She continues to scream. She is picked up and shaken roughly. Then, suddenly, other arms go round her, holding her gently, rocking her and a soft voice begins to sing:

‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green.

When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen …’

She goes quiet. The arms that hold her are thin, the shoulder against which she lays her head is bony; not like her mother’s, but she feels safe here. She looks up into a narrow, pale face and a lock of hair falls across her cheek. Her mother’s hair was golden. This is more like the colour of polished wood. Voices go on over her head.

‘I shall call her Angel. Don’t you think she looks like a little angel?’

That is not her name. Her name is Amy. She tries to tell them, but it comes out as ‘May-me’.

‘She’s trying to say my name! It’s May. Say May.’

‘May-me! May-me!’

‘There’s a clever girl!’

Days pass. Sometimes the girl called May is there, sometimes she is not. She is always gentle. She helps her to eat, changes her, plays with her. But when she is not there the woman with the hard hands takes over. She does not like that. She screams in protest. The nights are worst. Alone in the dark, listening to the cries of other children nearby, she clutches her rag doll and cannot help crying; and then she is picked up and shaken and dumped down again.

One night is different. May takes her with her, up some stairs, into a room where other faces peer down at her. There is a lot of chatter. ‘What have you got there, May? Who is she? Do they know in the nursery you’ve got her? Why have you brought her up here?’ Then she is laid in a bed and May lies beside her and cuddles her close. She shuts her eyes and sleeps.

She wakes to shouts of alarm and a strange, frightening smell. Someone shouts ‘Fire!’ She is grabbed out of the bed and thrust into unfamiliar arms. There is noise and confusion. She cries for May, but May does not come. Then she is back in the nursery.

More days pass, but still May does not come. One day, a new face peers down at her. This one is framed in dark hair. The eyes are bright, but not gentle like May’s.

‘This one! I want this one.’

‘Are you sure, ma’am? She’s over a year old. I thought you were looking for a baby.’

‘I don’t care about her age. Just look at that golden hair and those blue eyes. She will be a beauty when she grows up. What is her name?’

‘Angela, ma’am. She was baptised Angela.’

‘Angela? That’s rather a common name. Perhaps Angelina would be more suitable. Yes, Angelina will do very well. I’ll take her.’