As she stepped off the bus to walk the last hundred yards to her street, a fire engine tore past, its bell clanking. The noise made her wince and she waited for it to pass. Then she hesitated before walking on. Her stomach was turning somersaults. It wasn’t too late to turn around and go back. Dad would never even know she’d been here.

No, on second thoughts, she would go. Because you had to stand up to bullies, or else they carried on. And besides, it was her home too and why shouldn’t she go there? She had every right.

She’d willed the bus to slow down the whole way to Poplar, to give her more time to think. What would Dad say to her? They’d had no contact since she’d left home in September. She’d sent him a handmade Christmas card, with a note and, finally, giving him her address at Snowden but she’d heard nothing back.

Of course, he might be at the docks today, working. Or he might refuse to come to the door. She wouldn’t put it past him to give her the cold shoulder.

Maggie took a deep breath and rounded the corner into her street.

She stopped. It took a moment for the view to register. She had to close her eyes, shake her head and look again.

It was a scene of utter devastation.

The street wasn’t there. Or at least, only half of it was. Houses had simply gone, replaced by piles of rubble: bricks, doors, window frames and dust. Oh, so much dust. Hoses snaked across the craters in the street and there was a terrible, burning smell.

People swarmed everywhere: policemen, ARP men and firemen with grimy faces were shouting orders and climbing over the piles of bricks. A baker’s van was parked in the road and bundles of rags were being brought out of the rubble on stretchers and doors and being loaded into it. It was a makeshift ambulance. She realised with a jolt that the bundles of rags were bodies.

There were ordinary folk in the street too. Men and women shuffling around aimlessly, looking as bewildered as Maggie felt.

She took a few steps forward, coughing and stumbling on debris, shaking her head. It felt like an awful nightmare. It couldn’t be happening.

A warden in a black helmet approached and put his hand out. ‘No further, Miss. It’s too dangerous. They’re still clearing up.’ His eyes creased in concern. ‘Is anything the matter, Miss?’

Maggie’s mouth felt as though it were full of sawdust, so dry she could hardly speak. ‘That’s my house down there. Number eleven. Or leastways, it was …’

She blinked and gazed at the view again, making quite sure it was real.