Find your sister, my dear.
Lucy, look over there. Thats our little Sally, isnt it? Sophias eyes went wide as she raised her index finger, pointing stifflyher mouth half open in surprise, frozen that way.
Where? Lucy scanned the rows of children in their red neckerchiefs, lined up neatly across the schools assembly hall, but she couldnt spot the girl Sophia meant. Whos Sally?
Sophia didnt answer. She gazed at the group with all her might, terrified to lose sight of the one whod just recited a poemthe one whose eyes shed caught, the one she was so afraid to let go.
Still silent, Sophia started to edge her way through the crowd, weaving nimbly between parents and teachers towards where the group had gathered. It wasnt easy for her, being so smallnot to mention her old childhood injurybut she moved quick enough.
The event brought together children from boarding schools and orphanages throughout Yorkshire. The National Festival of School Arts was making its way around every county, and even their homethe childrens home in the little village of Brambleworthhad joined in. The homes official name: Brambleworth House, Number 129. Sophia Robinson had been its head for many years.
Before the War, shed been a teacher near Liverpool. When the bombs started falling and the Germans advanced, she, the staff, and the children were sent here, first by rail to Cambridge, but the train was turned back, and finally they landed in North Yorkshire.
Theyd moved so many timesherding the children here and there, surviving what no one should ever have to survive: shed buried children herself, comforted mothers collapsing in grief, fought off lice and scabies. She often looked at her hands, remembering what theyd been throughhow once the local farm manager had come, reached out to shake her hand, then recoiled at the rough state of the carers hands
But these hands had loved and soothed hundreds of childrenhow many heads had she stroked to sleep through the years, how many little lives had passed through her care, she couldnt even count.
It had been over a decade since the war ended, but the memories still clawed at her heart. She tried never to dwell on the pastno sense in brooding. But every night when her head touched the pillow, the memories crept in: the starving, swollen toddlers who could not be saved, the young mothers who beat their heads against the wall in grief.
She remembered Sallylittle Stepanida, as she was namedso well. Sophia thought of her often. She was the very picture of a happy ending, hope for a better future. But what was she doing here, in this hall? Itd been over five years now since she went away with her foreign father
Portrait painted by artist: Henry Graham
Heres how it happened.
Spring, 1945. The older children had been moved, leaving just the little ones, ages seven and undereven a nursery for babies. Children were shifted about constantly then. One day, someone brought them a two-month-old baby girl, a foundling discovered wrapped up in a parcel at the village market. It was during the haphazard post-war years, and so many children got passed around this way.
Sophia clearly remembered them all fussing over her beautiful, snow-white blanketit was quilted, ever so soft, with delicate little blue flowers stitched into each patch. Someone suggested the name Sally, or Stepanida, after the blue-flowered blanket. And for a surname, Sophias own: Robinson. Shed given her name to many.
Despite so many foundlings passing through, little Sally became the special oneher fair hair, bright blue eyes, gentle and clever manner. Shed tiptoe into Sophias office, smiling shyly as if Sophia were her mother.
But Sally didnt stay with them until five. And the way she left was both a blessing and a shock.
One day, Val, the nursery nurse, burst into Sophias office: a call from County Councilsomeone was looking for the girl theyd taken in that March. All the details matched Sally. The secretary of the county council was coming personally, and bringing guests.
Brambleworth House had never seen guests so important. There was a flurry of preparation. The council sent money and extra hands; overnight the place was transformeditd never looked so fine.
The reason? Foreigners.
The day arrived. A pair of big, square cars pulled up, out stepped the county secretary and a group of officials, joined by a gentleman and a lady who were unmistakably foreign. The gentleman wore a checked jacket, colourful braces peeking out from under his baggy suit. The womanshe looked like a film star. Her hair set in soft curls under a smart little pillbox hat, black veil and all, a tailored grey coat and the most elegant shoes, holding a neat red handbag with a gleaming gold claspSophia couldnt take her eyes off it.
With them was an older ladytheir translatordressed sensibly in blue, looking very tired.
The children greeted the party with a ragged rendering of The Young Peoples Anthem for Peace. Sally was put in front; she sang too, white ribbons matching her white-blonde hair, which shivered from the effort she put in. She didnt know why it all felt like a holiday. She just sang, mouth open wide. She wasnt even five.
The council staff hovered, nervouswatching the foreigners for a reaction. But the checked-jacketed man was fixed entirely on Sally. Even if she hadnt stood in front, hed have found her. It was obviousthey were father and daughter. He was a little darker-haired, but the same blue eyes, the chin, every feature. There was no mistaking it.
He waited patiently through the formalitiesthe bread-and-salt, the speeches about the Partys decisions, post-war conferences, international alliances. The translator quietly translated, but Sophia suspected she skipped chunks, not bothering with much of it.
The woman in the pillbox hat stood quietly at the side, rigid and straight, hands clutching her handbag as tears rolled down her face, her eyes never leaving Sally.
At last, after the endless greetings, the children were sent off, except for Sally, who was held back with her carer. The staff hovered, desperately hoping nothing would go wrong. Never before had Brambleworth had a child claimed by foreigners.
The county officials stood back as the man and woman, with their translator, came closer to Sally. The lady knelt in front of her, taking her little hand.
Her mother? Sophia whispered to the translator.
Her aunt, she replied, theyre siblings.
The translator leaned down too.
Shes asking: whats your name?
Sally shrank with nerves, looking at her carer.
Go on, tell them, love
Sally, she whispered.
Thats right, Stepanida. We named her, you see. She had no papers, the carer explained, the translator relaying every word.
The lady talked to Sally for quite some time, asking about her age, her bed, her toys. Sally brightened and answered, and everyone followed them inside. Sophias heart thumped with worrywhat if something dreadful happened because of this, what if the foreign guests didnt like what they saw?
But the visitors simply smiled and admired Sallys room and her toys, the translator joining in, more warmly now.
Where are all the other children? came another question.
The county officials quickly fetched the others in. Now the guests greeted everyone. Little Lizzy, just four, latched onto the red handbag. Instantly, the lady opened it, took out some items, the man pocketed them, then she handed the handbag to Lizzy.
The staff tensed. Was this allowed? But, well, she was a child. Sophia wiped her brow.
Strangely enough, theyd kept the very blanket Sally had been brought in. It had been used for other babies, now faded, its blue flowers faint, but they spruced it up and handed it over to the guests. The man stared at it, lost in thought.
Sally was leaving. Everyone turned out to wave her off.
Someone from the council brought back the red handbag. Sophia heaved a sighat least she wouldnt have to deal with that headache herself.
The lady seemed to protestgesturing that the bag belonged to the childrens homebut finally took it, sadness in her eyes.
Sophia stood quietly as they drove away, hoping Sally would find real happiness. Why couldnt all her children have such luck, she wondered. Why did so many grow up to such different fates?
She walked back to the corridorslegs made of lead. Shed have to settle Lizzy down, help calm the other excited children, then sit and talk the day over with the staff.
There were no consequences later; in fact, the council praised their work, held her up as an example; she even received a certificate. Sophia made the sign of the cross. And soon after, new bedsheets and toys arrived at the homeapparently the foreign guests sent them.
***
And now, almost five years onSally was here. Not in Germany, not anywhere else, but in Yorkshire at this National School Arts Festival. The years had gone by, but Sophia could never mistake her.
She elbowed her way through the crowdperhaps a bit too pushy. She pulled aside a teacher, put her hand on the girls shoulder.
Sally, love, Sally!
The girl turned round, questioning.
Sally, do you remember me?
Just then, someone tapped Sophia from behind.
Excuse me, whats going on? It was a young teacher.
Hello! Im the head of Brambleworth HouseNumber 129. This is one of ours, butI dont understand, I thought shed left
Who? You must be confused. This is Nina.
No, noSally. But she was taken away years ago
The girl switched her gaze between the teacher and Sophia.
You must be mistaken. This is Nina. She was never in a childrens home. Shes got her mum. And dad too, havent you Nina?
Yes, and my dad, Nina said.
Well there you are, you see. Youve made a mistake.
Sophias eyes drifted back to the stage. Their group was performing now, but she watched absently.
Thats Sally, she kept telling herself. No way could she be wrong. Sure, shed grown, stretched up tall. But that chin, those sharp features, the snowy hairshe remembered precisely how wispy it curled around her ear. It was StepanidaSallyno doubt.
Sophia leaned against a huge old radiator, feeling the warmth. Suddenly, she recalled her old conversation with the translator.
As the foreign guests were leaving, Sophia had asked: What was Sallys real name, anyway? Theyd get paperwork soon, but she was curious.
They dont know, the translator answered, nodding after the departing girl and her new family. Maybe its Naella, maybe Yvette.
How can that be? Sophia frowned.
He lost his wife and twin girls during the war, the translator explained. Hes been searching ever since. They only recently found the wifes grave; so, it appears one daughter died with her, and the other ended up with you. They were anti-fascistslived in the Baltics; the wife was a prisoner, had the girls in the camp. Now he lives in Eastern Germany. Its a long storythese searches arent easy. The translator hurried off.
These words had fallen away in Sophias mind, lost amid the celebrations and busy yearsbut now the memory rose, clear as daylight.
***
Kate, Kate! Are you going to the square? Lucy called across the garden hedge while waving at her neighbour. It was May Day and the whole village was about.
Not today, LuceIve got to bake. Pop by later, wont you? Kate pushed a pot of geraniums off the window ledge and leaned out.
What about the kids?
Annie and Jack have already dashed off, and Ninas gone on that school trip.
They actually chose her then?
They did, Luce! They did! Not much of a chatterbox, our Nina, but give her a poem and she outshines the lot.
It was obvious Kate was proud, and Lucy was pleased too. She had no children of her own and had watched Kates grow up next door. And darling Ninawell, between the two women, she was loved by them both, as if shed always been their own, even though technically, she wasnt. Theyd only ever mention it after a few drinks at Christmas, over the quiet tears of old friends.
Right now, they were getting ready for such a gathering. The kidsAnnie and Jackwere gone, Len, Kates husband, was outside hanging the Union Jack on the gate, and Kate herself was busy in the kitchen.
People were streaming down the street to the village square. Lucy went off to join them.
Kate carried on with her preparations, feeling festive. The radio was oncrackling with the sound of the parade on the Mall. She shoved a pie in the oven, wiped her hands, and flopped onto the sofa for a breather.
The noise of the crowd on television filled her cosy living room, buzzing among familiar trinkets, and suddenlySMASHthe door flew open and Jack burst in.
Mum, can I grab something to eat?
Whats all this, then?
Were heading down to the river after the paradewell have a cook-up, the lads and me. Jack was already stuffing raw potatoes into an old canvas bag.
What? And whats all this baking for then? I thought wed celebrate together
Oh Mum, well do a proper campfire, bake the spudsAlex is bringing his guitar. He was dashing about, cramming the bag.
Oy! Hang on, you mucky pup. Sit down and let me do it properly. Jack perched on a stool while Kate packed up the foodbacon, bread, and a few pies, then ran to the garden for some onions. Typical Jackalways off somewhere.
And Annie said shes going to the pictures with her boyfriend, Jack yelled, refusing to use the lads name. She said dont wait up. So youll only have me and Dad home. He was halfway out the gate.
Kate threw up her handshow was it she ended up with a houseful of kids, and yet on a holiday everyone scattered? Her eldest, Colin, was married and long goneliving with his wifes family and bringing up kids of his own. Nina had gone to the city with the school, and the others were out with friends.
Len, her husband, and Lucy, her best matethose two would be her company today. Nina would get back late, Annie and Jack would be off somewhere.
All around, windows stood open, music drifted through gardens, the accordions and laughter echoing through the village.
Kate pulled the pie from the oven. What a performanceshed been up in the wee hours preparing the dough, but lookeveryone had run off. Well, she might as well rest. She lay back down on the sofa.
Victory Day truly, a celebration with tears still mixed in. How did they survive it, she wondered. How did they pull through?
Kates mind drifted
She remembered, most of all, the day Nina came to themhow reluctant shed been at first, how raw her heart had been then.
She was starving, truly. Alone with three kids, her husband had died at the front. Shed come back from the river, where shed been washing clothes, only to find the children, half-starved as they were, had gobbled the little scone meant to stretch for two days.
Lord help us! I go out for a minute and you lot inhale the last bit of bread! I saidno flour left, and you eat the lot! Thats it, Colin, no dinner for three days, you little rascal! She shook the teatowel in exasperation at twelve-year-old Colin.
They mumbled about potatoes left under the snow, and catching fishseven-year-old Annie sobbed on the floor.
No ones going to give us more flour. You sodding lot! And youstop crying, she shouted, making four-year-old Jack burst into tears as well. Im not keeping the food for myself, am I? Well all starve
At that very moment, the parish head, Mr. Simmons, let himself in with barely a knock.
All right, Kate?
He looked knackered that day, his usual cocky energy gonehe limped more, his old war wound acting up, and his cough sounded worse.
Behind him, standing in the shadow of the porch, was a woman in a long coat, clutching a baby.
Mr. Simmons eased down onto the bench.
I know youre struggling, Kate. So are we all. But evacuees are everywhere nowyour house is the only one not full yet, except Nickys, and shes down with fever. So please, take them in.
Are you mad? Were starving as it is
But Mr. Simmons banged his knee, already heading out.
Her names Teresa. She doesnt speak much English.
Kate rushed after himshe was never backwards in coming forward.
Give me a chit for some milk, I cant feed this baby on air!
Theres none about, Katewhat weve got is for planting
Then well all die! And I wont share the last drop, I warn you!
He just looked back at her with tired eyes.
Ill do what I can. But you, Kateshes on your conscience. Shes not English, you see
And off he went, trudging through the snow. He turned back, gave her one last, searching look.
Ill help. But the poor womans not right. Lost, she is.
Kate hurried inside. The evacuee was on the bench, rocking. Her own kids huddled on the hearth, whispering.
Come on, get your coat off. Let me take the little one.
Teresa looked up with blank blue eyes, hair dustywas it ash from the fires? Where, even in winter, did she pick that up?
Here, Ill hold the baby. You rest.
It was as if suddenly she remembered there was a child in her arms. She handed over the bundle, then made for the door saying: Need to find my daughter. Find daughter and then fell to her knees, slumping on the floor.
With Colins help, they got her to bed, stripped her down; Annie raced to fetch the doctor.
The baby barely seemed alive, not making a sound. Kate unwrapped her pink blanket, surprised at its delicate flowers and fine white embroideryshed never seen anything so posh. But the baby was little more than skin and bone. Colin got the fire going; Annie and Jack helped wash and dress her. They tried giving her watershe barely took it in.
The doctor came, said Teresa needed hospital, and milk for the baby. Kate ran to the farm, andmiracle of miraclesthey handed over a pint of good, rich milk. She watered it down. It was enough to keep all the children going for a while.
Teresa lay unconscious for two days. Lucy helped with her care. They pieced together her story from muddled bits of foreign languageshed been captured and taken to a prison camp during the war. She had twins: Naella and Yvette. Yvette went missing after they were liberated, in the chaos of people being shunted from place to place. No use in Teresa trying to explain what happenedshe barely spoke English, her words getting lost in the tumble of her own language.
A few days later, Teresa was taken to hospital. A week after that, the message cameshed died. Her real name: Teresa Peterson. The council buried her with the other evacuees, a small wooden plaque marking her grave.
If Lucy hadnt been shipped off to help restore the farms down south, shed have taken in the little girl herselfshe and Kate had already agreed. But Lucy was sent away for six months. And so, by law, Naella Peterson became Nina Samuels, daughter of Kate, by then a widow, and her late husband.
Nobody wondered how a child could be born a year after her father had died at war; by that time, Mr. Simmons had passed away, and the whole system had moved on. No one cared about the un-English name. They made it simpleNaella became Nina.
Kates children all survived, even if she had to scrimp and beg for help. A few years after the war, her neighbourLeonard Parsoncame back from his exile and the front. He was older, but soon enough, became part of the family, helping in the garden, fussing with the firewood. They never married officially, but he was the childrens father in every way that mattered. He kept Kate calm, and she loved him more deeply as years went on.
So let the children scatter. Let them run wild over fields, absent on holidays, making their own way. All four of them.
Back in her sitting room, the radio buzzed about the latest missile demonstrationsVictory Day, a parade on the Mall. Kate allowed herself a quiet cry, her pillow damp.
Shed won her own war, too. The children were aliveand wasnt that, after all, real victory?
