Stephen collected his tin hat and gas mask and checked them thoroughly as he got ready for his shift with the Home Guard. He was a Chief Air Raid Precautions Warden and he wore the uniform: dark blue linen trousers, topped by an army-style blouse jacket in the same fabric, with a belted waist and epaulettes. It wasn’t skilled work for a man of his ability, but active service was out of the question because of his age.

Generally, there wasn’t much to do on ARP duty, unless a bomb fell in his area, the two square miles around Eltham Palace. Occasionally, he helped the fire brigade, holding hoses and so on, or he inspected air raid shelters, enforced the blackout, or chatted to the older people to keep their spirits up. There were rare meetings where they discussed the progress of the war and checked their first aid equipment.

A huge explosion sounded directly above them, a deep rolling crump. The house gave a hard jolt and the vibrations slammed into Stephen’s body. He went numb for an instant, instinctively bracing himself for the sight of men horribly lacerated by shrapnel, and the mix of earth and rot. Little by little, the fog in his head cleared. He was in England; in Eltham. The first thing he became aware of was the animals’ distress, and Ginie struggling to collect herself and comfort them at the same time.

Kais was in the worst state, quivering and crying, wanting to burrow into her side. She was whispering in his ear, as though he were a child. Jongy was on her lap, shivering against her stomach. Caesar emitted short, sharp howls of distress. If the locals could see Caesar now, they would realise he was soft as cake.

‘I think we took a direct hit,’ said Stephen. ‘Wait here, I’m going to have a look.’

‘I’ll telephone the fire service,’ Ginie shouted over the noise.

Five minutes later, he was back. ‘It must have been a Molotov cocktail,’ he said. The others were out of bed now and gathered round Ginie, anxious but unharmed. ‘The hall roof’s on fire.’

‘The AFS will be here in ten minutes,’ said Ginie.

Stephen didn’t answer, biting his lip, deep in thought. The Auxiliary Fire Service had a mobile bus which towed pumps the size of car wheels. Stephen allowed them to use the moat for practice. The memory of it made him burn with irritation, for despite their repeated efforts, they could barely shoot water halfway up the building. They’d succeeded in giving the windows a good washing, but they didn’t have the power to reach the roof. Anyhow, he couldn’t wait ten minutes. The fire couldn’t be allowed to burn through the tiles and reach the beams beneath.