The orphanage in London was filled with other children who had lost their families in the war and had nowhere else to go. I shared a small room with three other boys. The youngest, Edgar Mayweather, was six. I was the oldest at eleven, and there were two brothers staying with us. Orville Hughes was nine, and his younger brother, Alistair, was seven.

The orphanage was in a run-down hotel on the outskirts of London; it had barely survived the bombings. Our days consisted of school and chores that were done under the threat of bodily punishment. We helped repair the old hotel, too. On the whole, things could have been a lot worse. We were fed, educated, and looked after. The hard work, at least for me, took my mind off what had happened and gave me a sense of purpose. Perhaps the only thing we didn’t have was love.

No matter how much they hid it, every kid in the orphanage was out of sorts. Growing up with tragedy changes a person, trains them to expect still more tragedy around every corner. It’s the mind’s way of protecting you; and it is a very powerful defense. At night, many children cried endlessly in the dark. Some hid under their beds. Many were spooked at every loud sound. I didn’t blame them. It was sort of like being in prison, in a way—and just like in a prison, none of us asked the other orphans questions about what they were in for. We’d seen enough of the war; no one wanted to talk about it.

We all handled it in our own way. Many of the kids fought. They’d fight you for a cross word or even the wrong look. They were mad about life and what had happened, and would take it out on anyone and anything. Though Orville was two years younger than me, he was bigger and as tough as a bucket of nails. I never saw him start a fight, but he ended more than his share. His fists and elbows saved me many broken bones and black eyes. He guarded his younger brother Alistair like the queen’s jewels. Me and Edgar too. Alistair was pretty tough himself, but less eager to fight; he was quiet, always had his nose in a book.

Turnover was high; kids were always being brought in or taken out. We knew some were moved to other orphanages as they opened. Most, however, were placed with families. I got another taste of what I’d seen during the evacuations: parents coming through, inspecting the kids, making their decisions—and then leaving the rest of us to wash up, comb our hair, and put on our best set of clothes for the next audition. Rejection eats at a person like a worm winding its way through an apple: sooner or later it reaches the core, and you become completely rotten.