Martin threw the kitbag into the back and, resisting her offer to help, shakily slid into the passenger seat. He felt drained of energy and knew then that he shouldn’t have insisted upon discharging himself early from the hospital, for he was shivering and sweating profusely, his head still full of the noise and the images of the camp.

‘What can I do to help, Martin?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘Please don’t fuss.’ He dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills. Swallowing two instead of the prescribed one, he grimaced at the bitter taste and wished he had some water to wash it away.

Anne regarded him with deep concern, but made no comment as she turned the key in the ignition and drove away from the station.

Martin rested his head back and closed his eyes in despair. This was not the homecoming he’d envisioned over the last two years, for he hadn’t realised what an utter wreck he would be, of no use to anyone. How wise Anne had been to leave the girls at the farm.

As the train from London rattled its way towards Salisbury and her young siblings, Ivy was too tense to relax or even eat the fish paste sandwiches Andy’s mother had made for her this morning. Having never left London before she’d taken the plunge and gone to Cliffehaven in search of work, she was finding this journey a real test of her courage and strength after the dreadful two days she’d just been through.

She unfolded the piece of paper for the umpteenth time – although she knew the list by heart, she just needed to check it again. Andy, bless him, had spent ages last night carefully going through the train timetable and had written down the names of all the stations she would have to pass through. He’d even underlined the two where she’d have to change, and she’d managed to find the right platform on both occasions with the help of a friendly guard.

There was one more stop before she reached Salisbury, so she tucked the slip of paper into her jacket pocket and tried to concentrate on the difficult task ahead of her. Elsie had been three, and George had just turned five when they’d first been evacuated. The family they’d gone to then had been neglectful, feeding them nothing but beetroot sandwiches and making them sleep on mattresses in the attic, so when they’d returned to London during what became known as the phony war, Ivy’s mother had vowed to keep them with her.