" But we’re Sukie’s brother and sister,’ I protested. ‘You’re supposed to be her friend!’
Queenie looked surprised. ‘Me? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You’ve written to…’ I trailed off hopelessly. There was no point in arguing any more. Queenie has made up her mind.
‘Well, I don’t trust Esther Jenkins,’ I muttered, as much to myself as anyone. ‘And I bet she’ll not be as quick doing the deliveries, either.’
Queenie gave me a withering look. ‘For your information, Esther’s moved house, city and country more times than you’ve had hot dinners. I don’t think she’d manage it again. At least you two have each other.’
Glancing at Cliff, all I felt was more worry, not less. I hadn’t got the hang of this ‘big sister’ lark – you only had to look at Cliff’s split lip to see my attempt at looking after him wasn’t exactly going well.
‘All Esther’s anger, all that bluster – it’s just a front.’ Queenie went on. ‘Behind it she’s a smashing girl. You need to give her a chance.’
‘She said horrible things about my sister!’ I insisted, though I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Because I’d started the fight, hadn’t I? I’d been the angry one – Esther had almost tried to apologise.
Queenie stopped. ‘You’ve heard of the Kindertransport, have you?’
‘Some Jewish kids joined our school from Europe,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see what –’
‘Esther was one of them,’ Queenie interrupted. ‘Not at your school but another one in London. She’s a Jewish refugee.’
‘Well, she as good as called Sukie a spy!’ I pointed out.
Queenie ignored my comment. ‘Esther’s had a terrible time of it. Everyone she loves has either died or disappeared, or failing that, lives in another country. Imagine what that feels like, can you?’
I swallowed miserably. The thing was I could imagine it – bits of it, anyway – and I felt ashamed, which didn’t improve my temper.
‘That doesn’t excuse what she did to Cliff’s lip,’ I mumbled, though really I was cross with myself. After what I’d overheard about kosher meat, I should have realised she was a Kindertransport child. But I didn’t think, did I? Instead, I’d grabbed her by the hair.
What sort of person was I turning into to be so bitter? So angry?
Queenie set off walking again. ‘That lip’ll heal in no time. Now hurry up and stop dawdling.’
Glancing sideways at Cliff, I felt a funny sensation in my chest. His lip looked horrid now but he would recover – Queenie was right. At least he was here, my living, breathing, sticky-handed brother. I was pretty lucky, all things considered. "

― Emma Carroll , Letters from the Lighthouse: ‘THE QUEEN OF HISTORICAL FICTION’ Guardian