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name. Alfie stepped forward beside his mum now, and he noticed all the doors opening on the opposite side of the street and the women coming out and putting their hands to their faces. The curtain at number eleven twitched, and he could see Granny Summerfield staring out, her hands pressed to the sides of her head. Mr. Asquith trotted by with young Henry Lyons on the bench seat. Henry couldn’t fill a milk jug to save his life; everyone said so. He’d start pouring and half the churn would end up on the side of the road. But the dairy needed a delivery man, and Henry was deaf so he couldn’t go to war. Alfie was sure that Mr. Asquith stared in his direction as he passed, looking over the boy’s shoulder in search of his true master.
    â€œMrs. Slipton, I’m Sergeant Malley,” said the man. “This is Lieutenant Hobton. May we come in for a moment?”
    â€œNo,” said Margie.
    â€œMrs. Slipton, please,” he replied in a resigned tone, as if he was accustomed to this type of response. “If we could just come in and sit down, then—”
    â€œYou’ve got the wrong house,” said Margie, her words catching in her throat, and she almost stumbled before putting her hand on Alfie’s shoulder to steady herself. “Oh my God, you’ve got the wrong house. How can you do that? This is number twelve. You want number twenty-one. You’ve got the numbers backwards.”
    The older man stared at her for a moment; then his expression changed to one of utter dismay as the redhead pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and ran his eyes across it quickly.
    â€œSarge,” he said, holding the paper out and pointing at something.
    The sergeant’s lip curled up in fury and he glared at the younger man as if he wanted to hit him. “What’s wrong with you, Hobton?” he hissed. “Can’t you read? Can’t you check before we knock on a door?” He turned back then and looked at Margie and Alfie, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
    And with that the two men turned around but remained on the street, looking left and right, their eyes scanning the numbers on the doors before turning in the direction of Mr. Janá č ek’s sweet shop, where the windows were still boarded up from when they’d been smashed a couple of years before and the three words painted in white remained.
    No Spies Here!
    Margie stepped back into the hall, gasping, but Alfie stayed in the doorway. He watched as the two soldiers made their way slowly along the street. Every door was open now. And outside every door stood a wife or a mother. Some were crying. Some were praying. Some were shaking their heads, hoping that the men wouldn’t stop before them. And every time Sergeant Malley and Lieutenant Hobton passed one of the houses, the woman at the door blessed herself and ran inside, slamming it behind her and putting the latch on in case the two men changed their minds and came back.
    Finally they stopped at number twenty-one, where Charlie’s mother, Mrs. Slipton, was standing. Alfie couldn’t hear what she was saying but he could see her crying, trying to push the soldiers away. She reached out with both hands and slapped Hobton across the face, but somehow he didn’t seem to mind. The older man reached forward and whispered something to her, and then they went inside and stayed there, and Alfie found himself alone on the street again. Everyone else was indoors, counting their lucky stars that the two soldiers hadn’t stopped at their door.
    Later that day, Alfie heard that Charlie Slipton had been killed, and he remembered the afternoon when Charlie had thrown a stone at his head for no reason whatsoever. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. That was the thing about the war, he realized. It made everything so confusing.
    Alfie didn’t read much of the Daily