out of her bedroom to try and discover what was going on.
‘I’ve been over and over it.’ Her father’s voice sounded weary with exasperation. ‘We must do what’s right for her, Doris.’
It was pitch dark on the stairs, except for a faint golden glow beneath the living-room door. Bonny shivered in her thin nightdress and the sisal stair carpet prickled her bare feet.
‘I don’t want Bonny to go, Am,’ her mother replied, her voice strangled as if she was crying. ‘She’s not quite eleven, just a baby, I couldn’t bear being separated from her.’
‘Do you think I want her to go?’ Arnold replied. ‘But this isn’t sending her off to just anyone, she’ll have a good life with Miss Wynter. She’ll be safe when the bombing starts and she’ll have her dancing lessons free.’
Bonny had never been away from home, not even for one night. Last September, when most of the other children at school were evacuated, she was disappointed when her parents declined to send her too. Home was 88 Flamstead Road on the Becontree estate in Dagenham, a very ordinary council house. When many of the children returned home at Christmas with amazing stories about country cottages and big houses at the seaside, Bonny had felt resentful.
In fact, the war had been a great disappointment in every way so far. Last year, when they’d all been given gas masks and practised going into the air raid shelter in the school opposite, Bonny had thought it was all going to be very exciting. She’d even felt a bit like a heroine staying behind at home, facing danger. But nothing had happened, other than planes droning overhead. Even when the siren went off it was only to practise. It had been an exceptionally cold winter, thick snow, pipes freezing up and shortages of everything. Grown-ups talked about rationing all the time, and now Dad had dug up most of the back garden to grow vegetables. They called it the Phoney War. Almost all the evacuees had come home again to stay. Yet from what her dad was saying, it sounded as if something was going to happen at last.
Bonny Phillips was an exceptionally beautiful child, with long, silky blonde hair, wide, almost turquoise blue eyes and the kind of soft, plump lips that made even the most hardened child-hater weaken. Perhaps if she’d been a little less beautiful, or her parents just a little less obvious in their adoration of her, she might have developed a nicer nature. But as it was, Bonny Phillips had an inflated idea of her own importance and a total disregard for others’ feelings. Mrs Salcombe, the Phillipses’ next-door neighbour, had a blunt explanation for anyone who cared to mention how spoilt Bonny was. ‘Doris and Arnold thought she was a bloomin’ miracle, and it’s another bloomin’ miracle someone hasn’t strangled the little bleeder.’
Doris was eighteen in 1907 when Arnold Phillips came to mend the boiler at Dr Freeman’s house in Islington where she worked as a maid. She was a dumpy, plain girl with mousy hair, so shy she rarely even spoke to the female staff, let alone a man. But she was taken by the tall, slender young man with blond hair and a thin moustache and when he asked her to walk out with him on her night off she sensed right away that he was the only man for her.
Their romance flourished as they discovered how much they had in common. They both came from large, poor families, Arnold’s in Shadwell, Doris’s in Bethnal Green, and both had a fierce desire to better themselves. Doris was impressed by Arnold’s knowledge of machinery, his gentle, affectionate nature, while Arnold fell for her bright blue eyes, her clear complexion and her ladylike demeanour.
They married two years later, in 1909, and set up home in the same tenement in Bethnal Green where Doris’s parents lived. Dr Freeman gave them a bone china tea-set as fine as anything he had in his house and the housekeeper, Mrs Oakes, gave them a set of linen sheets. They had such high hopes
‘I’ve been over and over it.’ Her father’s voice sounded weary with exasperation. ‘We must do what’s right for her, Doris.’
It was pitch dark on the stairs, except for a faint golden glow beneath the living-room door. Bonny shivered in her thin nightdress and the sisal stair carpet prickled her bare feet.
‘I don’t want Bonny to go, Am,’ her mother replied, her voice strangled as if she was crying. ‘She’s not quite eleven, just a baby, I couldn’t bear being separated from her.’
‘Do you think I want her to go?’ Arnold replied. ‘But this isn’t sending her off to just anyone, she’ll have a good life with Miss Wynter. She’ll be safe when the bombing starts and she’ll have her dancing lessons free.’
Bonny had never been away from home, not even for one night. Last September, when most of the other children at school were evacuated, she was disappointed when her parents declined to send her too. Home was 88 Flamstead Road on the Becontree estate in Dagenham, a very ordinary council house. When many of the children returned home at Christmas with amazing stories about country cottages and big houses at the seaside, Bonny had felt resentful.
In fact, the war had been a great disappointment in every way so far. Last year, when they’d all been given gas masks and practised going into the air raid shelter in the school opposite, Bonny had thought it was all going to be very exciting. She’d even felt a bit like a heroine staying behind at home, facing danger. But nothing had happened, other than planes droning overhead. Even when the siren went off it was only to practise. It had been an exceptionally cold winter, thick snow, pipes freezing up and shortages of everything. Grown-ups talked about rationing all the time, and now Dad had dug up most of the back garden to grow vegetables. They called it the Phoney War. Almost all the evacuees had come home again to stay. Yet from what her dad was saying, it sounded as if something was going to happen at last.
Bonny Phillips was an exceptionally beautiful child, with long, silky blonde hair, wide, almost turquoise blue eyes and the kind of soft, plump lips that made even the most hardened child-hater weaken. Perhaps if she’d been a little less beautiful, or her parents just a little less obvious in their adoration of her, she might have developed a nicer nature. But as it was, Bonny Phillips had an inflated idea of her own importance and a total disregard for others’ feelings. Mrs Salcombe, the Phillipses’ next-door neighbour, had a blunt explanation for anyone who cared to mention how spoilt Bonny was. ‘Doris and Arnold thought she was a bloomin’ miracle, and it’s another bloomin’ miracle someone hasn’t strangled the little bleeder.’
Doris was eighteen in 1907 when Arnold Phillips came to mend the boiler at Dr Freeman’s house in Islington where she worked as a maid. She was a dumpy, plain girl with mousy hair, so shy she rarely even spoke to the female staff, let alone a man. But she was taken by the tall, slender young man with blond hair and a thin moustache and when he asked her to walk out with him on her night off she sensed right away that he was the only man for her.
Their romance flourished as they discovered how much they had in common. They both came from large, poor families, Arnold’s in Shadwell, Doris’s in Bethnal Green, and both had a fierce desire to better themselves. Doris was impressed by Arnold’s knowledge of machinery, his gentle, affectionate nature, while Arnold fell for her bright blue eyes, her clear complexion and her ladylike demeanour.
They married two years later, in 1909, and set up home in the same tenement in Bethnal Green where Doris’s parents lived. Dr Freeman gave them a bone china tea-set as fine as anything he had in his house and the housekeeper, Mrs Oakes, gave them a set of linen sheets. They had such high hopes
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