They’d never talked about the war in the months they’d been friends, not even when it was the VE anniversary. The nuns said she needn’t go to Mass with the others for the celebrations, given that she was German. She hadn’t told her father they’d done that.

‘No,’ Betty said. ‘We had some deep shelters. And the buildings have cellars.’ Sitting with Mutti and Lieselotte as the buildings shuddered above them and the stench and smoke closed in. ‘It was terrifying.’

Dee nodded as if she understood, but Betty wondered. She knew there’d been a bit of bombing in Hatfield, because of the factory, but nothing really heavy. She shifted her cushion, adjusted it under her bottom and sat cross-legged. The wall was damp and the floor hard. She couldn’t imagine having to spend a night here.

‘What did your father do in the war?’ she said. She’d been asked the question so many times, had never dared ask it herself.

‘He was a Conscie,’ Dee said.

‘A Conscie?’ This was a new word to Betty. ‘What’s that?’

‘A conscientious objector,’ Dee said, adding, ‘He doesn’t believe in war.’

Old Herr Baumann called them traitors. Bundled up in the Wehrkraftzersetzung. Subversives. Defeatists. Deserters.

‘Wasn’t he shot?’

‘Shot?’ Dee said. ‘Not in this war. But he had to go away, worked in a forest. He said it was hard.’ She uncurled one leg, rubbed her thigh. ‘And people called him names. He went to prison once, too. My leg’s gone dead. Here—’ she reached into her satchel and pulled out a packet of five Woodbines and a box of matches. ‘Would you like one?’

‘I’ve never smoked,’ Betty said, watching as Dee opened up the packet and held it towards her. Dee was daring. Betty took a cigarette, leaned forward as Dee struck a match.

‘Put one end of the cigarette in your mouth,’ Dee said. ‘And the other end in the flame, and suck.’

Betty leaned forward, her hair singeing as it brushed the match. She sucked, eyes watering. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she said, coughing hard.

‘Gaspers,’ Dee said. ‘They’re called gaspers.’

Betty thought she was going to choke.

‘Don’t suck so hard next time,’ Dee said. ‘You get used to it. But you have to make an effort, to like it, I mean.’

Betty tucked her hair behind her ear, took another drag, smaller than the first, felt the hot smoke burn her throat, tasted its acrid bitterness, watched as Dee recrossed her legs and held her fingers scissored and aloft, like the girl in the Craven ‘A’ advertisements. Betty took a small puff. Well, she thought, this wasn’t so bad, but nothing to write home about, although Dee looked sophisticated and Betty envied her that.

‘Why doesn’t your father believe in war?’ she said.