I tried to keep calm. ‘Look, you can have the sock drawer, I don’t mind. Just give me back the note and we’ll call it quits.’

But Esther wasn’t stupid. She could see how much I wanted that piece of paper, and kept hold of it.

‘Sukie’s not a spy! What’re you talking about?’ Cliff glanced at me, bewildered.

‘Of course she’s not,’ I reassured him.

‘So why’s Olive gone red?’ Esther asked.

‘Have not!’ Though I could feel the heat in my cheeks all too well.

Esther was looking at me very intently now. ‘What is your sister up to?’

She sounded almost concerned. It threw me into total panic. As I made a grab for the note, she hid it behind her back. ‘Hey! It’s rude to snatch!’

Something snapped in me, then. I’d never pulled a person by the hair before. I didn’t know it made a ripping sound. A look of surprise flashed across Esther’s face.

‘You little cow!’ she yelped.

Then it was all fists and feet, and we both fell to the floor.

‘I never liked you from the start,’ Esther spat, her plaits dangling in my face.

‘Same goes for you, with bells on,’ I retorted.

She walloped my jaw so hard I felt it creak. I tried to roll sideways but couldn’t move for her weight.

‘Get off her! Let go!’ yelled Cliff. He was behind Esther now, tugging at her coat.

‘Keep back!’ I warned him.

It was too late. Esther’s elbow swung backwards. It hit Cliff in the face with a meaty thud. Immediately, there was blood on his top lip; within seconds it was dripping down his chin on to his jumper.

‘For crying out loud!’ I gasped.

As Esther twisted round to see what she’d done, I managed to wriggle free and grab Cliff. I steered him towards the bedroom door.

‘Find Queenie,’ I told him. ‘Keep your hand pressed to your lip.’

Esther stood up awkwardly. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have—’

‘Don’t you ever,’ I cut across her, so angry I shook, ‘EVER touch my brother again.’

*

There was a thin trail of blood all the way down the stairs. In the hallway, the open cellar door and the hum of voices indicated where Cliff had found Queenie.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Queenie was saying. ‘The bleeding’s almost stopped.’

Relieved, I paused on the bottom step, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. I’d never lost my temper like that before – I didn’t even know I had all that anger inside me. It was a bit frightening, to be honest.

‘Olive?’

I turned round. Esther was at the top of the stairs. ‘You’re not going to tell Queenie, are you? I didn’t mean to hit him.’

‘Just give me back the note,’ I demanded.

Esther folded her arms. ‘I haven’t got it.’

She was lying. The sound of Cliff crying distracted me, though. Leaving Esther on the stairs, I headed for the cellar.

‘That’s right,’ Esther called out. ‘Run to the grown-ups.’ And she said something else in another language: it didn’t sound very polite.

I was already halfway down the cellar steps when Queenie appeared at the bottom. Lit by an oil lamp, the place was shadowy and smelled of damp. I wondered why she spent so much time down here.

‘Is he all right?’ I asked anxiously, looking over her shoulder to where Cliff sat in a chair, his head tipped back to slow the bleeding.

Queenie wouldn’t let me pass. There was a smear of blood on her cheek, which made her look rather terrifying.

‘What on earth is going on – IN MY HOUSE?’ she thundered.

I flinched. For a little person, she had a very loud voice.

‘Well?’ Queenie asked. ‘Is someone going to tell me what this is all about?’

Cliff had stopped crying – the shock, probably. Behind me, I heard the door creak. Turning my head slightly I saw Esther – or rather, the scuffed toes of her shoes – on the cellar steps.

No one spoke. Not for a very long, loaded time.

‘Right.’ Queenie tutted impatiently. ‘Esther, go and wait in the kitchen. I’ll deal with you in a moment.’

‘Why me?’ Esther cried. ‘I didn’t start it.’

‘Just do as you’re told!’ Queenie roared.

I jumped. It had the desired effect on Esther too, who stormed back up the stairs, slamming the cellar door so hard the whole room seemed to shake.

‘Oh!’ Queenie breathed in sharply. She was staring at the far end of the cellar now, where a clock hung precariously on the wall. Like the one upstairs in the shop, it wasn’t working. Even more peculiar was the time it’d stopped – ten past two – was exactly the same. It couldn’t be a coincidence, surely.

‘Don’t move,’ Queenie ordered.

I didn’t, though the clock had other plans. As the plaster crumbled, the clock slid almost gracefully down the wall. When it hit the floor it made all sorts of tinkling noises. Bits from its insides were now on the outside – brass springs, a chain, a funny little screw. It was horrible, like a bird after a cat’s had it. I remembered what Mrs Henderson said last night about Queenie’s clocks: there was nothing faintly romantic about this one.

‘Wasn’t working anyway,’ Cliff muttered. I told him to shhh.

By now I’d noticed the rest of the room. Mostly it was just dusty shelves and boxes, with a bare brick floor that sloped down towards the middle. Stood over this was a huge, square table, which was covered in notes – handwritten, scribbled ones, done on little scraps of paper and weighed down by a huge grey pebble. There were also maps, a compass and an old brass pocket watch that did seem to be ticking.

Intrigued, I shuffled a bit closer to the table. Queenie must’ve seen me looking, for she straightened up from inspecting her clock and was suddenly in front of me, blocking my view.

‘Back upstairs, you two,’ she said briskly. ‘There are things down here not meant for children’s eyes.’

I didn’t move.

‘It was about Sukie,’ I said in a rush. ‘The argument with Esther, I mean. She was trying to make out that my sister was up to something … well … suspicious.’

I watched Queenie’s face for a sign. A clue. There was nothing.

‘Is she?’ I asked. ‘Is that why she disappeared? Is something going on? I’ve been trying to ask you for ages and you just won’t say.’

‘There’s nothing to say, Olive.’ Queenie sounded annoyed. ‘Even if there was I couldn’t tell you. There’s a war on, you know, and careless talk costs lives.’

‘But I thought …’

‘Then don’t think,’ she snapped. ‘Go upstairs and get your things, both of you.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

She interrupted: ‘It’s easier to move you two on than Esther, believe me.’

I stared at her in disbelief: was she throwing us out? ‘That’s not fair!’ I cried. ‘You took us in first. You promised Gloria you’d have us!’

Queenie sighed. ‘Sometimes sisters have to break their promises to each other. I’m sorry, but there we are.’

She looked at me like she expected me to understand, but I didn’t.

*

Half an hour later Queenie was marching us down the hill towards the harbour. I was still angry that we’d had to leave. Cliff’s lip wasn’t great, either; it’d swelled up and made him look like a duck. I was pretty certain Queenie knew more about Sukie than she was letting on, which made moving out even more rotten. We couldn’t honestly live happily under the same roof as Esther though, that was clear.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked grumpily. Carrying Cliff’s case as well as mine, I hoped it wasn’t far.

‘You’ll see.’ Arms hovering at our backs like a bossy mother hen, she steered us on down the street past knots of people. Eyes slid over us as we went by.

‘That’s the thanks you get from taking in strangers,’ someone muttered.

‘Aye,’ another voice agreed. ‘They don’t teach ’em manners in London, do they?’

‘Ignore them,’ I said to Cliff. With suitcases bumping painfully against my shins, I was trying very hard not to cry.

‘I still don’t see why it was us who had to go,’ Cliff moaned.

‘Mrs Henderson said no one else would take Esther in – I heard her say it,’ I informed him.

‘You shouldn’t be listening in on other people’s conversations, Olive,’ said Queenie.

‘But we’re Sukie’s brother and sister,’ I protested. ‘You’re supposed to be her friend!’

Queenie looked surprised. ‘Me? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You’ve written to …’ I trailed off hopelessly. There was no point in arguing any more. Queenie had made up her mind.

‘Well, I don’t trust Esther Jenkins,’ I muttered, as much to myself as anyone. ‘And I bet she’ll not be as quick doing the deliveries, either.’

Queenie gave me a withering look. ‘For your information, Esther’s moved house, city and country more times than you’ve had hot dinners. I don’t think she’d manage it again. At least you two have each other.’

Glancing at Cliff, all I felt was more worry, not less. I hadn’t got the hang of this ‘big sister’ lark – you only had to look at Cliff’s split lip to see my attempt at looking after him wasn’t exactly going well.

‘All Esther’s anger, all that bluster – it’s just a front,’ Queenie went on. ‘Behind it she’s a smashing girl. You need to give her a chance.’

‘She said horrible things about my sister!’ I insisted, though I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Because I’d started the fight, hadn’t I? I’d been the angry one – Esther had almost tried to apologise.

Queenie stopped. ‘You’ve heard of the Kindertransport, have you?’

‘Some Jewish kids joined our school from Europe,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see what—’

‘Esther was one of them,’ Queenie interrupted. ‘Not at your school but another one in London. She’s a Jewish refugee.’

‘Well, she as good as called Sukie a spy!’ I pointed out.

Queenie ignored my comment. ‘Esther’s had a terrible time of it. Everyone she loves has either died or disappeared, or, failing that, lives in another country. Imagine what that feels like, can you?’

I swallowed miserably. The thing was I could imagine it – bits of it, anyway – and I felt ashamed, which didn’t improve my temper.

‘That doesn’t excuse what she did to Cliff’s lip,’ I mumbled, though really I was cross with myself. After what I’d overheared about kosher meat, I should have realised she was a Kindertransport child. But I didn’t think, did I? Instead, I’d grabbed her by the hair.

What sort of person was I turning into to be so bitter? So angry?

Queenie set off walking again. ‘That lip’ll heal in no time. Now hurry up and stop dawdling.’

Glancing sideways at Cliff, I felt a funny sensation in my chest. His lip looked horrid now but he would recover – Queenie was right. At least he was here, my living, breathing, sticky-handed brother. I was pretty lucky, all things considered.

By now we’d almost reached the sea. To our left was the beach, steep with shingle. A few hundred yards away, beyond the last groyne, the shingle became sand that looked flat and wet, and there was a sign that said ‘Danger! Quicksand!’ except the word ‘sand’ had worn away. It was a bleak, uninviting place; I bet it did swallow people whole, like Queenie said. You certainly wouldn’t need telling twice to keep away.

To the right was the harbour. The tide was out this afternoon leaving the few boats that were there sitting lopsided on the sand. At the very end of the sea wall was the lighthouse and though I was still feeling miserable, I couldn’t help but think how magnificent it looked. The wall connecting it to the mainland reminded me of a cobbled street. Heading towards us along it was a person with a smallish white dog nipping about at their heels.

Queenie stopped, raising her arm to wave. The person – a man – paused, then waved back. He was dressed from head to toe in black oilskins that made him look sleek and enormous like a whale.

‘Who’s that?’ Cliff asked eagerly, though I think he meant the dog.

‘Ephraim Pengilly,’ Queenie answered, ‘the lighthouse keeper. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to take you both in. Whether he likes it or not.’