He told Ginie and the staff to stay where they were. He filled buckets with water, grabbed his Home Guard stirrup pump and climbed up the stairs, through the silent and ghostly house, much of which was packed away or covered in dust sheets. By the time he reached the roof, the blaze had taken hold. The scene possessed a terrible beauty; pillars of changing, swirling smoke silhouetted against the glow of fire, the clouds reflecting the flames in dull red. He could hear the heavy drone of planes and the occasional thump of bombs some distance away. Sharp, slim bursts of light showed the AA guns in action. Ambulance bells and fire engine bells rang everywhere.

He saw at once that the pump was completely inadequate, but because there was no other option, he stuck the nozzle into the bucket, put his foot in the stirrup and began to push. The smoke made him cough and choke. With one hand, he operated the T-bar to get the water pressure up, while his other hand directed the jet onto the fire. It was rather like working a giant bicycle pump and it was difficult to coordinate everything and keep the pressure going. His eyes stung and streamed. The water pressure was weak and had no discernible effect on the flames. The roof might easily collapse beneath him, and he would fall to his death amid a shower of burning timbers.

He thought about Ginie in the basement, trying to master her fear so as not to pass it to the others. He gritted his teeth in determination and licked his cracked lips, pumping furiously and ignoring the pain that had started shooting up his calf. His face was black with soot and inflamed by the heat. When the buckets were empty, he ran downstairs to refill them, then worked until he had no breath left. Pulling his foot out of the stirrup, he doubled over, trying to take in gulps of smoke-laden air. He forced himself to straighten up and carry on pumping. With agonising slowness, the flames began to subside and lose their strength.

At last, he heard the fire truck draw up below him. Firemen were rushing about, yelling and shouting. You’re too bloody late, he thought. By the time they reached the roof, the fire was almost out. He drew his sleeve over his sweating face, happy to leave the last flames to them.

‘You’ve saved the roof,’ the fire chief told him. He was a tall, rangy man, with cropped grey hair and an angular face. ‘With respect, Sir, you’ve been immensely lucky. These firebombs aren’t usually put out by a man piddling on them.’

‘Thank you,’ Stephen said, glaring at him. He had started shaking uncontrollably as he realised how nearly his luck had run out.