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a hint of it showed low in those green depths, gleaming like a candle flame amid darkness. Uncertain as to what her brain was telling her Alice was silent, only Kate Hawley’s repeat of her question breaking what felt like a trance.
         ‘No.’ She blinked, clearing her mind of what she could not fathom. ‘No, I don’t know who that swine is or where he might be found but this I swear. So sure I do find out, so sure I hear a whisper of him, then he and Jim Slater will go down, but not before our Rob and a few of his mates have finished with him, he won’t go shoppin’ nobody else not for a long time!’
     
    ‘ No, I don’t know who that swine is . . . so sure I hear  . . . ’
         Claiming tiredness she did not feel had provided a plausible excuse for Katrin to retire early. Now in the privacy of her bedroom, she laughed softly at the words in her mind.
         ‘ . . . He won’t go shoppin’ nobody else  . . . ’
         Alice Butler had vowed vengeance on the one who had informed against Freda, had as good as said her brother would give the man a beating should it ever be discovered who was the person responsible.
         ‘Don’t forget to put your gas mask handy, and lay your dressing gown across the foot of the bed.’
         A breath of irritation filling her lungs, Katrin frowned resentment at the call that came from the top of the stairs. Her mother had called that same thing every night since the war had begun, had repeated those words so often it seemed they emanated from the very walls of the house; Lord, was she still a child who needed constant reminding of every least thing? ‘ Don’t come home by yourself . . . if there is a raid while you are at work don’t go sitting next to those girls from the factory workshop . . . if you are caught in a raid while on the way home then for heaven’s sake choose a respectable looking house to ask shelter of . . . ’ the list went on and on.
         Forcing down the surge of annoyance and adopting a mumbling half-asleep tone designed to persuade her mother not to enter the room, Katrin replied that all was as instructed then clamped her teeth hard on the tut of exasperation as the nightly practice continued. ‘I’ve made each of us a sandwich and the flask is ready for filling, it is all on the tray in the kitchen; them there German bombers don’t leave time for doing much once they be here so it’s best to be ready to run. And, Katrin, remember; shoes for the air raid shelter not bedroom slippers.’
         ‘Yes mother . . . shoes.’ Letting it drift dreamily Katrin listened with bated breath. Her mother might yet come in, to ensure all of her instructions had been carried out; more than that, seeing her daughter still awake would evoke more enquiry as to her day at the office. Every question was aimed at learning one thing, had her daughter perhaps caught the attention of senior management, senior meaning Arthur Whitman, the owner of Whitman Engineering? But what could catching the attention of the boss achieve? Promotion . . . senior position in the typing pool? No, that was not what Violet Hawley was angling for, she was fishing for the main catch and the fish she hoped to land was Arthur Whitman.
         Beyond the closed door a slight clink released the tension holding Katrin’s mouth. That was the torch her mother placed each night on the small table on the landing, ready to light their way to the air raid shelter – her final act before going to bed. Assured at last she would not be disturbed Katrin slipped from the bed and listened several moments.
         There was no sound from the landing. Releasing a breath she had not been conscious of holding, Katrin eased back the dark cloth with which each window of the house was covered in order to comply with blackout regulations. War! Touching a finger to the pretty flowered curtain the drab material had hidden, she stared into the moonlit softness. War was cruel, it