It was a sunny day in early summer. Paddington Station was jammed with
people and bristling with activity. Britain and Germany were at war, and many
children in London were being sent to stay in inland towns and villages, away
from the bombings. Among them was Randolph Pearce, seven years old.
Randolph lived with his mother in Kensington Gardens. His father was a
first lieutenant in the Royal Armoured Corps, stationed somewhere in North
Africa.
Florence Pearce led her son through the crowded waiting room and onto the
train that would take him to West Northrup, where he would live with his
Uncle Edward and Aunt Beatrice. She helped Randolph find a seat and made
sure that his belongings were in order. She kissed his cheek, and for a long
moment looked at him- as though memorizing his face. Then she was gone.
Randolph peered through the window to find her and wave, but the train was
already moving. His journey had begun.
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