Phyllis yawned again. “I have to interrogate him every morning,” she said. “I know him pretty well. I know ’em all pretty well. Even the new ones.”

The Australians were mucking about on the hearth, building a castle with peat blocks. Phyllis pointed them out one by one.

“They all went to the same school and joined the air force together. None of ’em a day over eighteen, and you wouldn’t believe they were that old if it wasn’t on their papers. The ginger lad with the great mop of hair, that’s Dougie Kerr, their wireless op and gunner. The one who looks like he’s only about twelve, that’s their navigator, Gavin Hamilton. Harry Morrow is their pilot—the scarecrow. Harry shouldn’t really be a pilot—he’s too tall, doesn’t fit. He has to fly with his knees up around his ears. He’s a terrible softy—he’s got a photograph of his dogs back in Sydney that he sticks on the dashboard when he flies!”

The peat block castle tower fell to pieces. Sparks flew in the hearth, and our Jamie pushed himself away from the counter and grumbled, “Och, you can do better than that, surely, lads? Give it a bit of a base. Get the bricks interlocking as they go on up—come and lend a hand, Silver. These children don’t know anything about construction.”

So Britain’s finest set to work turning the Limehouse hearth into a building site.

“The third pilot’s Polish,” Phyllis finished. “Ignacy Mazur. He’s the one with the grand mustache—don’t you think it suits him? He walked across half of Europe to get here, after the Germans invaded Poland. Speaks pretty good English now, and a bit of Welsh, too, believe it or not. His navigator, Derfel Cledwyn, is Welsh. Derfel’s the one with the squashed nose.”

Louisa said, “What a funny name.”

“A Welsh name,” I said. “But he gets called Taff. Also because he’s Welsh. All Welshmen are Taff, just like all Scotsmen are Scotty, and the Texan is Tex.”

Phyllis laughed. “But their gunner’s just plain English, Bill Yorke—the other mustache, the thin one. He transferred from another squadron. I haven’t worked out Bill yet: a bit quiet. Unhappy about something, I expect. Perhaps he’s not quite used to Ignacy and Derfel shouting at each other in Polish and Welsh when they’re dropping bombs. They’re pretty tight, and he might feel left out.”

Jane laughed suddenly.

“It sounds to me,” she said, “as if they are your babies as well as Nancy’s.”

“They’re not our babies at all,” said Phyllis warmly. “They’re our brothers.”

Jamie:

The lads counted down the seconds to half past eleven as if it were the New Year.

“Seven! Six! Five—”

They drummed on the brass countertop and stamped on the stone floor, chorusing, “Four! Three! TWO! ONE!”