the question that had haunted her all morning.

Marge Larkin gave a confident nod.

‘They might be a challenge, and I do believe they’ll be all right, but if they’re not I’ll be the first to let you know.’

‘It’s Ronnie I’m most bothered about,’ Theresa blurted out. ‘He’s wild, to put it mildly.’