It was dark when we finally arrived, which wasn’t a bad thing. I was tired of seeing cows. And fields. And trees. And little country stations hung with bunting and WRVS ladies rushing forwards to welcome the train, which had been exciting at first but after a while just made the journey seem longer. One by one, the carriages had emptied out and now, at last, it was our turn.
‘Budmouth Point,’ announced the guard. ‘Train calling at Budmouth Point.’
Everyone was on their feet before the train had even stopped. In a scramble of suitcases, our entire carriage made for the doors. Mr Barrowman, shouting over our heads, told people to stop pushing.
‘One at a time!’ he hollered. ‘Remember your manners. This isn’t the Harrods sale!’
No one was listening. We were too eager to see what Budmouth Point was like, so in the end the guards simply opened the train doors and we tumbled out on to the platform.
There was no bunting, no WRVS women to greet us. It felt oddly quiet after the noise of the train, and for a moment, everyone seemed a bit stunned.
‘You all right?’ I asked Cliff, dumping his suitcase in front of him.
He nodded. ‘Smells different here, doesn’t it?’
He was right: the air smelled wet, salty. With a shiver of delight, I thought of the sea. Tomorrow we’d go to the beach, see the lighthouse, find seashells like the ones Dad used to bring us. In fact, I was beginning to feel quite hopeful, when two ladies in wellington boots appeared from the direction of the ticket office. They were having an argument.
‘With all due respect, Mrs Henderson—’
‘Are you telling me how to do my job, Miss Carter?’
‘Of course not, but if she’s a Kindertransport child …’
As Mr Barrowman cleared his throat, they broke apart with a startled ‘Oh!’
‘You must be our evacuees!’ cried the shorter and rounder of the two women, as if we’d dropped from the sky. She looked like someone from a murder mystery story, the type who wore tweeds and drank sherry.
‘Indeed, I suppose we must,’ Mr Barrowman replied. He did sarcasm as well as any teacher.
‘Then welcome to Budmouth Point!’ She threw open her arms rather theatrically. A titter went through the group, which Mr Barrowman quickly shushed.
‘I’m Mrs Henderson. I’ve lived here all my life. And this –’ she indicated the other woman sniffily – ‘is Miss Carter, who’s been here not quite a week.’
Miss Carter was a lot younger than Mrs Henderson. She had blonde hair cut to her jaw, and looked thoroughly fed up. ‘All I suggested was—’
Ignoring her, Mrs Henderson said, ‘Allow us to escort you to the village hall where you’ll be introduced to your host families.’
She made it sound just round the corner. In reality, it was a good half an hour’s walk down a dark country road with only her and Miss Carter’s torches to guide us. Away from the shelter of the station, I felt the full force of the wind, so strong you had to lean into it as you walked. One of the older boys started telling a ghost story called ‘The Hairy Hands’, and I could feel Cliff next to me, hanging on his every word. Worried he’d have bad dreams, I tried to walk faster so we’d be out of earshot. But up ahead was Esther Jenkins – a different type of nightmare – and I thought it best to keep out of her way.
By the time we reached the village, I’d blisters on my palms from my suitcase handle. Perhaps Mum had been right about those extra books, after all. I was ravenous too, and wondered what Queenie might’ve made for our supper. It was hard to see anything of Budmouth Point itself. The dark felt even thicker than the blackout in London, though I could just about make out the outline of houses on either side of the road.
‘Crikey, it’s so quiet here,’ one of the girls observed.
‘Budmouth Point? Budmouth Dump, more like,’ Esther Jenkins muttered.
A few of the boys pretended to laugh. Cliff squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back just to let him know I was there.
Then I saw light. Not from Mrs Henderson’s torch; this was something bigger, out beyond the houses. It wasn’t constant like the searchlights over London, but every few moments sent out a beam so strong that in it I glimpsed the grey water and white-topped waves of what had to be the sea. My heart gave a little skip.
‘That’s the lighthouse,’ said Miss Carter, who appeared beside me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? A beacon to guide the lost to safety.’
It was beautiful. I’d never seen a real working lighthouse before. The way its light reached far out into the darkness was mesmerising to watch.
Miss Carter sighed. ‘There’s talk of turning it off now, though. It’s a threat to national security, apparently, because the enemy’s been using landmarks like this to navigate their planes.’
‘When they come over to bomb us, you mean?’ I’d heard something similar back in London, about German pilots following the Thames to find their targets.
‘Exactly that.’
This war, I thought bleakly. This horrid, horrid war. Even down here in the wilds of Devon we couldn’t escape it.
*
Inside the village hall was a table laid for tea. It was a decent-looking spread – thick white bread with proper butter underneath the jam, and slices of dark crumbly fruit cake. But Mr Barrowman shooed us away from the table.
‘We’re not here to eat the locals out of house and home,’ he said sternly.
‘Can’t we have some?’ whispered Cliff, who I knew would be starving.
‘No one else has, so we’d best not,’ I answered. ‘We don’t want Queenie to think we’ve got worms.’ At least people weren’t lying when they said you got better food in the country. This lot looked wholesome and fresh, and gave me high hopes for what we’d eat tonight at Queenie’s.
Behind the table stood a group of women, who I guessed were locals. Even the younger ones were still dressed in the long skirts and bell hats Londoners had worn in the other war, the one that ended twenty-two years ago.
‘Which is Queenie?’ Cliff asked.
I didn’t know; I’d never seen a photo. In my head I pictured her as tall, like Gloria, with a warm, smiley face. Being Sukie’s penpal, she was bound to be the fun-loving, lipstick-wearing, jitterbugging type, who’d be friendly and welcoming towards us.
It was bewildering that no one in the group fitted her description. These women didn’t even smile. They were pointing at us evacuees – discussing us – like they were choosing what cake to have for tea.
‘I’m looking for help with milking my Jerseys,’ said a woman with large front teeth. ‘Someone who’s not shy of getting up at dawn.’
The older kids seemed to think this a right lark, especially the boys, most of whom had probably never been near a live cow before. Within moments, they were falling over themselves to volunteer.
‘Don’t take all the best ones, Poll,’ another woman complained, which started them off bickering over who’d get the strongest boys.
It wasn’t exactly fun, hovering like a spare part while everyone else got picked. There was no sign of anyone who might be Queenie, either. I grew anxious again, wondering how much longer we’d have to wait. Cliff leaned his head sleepily on my shoulder.
‘D’you think she’s forgotten us?’ he yawned.
‘Course not, you daftie.’ I tried to stay cheerful for both our sakes. ‘She’s probably just adding the finishing touches to our supper.’
‘What d’you reckon she’s made us?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Steak pie probably, with bread and butter pudding for afters.’
‘And custard?’
I nodded. ‘A whole jug full,’ which made Cliff’s stomach rumble so loud I actually heard it.
Yet as the hall began to empty and Queenie still didn’t appear, I wondered if there’d been some sort of mix-up. Or perhaps she’d changed her mind about having us, being too upset about Sukie’s disappearance, and we’d be put on the next London train home. I wished someone would tell us what was going on.
What unsettled me more was the sound of crying coming from the back of the hall, though I couldn’t see who was making it: Mrs Henderson, Miss Carter and one of the local women blocked the view.
‘You mustn’t think like that,’ Mrs Henderson was saying. ‘None of this is your fault.’
‘If anyone’s to blame it’s Hitler,’ Miss Carter added.
‘Every time I get settled, I have to move again.’ The voice was a girl’s, wobbly with tears. ‘I liked it at the Jenkinses’ house. It was … all right, you know?’
‘Once the bombing stops you can go back to the Jenkinses again, can’t you, eh?’ said Mrs Henderson.
‘But even that’s not my real home, is it?’ the girl sobbed.
‘I know, lovey, I know,’ soothed Mrs Henderson.
I still couldn’t see the person crying, but with a start I recognised her voice. The strange, gruff twang was a giveaway, as was the name ‘Jenkins’.
‘Crikey,’ I muttered under my breath. If someone as tough as Esther Jenkins could cry, there wasn’t much hope for anyone else.
But for us and the little group surrounding Esther, the hall was now completely empty. I felt miserable. We might as well have stuffed ourselves with the bread and jam: no one would’ve noticed. I was about to take some for Cliff and myself, when Mrs Henderson looked round.
‘Oh, you poor mites!’ she gasped in surprise. ‘You’re still here!’
‘Yes, we are,’ I said dismally. I waited for her to say something, to tell us what to do, but she simply looked at her watch and frowned.
‘So is Queenie coming for us?’ I asked.
She let out a big bellow of a sigh. ‘That’s the plan, though goodness knows where she is. I can’t wait here for ever; I’ve got my goats to milk.’
Cliff and me glanced at each other: why would anyone milk a goat?
‘I specifically told her to be here at six,’ Mrs Henderson continued. ‘This isn’t good. It isn’t good at all.’
‘Perhaps she got the day wrong,’ I offered, though it sounded pretty feeble.
Mrs Henderson shook her head. ‘It’s those clocks of hers – very romantic but terribly impractical.’
I didn’t know what Mrs Henderson meant, but I was starting to realise my days of counting on grown-ups and big sisters were over. I was going to have to take charge myself.
I turned to Cliff. ‘Buck up, let’s grab our things, shall we? If Queenie won’t come to us, we’ll go to her.’
Which was all very well except we didn’t know where the post office was.