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  To the Harlow Twins, Phyllis and Anne, who lived through this war.

  London

  Autumn 1977

  Grace glanced at her watch. Had she been clear enough about the whereabouts of the tea shop? The woman was twenty minutes late and Grace had ordered tea to placate the waitress. What was an extra twenty minutes after thirty-six years, she mused as she poured milk into her cup. Perhaps her train was late or she’d got caught up in the tail end of the anti-racism protest dispersing from Trafalgar Square. She reassured herself with this notion.

  The Earl Grey was fragrant and comforting. The plate of cakes looked shop-bought, but she selected a slice of Swiss roll, even now unable to resist sugar after a childhood without it. She and her sister still loved swapping opinions about their worst wartime dishes – ersatz gooseberry crumble had Grace’s vote, but Sarah screwed up her face at the memory of tapioca. ‘And we had to eat everything on our plate. My kids,’ said Sarah, ‘don’t know they’re born.’

  Sarah had refused to come today. She was still angry, absolutely furious. Grace understood why, but she was more detached about it. It was funny how, despite their closeness, she and Sarah were such different people. Sarah was a housewife, mother of three and now grandmother to a one-year-old. Grace had remained determinedly single – ‘a career girl’, as everybody pigeonholed her, although she’d never been particularly ambitious, simply not interested in marriage and what she called ‘that side of life’. She liked living on her own, knowing where everything was in her neat flat in Putney, and content in her work as a solicitor specializing in property law. Travel was her great thing. She’d learned Spanish and French at evening classes and spent most of her holidays abroad. She and her friend Milo had conducted their version of the hippy trail for three glorious weeks last autumn. India, Nepal and Thailand. Magical. The photograph albums were stacking up on the shelves. Greece, Spain, Australia, Kenya, the United States, the Soviet Union… said the labels. Grace had pen pals all over the world. She smiled as she remembered the travel brochure in her bag. South America was to be next. Somewhere they weren’t having a revolution, she thought with a shiver, remembering a tricky episode in Egypt. She’d be forty soon and it would be wonderful to do something special with Milo to celebrate.

  She dabbed up the crumbs from her Swiss roll, wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and gazed out of the window at the passers-by. Drat the woman. She hoped something wasn’t wrong. When the letter had arrived, the one that had shocked them so much, Grace had been sent off balance, tipped back into the past, thoughts stirred up that she’d kept buried for years. She’d been amazed at how bravely her mother had accepted the news. It was a tragedy, as Sarah said, that their father wasn’t around to deal with the fallout. Mother was so heroic. She always had been. Grace and Sarah adored her. She’d put up with so much, yet made a success of her life. After all, what child hadn’t heard of Madeleine Anderson?

  One

  West Kensington, London

  March 1941

  There was a before and an afterwards. Later, Maddie would trace back to this moment the way her life changed.

  A shaft of sunshine found its way through a rip in the blackout curtain. It played on Maddie Anderson’s sleeping face, teasing her into awkward consciousness. She blinked and lay quiet, still caught on the coat-tails of her dream. In it her husband, Philip, had returned. He was searching blindly for her in the ruins of their home, shouting her name. She’d called back in anguish, but could not make her voice heard.

  The dream faded. Maddie saw that she was in a narrow bed in a strange room with five-year-old Sarah’s gently breathing body pressed hotly against hers. She sniffed. Her daughter’s fine hair smelled of stale smoke. And now the awful memories tumbled in.

  It hurt when she raised her head, but she was glad to see three-year-old Grace asleep on a mattress beside the bed. Grace had thrown off her blanket and lay curled in a ball, clutching her toy rabbit.

  The rush of relief that the three of them were safe in Mrs Moulder’s front bedroom was quickly succeeded by despair. Was last night’s bomb damage as bad as she feared? Maddie had to see. Sliding out of bed, she gathered the folds of the unfamiliar flannel nightdress and went to push aside the curtain. Her gaze roved along the row of red brick-terraced houses opposite where neighbours were already out, boarding up broken windows, until she came to a smoking gap between the houses and caught her breath.

  All that was left of Number 38, with its white-painted front door and low arched gate, was a cloud of dust and a heap of rubble spilt across Valentine Street. An open truck was parked nearby and in the pale spring sunshine two stalwart men in breeches and hard hats were shovelling debris into a wheelbarrow. Several onlookers idled about and as Maddie watched, a scrawny woman pointed a broom at what had been Maddie’s stubby front garden with its pots of nodding daffodils, then darted forward. She tugged something out of the rubbish and brandished it in triumph. It appeared to be a doll. The woman was Norah Carrington from next door. Maddie inwardly groaned. The sight of that irritable busybody swinging one of her daughters’ precious dolls by its leg was not to be borne. And then – she briefly closed her eyes – there was the matter of her missing handbag. She dropped the curtain and turned from the window. Never mind her headache and the ringing in her ears. She must do something.

  She peered round the gloomy bedroom but saw only the pile of filthy rags they’d peeled off last night. Tears prickled. They had nothing, not even clothes to wear today. Just Rabbit, which Grace had been clutching when they were dragged from the air raid shelter. A small mercy, but it had soothed the anxious child to sleep after they’d reached the safety of Mrs Moulder’s house at past three that morning.

  Maddie stepped over Grace to reach the bedroom door and crept downstairs in her bare feet. Hesitating in the narrow hallway, she felt the eyes of sepia-tinted photographs of Moulder ancestors upon her and heard the sounds of Mrs Moulder preparing breakfast. When she pushed open the kitchen door the elderly lady looked up from spooning reddish gloop from a storage jar into a china jam pot and greeted her, concern in her brown eyes.

  ‘My dear Mrs Anderson, you look dreadful. You should go back to bed.’

  ‘No, no, I have to go out. May I borrow shoes and a coat? I don’t mean to sound rude. It’s simply… they’re clearing up already and I need to rescue my handbag.’

  ‘Surely a cup of tea first.’

  ‘No time. Mrs Moulder, would you keep an eye on the girls? They should sleep for ages, I think.’

  ‘Of course I will, but let me find you some proper clothes.’ Mrs Moulder wiped her hands on her apron and regarded Maddie doubtfully. ‘Though you’re such a slender little thing, I don’t know what will fit you.’

  ‘Just the shoes and an old coat will do for now. Please.’

  Mrs Moulder bustled into the hall and soon Maddie clopped out of the house in a flapping pair of court shoes, a paisley headscarf and Mr Moulder’s shabby raincoat, whose only virtue was that it covered up the nightgown.

  The site of last night’s bomb was attracting a lot of interest and the handful of bystanders had swollen to a small crowd. The family next door on the other side to Norah Carrington was out in full force, the mother and three boys gathering broken roof tiles from their own front garden while the father engaged in lively argument with a pasty-faced official
in a suit who was inspecting the damage to the party wall and making notes in a small black book. The crowd, seeing the normally neat Maddie Anderson approach in her odd attire, parted to let her through, several people murmuring their sympathy. She ignored them and pushed as close as she could to stare through the dust at the ruins of her home. A lump formed in her throat as she absorbed the awful extent of the devastation. The roof was gone and only the back of the house was still standing, stumps of floor joists and partition walls stretching uselessly into mid-air. A glimpse of the rose-sprigged wallpaper from the girls’ nursery made Maddie’s eyes swim. Everything else, the brick frontage, roof beams, tiles, floorboards, shards of furniture, lay in a heap as though smashed downwards by a giant’s fist. A bathroom pipe dripped water over it all. If any of their possessions had survived the blast intact they would surely be coated in soggy brick dust and unrecognizable.

  Maddie felt a large hand clamp her arm and a ripe male voice said, ‘Stay back now, madam.’

  ‘But it was my house,’ she said, looking up at the burly workman’s weathered face with pleading eyes.

  ‘No good if the rest of it falls on you, eh?’ He marshalled her to a safe distance then raised his voice to the crowd. ‘Stay well away, so we can get on with the job.’

  Everyone shuffled back a few inches. Someone asked Maddie, ‘How are the little girls?’, but she hardly heard for she had spotted a pathetic pile of objects lying on a sheet by the truck. She stepped toward it, then caught Norah Carrington’s eye, and reached out her hand for the doll the woman held. ‘I wasn’t going to keep it, you know,’ Norah whined as she relinquished it. She muttered something that sounded like, ‘Some people,’ as Maddie turned away without a word. Nosey Norah Carrington was the worst thing about living in Valentine Street. The woman had mistaken Maddie’s natural reserve for frostiness from early on and never lost an opportunity to be offended by it.

  The doll was one of Sarah’s. Maddie couldn’t see what lay on the pile, but when she called to the burly man he took the doll, went over and tied everything up in a grubby bundle, which he laid at her feet.

  ‘This is it for the moment,’ he said, sympathy in his eyes. ‘Not much, but better than nothing.’

  ‘Oh, but the air raid shelter!’ Maddie said, grasping the bundle. ‘I left my handbag there with our ration books in it and… everything.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll have a look when I get the chance.’

  ‘I’d be so grateful. We’re staying at Number 21. Down there, with the privet hedge and the blue front door.’ She should return. The girls might wake up and be frightened.

  ’Twenty-one,’ he repeated. ‘Before you go, have a word with his nibs here, eh?’ The official in the suit was approaching, a self-important expression in his baleful eyes. ‘He’ll tell you what you’re due. Get you sorted out.’

  Twenty minutes later Maddie let herself into Mrs Moulder’s to be told that the girls were still sleeping. She hung up the coat, kicked off the shoes and dumped the bundle by the kitchen sink. Then she joined Mrs Moulder at the kitchen table, where she sipped tea and nibbled on a piece of toast, not because she was hungry, but to stop the old lady fussing. Mrs Moulder questioned her about her plans for the day, but Maddie could not engage with what she said. Her mind, now stuffed with instructions about government forms and entitlements, wouldn’t process anything more.

  Instead her thoughts drifted over the events of the night before and her breath quickened with remembered fear. One moment the three of them been huddled in the tight dark space of the shelter that shook to the roar of the planes overhead, flinching at the crump of the bombs. Then there had come a strange silence followed by a terrific boom. The earth shuddered as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the air then the whole world tumbled round them.

  For ages after the blast they had clung together awaiting rescue, trapped in the suffocating blackness, the girls whimpering. And the old terror fell upon her. Come on, Maddie. She forced herself to fight it off, to breathe deeply, croaked shreds of nursery rhymes until her voice gave out. ‘Jack and Jill’ and ‘Humpty Dumpty’ – why were so many about falling and breaking one’s head? Then, eventually, she heard men’s voices and managed a hoarse shout, ‘Here, we’re in here!’ Sobs of relief filled her throat, but she held them back. Not in front of the children. There came a scrabbling at the front of the shelter, a flicker of torchlight then the sense of something heavy being lifted. The door screeched open and a blessed draught of cool night air brushed her face…

  ‘Mrs Anderson, you’re shivering.’ Mrs Moulder’s quavering voice brought her back to the warm kitchen. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You don’t look yourself. I don’t think you heard me. One of those volunteer ladies came when you were out. She brought some clothes for you and the girls.’

  ‘How kind!’

  ‘And I know you washed last night, but there’s plenty of hot water this morning if you’d like to do your hair.’

  Maddie fingered her sticky locks with distaste, then smiled at the old lady. ‘Thank you. You’re so nice and I’m being useless.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’ve had a bad shock.’ Mrs Moulder rose, with a determined expression on her face. ‘Come along now. The bag of clothes is on the landing and I’ll look out a clean towel.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘No need to hurry over it. I can deal with the little ones when they wake up.’

  Maddie washed her hair while bent over the bath, surprised at the amount of dirt that flowed down onto the chipped enamel. As she towelled her hair dry and raked the short sandy-coloured waves into their usual swept-back bob, her tragic face stared back from the mirror. Purple smudges under her brown eyes and a graze on her cheek spoke their story, but without her handbag she had no powder or lipstick to help her put a brave front on the day.

  While she buttoned up a faded green dress and secured the belt at its tightest hole, Maddie’s thoughts ran ahead. What should she do first today? According to the man in the suit there was a whole host of officials she must consult for emergency supplies, for compensation for loss of her home, the list went on. Her head ached harder at the thought of it all.

  Suddenly, longing for Philip surged in. If only he were here she’d feel so much stronger. But Philip has gone, so you’ll have to manage by yourself. Buck up, Maddie Anderson.

  She frowned. Where would they live? Mrs Moulder was a brick, but they shouldn’t impose on her for long. The old lady wasn’t used to children, she had none of her own. Maddie had noticed the fragile vases and porcelain figurines that the widow kept on every surface. Grace, particularly, could be clumsy.

  She slipped on a pair of low-heeled shoes. What a pleasure that they fitted. Pretty, too, with their bow trim. Funny how a nice pair of shoes made one feel better. She wondered who they’d belonged to and why they’d been given away. People could be so kind. Her eyes were filling again and she blinked furiously. She had to keep herself together for the girls.

  She spread the damp towel over the rail then went to peep in at the children. Sarah was snoring gently, little Grace had turned onto her side now, clutching Rabbit’s ear and sucking her thumb. Maddie smiled tenderly as she retreated, pulling the door to.

  As she made her careful way downstairs in the unfamiliar shoes someone rapped on the front door and she saw, distorted by the cracked half-moon of glass, the helmeted head of the burly workman she had spoken to earlier.

  ‘It’s for me,’ she called softly to Mrs Moulder and went to the door. The man on the step smiled sheepishly as he held out a beige leather handbag streaked with grime.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she cried in relief. She took it from him, flipped open the clasp and peered inside. Yes, her purse was there along with the family’s identity cards, allowance and ration books, her engagement book. ‘That’s truly marvellous,’ she told him. ‘I’m so grateful.’

  ‘And we found this in a broken
desk.’ He held out a damp manila packet the size of a slim library book. ‘Maybe you can dry it out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the package from him puzzled, for she’d never seen it before. Something was scrawled on it in Philip’s handwriting, but the single word was barely legible for the ink had run. Knyghton, it said.

  ‘Well, that’s it.’ The man touched the brim of his helmet in a gallant gesture. ‘We’ll be finishing up soon. Sorry for your trouble, but glad you’re all safe.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Wait.’ Maddie took out her purse, intending to give him some coins to thank him, but he shook his head.

  ‘Even if I was allowed I wouldn’t.’

  She watched as he set off down the road again with his jaunty walk, thinking about the pity in his eyes, then went back inside.

  A thin wail sounded overhead. Grace was awake. Maddie hastily set down the bag and package in the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. Grace was at the top, tottering sleepily, Rabbit in hand. Maddie opened her arms and Grace fell into them. In the bedroom they found Sarah sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes and complaining that everything hurt.

  As Maddie bustled about dressing her bewildered daughters in smocks and cardigans once worn by other little girls, she was astonished and thankful all over again that they’d survived their ordeal with life and limb intact. Grace would keep crying, though, and Sarah was unusually whiney. They’re exhausted, she told herself. She struggled to keep her attention on the task in hand.

  When she heard the truck drive off she went at once to the window. The scene of last night’s disaster looked tidier, the street swept clean, everyone had gone. A woman pushing a pram past hardly gave the site a second glance. The ruins of their home had become simply another bombsite. Commonplace. Maddie didn’t blame the young mother. If you thought too much about the tragedy each bombsite represented you’d go out of your mind.