Fire engines were still desperately trying to put out fires, while haggard-faced men continued to work tirelessly amongst the flattened buildings to find survivors. Bobby had to climb over perilous piles of rubble to get through the streets. After what felt like hours, he at last spotted some familiar buildings and soon after he turned into the street where he had lived only to come to an abrupt halt. One side of the street was intact, apart from the fact that most of the windows had been blown out and tiles had fallen from the rooftops. But his own home was nothing more than a smoking ruin.

With his heart in his mouth Bobby silently stared ahead. Part of him didn’t want to move forward, he was afraid of what he might discover, but it was as if his legs were moving of their own volition until he was standing in front of the ruins of what had been the only home he had ever known before he had arrived at Treetops. He stood there with tears burning behind his eyes as he tried to take in what he was seeing. And then suddenly he heard a familiar voice.

‘Is that you, young Bobby?’

He turned to see Mrs Cotton, a neighbour from across the road, staring at him from her front door. She was wearing a huge flowered wrap-around pinny and had a scarf tied turban-like about her head. She was nice was Mrs Cotton. Many a time she had bathed a black eye for Bobby or Peggy after one of their father’s drunken episodes, and many a time she had taken them in and given them a meal when their ma didn’t have so much as a crust of bread in the house.

‘Y-yes it’s me, Mrs Cotton,’ Bobby answered in a shaky voice. ‘But where’s me ma and dad? … An’ Skippy?’

At that moment a little tan-coloured mongrel flew from between the woman’s legs and launched himself at Bobby with his tail wagging furiously and part of his question was answered at least.

‘Skippy were in the street when the ’ouse got bombed,’ Mrs Cotton told him. ‘Your dad must ’ave turfed ’im out an’ it were a good job an’ all. I took ’im in an’ I’ve been feedin’ ’im. But why don’t you come in’ an’ all, lad? I bet you could do wi’ a nice hot sup o’ tea an’ a bite o’ sommat to eat, per’aps?’

‘But me ma an’ da? … Where are they?’

‘Come away in now. The road is no place to talk.’ She put her plump arm about his shoulders and, without a word, led him into the house.

He immediately noticed that Mr Cotton had boarded up the broken windows and a fire was burning in the grate.