An Orphan in the Snow. Molly Green

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       Chapter One

       Liverpool, December 1941

      The train to Liverpool was nine hours late pulling out of Euston Station. When it finally departed, at five minutes to ten at night, it was to a cacophony of clanking and shouting, belching steam, and conductors constantly blowing their whistles. June stuck her head out of the nearest grimy window to catch the last glimpse of her aunt running along the platform. She kept up for a few seconds, her handkerchief a small white flag, but as the train gathered speed she fell back and her outline faded into the mist. Dearest Aunt Ada. June was going to miss her.

      June drew back her head and took in a deep breath. She’d done it. Even though the train had been delayed for such an interminable time, causing her to spend hours sitting on the stone floor of Euston Station because there were no available seats, June could not suppress her joy. She’d been pressed up like a bookend against one of a small group of WAAFs who chatted nonstop whilst she waited, though thankfully a soldier had given up his seat for her aunt. And now she was on her way up north. Against all odds.

      She only hoped that Liverpool was far enough away from London that her father wouldn’t come after her. She’d been brave enough not to give him the address; she hadn’t even told him the village. ‘Somewhere near Liverpool,’ she’d said vaguely. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m there.’

      Her heart beat a little faster as her father’s words rang in her ears: ‘All of you have left me now. First Stella, then Clara …’ He’d bowed his head as he uttered Clara’s name and for a second or two she thought there might be some sign of remorse reflected in his eyes. ‘Then your mother,’ he’d carried on, ‘and now you.’ He’d looked up slyly and she saw then that his eyes were as cold and grey as concrete.

      Clara. June bit her lip. No, she mustn’t think of her sister for the moment. She had to concentrate on what lay ahead. Think about her new job at Dr Barnardo’s. But first she needed to find her compartment.

      She struggled to manoeuvre her suitcase through a line of soldiers standing in the corridor, most of them puffing on cigarettes, and caught snatches of their talk as she tried to squeeze past.

      ‘Where are you stationed?’

      ‘The Isle of Tiree.’

      ‘Oh, bad luck, old chap. That’s the Met station, isn’t it? Pretty desolate, I’m told.’

      ‘Not the best posting but at least I probably won’t get shot at. I’ve got a couple of days’ leave before I go so I’m nipping in to see the parents – they’re near Liverpool and—’

      ‘Excuse me,’ June said, now completely blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered man in an RAF greatcoat – an officer by the two bars on his shoulders – who appeared to be deep in conversation, his back to her.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. He turned round and even though the peak of his cap partly shaded his face, June found herself looking into eyes the colour of a summer sky. An appreciative smile spread across his even features. ‘I’ll be glad to help with that case.’

      ‘No, I’m all right, thank you. I just need to get by,’ June said, a little unnerved by his directness.

      ‘Are you sure? That case looks heavy to me,’ he said, briefly glancing down, then catching her eye again.

      ‘I’m absolutely sure.’

      The man held her gaze for a few more seconds, then shrugged and stepped aside, leaving a few extra inches of space. June nodded her thanks, conscious that she was forced to brush hard against him as she shouldered her way through.

      Out of the corner of her eye she caught a mocking smile. He was doing this deliberately! She was glad he couldn’t see her face grow pink.

      Drawing admiring glances and a few whistles, she pushed her way through the heaving mass of soldiers along the corridor, the smoke from their cigarettes catching in the back of her throat. She was thankful to finally spot her compartment. She slid open the door to find it was already occupied by four uniformed women, chattering away, and a harassed-looking mother, her arms around a sobbing child sitting on her lap, trying to soothe her. A second child, a boy, was tapping his mother’s arm, whining for something to drink.

      Instinctively June smiled at the mother, who sent back an apologetic look and mouthed that she was sorry.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ June said, heaving her case onto the rack. ‘I’m used to children. My sister’s got three boys who are little monkeys. I’ve been looking after them lately.’ She sat down beside the mother, who was trying to hush the little girl’s sobs. ‘They must be tired at this late hour. How old are they?’

      ‘Joe’s six and Millie’s five,’ the woman explained. ‘I’m Doreen, by the way.’

      ‘And I’m June.’ She opened her bag. ‘I have some boiled sweets in here somewhere. Perhaps I could give them one and tell them a story?’

      ‘Would you?’ Doreen’s face softened with relief.

      ‘If you’ve got a cardigan or a shawl or something, we can tuck it around Millie so she’s ready to go to sleep for a few hours. She’ll feel better in the morning.’

      The little girl stopped crying and looked at June with wide tear-filled eyes.

      ‘The nice lady has a sweet for you, love, and she’s going to read you a story.’

      It worked like magic.

      If only Stella’s boys had been that easy, June thought wryly, a twinge of apprehension rolling down her spine. Instead of Stella’s three boys, she’d be faced with ten times that many at the orphanage.

      It was early the following morning when June alighted at Kirkdale railway station. The muscles in her legs and shoulders were stiff from being in the same position for so long. Rubbing the back of her neck and ignoring her rumbling stomach for the time being she opened the piece of paper with the written instructions she’d had from the matron of the Dr Barnardo’s home – and her new home.

       Catch the no 6 bus outside Kirkdale station. Ask the driver to put you off at the Ferndale stop. Turn left and after about five hundred yards turn left again down a lane. Walk for a few minutes and you’ll come to a private drive on the left. It’s uphill. Follow it all the way and you’ll see a large red-brick house in front of you. That’s Bingham Hall.

      June was desperate for a cup of tea and something to eat before she could attempt one more minute of travelling or she was sure she’d faint. Maybe the station would have a café. She folded the piece of paper and tucked it in her coat pocket, then doubled back onto the platform.

      She looked at her watch. Not even six o’clock. Everywhere was quiet except for the last stragglers coming off the train she’d been on. They too looked bleary-eyed, as though they hadn’t slept much. She hadn’t either, squashed between the mother with her two children, the other four women, and a tall uniformed man СКАЧАТЬ