Maggie’s nostrils were full of the smell of Cherry Blossom shoe polish and sweat. She tried to breathe through her mouth. Usually, down in the shelters, some bright spark wouldn’t be able to resist a joke or a song but here no one spoke, apart from a woman lying a few feet away in the aisle, who tutted and murmured, ‘I’ll be late again. Bloody Germans, pardon my French.’

Maggie bit her lip. Everyone hated the Germans, of course, especially now, since the bombing had started. There was an absolute rage against them.

‘They ain’t normal, you know,’ the woman continued, to no one in particular. ‘They’re not like us. Oh no. My old mum says they eat babies.’

Maggie had to grit her teeth. She’d heard lots of comments like that recently, but it still made her burn inside. She wanted to stick up for the Germans, but what could she say?

Actually, I know some very nice Germans. They’re not all Nazis. I’m sort of one myself. We’re not all bad! No, she couldn’t say that, she’d be set upon.

A soft breeze blew across the open platform of the bus, carrying an acrid smell of burning. Maggie lifted her head and glimpsed the deserted street, the coils of hosepipes, smoke and ruined buildings.

At any other time, the cool air would be welcome; the bodies next to her were generating an uncomfortable warmth. But Maggie could only think about how exposed they were. Could the enemy bombers see them … from the sky? London buses were such a bright red, they might as well have a target painted on them.

The old woman next to her must have been thinking the same; she suddenly started to shake and whimper. Maggie reached out to stroke her hand. She was as small and frail as a tiny bird.

‘Shhh, love,’ Maggie said, trying to sound perky, though her teeth were chattering. ‘It’ll all be all right.’

If she survived this, the prospect of what lay ahead at Rosman’s was making Maggie’s stomach twist. When she finally arrived, the typewriters would fall silent. The other girls would watch from their desks and listen to the inevitable dressing down she’d get from the supervisor, Miss Sharp. Maggie would turn scarlet, with all those hostile eyes on her. She’d have to put her hand up to her cheek, to cool her face down.

‘You’ll grow out of it, Liebchen,’ Mutti used to tell her, with a reassuring smile. But she hadn’t. Maggie was eighteen now – eighteen! – and she still blushed at the slightest thing.