After she’s taken a tray of tea and tarts through to the sitting room, Mum comes back and pours me one, and then let’s me have the pick of the remaining tarts. She knows I like the lemon curd ones the best. It’s proper lemon curd – although made with lemon juice, rather than real lemons – made by Nana, using up what little butter ration she gets. The pastry melts in my mouth, and I savour the tang and sharpness of the lemon, rolling it round and round on my tongue, feeling my salivary glands pumping out manically, as though they’re fire hoses trained on one of the German bombers’ fires.

*

When it’s my turn, I brace myself mentally. I don’t want to show any weakness in front of this grey man, who the government has sent to delve into all our sadness and grief.

Mother has set up the folding, green-baize-covered card table for him. Even that makes my eyes prickle. It was Nana’s table, and she always said it would be mine. Now the fond memories of gambling games like Newmarket will be forever sullied. We only ever played for farthings – but Nana soon taught me it doesn’t take too many wins of piles of farthings to turn them into sixpences, shillings and even – one time when all the luck was going my way – half a crown.

The man is going through his notes, wearing a pair of half-eye reading glasses like my father. The resemblance ends there, however. Father is thickset, muscly, and can whip a belt on my arse so that it hurts something chronic. This man doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly. He’s younger than I realised – his balding black hair, glued in strands to his head with some horrible oil, together with his glasses and sober expression, had made him seem older. I wonder if I’ll have to do that one day. Get sent round by the government to dig into people’s misery. I bloody well hope not.

Eventually he looks up and tries to smile at me. I don’t smile back. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the enemy.

‘Now then Arnold, your mother says the war has had a bad effect on your nerves and schoolwork. Is that correct?’

‘I suppose. But no different to anyone else.’

‘But your house was badly hit in the last year’s bombing, I believe?’

‘You know it was.’

‘I’m not here to judge you or criticise you, Arnold. I just want to explore your feelings about the war, and particularly the bombing of Hull, in your own words.’

‘It’s awful, isn’t it? Those Nazis are barbarians.’

‘And you’ve lost a family member?’

I can feel the tears starting already. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’