“Ask him if he wants a sandwich,” Mrs. Campbell insisted, and then I roundly lost my temper with her. Shaness, could she not see Louisa’s tears for herself, and all she could think of was food? I jumped up and barked, “Hold your whisht, Nan Campbell, and stop going on about sandwiches! Hitler himself could walk in here and if he was a young pilot you’d pull him a pint and stuff him full of grub! I’ll get the ruddy Jerry a ruddy sandwich for you.”

I barged past her into the kitchen at the back.

The kitchen was full of weapons. Everywhere I looked I saw things I could use to hurt the bastard. Cast-iron pans! A butcher’s knife! Toasting forks! Blimey, I could break a milk bottle over his head if I were brave enough, couldn’t I!

I could hear Jane cracking away in quiet German with the pilot, and Mrs. Campbell dithering behind the bar. “Tea, that’s what we need,” she said, and I heard the skritch of a match as she lit the gas burner to boil the kettle.

Aye, cups of tea—that will stop the invasion!

Stupid woman, I thought, and bit my lip. I was too frighted of the strapping tall young man and his gun to get around Nan with a frying pan and try to hit him in the head. I’d never manage it fast enough or hard enough. And anyway, I’d been told to let him get on with his mission, not to knock him out.

So I yanked open the icebox and found a big slab of butter. Where did Nan Campbell get so much butter, I wondered; does she have friends in the black market? No matter, there was cheese and bread, and I slapped a sandwich together.

When I came out of the kitchen with a tray, the lass Louisa was sitting silent and small on the piano stool. She was watching the Jerry pilot with the faintest frown. Interested. Not frightened. Or, if she did fear him, not showing it.

He was back at the bar, with the wooden box that he never let out of his reach, answering Jane’s quiet questions.

I pushed the sandwich across the bar. The Jerry pilot wolfed it down so quickly I began to make him another without thinking.

“Oi, leave off, that’s not for hotel guests!” Mrs. Campbell cried. “That’s Isle of Man butter!”

I froze and gave her the worst kind of cold and fearsome glare. “And it’s Scottish bread, aye? He doesn’t care.” I went back to buttering.

Jane held up her empty tumbler. “How very exciting this is!”