Lucky them. Maggie’s head was whirling like a windmill and even though she was tired beyond belief, she couldn’t drop off. The day’s events were running through her mind like a film. There’d never been a day like it.

To think, this morning, she’d still been in London. Since then, she’d raced to Paddington, almost missed the train, lost the cat, found it again, been insulted – twice – at the drinks reception, tipped wine all over herself, been rescued by an actual Lady, spoken German – she grimaced at the thought – and finally, she’d met a dashing airman in RAF uniform. A real hero.

She wished she could tell Mutti and Violet all about it. They’d be enraptured. They’d laugh and gasp and protest in all the right places.

‘Dear God …’ she started to pray, in a whisper. She didn’t really believe in God, of course. How could you? The last war was supposed to be the war to end all wars and here they were, in the middle of another. No, she didn’t believe but there wasn’t anyone else to talk to and it couldn’t do any harm.

‘Dear God, please take care of Mutti and Violet, wherever they are and please let me hear from them soon. Amen.’

She wasn’t going to waste any prayers on Dad. She pictured him getting home from work today and finding her gone. No note, no dinner on the stove. Kath Deacon would have gone running in to spill the beans, patting down her hair and simpering, like she did.

He’d have blown a fuse. And he didn’t even have a cat to kick anymore.

Oh, blimey, the cat! Maggie sat up. She’d completely forgotten about Tabby, since taking her out of the back door hours ago and leaving her to explore.

She threw off the eiderdown and slipped out of bed. She’d smuggled a crust of bread up her sleeve at lunchtime. She’d try to find Tabby now and give it to her and then she might, finally, be able to fall asleep.

She pulled her cardigan on over her nightdress and grabbed her shoes from under the bed. Her torch was under the pillow; she took that too. Nancy and Pam didn’t stir.

Maggie made her way carefully down the grand staircase, into the hall and through the Long Gallery to reach the French doors, retracing the journey she’d made earlier that evening. She half expected the doors to be locked but they opened easily and she stepped outside, relieved to breathe in the fresh cold air.

The moon was huge in the black sky. It wasn’t quite a full moon, there was a sliver missing but it hung in the sky like a floodlight, turning the whole terrace into a kind of stage.