Lamplight on the Thames

by Pamela Evans

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

When tragedy strikes two childhood sweethearts, they must look to their hearts to find true happiness... A dramatic story of bitter rivalry and forbidden love, Pam Evans' London saga, Lamplight on the Thames, is sure to appeal to fans of Kitty Neale, Katie Flynn and Kate Thompson. Since the end of the war, when Bob Brown had taken over the car workshop in London, Frank Bennett had been trying to get his hands on it. An East-Ender made good, Frank was determined to get the prime site - whatever the cost. As children, Bob's daughter Bella and Frank's son Dezi became unlikely friends, though both families disapproved. Years later, their love blossomed, and it seemed that nothing, not even the feud between their fathers, could prevent their marriage. Until Bob's tragic death and his dying request to Bella... What Amazon readers are saying about Lamplight on the Thames : ' Loved this book. It was the first time I had read anything by Pam Evans but won't be the last. A super story, couldn't put it down ' 'Another great book by Pamela Evans, I really enjoyed it'

Release date: November 17, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 480

Sample

Saturday tea-time was Bella Brown’s favourite time of the week. Its special blend of homeliness and holiday pervaded the parlour in a warm, enveloping tide which imbued her with a sense of belonging at number nine Napley Road, Fulworth-on-Thames, West London.

Such was the case one Saturday in July 1944 when she was seated at the tea-table with her sister Pearl, their cousins Trevor and Donald, and the boys’ parents, Violet and Wilfred Brown, with whom Bella and Pearl had lived since their mother’s death four years ago.

Insinuating rays of sunlight crept patchily across the worn wallpaper and the semi-circular wireless set resting on top of the mahogany sideboard, and beamed a pale light on to the cluttered mantelpiece. There was a round oak clock, a china crinoline lady, a Toby jug, some framed photographs, two brass ashtrays and an opened packet of Players Weights, all coated with a film of debris dust which clung persistently in times of enemy activity. An ageing mirror hung over the unlit hearth and on the window sill sat Tiddles, the tabby cat, his huge yellow eyes fixed on the family in a mixture of hope and disdain.

Their lively conversation was halted only by the appearance of one of Vi’s special Saturday teas: tinned pilchards, salad and bread and butter, with rock cakes to follow, was no small treat after the weekday regime of bread and dripping.

Thoughts of the evening ahead lapped pleasantly over Bella. They might listen to the wireless, or play a game of cards, or perhaps even go to the cinema with Auntie Vi while Uncle Wilf went to the pub or to ARP duty. And later would come the highlight of the week – chips in newspaper, if they could find a fish shop that was frying. And the proceedings were further enhanced by the blissful anticipation of another holiday tomorrow, though Sunday, dimmed by the shadow of workaday Monday, never held quite the same magic.

All of this was with Mr Hitler permitting, of course, though the doodlebugs didn’t seem to cause quite the same disruption as the air raids earlier in the war. Mainly because the alert was in force so often many people only dived for cover if in immediate danger and ignored it otherwise. Auntie Vi said that the war would soon be over now that there had been a breakthrough from the Normandy beachhead.

‘Do yer want that last bit of tomater, Bel?’ asked twelve-year-old Donald, his blue eyes glinting hopefully in his freckled face. ‘ ’Cos if yer don’t, bags I first claim.’

Bella was jolted back to the present. Anyone slow to finish invited persuasion, bribery or even robbery, especially when a few rare slivers of tomato graced the plate. She looked uncertainly at her cousin who was smiling seraphically, his normally wild ginger hair combed into place in deference to the mealtime. He was a natural extrovert, his many pranks a source of amusement to the whole family. ‘Oh, orlright then, you can ’ave it,’ she said.

But Auntie, a staunch upholder of justice, intervened firmly. ‘No, Bella luv, you eat it. ’E’s ’ad ’is.’

The girl’s conscience was nudged, however, by the memory of Donald’s recent generosity with some aniseed balls, and she decided on a compromise. ‘ ’Ere yer are then, you can ’ave arf.’ And she sliced the coveted morsel in two and slipped half on to his plate. The light caught her profile, the thirteen-year-old’s indeterminate features beginning to firm with incipient womanhood, long dark lashes fringing rich brown eyes just a shade or two lighter than the raven hair tumbling wavily to her shoulders.

‘Yer a greedy pig, Donald,’ taunted her cousin Trevor who was the same age as Bella. An angry flush suffused his thin face. ‘Yer oughta be ashamed of yerself takin’ the food from someone’s plate.’ He was the serious one and had a slightly authoritarian attitude towards his brother.

‘It was only a bloomin’ bit of tomater, mate, not ’er rations for the week,’ said Donald, grinning wickedly and showing no signs of remorse.

‘Just the same yer shouldn’t . . .’ Trevor began.

‘Boys!’ Auntie’s voice cracked through the room like a whip, producing immediate silence. ‘If Bella wants to give ’er food away that’s up to ’er but I won’t ’ave bickerin’ at the table. Pack it in or you’ll be up those stairs and into bed so fast yer feet won’t touch the ground! And the gels can ’ave your share of the rock cakes.’

A death threat couldn’t have been more effective, and with order restored Auntie collected the plates and took them to the kitchen. The boys’ banter and subsequent admonishment were an integral part of family dialogue and by the time she returned, a few minutes later, all was outwardly calm. But it was at that moment that Bella detected subtle undertones in the atmosphere which, on reflection, had been present all day. There was nothing she could put her finger on, but she felt darkness lurking beyond the levity.

She studied her aunt for a clue, since something must have created the sensation of foreboding. But Auntie seemed to be quite normal and was pouring tea from a large brown pot whilst keeping a shrewd eye on the rock cakes which were disappearing faster than butter on crumpets.

She was a stout woman with wild ginger hair which she made ineffectual attempts to control with kirby grips. Lively blue eyes dominated her round, freckled face which wore a permanently pleasant expression by virtue of the fact that her wide mouth turned up slightly at the corners. Her short-sleeved cotton dress was topped by a wraparound floral apron and displayed strong freckled arms. A forthright person, she never bore grudges and was not a creature of moods. As a girl she had been in service as a kitchen maid but was now employed by the school meals service as a cook, something for which she was eminently suited since she was never happier than when at the oven, even in these times of desperate shortages. Bella thought she was about thirty-two, which was six years younger than Uncle Wilf. To Bella she represented integrity and stability and the girl loved her dearly.

‘Gawd, Vi, is this washin’ up water?’ asked Uncle Wilf, making a face and setting his tea cup down on the saucer. ‘It’s ’orrible.’

‘You’d ’ave cause to complain if it was, mate,’ snorted Vi, her snub nose twitching slightly. ‘We’re low on tea, so drink it and look ’appy – there’s thousands worse orf.’ Her unusually abrasive tone confirmed Bella’s premonition. Auntie had something on her mind and it wasn’t good news.

The bombshell came when everyone had finished eating and the spirit of Saturday was destroyed forever, or so it seemed to Bella at the time: the children were to be evacuated to the country because of the proximity of the flying bomb attacks. They were to catch the train to Dorset in the morning. It was all organised. Auntie had arranged it with a friend from work and had said nothing until it was absolutely necessary so as not to spoil their day.

Some children might have loved the idea, but the Browns had had a miserable evacuation in 1940 so the news was greeted with gloom and accusations.

‘You said we’d never ’ave to go again, after last time,’ reproached Trevor, his greasy brown hair flopping limply on to his brow.

‘Yeah, you promised,’ agreed Donald, this unwanted development uniting him with his brother against their parents.

‘Mebbe I did, but now we’ve got no choice but to send yer. It won’t be for long and you’ll enjoy it once yer get there.’ A strawberry flush suffused Vi’s face and neck and her voice wobbled slightly.

‘I ain’t goin’,’ announced Donald, rebellion gleaming in his eyes. ‘I don’t wanna live with people we don’t know in some ’orrible country place.’

But now his father intervened. ‘You’ll do as yer told, me lad.’ His pale factory complexion was smudged with a dark shaving shadow. A stockily built man, he had thinning hair and grey eyes set in a square face whose abundant hollows and lines produced an appearance of toughness. He wore blue serge trousers fastened to braces which stretched over a white shirt from which the collar had been removed. He was not a hard man despite his normally brusque manner, but the emotion of the moment lent an even gruffer edge to his tone. ‘We’re doing what’s best for yer, so no more of yer lip.’

Bella had turned pale during all this and twelve-year-old Pearl had burst into tears. ‘I don’t wanna go away, Bel,’ she sobbed, staring miserably at her sister with wet blue eyes.

Acutely aware of her powerlessness over the situation and her duty to her sister to remain strong, Bella rested her slender hand on Pearl’s arm in a comforting gesture. ‘We’ll be orlright, now don’t you make a fuss or you’ll upset Auntie,’ she said.

Auntie Vi lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Gawd Almighty, you’re goin’ to the country, not to the bloomin’ front line.’ She drained her teacup and Bella noticed that her hand was trembling. The young girl heard the pain in her aunt’s voice as she said, with forced firmness, ‘You’ve gotta go, kids, so make the best of it and ’elp me by packin’ yer things.’ Into the sad, resigned silence her next words seemed to imprint themselves indelibly on Bella’s memory: ‘And chin up, troops, you’re Browns remember, and we don’t let things get us down.’

Upstairs in the girls’ shared bedroom, Pearl’s tears had turned to tantrums, which was usual when things weren’t going her way.

‘If Dad was ’ere, he wouldn’t send us away. I ’ate Auntie Vi,’ she said, sitting mournfully on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands.

Bella sighed. Pearl could be very tiring. ‘You shouldn’t say that about ’er. She’s been good to us. And it ain’t ’er fault. The government is tellin’ people to send children away. I ’eard it on the wireless.’

But Pearl’s self-pity was fathomless when she was in this mood. She threw herself dramatically on the bed face downward and punched the pillow. ‘And what’ll ’appen to us if this ’ouse is bombed with them in it, like what ’appened to Mum? They’ll put us in an ’ome then ’til Dad gets back,’ came her muffled lament.

Fear shot through Bella in electric waves. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she snapped, blocking the dreadful memories from her mind. ‘That won’t ’appen again.’

‘ ’Ow do yer know?’

‘I’ve got faith that it won’t,’ she said firmly.

But no matter how brave Bella managed to sound to Pearl, she herself felt sick with worry. Not about going to the country, but about what might happen while they were away.

She glanced around the room with the nostalgia born of imminent departure. It was situated at the back of the little Victorian house overlooking rows of narrow gardens and the rear of another tightly packed terrace. Each house in Napley Road had a parlour, a best room and kitchen downstairs, and three small bedrooms upstairs. The residents were more fortunate than many in the surrounding streets of this shabby part of Fulworth in that they had the benefit of a bathroom.

The room was sparsely furnished but spotlessly clean. Two single beds, covered with well-used pink and white damask bedspreads, stood on a polished linoleum floor along with a light oak utility wardrobe and chest of drawers. Diagonally set across the latter was a lace cover on which stood two mother-of-pearl brush and comb sets which had been given to the girls by their mother before the war.

‘Better start packing,’ suggested Bella, removing some clothes from a drawer and laying them on her bed.

‘I ain’t doin’ mine yet, there’s plenty o’ time,’ said Pearl, sitting up now and looking gloomily at Bella. From the next room came the sound of the boys’ sparring – the thud and slither of their bodies against the wall as they wrestled, accompanied by roars of laughter. High spirits never deserted them for long. ‘Sounds like they’re ’avin’ fun in there, I’m gonna see what they’re doin’.’

Because Pearl needed regular reminders not to be selfish, Bella said, ‘Well, don’t leave yer packin’ to me or Auntie. You must do it yerself.’ The year that separated Bella and her sister often felt like a generation, since Pearl was young for her years and Bella surprisingly mature. Most of the time Bella took the supervisory role she had inherited from their mother in her stride, but occasionally it was a burden for one so young.

‘I am gonna do it meself,’ said Pearl, flushing.

Bella winced guiltily since she was fond of Pearl, in spite of everything, and knew that she needed her elder sister right now. The light from the window fell across Pearl’s small, thin body and Bella was reminded that although her sister might not be bright, she was certainly pretty. Her cornflower-blue eyes were set in a doll-like face with a dear little nose, lips so pink and shapely they might have been painted on, and golden curls framing it.

‘Just make sure yer do,’ said Bella severely, then added in a softer tone, ‘Go on then, orf yer go.’

Watching her depart, her scrawny shape clad in a white blouse that Auntie had made from an old bedsheet and a dirndl skirt that had once been a summer dress of Bella’s, the older girl sensed that her sister’s combination of petulance and prettiness somehow made her vulnerable, though she didn’t know why. Within minutes of her going, shrieks of laughter erupted from the next room. Auntie was right: the Browns might not be rich but they were certainly resilient.

Welcoming the rare solitude Bella sat on her bed and closed her eyes, resting her fingers against her temples in an attempt to erase the feeling of déjà vu that engulfed her. But the situation felt identical to that other time in 1940. She was filled with trepidation but admonished herself firmly. If she was to be able to reassure Pearl, she must maintain her own confidence.

But the room was suddenly so dear it brought tears to her eyes. She registered as though for the last time the fresh scent of starched cotton sheets and floor polish, the whiff of carbolic soap drifting from the bathroom. Anger eliminated sentiment. Why did people have to die and families be separated just because those in power couldn’t get things right?

She crossed the narrow landing to the bathroom and washed her hands and face, her skin smarting from the harshness of the soap. It was a small room with brown stains on the yellowing white bath, a cracked handbasin and a toilet with a long chain with a ball on the end. Floorboards peeped though the brown linoleum and a tarnished mirror hung over the sink. Dipping her toothbrush into the tin of toothpowder she brushed her teeth in front of the mirror. Large luminous eyes stared back at her from an olive-skinned, heart-shaped face. After rinsing her mouth she studied its shape which was wider than Pearl’s, with a deep bow in the upper lip. Like her mother her nose was straight and finely cut; Bella was proud to have inherited her dark good looks.

The door handle rattled. ‘Who’s in there?’ called her uncle.

‘It’s me, Bella.’

‘ ’Urry up, duck, I’m desperate.’

‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she said, aware of a recent, but increasingly familiar, longing for privacy.

Back in the bedroom she could hear the distant sound of Auntie and Uncle talking above the drone of the wireless, and the boisterous cries of Pearl and the boys sliding down the banisters. Thuds and bumps and excited squeals echoed through the house, filling Bella with a curious sense of exclusion. She felt neither child nor woman, increasingly at the mercy of curious and conflicting emotions. There was the passionate longing for escape from the family, whilst loving them and wanting the security of home, too. There were, shamefully, dark, bitter-sweet sensations which seemed wrong in a decent girl like herself. There had been tears, too, and she’d never been a weeper. Strange to think that this time next year she would be working and paying her own way. But right now she needed to get out of the house for a while, to breathe freely, get her thoughts in order and prepare herself for the parting.

‘I’m just going round the corner to say ta-ta to my friend Joan, Auntie,’ she announced a few minutes later. ‘I’ll finish me packin’ when I get back. Shan’t be long.’

‘Orlright, luv, but if the siren goes makes sure you take cover.’

‘Yes, Auntie. Ta-ta.’

‘Ta-ta, luv.’

Violet Brown stood anxiously by the window, watching Bella hurry down the street. She had to be careful not to be overprotective towards the children during these dangerous times. She sent them to school and let them go out because life had to go on, but she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until Bella was safely home again. Still, Bella was growing up, she needed a degree of independence now. This time tomorrow they’d all be in the safety of the country, Vi thought, but drew little consolation from the thought.

How callous they must think her to send them away again. But what choice did she and Wilf have? It wasn’t right to leave their young lives at risk. And it surely wouldn’t be so bad for them again. Last time their homesickness had been made all the more acute by an insensitive foster mother, blind to the extent of their suffering. Their premature return, immediately the raids began to ease off, had been precipitated by a letter from the aforementioned lady complaining about the children’s disgusting habits, not least the fact that Donald had become an eight-year-old bedwetter. Never again, Violet had vowed in the emotion of their homecoming. Sorry kids, she thought to herself now.

Conscious of the fact that the girls would, quite naturally, be questioning their future security, Violet’s thoughts turned to their mother, Phyllis, the late wife of Wilf’s younger brother Bob. Drawn together by the brothers’ closeness, Violet and Phyllis had become firm friends. The two couples had lived in close proximity to each other, and as the children had been born within a short time span they had always been more like sisters and brothers than cousins.

When, back in the thirties, Bob had lost his job in vehicle maintenance at the docks and joined the dole queue, Violet and Wilf had put their fireside and food at his and his family’s disposal, for Violet had personal experience of hardship and she knew of its demoralising effect. The daughter of an unskilled dockworker, she had been raised in the East End in abject poverty. When she had met Wilf, at a dance at the Hammersmith Palais, and later married him, it had been a blessed relief to move across London to his slightly more genteel patch.

With the outbreak of war, Bob’s mechanical skills had once more been in demand and he’d found employment at a small car repair workshop in Fulworth High Street, repairing and servicing essential vehicles. Wilf, who was a welder, had gone on to factory war work, Violet had put her culinary talents to good use at the school, and Phyllis had taken a job as a domestic assistant at the hospital. Apart from missing the evacuated children dreadfully, life had been tolerable for them all until one night in September 1940 when Bob had arrived at Violet’s door, ashen-faced and inconsolable. His home, with his wife in it, had received a direct hit while he had been out on ARP duty. Even now Violet couldn’t remember that night without wanting to break into sobs as Bob had done then. Nor could she recall him breaking the news to the girls without the same thing happening.

She had gone to Somerset with Bob to give him moral support. Pearl had succumbed to immediate hysterics on hearing the news, whilst Bella had turned scarlet, then chalk white, and had busied herself in calming her sister. She still hadn’t found relief in tears when Violet and Bob had returned to London. But several weeks later Trevor had mentioned, in a letter, that Bella had been in trouble with their foster mother for crying for a whole day.

Shortly after that they had all come home to number nine where Violet loved the girls as if they were her own. When their father had eventually been called up into the REME, Violet had thanked God that Wilf’s age and pierced ear drum would keep him at home to support her in her task of maintaining a stable family life.

Outwardly Violet favoured neither girl, but in her heart she had an especially soft spot for Bella. Whilst Pearl sought favour through her cherubic looks, Bella, whose dark nascent beauty was not yet fully apparent, earned her aunt’s affection through her strength of character which was quite astonishing for one so young. Soon she would blossom into a stunningly beautiful woman like her mother, but right now the poor child was beset by the agonies of adolescence.

Watching her turn the corner and pass out of sight, Violet’s heart lurched. Bella might very well be going to her friend’s house, just around the corner, but after that she might be tempted to head for the river which she had loved passionately since she was a small child. Out of concern for her aunt’s peace of mind she would not mention this when leaving the house for raids in that direction had been increasingly frequent lately.

Violet’s glance scanned the street scene on this summer afternoon. Front doors were open and women stood gossiping on their paths. Groups of men chatted in the smutty street, while the few unevacuated children played hopscotch and hide-and-seek as exuberantly as ever. People looked shabby and run down. It had been a long war. She turned away and breathed deeply to quell her fears. Bella was a sensible girl, she’d not expose herself to danger unnecessarily.

Bella’s aunt was right. After briefly visiting her friend, Joan Willis, the girl continued through the narrow streets past endless reddish-brown brick terraces with slate-grey roofs, separated from the pavement by gardens measuring no more than two yards in depth. Small, dusty shops broke the monotony – a newsagent’s, a shoe mender’s, a chemist’s, a butcher’s with an empty window – between gaps in the landscape accommodating only piles of rubble. Many of the houses had blown-out windows covered by sacking or board.

Skirting the allotments she went under the railway bridge displaying a poster which warned: DON’T TAKE THE SQUANDER BUG WHEN YOU GO SHOPPING. Bella’s throat was dry from the soot in the air, but she scarcely noticed it in her haste to reach the river. She was so used to the characteristic street smells of industrial Fulworth she barely noticed the lingering scent of yeast from the bakery, steam from the laundry, acidic chemicals from the print works and the ever pungent smell of hops from the brewery.

She crossed the High Street, a wide shopping promenade with cinemas, pubs, dance halls and a variety theatre. As she took a side turning the street scene changed, war-torn still but becoming noticeably more salubrious. Luxuriant trees overhung lamp posts in the wider avenues of Upper Fulworth where laburnum-gardened semis and detached houses replaced the terraces. There were graceful Georgian squares with lawns and chestnut trees, playing fields with cricket pitches and tennis courts, and Fulworth Green with its glorious oaks and duckpond. Excitement speeded Bella’s step as the earthy smell of the river grew stronger. She took a narrow lane and there lay the Thames, gleaming in the sunlight. Distantly downstream lay Chiswick and the city, upstream was pretty Strand-on-the-Green nestling below Kew Bridge.

Situated north of the river as it was, Fulworth was an area of many different faces. Passing through the elegant residential area, Bella now found herself in a thriving commercial stretch of the river. Men were unloading barges at the wharf on the opposite bank where angular factory buildings rose darkly to the sky, whilst boat repairs were in progress at the boatyard this side. Grimy tug boats hauled loaded lighters up and down stream, billowing clouds of steam from their funnels, and a police launch chugged by on its regular patrol. Wartime meant working weekends for many people.

Continuing along the river’s edge past the ancient Seagull Inn, Bella came to one of the most beautiful riverside promenades for miles. Here, abundant willows and silver birches, lilac trees and banks of wild flowers, overhung the river wall. Backing on to the promenade were large gracious residences with names like Riverview and Tides Reach. Bella remembered a time before the war when the lamp posts along here had touched the dark waters with gold at night. That had been in another, simpler life when she and Pearl might come here some summer evenings for a stroll with their parents before pausing at one of the quaint pubs where their father would buy them lemonade to drink in the gardens.

Pausing by her favourite of all these houses, Bella stood and stared. Ivy House was a three-storey redbrick property with balconies to the upper rooms. The eponymous ivy covered much of its walls, and stone steps led up to an oak door with a large brass doorknocker. It was one of those houses that induced curiosity. Who lived there? What was it like inside? Different to anything she had ever seen, that was certain.

She turned back to the river and stared at its dark waters, rippling with compulsive life force. To Bella the river was much more than just a strip of water on which to transport goods, or to paddle in. It was a living thing with its own personality and sudden changes of mood. Smoky industrial areas surrendered instantly to lush meadows with a mere bend in its course as it murmured and whispered on its journey from source to sea and back again in the continuous cycle. It changed with the weather and the tide. At the moment it shimmered in the sunlight, but she had seen it bubble in a storm. Now, at high tide, it lapped confidently against the green, slimy wall, but at low tide it pawed helplessly at the mud. And it was always there. Buildings were demolished on its banks, boats were destroyed on its waters, but the river remained. To Bella, distressed by the thought of her imminent departure, it seemed the only constant thing in an insecure world.

As she watched a cloud passed over the sun, darkening the muddy waters. Scavenger seagulls swooped and rose, and gregarious pigeons stalked around her feet. She shivered and hugged herself, feeling the material of her short-sleeved cotton dress pull across her bosom. Auntie said she was to have a brassiere soon, but not until it was absolutely necessary because of the extra drain on the clothing coupons. She turned back to Ivy House and gazed at it absently for a few moments before glancing back at the river and saying a small prayer that Uncle and Auntie might be spared for the children’s return.

The damp chill of late afternoon began to fill the air and Bella knew she must make her way home. She felt better and was glad she had come. She turned away from the river and began to walk back along the promenade, unaware that she was under observation from the ivy-covered house behind her.

‘You seem very quiet this weekend, Dezi. Are you feeling quite well?’ asked Eve Bennett from her capacious red leather armchair in the drawing room of Ivy House.

‘I’m all right, Mother,’ replied the young airman, turning away from the window and absently raking his fingers through his short curly chestnut hair. He was seated near the lace-curtained window just far back enough not to be visible from the towpath, since the house was raised slightly to avoid occasional flood waters. In the same way that passers-by stared curiously at the homes of the affluent, so the residents were not above a spot of casual observation themselves. There were such a variety of people out there on the promenade – dreamers, drunks, strollers, starers, punters, paddlers, potential suicides . . .

‘It’s ages since you’ve been home and you’ve hardly said a word,’ Eve murmured reproachfully, drawing heavily on a cigarette. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be gone and God only knows when we’ll see you again.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, Mother.’

‘Have you any idea when you’ll next get leave?’

The steady drumming of his fingers on the arm of the chair accelerated. ‘Not until things quieten down, I suppose.’ Dezi was a fighter pilot flying Spitfires. Stationed in Kent, he had been able to get home quite often until the long run up to D Day, when his job had been to protect the ports and airfields of Southern England from enemy air intrusion. After that, with the onset of the intensive VI attacks, he had been kept busy intercepting the weapons in the air before they reached London. He wouldn’t have made it home this weekend but that his commanding officer had ordered him to take a forty-eight hour pass: ‘Just to keep you going, ’til we can give you proper leave.’

Now Eve was being tiresome. ‘You could try to be a bit more sociable,’ she whined.

He drew in his breath sharply. Why couldn’t she see that he needed to be left alone? ‘I’m sorry,’ he snapped, but noticing her eyes moisten at his abruptness, he was ashamed. Oh God, what was happening to him that he couldn’t even be courteous to his own mother? After all, he was fortunate. If there had to be killing, he supposed doing so in the skies was preferable to working with a bayonet or shooting at close range, as was the lot of the ground troops.

When you were flying day after day the enemy airmen ceased to be individual human beings and became mere obstacles to be exterminated, and the adrenaline flo