‘There’s no question, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Baron went on. ‘I’m terribly sorry about your father, of course, girls, but I have a duty to ensure you are both safe and looked after, and you simply cannot stay here alone.’
She sat down, tucking her legs beneath the kitchen table. She was wearing a grey-brown cardigan. I was reminded of a kestrel again – the neatness of her, the precision of her bright, darting gaze. She seemed genuinely concerned, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept what she was saying. She turned now towards the lady she had brought with her – Mrs Peacock, from the local authority.
‘Don’t worry! We will be able to accommodate you both somewhere,’ Mrs Peacock said chirpily, picking up her cue. ‘There is always a way!’ She examined a piece of paper she had placed on the table, but had to lean forward slightly to read it as it was eclipsed by her enormous bosom. She tutted. ‘Given the circumstances, fostering doesn’t seem to make sense – we might as well just sign them up for the evacuation programme. If you’d gone a bit earlier, we might have been able to squeeze you both in together somewhere, but with things as they are now, it will probably have to be separate arrangements . . . Mags—’
‘Magda,’ my sister corrected sharply.
‘Magda,’ Mrs Peacock repeated, smiling at Mags very deliberately. ‘You’re a strong, useful girl and you’re pretty tall too. I think there might be a place for you working on a farm. You’re a bit young to be a Land Girl as such, but we could probably make it work . . . Now, Pet—’
‘Petra.’ My sister again.
‘Yes.’ Mrs Peacock cleared her throat. ‘At the moment, it is looking likely to be Shropshire.’
‘Shropshire?’ I blurted out. ‘Where is that, please? Is it by the sea?’ A sudden panic took hold of me. I was imagining being trapped inland, away from the sea and the clifftops and the never-ending sky. I would never have said this out loud, but I felt that my Pa was part of the sea now. I felt that leaving the Castle would be a terrible betrayal: I would be abandoning the lighthouse and abandoning Pa too – leaving him behind.
‘Of course Shropshire’s not by the sea,’ Mrs Peacock scoffed. ‘Don’t you know the geography of your own country, young lady? It’s between England and Wales. A beautiful county.’
I looked down at my shoes.
Mrs Peacock studied her piece of paper again. ‘In fact, there’s a very nice elderly couple in Shropshire who would apparently be happy to consider a longer-term arrangement. They have asked for an orphan—’
‘We’re not orphans,’ said Mags, quick as an arrow.
There was a horrible pause. I felt my chest rising and falling quickly. I wanted to hide, but I just kept looking at my shoes.
‘No, dear,’ Mrs Baron said soothingly.
‘Our mother is not dead.’
‘Of course she isn’t.’ The eyes of the two women met fleetingly.
There was a feeling inside me that threatened to bubble up into words, but I swallowed it back down. It was a dangerous, treacherous feeling. I feel like an orphan, I wanted to say. I feel like there is no one here to protect me. For some reason, I thought about that day when I was scurrying across the cliffs with Mrs Rossi’s umbrella, convinced I was about to be struck by lightning. I felt just like that now – exposed, vulnerable. Anything could happen.
When Mrs Peacock spoke again, her tone was different – firmer, as if to put an end to Mags’s nonsense. ‘The evacuation programme has been a tremendous success thus far.’ She folded her arms across her bosom and tucked in her chins. ‘Many thousands of children have been happily and safely rehomed already.’ She whispered to Mrs Baron then, ‘Did you know the government refer to it as Operation Pied Piper – I think that’s charming, don’t you?’
Mrs Baron smiled politely and then tried to reason with us: ‘Now that we’ve had to withdraw our troops from France, the German invasion could happen any day, girls – any day!’ Her eyes shone with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. What was it? Alarm? ‘The government are trying to get as many youngsters away from the south-east coast as possible. It’s highly likely that this is where Hitler’s army will land—’
‘Operation Pied Piper?’ Mags interrupted. She was still staring at Mrs Peacock. ‘That’s what they’re calling the evacuation programme?’
I flinched, recognizing what Mutti called Mags’s ‘challenging’ voice.
‘And what of it?’ Mrs Peacock replied, her smile rather brittle now. ‘All the little children dancing merrily out of the town? It’s perfect!’
‘But they never come back,’ Mags said, glaring at her. ‘That’s the whole point of the story. In most versions of the legend the children never come back. In one version, the Piper drowns them all in the river. He steals the children as an act of revenge, because the Mayor won’t pay him after he gets rid of the rats. It’s a story about greedy, untrustworthy bureaucrats. Whoever named the evacuation programme Pied Piper is stupid.’
Mrs Peacock started flapping about like a flustered pheasant. ‘Well. I don’t think there’s any need for that sort of speculation, Magda, but I’m pleased to see that you’ve been paying attention in your English Literature lessons . . .’
‘Our mother told us the story, actually. Robert Browning’s poem is based on a German folk tale. Or didn’t you know that either?’
‘All right, Magda,’ Mrs Baron said. ‘That’s enough.’
My sister was just lashing out now – angry that our lives were being taken out of our hands: we were being dragged away from our Castle and there was nothing we could do. Part of me was pleased to see Mags getting Mrs Peacock on the ropes, but I knew it wasn’t going to change anything. First Mutti had been taken away from us, then Pa, and now we were going to be separated from each other and sent away. Things were beyond our control. Lightning was crackling in the sky above us and there was nowhere to hide.
Mags’s face changed quite suddenly. It reminded me of the moment when Pa pushed up the lever and switched off the lighthouse lamp. ‘Thank you so much for all your help and hard work, Mrs Baron and Mrs Peacock. But you’re extremely busy ladies, I know – I’m sure you will need to be getting along. I’ll discuss the situation with my sister . . .’ She escorted them both to the door.
Mrs Baron smiled a little, pulling on her gloves. ‘You’re good girls really,’ she said. ‘And you’ve had a terrible time of it. We’ll find somewhere nice for you. And you mustn’t worry about your lovely lighthouse. I shall get in touch with the coastguard and personally ensure that everything is well looked-after while you are away. I promise.’
Then Mrs Peacock opened the door and very nearly trod on Barnaby, who was sitting on the doorstep, waiting to come in. He leapt away from her with a yowl and flew down the garden like a ginger comet.
As soon as the door was closed again, Mags exploded: ‘The nerve of that woman! We’re not going anywhere, Pet.’
‘But, Mags, you heard what Mrs Baron said – we’re minors and we can’t be left here on our own.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t care what the bloody Baron said. We’re staying right here where we belong, Pet.’ Her dark eyes were aflame with anger. ‘I’ll find a way.’