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‘Do you know where our Bill is lodging, missis?'

‘You may as well call me Maudey like they all do, dear. Yes, he's over at Thompson's farm, not so far from here.'

‘Am I going to go and live there too?'

‘We'll have to wait and see.'

The back door into the scullery rattled open and Mr Hanbury appeared. He kept on his caramel coat but put his trilby hat on the table.

‘Is she up yet?'

‘She should be down soon. Shall I take your eggs and bacon through to the breakfast room, Mr Hanbury?'

‘And I'll take some of that porridge now, Maudey.'

He ate it standing up, added more jam as he went.

There was the sound of the door opening in a room nearby. Maudey and Mr Hanbury exchanged glances. He went through, shedding his coat.

Peter carried his dishes into the scullery. He began to help Maudey with the washing up and got an approving smile from her old face. They began to hear raised voices coming from the open door of the breakfast room.

‘Sweetest, how's it going to look if we're not doing our bit, the snobby Hanburys too good to take in an evacuee from the slums? And with the council elections coming up next month it'll mean an awful lot to me, Dilys, if you'd do this. And Maudey'll take care of him. You won't even know he's here.'

A muffled quiet, then Mr Hanbury breezed back into the kitchen.

‘Maudey, I'll take this one out with me today. I have to call by at the factory, and he can give me a hand with some boxes.' He picked up his hat and left by the back door. Peter looked at Maudey.

‘Aye well, looks like you'll be staying after all. Go on. He'll be waiting in the car.'

Peter couldn't believe his luck, a ride in the Austin two days running. This time he was allowed to sit up front. They sailed along and soon they were out into countryside that was nothing like the scraggy lands around Manchester airfield. Banks of tall, purple wildflowers lined the road each side, like crowds welcoming a pageant through town.

Derby had the same red-brick buildings as Manchester, but on a smaller scale. A gang of boys played a roaming game of football as they drove down a street walled in by high brick and set with rows of small windows.

The car made its stately way in through iron gates and parked under a glass awning. Mr Hanbury led the way into a vast hangar-like room with rows of iron pillars. The floor space was crowded with women seated round wooden benches piled with parts of shoes, the women working on various stages of finish. A huge clock hung overhead from the central rafter. Mr Hanbury paraded Peter past the benches.

‘Our evacuee from Manchester,' he boomed widely.

Everyone bobbed their heads as he passed, called out, ‘Morning, Mr Hanbury.'

Mr Hanbury left Peter in the care of a tableful of girls, instructing him to watch and learn; this was a fine trade for a boy to be in. He went up to an office with a half wall of glass windows overlooking the factory floor. Peter watched the girls' fingers pressing and gluing the leather shapes. There was a heady smell of cow gum, mixed in with perfume. The girls' jokes flew as fast as their fingers, teasing Peter about who he was walking out with, teaching him a couple of new ideas that made his ears go red. He was glad to be rescued.

As they left for the car the foreman came out and handed a box to Mr Hanbury. Mr Hanbury flipped back the lid and picked up a red
lady's shoe with a slim and elegant heel, ran his hand over the leather.

‘Your Alice is going to be the best shod at her parties, Mr Hanbury.'

‘Alice? Oh yes, Alice.'

Mr Hanbury drove a little way out of Derby, but in another direction. He parked the car across the road from a butcher's shop. Its front stood open to the street, a dim cave of meat. A fat pelmet of plucked chickens hung across the front of the shop, under a blue sign announcing ‘Anderson's High Class Butchers'.

‘I have to see someone on business for an hour or so, Peter. Here, buy yourself a comic or some sweets. And don't you wander off.'

Peter found himself on the pavement, a shilling in his hand. Mr Hanbury put the small shoebox under his arm. He hurried away into a side door next to the butcher's shop.

Peter bought a bag of penny sweets and sat on the kerb edge, turning the pages of the
Hotspur
carefully so that it would still look new when he took it to Bill.

A long time later Mr Hanbury reappeared, in a hurry. He pulled out into the road, pumping hard on the steering wheel. A sudden bang on the window and Mr Hanbury braked. A woman with wavy blonde hair had placed her palm on the glass, pressing so hard that the skin looked drained of blood. Mr Hanbury wound down the window. ‘Can I help you, miss?'

She glanced across at Peter. ‘That thing I told you about, Mr Hanbury, don't you forget next time. He needs it.'

‘I'll let the factory know.'

Peter watched her from the back window as the car pulled away. She looked fresh-faced and young. She wasn't so much older than Kitty. She waited on the pavement as they drove off, her cardigan pulled across her chest as if the day were cold.

As soon as they got back to the house a voice called out from the top of the garden.

‘Daddy!'

A grown-up girl was running down the steps. She launched herself at Mr Hanbury. He staggered and swung her round in a hug.

‘When did you get back?'

‘Hours ago. Where were you?'

‘Boring meetings.'

‘We're up in the garden having tea. Who's this?'

‘Our evacuee. Peter, say hello to Alice.'

She folded her arms and looked down at him with amusement. ‘Oh dear, poor you. Fancy having to risk being taken over by the Hanbury clan. We are horribly good at simply absorbing people. You'll never get away, I'm afraid.'

Peter didn't know what to say; he had lost the power of speech altogether. He stared at Alice Hanbury. She had fair hair in a roll round her brow like a crown. A tumble of curls down to her shoulders. A slight, pointed face. A frock made of shiny material that shimmered in the sunlight. Slender arms, folded, tapering white fingers grasping the elbows.

‘Pleased to meet you,' he managed. She shook his outstretched hand and laughed. He wished he were wearing a pair of long trousers, a white shirt with the collar spread out over a jacket.

She led the way up to the top lawn. ‘They're saying that it's a scandal, the evacuees from the cities are almost two years behind in growth compared to country children. How old did you say you were, Peter?'

‘Nearly eleven, miss.'

‘There. You see, Daddy? When this war's over we have to do something about the awful conditions in the slums. Things really can't go on this way.'

‘Yes, Alice,' said Mr Hanbury, sounding like a man used to taking orders from his daughter.

Beneath the rose trellis Mrs Hanbury was seated next to a table covered in a lace cloth. She poured a cup from a silver teapot with a black handle and handed it to Mr Hanbury. There were three young men, or boys perhaps, relaxing round the table in deckchairs. They wore jackets with white shirt collars spread wide. Hair oiled and neatly combed away from smooth, tanned foreheads.

‘So, here's all the gang,' said Mr Hanbury. ‘What time did you ruffians get back?'

‘Train got in an hour or so ago.'

‘I'd been back for ages by then,' said Alice, taking her tea from Mrs Hanbury. ‘Beat all of you, so there.'

‘She looks like a weak and feeble woman, Ralph, but she's deadly. Don't take her on at tennis,' said one of the young men.

‘Or an argument. She'll have your guts for garters in no time, now that Alice is at Oxford.'

‘I'll remember that.' Ralph had a pleasant, willing-to-fit-in sort of smile, squinting into the afternoon sun with a quizzical look. Dark hair, a squarer build than the other two boys.

‘It's utter tosh, you know. You're terrifying poor Peter,' Alice said crossly. ‘Peter, these are my awful brothers, Neville, Phillip and their school friend . . .'

‘Ralph.'

‘Peter is an evacuee, from Liverpool.'

‘I'm from Manchester, me, miss.'

‘Actually, I was an evacuee once, Peter,' Ralph said. ‘Had to leave Spain, all by myself a few years back, on a huge liner.' Peter immediately liked Ralph.

‘Where did you get sent to?'

‘Went to stay with my aunts in London, then Mama got me a place at Repton with these capital chaps.'

‘You were in Spain?' said Alice. ‘When the civil war broke out?
Oh, isn't it awful now that Franco's seized power? The awful things done in his name.'

‘Terrible things happened on both sides.'

‘But you can't sympathise with Franco, surely.'

‘I'm not saying I sympathise, but I am . . .'

‘. . . a little bit of a fascist?'

‘Really, Alice! Must you be so rude to a guest?' said Mrs Hanbury.

Alice gave a cross laugh. ‘Peter is also our guest and yet I notice he doesn't seem to have anywhere to sit, and nothing to drink.'

‘I've hardly had chance to ask him, dear.'

‘Here, old chap. Have my seat. I prefer the floor anyway.' Neville got up out of his deckchair. He spread his long length along the flagstones and rested his back against the wooden trellis pole. Peter wondered if Mrs Hanbury would be angry; sitting on the floor at home meant clothes becoming dirty from the ingrained residue of boots, perhaps a splinter in your behind from the floor planks.

Mrs Hanbury poured a cup of tea, holding back the little dog on her lap who was attempting to lick the stream of milk. She handed the cup to Peter. He carefully blew on the top for a while and then took several aerated sips. Mrs Hanbury looked away, gazing out across the open fields.

Peter followed her gaze. Beyond the garden fence a row of tall poplar trees were turning their leaves in the wind, rivers of sixpences flowing in the sun. The windy fields of Derbyshire faded into blue mist. Up here the air felt big and unimpeded. Peter took big lungfuls. If Ma could be here doing this kind of breathing, he felt sure this kind of air would make her better.

‘So what is it that your father does, Peter?' said Mrs Hanbury, kissing the side of the dog's head. The wind lazily ruffled the lace collar on her navy dress.

‘Lately, missis, he's started up in a scrap metal business. Before that he were usher at pictures, and before that he were ‘stop me and buy one' man. He had a bike with a cart of ice cream and he had to pedal it around town every day.'

‘How very interesting. How very nice to have so many choices of career.'

‘Mummy, honestly, those aren't choices of career. If you'd only read Orwell. Richard was telling me, and I agree with him, that the working classes—'

‘Oh, and how is Richard, dear? I wrote to his mother that she'd be very welcome to visit us, but I haven't had a reply yet.'

‘The Veseys are ever-so-ever, don't you know,' said Phillip, with a grin made even wider by a pair of large schoolboy ears.

‘Oh Mummy. Must he?'

‘Phillip, that is entirely unacceptable and not at all funny.'

‘Actually, Mummy, I've been invited to Amforth Hall by Richard's mother.'

Mrs Hanbury gave Alice all her attention.

‘So could I possibly go into town and get a few new things I might need?'

‘Of course, dear. You must. I saw the most marvellous material in Dempsey's. It would make such a nice dress, and I can get Maudey's niece to make it up for you if you pick out a pattern too.'

‘I might need gloves. Oh and Daddy, I so need some new shoes. Cream ones would be perfect.'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

Peter waited for Mr Hanbury to tell her about the beautiful red shoes, but he seemed to have forgotten.

Phillip pushed himself up from the deckchair and stretched his long limbs. ‘Anyone fancy a knockabout on the courts? We've enough for doubles.'

‘Why doesn't Peter come too? It will be such fun, Peter. We always need a ball boy.'

Peter picked his way down the unevenly sized steps in the wake of Alice and the boys. All of them were talking loudly and at the same time, but not so loudly that they could prevent Mrs Hanbury's voice from following them down.

‘What are you going to do about the state of that child's clothes, William? Is he going to come to church with us on Sunday, because really? And Maudey says he's brought nothing else with him, not even pyjamas.'

‘I thought you might do something about that, dear?' Mr Hanbury's voice irresistibly coaxing; a touch of firmness in closing the matter.

But Peter didn't mind what anyone said. His eyes tracked Alice's bright hair as she led the way between banks of pink geraniums and lilac-coloured daisies, her arms swinging lightly as she argued with the boys. His chest felt tight with a pain that was almost grief. Dazed and alarmed, he realised that from now on all his happiness rested on Alice Hanbury, how often he could catch sight of Alice Hanbury, how worthy he was to be in Alice's world.

Late that evening, after he had eaten a supper of boiled potatoes and lamb stew with Maudey in the kitchen, and then helped her wash up the dishes from the meal in the dining room, he was surprised to hear a burst of brave and thrilling music coming from the big room at the front of the house.

He crept through the hallway and listened, crept closer and watched through the half open door of the drawing room. He could see Mrs Hanbury playing a large, flat piano, her hands making sharp pounces on the keys. He recognised a cello being played by one of the boys. Standing next to the piano Alice was shuttling a bow across the strings of a violin, her hair pulled to one side away from the strings,
her slender shape tensing and swaying to the music, her face intent and almost angry.

He jumped. Behind him in the shadows of the hallway stood Mr Hanbury, tall in a double-breasted suit. A cloud of alcohol, not so much like the thick beer smell from Dad, but something finer; the word brandy came to mind. Mr Hanbury's handsome, matinee idol face had a high colour. He drew on a small cigar.