Everything was very, very still and quiet, so I was confused when the wail of the Stonegate air-raid siren came drifting up over the cliffs. I scanned the bruised horizon with Pa’s telescope.

Nothing.

It must be a false alarm.

I moved all around the lighthouse, checking each section of the coast with the telescope. The last rays of sunlight were disappearing in the west now, and the sky was a murky purple colour. There were no lights to be seen at all inland – it was after the blackout and, as far as most people were concerned, we were having an air raid . . .

But then there was a light – or at least I thought there was. Something seemed to flash on the farmland to the north-west of the lighthouse. Then it was gone again, and the gloom surged back like squid-ink. Had I imagined the light? I searched with the telescope again but could see nothing at all.

Then there was a sound. A low, familiar drone. I turned back towards the sea.

It was just a thin, dark shape at that point – barely visible in the heathery twilight. It could have been a gull or a goose, but it wasn’t. I knew exactly what it was.

A bomber.

My breathing quickened. My fingertips started to tingle.

Just a second later, the heavens split apart and a fighter plane ripped through the sky above me, heading straight for the German bomber. I gasped at the noise – it was as if it were only inches above my head.

‘Spitfire,’ I murmured, transfixed.

I knew I should have gone straight down to the cellar, but I couldn’t move.

The last of the light drained from the sky as the planes met over the bay. The Spitfire wheeled around the bomber like a mobbing magpie, and the sky rattled with guns. Three dark shapes dropped from the bomber, thumping heavily into Dragon Bay – two into the sea and one on to the beach itself – and then the plane started streaming smoke.

There was another plane now – from nowhere – a German fighter was bearing down on the Spitfire, its guns blazing. Even in the gloom of nightfall, I could see that the front part of the enemy plane was painted a startling bright yellow, like the beak of a bird of prey. The Spitfire dived sharply and headed out over the sea, drawing the German fighter away from our coast.

Smoke was still pouring from the injured bomber. It banked around and then, like a huge white rose opening, a parachute bloomed in the air. The bomber plunged steeply into the sea with a tremendous white crash of water.

A tiny figure hung beneath the parachute, helpless. I held my breath.