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unpacked the van. Peat was brought in; a fire was lit in the stove and water drawn from the well at the bottom of the garden. My first task was to remove all the frogs that came up in the bucket, carrying them carefully back to the grass near the well.
    ‘Then they can choose whether they want to rejoin their families or stay above ground in the sun,’ my mother explained.
    As warmth seeped from the stove, familiar furniture was arranged around the now cobweb-free room and the battery-driven radio played music my mother could hum along to, a cheerful atmosphere pervaded the previously desolate room.
    Tea and sandwiches were prepared and I took mine outside to sit with Judy on the grass. I shared my corned beef sandwich with her while she sniffed the new smells with a twitching nose and her head cocked on one side, giving me a hopeful look.
    Kent seemed a world away and I, like her, felt like exploring. Seeing the grown-ups were all busy I put Judy’s red lead on and slipped out through the gates. As we strolled up the nearby lane the early spring sun beat down, taking away the lingering chill of the cottage. The unclipped hedgerows were bursting with wild flowers. There were clumps of primroses and early wild honeysuckle. Purple violets peeked out from underneath the white hawthorn. Bending down I picked some to make into a posy for my mother. Time passed unheeded as the new sounds and sights caught my attention and more flowers tempted me to wander further down the lane.
    Stopping to watch fat pigs in a nearby field with their plump pink young running alongside, I heard my father shouting, ‘Antoinette, where are you?’
    I turned around and trotted trustingly towards him, clutching my posy of wild flowers. But the man I saw coming towards me was not the handsome smiling father who’d met us from the boat. In his place strode a scowling, red-faced man I hardly recognized, a man who suddenly appeared huge, with bloodshot eyes and a mouth that trembled with rage. My instinct told me to run but fear kept me rooted to the spot.
    He grabbed hold of me by the neck, put his arm tightly around my head and pulled it against his body. He lifted my cotton dress to my waist and wrenched my pants down to meet my cotton socks. One calloused hand held my semi-naked body against his thighs while the other stroked my bare bottom, squeezing one cheek hard. Seconds later I heard a crack and felt a stinging pain. I wriggled and screamed to no avail. One hand tightened its grip around my neck while the other rose and fell time after time. Judy cowered behind me and the posy, now forgotten, lay crushed on the ground.
    Nobody had ever hurt me deliberately before. If ever my plump knees had knocked together, making me fall, my mother always picked me up and wiped away my tears. I screamed and cried in pain, disbelief and humiliation. Tears and snot streamed from my eyes and nose as he shook me. My whole body shuddered with terror.
    ‘Don’t you ever go wandering off like that, my girl,’ he shouted. ‘Now get back to your mother.’
    As I pulled my knickers up over my stinging bottom, the choking tears making me hiccup, his hand gripped my shoulder and he dragged me home. I knew my mother had heard my screams, but she said nothing.
    That day I learnt to fear him, but it was another year before the nightmare started.
    The second Easter had arrived at the thatched house and the bitter cold of our first winter was almost forgotten. The barn had been repaired, incubators installed in what had been my bedroom and I, against my wishes, had been moved to the attic.
    Our original chickens, which my mother saw more as pets than income, scratched happily in the grass outside. The cockerel strutted in front of his harem, proudly displaying his brilliantly coloured plumage, and the incubators were filled with eggs. Unfortunately, numberless rabbits had helped themselves many times to the flowers hopefully planted beneath the windows, and potatoes and