Maggie sat at her new desk and read the letter through. Did it sound cheery enough? It had been quite exhausting, summoning up that amount of cheerfulness.

There were a couple of white lies, of course. Dad had hardly given his blessing and as for Mutti and hearing from her soon, that wasn’t true either.

In truth, Maggie had no idea how to track Mutti down. The last letter she’d written to Holloway had been returned. Mutti wasn’t there; they’d moved her. She hadn’t had a chance to find out any more. Perhaps Dad knew by now. Surely, they couldn’t drag someone off and not inform next of kin? But if she wrote to Dad to find out, she’d have to give him her address here at Snowden and she didn’t dare.

She frowned at the crossing out on the page. It had seemed best not to use ‘Mutti’. You couldn’t be too careful.

The big kisses at the bottom of the page would, hopefully, remind Violet of what they’d agreed before she left.

Maggie bit her lip. The worry was there, constantly, like a twisting worm in her stomach. She hated this separation, this not knowing. The only small consolation was that everyone was missing someone. You didn’t talk about it. No one liked a moaner. You simply had to grin and bear it.

Maggie gazed out of the windows in the Long Gallery at the huge expanse of lawn, as green and neat as a park and beyond that, the rolling Cotswold hills.

It had been queer, waking up here this morning. She supposed she’d get used to it: the scramble for the bathroom (Miss Sharp took precedence and the others had to queue on the landing, their towels rolled up under their arms) and then breakfasting together at a round table set up at the end of the Long Gallery.

Instead of catching the bus to work, having been up half the night going to and from the shelters (on her own, because Dad always refused to leave the house), now she didn’t even need to put a coat on. There were no wailing sirens, or shaking ground or deafening explosions. All she had to do was walk down the stairs.

‘Wasn’t that a relief,’ Norm had said, over breakfast, ‘to get a solid night’s sleep last night?’

Most people agreed but Maggie had put her head down. She wondered how bad the raids were in London. Because they wouldn’t have been spared, that was a certainty. She couldn’t enjoy being away from it all, being safe. She felt too guilty.

Ray Maguire had suddenly glanced at his pocket watch and declared, ‘It’s one minute to. Time for work!’

‘Not quite, Mr Maguire,’ Miss Sharp said, setting the strainer on her cup and pouring out another cup of tea. ‘I make it three minutes to.’