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War which began when she was 5 years old. Two uncles she hardly knew were killed on the Somme, but her father had spent the war stationed near London.
       This time round she was scared stiff. What if something happened to the kids…or Joe?  When would the bombing start? Tonight?  Perhaps now, this very minute while she was away from the house.  Her step quickened as she urged her tired youngsters back through the deserted rain-sodden streets… back home… back to Joe.
       Things would have to be different at home from now on. Was it any wonder that foreign countries carried on like this and went to war?  Jesus Christ, her and Joe had their own little war every weekend with the poor kids caught up in the crossfire. Yes, things would definitely have to change.
       Meanwhile, a stone-cold-sober Joe had cleaned up the mess - the spilt milk, the mixture of jam and broken glass, the plates, the burnt pan,  and put another shovel of coal on the fire. He laid the blame for this latest trouble at his nosey mother-in-law’s door…him and Florrie would be all right if it wasn’t for her interfering mam… it was her fault his family were walking the streets in the pouring rain at this time of night, nosey old bugger.
       Or…some of it could be his fault…him and that temper of his. Christ, it frightened him to death at times, never mind what it did to Florrie . And as for them two little buggers that were stood there watching it all…what did they think about their dad? He had a good idea what Betty thought, she were a defiant little sod at times but she must hate him for having everybody upset like that. Wait, was that the front door opening? Thank God they’d come back.
        He welcomed them sheepishly, fussing over them in his usual way, draping their coats on the overhead clothes-rack to dry, warming his hands by the fire then rubbing life back into Ellen’s tiny fingers, pulling up their chairs close to the fire. And finally, handing each of them a steaming pot of tea and a slice of hot buttered toast. In this small corner of a fearful world, peace had been declared.
    *
       The day after the Pomfret's rehearsal of World War Two, Ben and Edie Sagar closed their front door and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
       ‘Morning Joe,’ said Ben in passing.
       Joe stopped sweeping his front path and leaned the brush against the wall.‘How do, Ben, just off to church, are you? This war looks like it’ll be a bad job…looks like there’s no stopping it now…what do you say Ben?’
       ‘Aye, it's just a matter of time, Joe’
       Joe was only marginally embarrassed during this interlude, he remembered losing his temper last night but few of the details.
       Hurrying towards town with her own girls skipping happily ahead, Edie voiced her concerns.
       ‘He’ll kill them all one of these days Ben.  Shouldn’t we be telling the police or the child cruelty people?’
       ‘Nothing to do with us, love,’ Ben was more preoccupied with the significance of events about to unfold, ‘better mind our own business.’
       His wife knew better than to pursue the matter but couldn’t get the Pomfrets out of her mind. Florrie was a nice woman, 5 or 6 years older than her, and to be fair Joe was pleasant enough when he exchanged words with her over the back-garden hedge. Betty and Ellen were lovely kids, well mannered, well scrubbed and well fed, although their clothes were obviously second or third-hand. But it was their pale anxious faces, their sobbing whenever there was a lull in the sound of breaking pots or in their father’s outpouring of every known profanity, that troubled her.
       Unable to hide his disgust, Ben would turn up the wireless to drown out the cursing. She wondered what some of the words meant but  guessed they must be bad if they caused so much distress next door.  Occasionally, her Ben used the word “ruddy” but that was all, and never in front of their