No stairs to count, thought Annie.

*

‘You’re a bit early for the Festival of Britain,’ said the landlady as she handed them their room key.

‘We know,’ said Keith. ‘I hear the preparations are well under way.’

‘They’ve started building the Skylon,’ she replied. ‘I think it’s going to be quite something when it’s finished.’

‘We have come to see Whitehall and the Cenotaph,’ Georgia butted in. ‘My parents worked there in 1941, when I was rather small.’

The woman smiled, and then froze as Georgia continued.

‘They were killed in the Blitz, which was very sad, but I don’t remember them at all so it’s sad for other people more than it’s sad for me.’

‘It’s what one might call a rite of passage,’ explained Keith apologetically to the landlady as the two women in his life headed up the stairs to the bedrooms. ‘She has wanted to see where they worked in Whitehall for years and the Festival preparations are such a good reason to come to London. We’re killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

She winced.

‘Sorry,’ he shrugged, ‘but you know what I mean.’

‘Breakfast is at seven-thirty sharp and I stop serving at eight. It’s vegetarian, of course. Would you like mushrooms with your potato cakes and tomatoes?’

‘Thank you, that would be wonderful. I expect the lass will be awake with the dawn chorus anyway, so you may find her in your kitchen.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ The landlady tapped a folded paper on her reception desk. ‘It’s the census tomorrow night.’

‘I know. We would have preferred to be counted in Edinburgh, but rules are rules, as they say.’

‘I’ll check your details in the morning, and make sure everything is correct.’

*

‘I thought it would look more interesting,’ said Georgia as they walked past the entrance to Downing Street before coming to a stop at the Cenotaph.

‘You’ve seen it in photographs, though?’

‘I know. It’s just a bit . . . I don’t know. A bit plain.’

Keith laid his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘I think that is rather the point, Georgia. It represents all the ordinary people who died. Everyone is ordinary but at the same time we are all special. Usually, it’s only the generals and kings who get statues that look like them. Keeping it simple like this means that I can look at it and remember my brothers who were killed in the Great War, and Mr Simpson from across the road, who was lost at sea. And Annie can remember her brother Finlay, and you can think about Mummy and Daddy. It lets us all have our own thoughts.’

‘I see.’ Georgia was not at all sure.