Finally, and most important, there is the person to whom this book is dedicated.

Prologue

JUNE 1986

Hugh was away, and there was nobody to help get the children up. That sounded like Simon shouting upstairs, no doubt being picked upon by Giles, his twin. Louise would still be in bed. Only twelve, she had already reached that adolescent stage of permanent indolence. This morning was going to be a shocker, she could just feel it—they had to leave in an hour. Roll on the spring term, when they’d all be back at school.

“What?” she shouted up the stairs.

“Giles is throwing all my soldiers out the window,” came a sobbed reply.

“Giles! Giles! Stop that! Now get dressed and one of you go and wake up your sister.”

She went into the kitchen and filled up the kettle. All her actions at this time were automatic. Put teabags in pot. Open fridge, get out milk and orange juice. Put on table. Go to cupboard next to sink. Get out five bowls and five plates. Stop—no Hugh. Only get four. Lay table. Get cornflakes out of cupboard under clock. Look at time. Half past seven. Put cornflakes on table. Look out of window. Watch soldiers raining down from boys’ bedroom. Ignore it and look at paper. Hear mail arrive. Go to hall, shout at children, pick up mail.

She rifled through them. Nothing interesting—a newsletter from her Oxford college, British Gas, a couple of letters for Hugh, and then, curiously, a final envelope addressed to “Miss Amy Lockhart.” That was her maiden name. There was a badly printed insignia on the top left corner and the words “On Her Majesty’s Service” running along the bottom in maroon. It was probably from the taxman. She took them into the kitchen.

The kettle had boiled, and she poured the water into the teapot. As it brewed, she studied the envelope. The insignia seemed to be of an eagle on top of an anchor, crossed out by what might have been a couple of swords. Not very Inland-Revenue-ish, she thought. It was quite bulky, and the envelope could barely contain whatever was stuffed into it. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table.

A huge crash came from above, from the boys’ bedroom. A moment’s silence and then some really loud screaming. Resigned, she went upstairs to find Simon sitting on the floor in tears, next to a knocked-over chest of drawers. Giles was reading an Asterix book on his bed, still wearing his pajamas, looking the innocent.

“Giles pushed me into the chest because I tried to stop him throwing my soldiers out the window.”

“Giles? Did you?”

“No, Mummy—I’ve been reading, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you for a second. If you don’t both get dressed and downstairs in five minutes, I’ll make sure your father spanks the pair of you when he gets back.”