“You haven’t responded to my letters.”

Susan glanced at a stack of unopened mail. She struggled with what to say and was relieved when he changed the subject.

“Your grandfather and I were quite good friends.” He looked at Susan and smiled. “Even though his racing pigeons always seemed to outperform my own flock.”

Susan tried to smile but couldn’t find the energy.

“I understand that you’re a cracking pigeon trainer, and that you were studying zoology before the war.”

“Second part is true,” Susan said.

“I’ve come to offer you a job,” he said. “I’m raising pigeons in Northampton, away from the bombs. The farm is rather large, to accommodate the training of both one-way and two-way pigeons.” He paused, then wiped rain from his hat. “I’d like your help.”

Susan shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

Jonathan took a deep breath and sighed. “How long can you live like this?”

The man’s candidness reminded her that she had no job and no money. She had little chance of maintaining, let alone restoring, the farm. Maybe it was her stubbornness, shell shock, or perhaps even madness that enabled her to carry on living under the Luftwaffe bombardment. But deep down, she knew there was something else that was keeping her rooted. “Until I rebuild,” she said.

“There’s no time,” he said. “The invasion could occur at any moment.”

Susan recalled the disturbing posters, illustrations of German soldiers and parachutists, presumably to help one spot the enemy, plastered over the village. The ringing of church bells had been banned months ago; they were to be rung only when the enemy invaded. Even the Home Guard, slow but spirited old men, had begun affixing armored plates to their automobiles.

“I’ve never forgotten how you stood up to our military at the Source Columba meeting in London,” he said. “When members of the National Pigeon Service, including myself, failed to speak up on obvious errors, you had the courage to stand alone.”

Susan thought of the meeting in London. A flash of Ollie coming to her aid on the train.

Jonathan sighed, then looked at Susan. “Bertie adored you.”

Hearing her grandfather’s name caused her eyes to water.

“He’d want you to move on.”

Susan deliberated, torn between abandoning the farm and letting go of her last bit of hope. But Jonathan had shaken her core. He’s not coming back.

“Join me,” Jonathan said.

Susan wiped her face. “I have pigeons.”

“We’ll take them,” he said. “I brought baskets. My lorry is at the end of the lane, which is too muddy to drive on, I’m afraid. We’ll have to carry them.”