An Orphan’s Wish: The new, most heartwarming of christmas novels you will read in 2018

‘How d’ya know that?’

‘I saw a photo of his German pa in his uniform, didn’t I?’ A satisfied smirk curled her lips. ‘I might not be a clever clogs but I know a swastika when I see one. His jacket was full of ’em. I was the only one who dared speak out and got the sack for me trouble.’

‘Phew!’ The youth blew his cheeks out. ‘You never know what goes on in these places, do you?’

The pair padded up the main staircase in their rubber-soled shoes.

‘Wot’s that room?’ He nodded towards an open door.

‘Where the kids paint.’

He pushed it open with his foot and looked around at the childish paintings pinned on the walls.

‘I always fancied doing a bit of paintin’ meself,’ he said, ‘but never got the chance.’

‘Maybe you would if you hadn’t been expelled so many times.’

He grinned, then took a piece of thin paper from his pocket and poked some tobacco into it. With a practised movement he rolled it and licked the ends together with a large red tongue, and stuck it between his heavy lips.

‘I don’t think you ought to do that,’ the girl said, her expression suddenly anxious. ‘Someone might smell it and think the place is on fire. And we’ll be caught and punished.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ He struck a match and lit it.

‘I mean it, Billy. Put it out. It’s too dangerous.’ She blinked and waved the smoke away from her face.

‘Oh, awright. Just give me a few puffs.’ He inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of smoke.

‘Billy …’

‘Stop nagging, Hil, for Chrissakes.’ He took one more drag, gave the roll-up a cursory stub on the edge of the Belfast sink, and tossed the still-glowing stub into the wastepaper basket.

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_5460c34e-3774-58ed-a640-ff0cc842a495)

Lana struggled to wake up. Bells. The village church bells. She cocked her head to listen, then threw back the covers and leapt out of bed.

There it was again. Impossible. Mr Churchill had ordered all church bells to stop unless … dear God, not the invasion! She flew to the window and saw two fire engines screaming past in the opposite direction to the village – they were headed for Bingham Hall. Dear Lord, had the Germans bombed an orphanage this time? Innocent sleeping children and those who looked after them? Priscilla, Peter, that nice-sounding Maxine Taylor.

Feeling sick she swiftly dressed and hammered on Janice’s door. No answer. She opened it. Janice was snoring away as usual. Should she wake her? They would need all the help they could get. She shook the woman’s shoulder.

‘Janice! Wake up! There’s a fire at the orphanage. I’ve just seen the fire engines.’

The sleeping figure moved a fraction.

‘Janice! There’s a fire at Bingham Hall.’

‘What? What are you …?’ Janice sat up, her eyes wide.

‘I’m going to see if I can help. Will you come with me?’

‘You’re ready. You go and I’ll follow.’

Lana ran, her long legs flying as she drew level with others who must have heard the alarm. A dull pain already throbbed in her side. By the time she reached the drive of Bingham Hall she had to stop and catch her breath or she’d never make it up the slope. She looked towards the house and saw flames shooting into the night sky.

But there’d been no siren. No explosion. No bomb. She was sure she’d have heard it if there had.

Eyes watering from the smoke already wafting towards her, Lana hurried up the hill to where a crowd of people and children had already gathered, their faces lifted towards the sky, which was an eerie red. She was near enough now to hear the snapping and cracking of the blaze. Children screamed and cried over shouting adults. Her eyes began to sting badly and her nose filled with smoke. Firemen were pointing their hoses onto the east side of the building where the flames had taken hold, the water pouring in jets onto the building.

She spotted a woman who was urging a group of youngsters further away. Lana stumbled towards her in the dark, and tapped her on the shoulder. The woman whirled round and Lana saw it was the teacher she’d spoken to at the May Day event.

‘What a disaster.’ Dolores Honeywell’s face was blotchy and her eyes were running from the smoke.

‘What can I do?’

‘Keep an eye on these kids while I try to find out if the children are all here.’

Before Lana could answer, Dolores had rushed towards the group of firemen.

‘Do you know if everyone’s out of the building?’ Lana asked an older boy.

‘No telling,’ he answered, his streaming eyes fixed on Bingham Hall.

She couldn’t blame him. He was watching his home go up in smoke.

‘What’s your name?’

He turned. ‘Alan.’

‘Alan, can I trust you to keep these boys in check? I’m the new headmistress at the village school.’

The boy nodded.

The boys, eight of them, she counted, were all talking and pointing. One was crying.

‘Alan’s going to look after you for a few minutes,’ she told them. ‘Please wait here with him until I or one of the other grown-ups come back. Do not leave this spot. You’ll be in the way of the firemen who are trying to do their job.’ She gave as stern a look as she dared without frightening them any further. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ they chorused.

The little boy who was crying stopped and looked at her with fearful eyes.

These innocent children. As if the war and bombing wasn’t bad enough. She put her arm around him.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Alan is here to look after you.’ The others began talking and she stopped them with her hand in the air. ‘And if Alan tells you to move somewhere else for safety, you are to obey him. Is that clear?’

They nodded. She could only pray that Alan would keep them in order as she made her way, running and stumbling over the uneven grass towards Bingham Hall.

She had to speak to one of the firemen. Find out what was happening. If anyone … Dear God, don’t let there be anyone still trapped.

‘Excuse me,’ she said to the nearest fireman who was concentrating on pointing his hose on another fire that had taken hold in a different spot.