But now a ‘Man from the Ministry’, as Father describes him, is coming round to interview us. Raking it all over again. Mother has been a bag of nerves ever since the night Fred was killed. Any little noise seems to spook her. Even the sound of a car or lorry driving past can be enough to set her off. I can see her face go white, her hands start to tremble, as though the German bombers are back to attack us again. But there have been far fewer attacks since that terrible night. Hull’s still a complete mess, of course. The city centre’s in ruins. But for the moment, the Nazis seem to be leaving us alone. The news from the rest of the war is a bit better too, with the Soviets putting up some fierce resistance. Perhaps the tide is turning and Lotti’s beloved ‘Führer’ will finally be defeated. What would become of Lotti then? Is she even still alive? No letters get through to me anymore. Perhaps she’s forgotten me.

*

I pull the net curtains aside and watch him come up the front garden path. He looks like one of those City gents you see in the newsreels and films, walking over the Thames bridges, brolly swinging, suitcase in hand, hat perched firmly on head. I’d rather just go upstairs to my room and hide, but then I really would get a belting from Father.

Father answers the door, puffing himself up, full of self-importance, the way he does when he answers the telephone in his posh voice, hiding all trace of a Hull or East Yorkshire accent, with its vowels lapsing into semi-coherent mumbles. As the man apologises for being late, my father says: ‘Oh no, don’t worry,’ mouthing the ‘o’s in posh-speak, rather than the ‘Err nerr, dern’t wurry’ he’d usually use.

They set the man up at a table in the sitting room. He says he wants to interview us one by one. Mum looks absolutely terrified, so Father offers to go first. Mum ushers me into the kitchen with her, and then starts to prepare teas for everyone – using the best china, of course – and even, with shaking hands, opens the cake tin with the jam tarts in – somewhere I’m never allowed to venture without permission. ‘We don’t have enough on rations for you to be snacking all the time, Arnold,’ Father will usually warn.