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were stuck on his moleskin trousers and grey flannel workshirt and he had ominous red stains on his hands which Ellie thought were blood.
    ‘She can sew,’ Miss Gilbert sniffed, her tone suggesting she expected no further criticism. ‘So she can help with the trimming, and around the house.’
    Mr Gilbert didn’t reply. He came right into the kitchen in his stockinged feet, looked hard at Ellie, then as if he didn’t like what he’d seen, he turned to wash his hands at the sink. Ellie caught a faint whiff of turpentine and realised, slightly reassured, that the stains were only varnish.
    ‘Your name?’ he asked. Grey eyes just like his sister’s bored into her as he took a seat at the head of the table.
    ‘Elena Forester,’ Ellie said nervously. ‘But I’m always called Ellie.’
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Twelve, sir.’
    He said nothing for a moment, frowning as if pondering on it. Ellie was aware, although she didn’t dare check, that Miss Gilbert had become tense.
    ‘Well, Ellie,’ he said eventually, his tone a little gentler but no welcoming smile on his craggy face. ‘My sister and I aren’t used to children. You will do as you are told, and behave in a dignified manner at all times. Is that clear?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, head bowed. She had no intention of staying here for more than one night. It had to be a terrible mistake. Miss Parfitt, her mother and Marleen had all said she’d live with a nice family. The Gilberts and their weird, smelly house were like something from the spooky serials she’d seen at Saturday morning pictures.
    Miss Gilbert pressed her hand on Ellie’s neck, forcing her to kneel.
    ‘Say a prayer,’ she hissed.
    It was Sunday morning. Ellie was sandwiched between Mr and Miss Gilbert in St John’s Church, just five minutes away from the house in High Baxter Street. Mr Gilbert looked like an undertaker today, in a dark suit with a high wing-collar, his brown hair slicked back with oil. Miss Gilbert’s everyday dark blue dress was replaced by an identical one in pale grey with a matching hat and gloves. She had given Ellie back her pink dress this morning, but made a point of saying it would only be worn on Sundays and that in her opinion it was far too short for such a big girl. She’d also insisted on her wearing a borrowed straw boater hat and white cotton gloves and was appalled that Mrs Forester hadn’t considered such items essential requirements for a young lady.
    All Saturday, Ellie had waited patiently, expecting a billeting officer or even Miss Parfitt to call at the undertakers. She had a little speech prepared, a polite but insistent demand that she was either moved or sent back home. But when no one arrived, Ellie took this to mean no one cared about her at all.
    Ellie knew little about churches, and even less of the procedure of a service. Her mother never had time for such things. It smelt funny in here from something they were burning and she didn’t like the gruesome pictures of Jesus carrying his cross. It wasn’t even a pretty church: compared with some she’d seen, it seemed too high, chilly and bare. She did know, however, that it was God’s house. Since no one else seemed to realise how unhappy she was, perhaps he might be a good person to have on her side.
    The prayer she offered up was more of a bargain. ‘Get me out of this and I’ll do anything to please you.’ For good measure she asked that he kept her mother and Marleen safe and that the threatened war wouldn’t happen after all.
    The first hymn gave Ellie hope. It was ‘Fight the Good Fight’ – one she knew well from school, which she loved singing. The church was packed, right up to the back pews. She could see little Rose across the aisle between two bigger girls with dark hair. Someone had clearly put her blonde hair in rags as she had fat, shiny ringlets. Ellie didn’t dare look behind her, but she’d spotted Doris Smithers and Carol Muller as they came in, and both