‘Gracious me, look at all these little lost souls, it’s like an auction!’ said Audrey, arriving at the receiving centre for child evacuees to be greeted with the sight of dozens of newly arrived children, with large luggage labels bearing their name, home address and school, tied or safety-pinned to their coats, being ‘selected’ by local residents. ‘I wish I could take them all home with me.’

The Evacuation Officer looked up from her paperwork. ‘You must be mad,’ she muttered, handing Audrey a form to complete. ‘Choose wisely.’

Audrey had stayed true to her promise to offer a home to an evacuee and had registered with the Evacuation Officer, offering up the attic room in the bakery. Audrey observed in silence, though she felt the urge to talk to every child she saw, taking in the scene that she knew she’d remember until her dying day. There was a row of tin baths, in which young nurses were bathing toddlers, and a line of older children were having their hair checked over for lice by a bespectacled nit-nurse and their skin for impetigo by another nurse. Other children stood waiting, holding their gas mask boxes or sitting on their small suitcases, some with their belongings in brown paper parcels or clutching toy dolls and one or two with tennis racquets. Though excited chatter buzzed through the room like a swarm of bees, several of the younger children were crying or looked close to tears and one boy had his arm firmly clamped around his younger sister’s shoulders and an expression on his face that said: we come as a package or not at all. It reminded her of William and herself after their father died – they stuck together like glue. The thought made her miss William with a force so great she felt quite faint.

‘Hello,’ she said to the children, moving around the room. ‘Hello, welcome to Bournemouth.’

Audrey’s heart ached for the poor little darlings – and for their families having to make the decision to let them go. Listening in to snippets of conversation, she was horrified to find that while some local women were being gentle and reassuring towards the bewildered children, others were choosing the evacuees for how healthy, strong or useful they seemed. ‘I need a boy who can do the jobs around the house that I don’t want to do’, ‘I’d want more than 10/6 to look after that one!’ ‘There’s fleas jumping off that filthy girl, what was her mother thinking?’

Audrey trembled and flushed with shame at what she heard.

‘This war is turning some women’s hearts to stone,’ she said to one mean-looking woman who stood in front of a small girl and called her the ‘scrag end’ because nobody was picking her. ‘Shame on you.’

Desperate to compensate for the woman’s cruel words, she knelt down in front of the ‘scrag end’, a small girl of around six years old whose large luggage label said Mary Lintin, and held out her hand in greeting.

‘I’m Audrey Barton,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’

The girl wore a hat and a thick coat, despite the warm weather, and held a paper bag with her emergency rations inside. Her brown hair was cut up to her ears, by the look of it in haste, and with a not-very-straight fringe. By her mother no doubt, Audrey thought, quietly imagining the poor woman’s distress at having to bid farewell to her little girl. She was a sad-looking thing and gave no smile, nor did she offer her hand, though her cheeks were pink with heat and nerves.

‘Hello Mary. What’s your dolly’s name?’ Audrey asked gently.

Mary cast her brown eyes down to the floor, and kept her head bowed. She gripped the doll so hard her knuckles turned white.

‘Would you like to take your coat off?’ Audrey asked, but the girl shook her head. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters here with you, Mary?’ she tried instead. ‘Or friends from your school?’

Mary took a sharp intake of breath and for a second she glanced up, arresting Audrey with huge liquid brown eyes like bowls of melted chocolate. She shook her head before returning her stare to the floor. Audrey instantly and instinctively wanted to hold and protect Mary and, gently taking her by the hand, she explained that she was going to look after her for a little while.

Once the paperwork was filled out and notice of Audrey’s details recorded to be sent to Mary’s mother, she walked Mary home to the bakery, showing her the local landmarks as they went, eventually reaching Fisherman’s Road, where the sea was in full view. Mary stood for a moment, apparently mesmerised by the great expanse of water topped with pale blue sky and drawn across with a yellow stripe of gorse. She gripped Audrey’s hand tightly and Audrey knelt by her side.

‘Have you ever seen the sea before?’ she asked.

Mary said nothing, but remained transfixed by the sea.

‘We’ll have to teach you to swim,’ Audrey said. ‘But probably in the River Stour since we’re not allowed on the beach at the moment. The river’s pretty too, with swans and ducks and kingfishers. Oh and it’s my brother’s wedding soon, with dancing and biscuits and lemonade. You’ll enjoy that, I’m sure.’

Realising she was jabbering and Mary hadn’t said a word, Audrey stopped talking. Perhaps the little girl just wanted a little peace and quiet.

Not that it lasted long. Maggie, Lily and Pat, who had popped in to see Charlie, fussed around Mary the minute she walked through the door. There was something magnetic about the child’s enormous eyes and worried expression.

‘This is for you,’ Maggie said, giving Mary a jam tart in a paper bag. Mary made a small nod in thanks and Maggie affectionately ruffled the hair on the top of Mary’s head.

‘And this is where we make the bread,’ Audrey told Mary, showing her the bakehouse. ‘Every night we make a dough and in the early morning we bake the loaves. Do you like bread?’

Even Charlie did his best to welcome the little girl. ‘I hope so!’ he said, with a big smile. ‘Our Coburgs are the best in the town. First lesson in baking, Mary: do you know how to tell if a loaf is perfect?’

Mary gave a small shake of her head.

Charlie picked up half a loaf and handed it to her. ‘Sliced open, the inside should be very slightly yellow in colour and springy to touch,’ he said. ‘The crust should have a rich, brownish yellow tint, not too light and not too dark, exactly as this one. Above all, it should taste delicious.’

Mary nodded but didn’t say anything. Wondering whether she was overwhelmed by everyone’s attention, Audrey held on to her hand and showed her up to her bedroom. ‘And this is your room,’ said Audrey. ‘All the best people stay in this room. You can see the sea out of that window. Sometimes a seagull sits on this sill. I call him Captain Stan, but you can change his name. He won’t mind.’

Mary made another small nod.

‘You’ll be wanting to speak to your mother, I should think,’ Audrey said. ‘She’ll get a letter with this address, but you can speak to her too, if you like.’

Audrey stood back and regarded the little girl, who looked to her like she had been completely buttoned up, and that the real Mary Lintin was locked inside somewhere like a beautiful, shining conker in its spiky shell. It was only when she left her in the bedroom to unpack her things and she was making her way back downstairs towards the shop that she realised she hadn’t heard Mary utter a single word all day. Not even ‘hello’.

It’ll be nerves, Audrey assumed, immediately plotting ways to help the little girl, suddenly in the care of a complete stranger and living within a busy bakery, relax into her new life. Thinking of the cake orders she had to get on with, she was struck by inspiration. Baking! she thought suddenly, smiling to herself. That’ll do it.