I settled down on the dry grass with my back against the smallest standing stone. I drew the cliffs, the clouds, the water – flat, barren and grey – and the dull shape of the Wyrm, sleeping just below the surface. I drew myself as a tiny, hunched figure looking out across the sea towards the empty horizon. I’ll draw the Daughters of Stone, I thought. But, when I did, something very odd happened. My hand didn’t draw four ancient standing stones – it drew four girls, dressed in long white gowns. They were upright, defiant, their hair blowing in the wind, and their arms stretched out towards the sea. They stood, two of them either side of the tiny, hunched figure of Pet Smith. I rubbed out that pitiful little shape, and drew myself again, standing up with the Daughters, my hair blowing in the wind just like theirs. A high note trembled in the air like a thread of silver.

My skin prickled.

I drew a boat on the water, and another and another and, when I next looked up at the sea, I saw that something magical had happened. I dropped my sketchbook and pencils on the grass. A miracle.

The first one was white. Just the spray of a wave, perhaps, or a spark of reflected evening sun, but then it became clearer: an angular little shape, like folded paper, carving its way through the navy sea. A sailing boat. And after the first one, the other boats started appearing on the horizon – three, five, eight, twenty, fifty or more – just like my drawing . . . There should be singing, I thought, a chorus. There should be a fanfare of trumpets. They are coming home – just look at them!

Fishing boats, steamers, yachts, trawlers started to emerge from the haze. The decks of the larger ships and steamers were dark with army uniforms – hundreds of men crowded together. As the boats approached the coast, they fanned out – each heading to its own home harbour. I imagined the view from the perspective of one of the soldiers: the white cliffs of England opening up before them like a mother’s arms. I waved to one of the boats, but I couldn’t see if anyone waved back. I must have been a tiny little shape to them. The sun was setting behind me now. They would only be able to make out a dot on the clifftop. A dot, a tower and four old boulders.

Then I recognized one of the larger boats: the Margate Queen. She was a paddle steamer we had been on once during a summer excursion to Margate. It was so odd to see her in this way. The Margate Queen meant fish and chips, Punch and Judy, buckets and spades . . . And yet here she was – a warship: an enormous lifeboat, saving the lives of hundreds of men.