Molly Green - An Orphan in the Snow - The heart-warming saga you need to read this year

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © HarperCollins 2017

Cover photography © Jeff Cottenden 2017

Cover design © Charlotte Abrams-Simpson 2017

Molly Green asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008238940

Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008238957

Version: 2018-01-23

To my dear friend June who was an evacuee in the Second World War, although nothing she experienced has found its way into this novel.

To all Dr Barnardo’s orphans during the Second World War who were the inspiration for this series.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Before …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

After …

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading…

About the Author

About the Publisher

Cambridgeshire, 1936

June raced home from the last class of the day, wanting to make sure the bedroom she shared with her younger sister Clara was free so she could do her homework in peace. Good, she thought as she opened the front door. She could hear Clara downstairs talking to their mother.

‘Mum, I’m home,’ June called as she pulled off her coat and hat and hung them on a hook in the narrow hallway. She put her head in the kitchen door.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, June, and a piece of sponge?’ Her mother began to cut a slice from the cake. ‘I’ve just taken it out of the oven.’

‘I’ll come down in a bit. I’ve got two lots of homework, and we’ve got an English test tomorrow.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Where’s Dad?’

A shadow crossed her mother’s face. ‘He won’t be here yet. He’s up at the stadium.’

June blew out her cheeks in relief as she ran up the stairs, two at a time, to her room. She settled at the small table under the window, and had finally worked out how to solve the mathematics problem when she heard her sister flying up the stairs and footsteps thundering behind – her father’s. June’s heart pounded as she threw down her pencil and rushed to the door.

‘Don’t, Daddy! Don’t hit me!’ Clara screamed as she tried to kick out to escape their father’s powerful arms. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Leave her alone!’ June used every ounce of her strength to wrench her sister away from her father’s grasp. What little thing had Clara done this time to make her father so angry?

‘Stop interfering, you!’

For a split second June was caught by his maddened eyes. She smelled the beer on his breath as he made to snatch Clara back. He cursed as Clara’s foot caught him on the shin. June rushed towards her father, her hand up ready to hit him. Clara ducked out of his way and turned to run but she slipped on the rug, losing her balance. June tried to grab her but her hand clutched air. She could only stand frozen in horror as Clara slowly fell backwards down the stairs.

She didn’t know if it was she or her younger sister who screamed.

Liverpool, December 1941

The train to Liverpool was nine hours late pulling out of Euston Station. When it finally departed, at five minutes to ten at night, it was to a cacophony of clanking and shouting, belching steam, and conductors constantly blowing their whistles. June stuck her head out of the nearest grimy window to catch the last glimpse of her aunt running along the platform. She kept up for a few seconds, her handkerchief a small white flag, but as the train gathered speed she fell back and her outline faded into the mist. Dearest Aunt Ada. June was going to miss her.

June drew back her head and took in a deep breath. She’d done it. Even though the train had been delayed for such an interminable time, causing her to spend hours sitting on the stone floor of Euston Station because there were no available seats, June could not suppress her joy. She’d been pressed up like a bookend against one of a small group of WAAFs who chatted nonstop whilst she waited, though thankfully a soldier had given up his seat for her aunt. And now she was on her way up north. Against all odds.

She only hoped that Liverpool was far enough away from London that her father wouldn’t come after her. She’d been brave enough not to give him the address; she hadn’t even told him the village. ‘Somewhere near Liverpool,’ she’d said vaguely. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m there.’

Her heart beat a little faster as her father’s words rang in her ears: ‘All of you have left me now. First Stella, then Clara …’ He’d bowed his head as he uttered Clara’s name and for a second or two she thought there might be some sign of remorse reflected in his eyes. ‘Then your mother,’ he’d carried on, ‘and now you .’ He’d looked up slyly and she saw then that his eyes were as cold and grey as concrete.