contained. âNow let me see, Liza, the oldest is nearly seventeen. A girl of her background should have been put into service years ago. You say she is useful around the house?â
âI couldnât manage without her.â
âShe will have to go to the workhouse,â Mrs Llewellyn-Jones declared officiously, âbut given your recommendation and the shortage of domestics I doubt sheâll be there long. I could probably find a place for her myself.â
âShe wants to be a nurse.â
âA laudable ambition, but hardly a feasible one for the daughter of an East End docker. I see thereâs a fourteen-year- old too.â
âWho has already completed her matriculation certificate. She will be leaving school at Christmas.â
âI see no reason for her to remain there if she has already sat her examinations. She will go to Church Village Homes, but again, hopefully not for long. These days more and more households are prepared to put in the effort required to train young girls. I canât overemphasise the shortage of domestics, but then you must be aware of that, having to take an unmarried mother.â She frowned as she turned back to the file. âThat leaves a girl of eleven who will also go to Church Village and a nine-year-old for Maesycoed Homes.â
âI think given the circumstances we could bend the rules and send them to the same home, Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, donât you?â Mr Williams ventured timorously.
âBend the rules for one and you find yourself having to do it for all, Mr Williams. The regulations on age are quite specific. Infants from six weeks to three years to be housed in J ward in the workhouse, three to ten years, Maesycoed Orphanage, ten to sixteenâ years, Church Village Homes and sixteen plus, back to the workhouse.â
âBut Church Village is miles from Maesycoed. Theyâd never see one another, or the oldest in the workhouse. They lost their mother in the blitz, and now their father has made the supreme sacrifice.â
âAs have the fathers of many other children. Several of whom have siblings in institutions other than the one they are accommodated in.â
âHave you already told the girls that their father has been killed?â Bethan asked suddenly.
âOf course, as soon as we came in. We wanted them packed and ready to move into the homes.â
âThereâs no need for them to go anywhere at this hour.â
âBut youâre no longer getting paid to keep them. Youâre out of pocket as it is.â
âIâm more concerned about the girls than my pocket.â
âThe sensible housewife puts practical considerations first in a time of national emergency. You have more than enough to do with full-time nursing, the other evacuees, your own children, and worry over poor Andrew. Every time I think of a fine doctor like him being held prisoner by those barbarians I want to go over there and tackle Adolf Hitler myself.â
âAt least heâs alive.â
âIâm glad you can take comfort in that thought. His poor mother is suffering dreadfully. I doubt sheâs had a nightâs sleep since Dunkirk.â
Setting Rachel down, Bethan lifted Eddie in her arms and rose to her feet. Exhausted after a long, hard day, she couldnât trust herself to keep her temper if she remained in the same room as Mrs Llewellyn-Jones a moment longer. âIâm sure the parish can have no objection to my keeping the girls for the time being. After all theyâve been with me for two years.â
âBut youâll receive no payment.â
âThey are welcome to stay as my guests until something better than the workhouse and orphanage can be arranged.â
âI have to warn you that the parish wonât even cover your expenses.â
âI wouldnât expect it to.â
âYou donât understand. Itâs not just a question of the girls,