She took out the latest letter from Laura. Kitty shook her head in amazement. How she wished she could see her friend now that Freddy had made it safely home. Laura had dashed off a hurried note as soon as the miracle had happened, and then followed it with a series of longer letters, explaining more fully how he had returned to safety; Kitty had managed to work out the gist of the events, despite the censor’s best efforts. He was now receiving treatment at a specialist hospital, as the blow to his head had caused long-lasting damage, and his burns had left their traces, but he was gaining strength day by day and his hair had even begun to grow more normally. Laura’s relief was evident.

There had still been no word about Marjorie, though. Laura feared this was affecting Freddy’s recovery, as he felt guilty that he’d survived when she maybe had not. Laura kept trying to tell him that didn’t make sense, but she admitted to Kitty that logic didn’t enter into it. All they could do was hope.

Kitty had to agree. Just about everyone she knew felt this in some shape or form: they were lucky to be alive when others close to them hadn’t been so fortunate. The bomb that had killed Elliott could have landed on the hospital and killed Rita too. Any of the houses on Empire Street could have been destroyed in the raids, but only old Mrs Ashby’s had suffered really badly. She knew she had to count her blessings. She and Tommy had a roof over their heads; so did the Feenys, and so did Rita and Ruby in the flat above the shop. Their sufferings were as nothing compared to those of the thousands who had lost their homes.

She picked up her book, which she’d left on the mantelpiece, but decided her eyes were too tired after all, and so she put it down again. Had she locked the back door? She checked it – of course she had.

She was about to turn on the wireless for the news when she heard a noise. Startled, she stood up straight and strained her ears, trying to tell where it had come from. Had she been mistaken? It was easy to imagine such things. There was nothing other than the usual sounds from the small back yard – the cat from the end of the road yowling or dislodging stones. There were always a few odd noises, she reassured herself. Old houses creaked and there was no getting away from that.

She had just convinced herself that she’d got it wrong when it came again, louder this time. It was from the front. Carefully she eased open the door from the kitchen and closed it again once she’d passed through, so that the low light of the fire did not illuminate the hallway.