‘I had to push to get you in there,’ her father said. ‘School is not a party. School is for study.’

‘Why did you come to England?’ Deirdre said.

‘My father was a prisoner of war here,’ Betty said. ‘And volunteered to stay.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re short of workers. In the factory.’

‘Did he fight in the war?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What about your mother?’ Deirdre said. ‘Is she here?’

Mutti, Berlin, Lieselotte. That seemed so very far away, such a very long time ago.

‘My mother died,’ Betty said, holding down the choke in her voice. ‘At the end of the war.’

‘Mine too,’ Dee said. She kicked at an imaginary stone, scuffing the toe of her shoe. ‘What did she die of?’

‘We think it was pneumonia.’

‘Think?’

‘There was no doctor,’ Betty said. ‘We couldn’t get one.’ Dee stared at her feet, twisting them onto their sides.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘What did your mother die of?’

‘A tumour,’ Dee said. ‘About a year ago. Who looks after you?’

‘Mrs H cooks and cleans,’ Betty said. ‘My father leaves early and comes back late.’

‘From the factory?’ Dee said. ‘He must work two shifts then.’

Betty shrugged. She had no idea. ‘Who looks after you?’

‘My father. Me. My Auntie Bridey says I have an old head on young shoulders.’

Betty thought for a moment, translating its meaning. She smiled, a tight, cautious tweak. We have much in common.

‘You can call me Dee,’ Deirdre said. ‘If you like.’

Betty tried not to smile, but they were the kindest words anyone had spoken in all the months she’d been in England.

§

Dee brought a piece of tarpaulin and two faded cushions, frayed round the piping, threadbare in the corners. They borrowed Mrs H’s dustpan and brush and swept the floor as best they could, but the earth was dusty and damp where leaves had drifted in and settled. Betty held her breath as she swept them up, woodlice scuttling and an earthworm glistening. She couldn’t tell Dee she was scared of worms. They rearranged the gardening tools in a stash in the corner, the spade and fork, the rake and the lawnmower, stacked the flowerpots inside each other, rolled the hose into a tight coil. Dee laid out the tarpaulin, threw the cushions onto the ground.

Betty pushed the door wider and let in a long sliver of light. ‘Did people really shelter here in the war?’

Dee nodded. ‘My father said they were a wing and a prayer. He said it made the government feel good and was cheaper than building deep shelters.’ She paused. ‘Did you have them in Germany?’