On the third foggy morning, I was up in the lantern room writing the weather report in the logbook for Pa: Temperature: 41°F, I wrote. Visibility: very poor . . . I stared out at the sea of cloud that swirled below us, trying to estimate how many feet ahead I could see, but the fog moved in slow, white waves. It was as if the lighthouse were the bridge of a ship, and my Pa was the captain, sailing us all away from the real world, away from the war, out into the peace of the misty ocean . . . Then the telephone started ringing in the service room downstairs.

I stopped writing and listened. The telephone is only to be used by the lighthouse keeper. I’m not really supposed to know, but Mags told me it is a direct line to the Admiralty. A lighthouse keeper is a very important person in wartime – it is a reserved occupation, so you cannot be conscripted into the army.

I heard Pa’s brief responses to whatever orders he was receiving, then the click and jingle of the telephone as he hung up. His footsteps descended the stairs. A moment later, the lighthouse door opened and closed as he went outside to the foghorn shed, and a few seconds later a deafening blast of sound. No matter how many times I heard the foghorn, it still made me jump. I squeezed my eyes shut – as if that would help somehow. There must be a ship stranded in the Channel, I thought. Lost in the fog – drifting near the sandbank . . . The sound stopped at last. Then I heard Pa coming up the spiral staircase, but he wasn’t whistling as he usually did when he went up and down the stairs. His footsteps gradually became louder until he appeared in front of me in the lantern room. He looked very smart, as always, in his lighthouse-keeper’s uniform. With his square shoulders, his neatly trimmed beard and his polished brass buttons, I thought he looked like an admiral in the Navy (albeit an admiral with sticking-out ears). He was carrying a very serious-looking envelope, which he tucked inside his jacket pocket. I saw that it had been opened and then closed again, the long edge folded tightly over.

‘Top-Secret Lighthouse Keeper’s Business?’ I asked.

He hesitated for a moment, then he tapped his nose. ‘Top. Secret,’ he said. I felt a little surge of pride at how important my Pa was.

He consulted his watch. ‘One minute, please, First Mate,’ he said. ‘Do you want to help?’

I smiled and saluted him. ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n,’ I said.

He passed me the heavy iron handle for the optic. I fitted the handle carefully and wound it around, bending my knees with each rotation to crank up the clockwork mechanism.

Pa counted under his breath, then he said, ‘That should do it.’