‘Of course Shropshire’s not by the sea,’ Mrs Peacock scoffed. ‘Don’t you know the geography of your own country, young lady? It’s between England and Wales. A beautiful county.’

I looked down at my shoes.

Mrs Peacock studied her piece of paper again. ‘In fact, there’s a very nice elderly couple in Shropshire who would apparently be happy to consider a longer-term arrangement. They have asked for an orphan—’

‘We’re not orphans,’ said Mags, quick as an arrow.

There was a horrible pause. I felt my chest rising and falling quickly. I wanted to hide, but I just kept looking at my shoes.

‘No, dear,’ Mrs Baron said soothingly.

‘Our mother is not dead.’

‘Of course she isn’t.’ The eyes of the two women met fleetingly.

There was a feeling inside me that threatened to bubble up into words, but I swallowed it back down. It was a dangerous, treacherous feeling. I feel like an orphan, I wanted to say. I feel like there is no one here to protect me. For some reason, I thought about that day when I was scurrying across the cliffs with Mrs Rossi’s umbrella, convinced I was about to be struck by lightning. I felt just like that now – exposed, vulnerable. Anything could happen.

When Mrs Peacock spoke again, her tone was different – firmer, as if to put an end to Mags’s nonsense. ‘The evacuation programme has been a tremendous success thus far.’ She folded her arms across her bosom and tucked in her chins. ‘Many thousands of children have been happily and safely rehomed already.’ She whispered to Mrs Baron then, ‘Did you know the government refer to it as Operation Pied Piper – I think that’s charming, don’t you?’

Mrs Baron smiled politely and then tried to reason with us: ‘Now that we’ve had to withdraw our troops from France, the German invasion could happen any day, girls – any day!’ Her eyes shone with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. What was it? Alarm? ‘The government are trying to get as many youngsters away from the south-east coast as possible. It’s highly likely that this is where Hitler’s army will land—’

‘Operation Pied Piper?’ Mags interrupted. She was still staring at Mrs Peacock. ‘That’s what they’re calling the evacuation programme?’

I flinched, recognizing what Mutti called Mags’s ‘challenging’ voice.

‘And what of it?’ Mrs Peacock replied, her smile rather brittle now. ‘All the little children dancing merrily out of the town? It’s perfect!’