‘Take Mum down to St John’s church, Queenie,’ urged Mrs Simpson. ‘That’s where the bodies are being taken for identification. You don’t wanna be watching this, love. I’ll come down there with you.’

Mrs Simpson lived not far from her mum in Whitechapel. Grateful to see a familiar face, Queenie held one of her mum’s arms, Mrs Simpson held the other and they led Molly away from the chaotic scenes. ‘My Aunt Edna, I saw her fall. She’s near the bottom,’ Queenie blurted out.

‘Oh no, Queenie. I’m so sorry,’ replied Mrs Simpson.

‘I’m hoping, ’cause she’s fat, it might have saved her,’ Queenie explained, her lip trembling.

Mrs Simpson doubted anyone near the bottom of the pile could have survived. But there was no point in saying that. All she could do was be there for Molly and young Queenie. ‘Miracles do happen. All we can do is pray. I’ll stay with you until we find out what’s happened to your aunt.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Simpson.’

The bodies were brought into the church by the men who’d been told by the police to help out. Adults were carried by two men, children were carried by one.

Having lost track of time, Queenie had no idea how long she’d been at the church. She felt numb. Her mum still hadn’t said a word. It was as though she’d been struck dumb.

Queenie waited and waited, praying for a miracle, then she saw four men walking towards her, obviously struggling to carry the body. Instinct told Queenie that was her aunt. She ran towards them. ‘That’s my aunt. Is she alive? Please tell me she is.’

‘I’m afraid not, darling,’ said one of the men. ‘None of ’em survived near the bottom of the pile. Tragic.’

When her aunt’s body was dumped on the floor of the church alongside many others, Queenie knelt beside her and held her hand. She looked a bit bruised, but she wasn’t flattened or anything. She just looked like she was sleeping. ‘Wake up, Aunt Edna. Please wake up. It’s your birthday,’ Queenie wept.

Aunt Edna lay lifeless. She would’ve loved to have woken up, such was her zest for life, but she couldn’t. The life she’d loved so much had been crushed out of her.

Queenie sat on the church steps. There were ten or so kids playing in the rubble, playing tag, screaming with excitement. Oblivious to the death and destruction going on around them. That had been her not so long ago. Mucking around in the streets with Viv and her mates without a care in the world.

Queenie steeled herself. She would miss Aunt Edna dreadfully, but knew she had to be brave. Mum and Vivvy would need her strength to get through this.

‘I miss my Seamus every day, but I refuse to mourn him. I only allow myself to remember the good times. Shedding tears for the dead doesn’t bring them back, Queenie. So save your tears for the fecking living,’ Mrs O’Leary had said to her only yesterday.