The smell of a burning building is unmistakable; even my dozing, dreaming brain knew that this was not a smell from the kitchen stove or the sitting-room hearth or even a bonfire. I leapt out of bed, yelling to Mags, and ran through the cottage from end to end, expecting to see flames at any moment. I burst through the kitchen door and stared up at the lighthouse too. But there was no fire to be seen.

Then I heard Mutti’s voice behind me – she was up and dressed already: ‘The village, Petra – it’s all right, my darling – it’s coming from the village.’ She put her arm around me. ‘Over here – look . . .’

We went towards the cliff path and I saw it straight away: a cloud of dirty grey smoke. It sat over the village below, bulging and billowing. The breeze pulled at the smoke, tearing off woolly skeins of it and carrying them up towards us.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What’s on fire?’

‘The village hall,’ Mutti said, ‘according to the postman.’

I tried to make out the shapes of the familiar buildings, but everything was obscured by the smoke. The bell of a fire engine echoed over the fields.

Mags and I dressed quickly and ran down to the village, but by the time we got there the fire was almost completely extinguished. A crowd had gathered in the street. Some people were still wearing slippers and dressing gowns. They frowned and folded their arms and shook their heads and muttered to each other.

The smoke was dispersing already, but the firemen were still pumping water on to the walls of the village hall and the nearby church tower, to prevent the fire from rekindling and spreading. On the opposite side of the road, all that remained of the Scout hut was a pile of charred metal struts and some blackened sheets of corrugated iron. It had been little more than a large shed, tucked between the school house and some old cottages, and now there was nothing left of it. Mags and I sidled around the crowd to get a better look. The stench of smoke was fierce here, and I knew Mutti would insist on washing our hair this evening, whether we liked it or not.

I looked at the two buildings – from one side of the street to the other. It didn’t make any sense. ‘How could the fire have spread?’ Mags muttered. ‘The buildings aren’t even touching – they’re on opposite sides of the road.’

I nodded.

One of the firemen was rummaging around under the bushes beside the remains of the Scout hut, right next to where my sister and I were standing. He found something – a large tin, and he used a stick to pull it out of the nettles. He passed it to the senior fireman standing next to the engine. They spoke quietly, but we were just close enough to hear.

‘Paraffin?’