The Nichols were late getting to the Hall where the fifty-two evacuees from Glasgow foisted on Stratharvar were gathered for selection and distribution. The hall was in chaos with kids tearing round more like squealing piglets running amok in an auction market than at a sorting office. The best ones had long been chosen: the ones with leather suitcases and clean clothes, faces without suspicious scabs and sores. Peg was given the last two, bed wetters by the looks of them: the eldest was Wilhelmina, a skinny malinky longlegs, with Malcolm Aloysius, her brother, welded to her sleeve.

Peg looked at their labels suspiciously. ‘Are these ones Papists? Am no having Papes in ma house.’

‘I’m sorry, Mistress Nichol, but these are all that’re left.’ The Billeting Officer was nearly hairless with the racket and complaints. ‘They’re a mixed bunch from the Cowcaddens end of Glasgow city and that’s not Kelvinside as you probably ken.

‘Still, the Reverend Mackay did warn us on Sunday in his sermon: “Duty is a two-edged sword, no satisfaction without the pain of sacrifice”. Is that no what he said?’

Peg sniffed, guessing that the big three of the village, Minister, Doctor and Headmaster, would have had first pickings of the teachers and their offspring, not these scruffy wee toerags. Netta had never seen so many strangers in Stratharvar, poking curious fingers into gardens and peering into windows, while pulling faces.

They loaded their reluctant cargo on to the pony and cart and headed back down the twisting lanes to the farm. It was a fine autumn afternoon, trees turning golden, wisps of white clouds in a blue sky, with the scent of woodsmoke from the stone cottages by the roadside. The evacuees stared out with glum faces.

‘Where’s the picture hoose and the shops, missus? It’s all cows and fields,’ said the girl, looking around her with dismay.

‘This is real countryside,’ Netta offered proudly. ‘We’ve got streams to jump over and trees to climb, dens to make and the sea just down the road. Only the beach’s all fastened up for the war, but I know a fine sandy cove to make sand castles.’

‘Is that all? We’ve got a zoo and a swing park and alleys to chase, and a dose of sweetie shops. I never saw nae proper shops here… And ma name’s Wilma, missus, what’s yourn?’ The girl turned to Netta with grey-flecked eyes fixed enviously on her thick coat and shiny shoes.

‘Jeanette, but it’s Netta at home and Nettie in the school.’

‘Like yon Jeanette Macdonald and Nelson Eddy? I seed them at the Essoldo picture house. Do you like the talkies?’

Netta shook her head with disdain. ‘Peg says they’re the devil’s flea pits, don’t you?’