I had to find work. At my age it wasn’t going to be war work, but I had to pay rent and buy food. Sensible positions such as “sales girl in record shop” and “music teacher’s assistant” weren’t the answer because time and again people made it clear they didn’t want to hire someone with a tropical complexion, even a pale one—light brown, dark brown, it was all the same to the English. “The Caribbean sun makes people lazy,” explained one well-meaning person as she turned me away.

And Mummy had trained me so carefully to be polite that I thanked her as I left.

Afterward I sat on a bench by the Serpentine and cried.

But then I found Nancy Campbell’s notice in the newspaper. Her old aunt Jane needed someone to look after her. I had to ring a number in Scotland to ask about it. And that was perfect, because over the telephone I was able to get around the rules by invisibly using my most practical, useful skill—my polite English accent.

I was surprised at how quickly my plan worked. Nancy Campbell, whoever she was, seemed ready to snap me up straightaway.

“I want two references, and you must be tidy, and able to make travel arrangements by yourself,” she told me. “I’ll send rail fare if you’re willing.”

It seemed too good to be true.

“But haven’t you other people applying as well?” I asked.

“I’ll accept the first suitable candidate who wants the position. I’ve lost count how many lasses have rung me, then changed their minds—oh, twenty, at least. No one wants to be seen with Aunt Jane, and that’s the truth.”

“Is she West Indian?” I blurted, before I could stop myself.

“No,” said the Scotswoman. “She’s German.”

German!

“She’s suspected of being a risk to national security,” the woman on the phone continued grimly. “She has to be collected from an alien detainment camp on the Isle of Man.”

A risk to national security in an alien detainment camp!