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something of a nightmare. More people crowded into the carriages at each station. The train was delayed for three hours outside Reading. All the lightbulbs had been removed because of the blackout, so after nightfall the train was in total darkness except for the occasional gleam of the guard’s flashlight as he patrolled, picking his way over passengers sitting and lying on the floor. When Margaret could stand no longer she, too, sat on the floor. This sort of thing did not matter anymore, she told herself. Her dress would get filthy, but tomorrow she too would be in uniform. Everything was different: there was a war on.
    Margaret wondered whether Father might have learned she was missing, found out she caught the train, and driven at top speed to London to intercept her at Paddington Station. It was unlikely, but possible, and her heart filled with dread as the train pulled into the station.
    However, when at last she got off he was nowhere to be seen, and she felt another thrill of triumph. He was not omnipotent after all! She managed to find a taxi in the cavernous gloom of the station. It took her to Bayswater with only its side lights on. The driver used a flashlight to guide her to the apartment building in which Catherine had a flat.
    The building’s windows were all blacked out, but the hall was a blaze of light. The porter had gone off duty—it was now almost midnight—but Margaret knew her way to Catherine’s flat. She went up the stairs and rang the bell.
    There was no reply.
    Her heart sank.
    She rang again, but she knew it was pointless: the flat was small and the bell was loud. Catherine was not there.
    It was hardly surprising, she realized. Catherine lived with her parents in Kent, and used the flat as a pied-à-terre. London social life had come to a halt, of course, so Catherine would have no reason to be here. Margaret had not thought of that.
    She was not dashed, but she was disappointed. She had been looking forward to sitting down with Catherine, drinking cocoa and sharing with her the details of her great adventure. However, that would have to wait. She considered what she should do next. She had several relatives in London, but if she went to them they would telephone Father. Catherine would have been a willing coconspirator, but she could not trust any of her other relations.
    Then she remembered that Aunt Martha did not have a phone.
    She was a great-aunt, in fact, a fractious spinster of about seventy. She lived less than a mile away. She would be fast asleep by now, of course, and it would make her furious to be wakened, but that could not be helped. The important thing was that she would have no way of alerting Father to Margaret’s whereabouts.
    Margaret went back down the stairs and out into the street—and found herself in total darkness.
    The blackout was quite scary. She stood outside the door and looked around, with her eyes wide-open and staring, seeing nothing. It gave her a queer feeling in her tummy, like being dizzy.
    She closed her eyes and pictured the familiar street scene as it ought to be. Behind her was Ovington House, where Catherine lived. Normally there would be lights in several windows and a splash of brilliance from the lamp over the door. On the comer to her left was a small Wren church whose portico was always floodlit. The pavement was lined with lampposts, each of which should cast a little circle of light; and the road should be lighted by the headlamps of buses, taxis, and cars.
    She opened her eyes again, and saw nothing.
    It was unnerving. For a moment she imagined that there was nothing around her: the street had disappeared and she was in limbo, falling through a void. She felt suddenly seasick. Then she pulled herself together and visualized the route to Aunt Martha’s house.
    I head east from here, she thought, and go left at the second turning, and Aunt Martha’s place is at the end of that block. It should be easy enough, even in the dark.
    She longed