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In London we only get our rationed amounts and there’s talk of it getting worse.’
    Soon a tiny village loomed in front of them, but Gertie just drove through it and out the other side. On and on they went, the light dimming and no sign of any other habitations, until at last Gertie eased the horse and cart left into a narrow lane. At the end she finally pulled on the reins, saying as the horse drew to a halt and she hopped down, ‘I’ll just open the gates.’
    Ellen could see little as her eyes tried to pierce the gloom. Gertie didn’t get onto the cart again; instead she gripped the bridle to lead the horse through. Ellen could now see a small cottage, and as Gertie tethered the animal she watched her mother climb down from the cart, her feet sinking into thick, heavy mud.
    ‘Yeah, I can see what you mean about boots,’her mum complained then held up her arms. ‘Come on, Ellen.’
    Ellen felt the ooze as her feet touched the ground, then the sucking sensation as she lifted one foot.
    ‘Come on, this way,’ Gertie said as she grabbed their cases, ‘but watch your step.’
    Tentatively they squelched to the front door, both taking off their mud-caked shoes before stepping inside. It was dark, but they felt a welcome blast of warm air, along with a low growl.
    ‘Oh Gawd, what’s that?’ Hilda gasped.
    ‘It’s only Bertie,’ said Gertie as she lit an oil lamp.
    ‘Bertie?’ she yelped as the growls turned to sharp yaps.
    ‘He won’t hurt you,’ Gertie assured and, as light pierced the gloom, a small white dog with a blaze of black on his face came into view.
    The dog ran up to Ellen, yapping and jumping around her with excitement. She smiled, crouching down to stroke him. ‘He…he’s so sweet.’
    ‘He’s a Jack Russell terrier and perfect for ratting.’
    ‘Rats,’ her mother squeaked. ‘Oh, blimey.’
    ‘There are rats in London – in fact, probably more than around here. Now take your things off and make yourself at home while I see to the horse. I expect you’re dying for a cup of tea so you can put the kettle on the range to boil.’
    ‘Why the oil lamps? Ain’t you got electricity?’
    ‘No, but at least I’ve got running water.’
    The journey had seemed to go on for ever, and now unable to hold it any longer, Ellen said, ‘I…I need the toilet.’
    ‘Go through the scullery and you’ll find it outside the back door,’ Gertie told her.
    Ellen barely took in the deep sink and draining board as she passed through the scullery. The wooden door to the outside toilet squeaked, but there was no light so she left it open, managing in the gloom as she perched on such a funny seat.
    It was strange here, so quiet, but sort of nice too, and Ellen thought she might like living in the country.
    When Gertie marched outside again, the dog at her heels, Hilda took a look around the room. The ceiling was low, crossed with heavy, dark beams, the room dominated by a huge, black cooking range. A small, scruffy wooden table stood in the centre, and on each side of the range she saw wing-back chairs, one with horsehair stuffing poking through the upholstery. Other than that there was a dresser, the shelves packed with a mishmash of china.
    Gertie was right, this place wasn’t much, but nevertheless Hilda was charmed by the cosy atmosphere. Gertie had done her best, the tiny, deep-set,lead-paned window dressed with chintz curtains, the wide sill sporting a jug of dried flowers. Hilda found herself sniffing the air, her mouth salivating at the rich aroma of beef casserole.
    ‘It…it’s a funny toilet,’ Ellen said as she came back inside. ‘There isn’t a…a proper seat, just a long wooden bench with…with a hole in it.’
    ‘I never thought I’d see the day when I thought our little house was luxurious, but compared to this…’ Hilda had to pause, a lump in her throat. There was no house now, her home just a pile of rubble. Hilda managed to swallow her emotions. They were here now, safe,