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sir.”
    â€œMrs McHealy?”
    â€œThat’s right, sir. Breakfast for upstairs isn’t till nine.”
    Her voice was soft country Hampshire, not the harder Southampton accent which Andrew could do in his sleep. The “isn’t” was “idn’t” and the “r”s had a burr to them. Mrs McHealy’s eyes, pale blue in a flattish, doughy face, had glanced at the suitcase and back. Andrew tried anxious charm.
    â€œWon’t someone be driving to the village before that?”
    The man at the table stirred but said nothing.
    â€œAnd I think you’ve got my ration-book,” said Andrew. “Sir Arnold asked me to leave, you see. I said I’d go as soon as I could.”
    â€œWhere’s my Sambo?” said Mrs McHealy. “Give him a shout, Jack. You’ll be wanting a bit of breakfast in any case, won’t you, sir?”
    â€œSammy! Oi, Sammy!” called the man.
    Andrew put the suitcase down. From along the corridor came the sound of dragging footsteps, a sinister, quiet, approaching shuffle.
    â€œNice and warm in here,” he said. “Like home.”
    â€œYou’re missing home, I expect, sir,” said Mrs McHealy. “Not been away before?”
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œWeren’t you ever evacuated?”
    â€œJust for the blitz, but only out to Upton. My school’s still there, but most of us skived off home as soon as the bombing stopped, and nowadays I bike out to school every day.”
    Mrs McHealy nodded. She was a strong, slightly chilling presence, apparently making conversation not out of friendliness but in order to stop him asking about ration-books and such.
    â€œOur Hazel, she’s evacuated from London,” she said. “And I wouldn’t have it otherhow.”
    The footsteps reached the door. The darkie came in, wearing a linen jacket over his butler’s uniform, and on his feet a weird pair of shoes, a bit like carpet-slippers but with inch-thick pads of felt for the soles, which were far too wide and long for the uppers. Andrew guessed it was a way of polishing the floor as he went about his duties, but it was also a way of keeping his feet warm without breaking Uncle Vole’s rule about shoes. He smiled at Andrew, saw the suitcase, looked inquiringly at Mrs McHealy.
    â€œNow, love,” she said. “The young gentleman’s been saying how Sir Arnold told him to go home.”
    â€œHe never meant it,” said the darkie. “He’s always telling people ‘Clear out.’”
    He too had a slight Hampshire accent, nothing like the pidgin darkie-talk he’d seemed to be using in the few words Andrew had heard him speak last night in the dining-room.
    â€œHe said he didn’t want to see me again,” said Andrew.
    â€œHow many times Sir Arnold told you that, Jack?” said Mrs McHealy.
    â€œLost count,” said the groom.
    â€œLay a place for Master Andrew, love,” said Mrs McHealy. “Or maybe you’d rather eat by yourself, sir. There’s the parlour.”
    â€œIt’s nice and warm in here,” said Andrew. “We eat in the kitchen at home.”
    â€œStart you off with a bit of porridge?”
    Mrs McHealy bent creakingly to one of the lower ovens. She was older than Andrew had thought—they all were. Anyone younger would have gone off to war-work, like Cousin Blue’s maid. She spooned two rubbery lumps of grey goo from a large brown casserole. The darkie brought the bowl over to the table. Jack passed the milk and sugar, and Andrew, mindful of ration-manners with the three of them watching him, helped himself stingily.
    â€œSpare a bit more than that, eh, Mary?” said Jack.
    â€œI’ll have to take my ration-book with me,” said Andrew.
    â€œIf’n you’re set on going,” said Mrs McHealy. “Still, spare you a full spoon—seven below stairs, we’ve a bit of slack.”
    The