‘Write!’ I exclaimed. ‘Good God, is that what you’d like me to do? Didn’t you hear the guns last night, don’t you know the whole world’s in a flame? What’ll I write, now; fairy-tales maybe for cities drowned in gas, or shall I scribe moralities on the rock with a nail for future generations to wonder at my wisdom?’

‘You needn’t be so hasty to take me up wrongly,’ she protested. ‘What I was going to say was that you could write an account of the things that happen to us, about our coming here and living here. If we get out of hiding other folk might be glad to know how we lived, and if no one cares except ourselves, we shall be glad of something to keep us in mind of the past.’

‘Shall we need written mementoes for that?’ I asked bitterly. ‘Oh, I think you could find a better occupation than that for me, Terry, something useful, like counting the clouds, if I’m too idle. Or I could take a hammer and break down rocks to dust—or go to the succour of my king and country—’

‘Hush! hush!’ she entreated. ‘We came here because we thought it was right, because we would not be bullied into doing wrong or assisting at wickedness. If we commence to doubt that—’

‘What cures doubt?’ I demanded.

‘Faith,’ she replied simply, ‘and my work in this place. Do you think, Hugh, it’s easy for me to plan spring-cleaning when I know the world’s in agony?’

She turned to carry stuff from the back of the cave to the entrance, now sunlit and warm, for the clouds had passed from the morning sky.

‘That will soon dry out any damp,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Look, Hugh, do you remember when we made up these?’

She showed me some notebooks and scraps of paper.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘The lists we made! listen to this, Terry, “syrup, treacle, lard”; how much of that have we? What a hope we had to imagine we’d fetch everything we needed to make life comfortable into this place. It’s a wonder we didn’t mark down a kitchen range.’

‘We didn’t quite bring everything we hoped to bring,’ she agreed.

‘It seems years ago, in another world. It was in another world. We were children playing at desert islands.’

‘Oh fine Crusoes! We didn’t rightly believe that war would come. Catch! they’ll be useful for lighting the fire some morning when we forget to dry heather. As if we were plotting a picnic! Lovely picnic!’

‘Has it been so very dreadful, Hugh? I’d never dream of burning them. The excitement we had when we made them! and you’d come running every now and then to tell me something we’d forgotten—opening the kitchen door and spoiling my baking.’