When I told her about Alastair she wept for him. Said she would never consider a fighter pilot. So yes, on that day in July ’42, although I was smitten with Yvette, I didn’t think I had any chance at all. Granted, I had plenty, in the form of the First Battle of El-Alamein, to take my mind off my plight. And I was glad at least, seeing 6 down there below me, that I was in 274 Squadron. Because 6 Squadron looked like a very quick way to die.

Ha. There must be a mischievous demon of war who listens in to the thoughts of pilots. It didn’t take this demon long to act: I was in 6 by December of that year. And destined to dream of 6, it seemed, forever after.

—

I roll out of bed and make my way downstairs, unfamiliar with this barrack of a house. I find the kitchen, fill the kettle—and turn around to see the scarf lying on the table where I had left it last night.

The orange and blue, the train, the script. LE PETIT TRAIN DÉPARTEMENTAL. Once again a sense of knowing seizes me, knowing before seeing, like a repeated dream.

Just then, the telephone rings, startling me nearly out of my skin. I hurry to the dining room.

—

“Hello, Dad. Sorry to call so early. I’ve been out all night, cataloging owl calls. I just wanted to check that you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“Oh, Tom.” I’m so relieved to hear his familiar voice in all this strangeness. “Do they catalog easily? Owl calls?”

A long sigh escapes the flatlands of East Anglia.

“I’m genuinely interested,” I protest.

“I can’t stop thinking about you in that horrible house.”

“Tom”—I try to sound bright and forceful—“I wanted to come here. Please trust me to get on with it.”

He pauses, digests this. The stone floor leaches cold into the soles of my feet.

“I’m knitting again,” he says suddenly. “Shall I do you a jumper? You’re gonna need one in there.”

It’s so unexpected that I take a step backward. “I’d like that very much indeed. You could bring it to me. When’s your, not half term, what do they call it?”

“Reading week,” Tom replies. “I’ll see if I can.”

“The house’ll be less grim by then, I promise you—”

A tumult erupts on the far end of the line—thundering feet, urgent shouting, as if the other occupants of the house were fleeing a fire.

“Ade and Jase, off for their training run,” Tom says. “That means it’s seven o’clock. Got to go, Dad. Send me your measurements. Bye.”

“When is reading week?” I say, but he’s hung up.

If he does make the sweater, I’ll gladly wear it. Tom carried on knitting after his early lessons with Mrs. Marshall, and he’s an expert now.