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didn't anticipate her father turning up drunk and throwing stones at the windows.
    Anne didn't dare go downstairs because she knew women didn't ask questions, they didn't poke their noses in; hadn't her own father made that clear often enough? Instead she climbed into bed with Paul, curved her body round his so they lay like two bananas and tried hard to shut out the images of George being hauled into a dark alley and clubbed to death, or Harry trying single-handedly to prevent a dozen of Bill's mates swarming in here to get his children back.
    George parked his van at the end of Winthrop Street and looked towards the blaze in utter despair. There was over five thousand pounds' worth of stock in the little mission hall and it was obvious from the intensity of the flames that nothing could be salvaged.
    Winthrop Street was narrow and badly lit, with mean little houses on one side overlooking rubbish-strewn bomb sites, wood yards and a totter's yard. At normal times it would be hard to distinguish anything at this time of night, but now fire lit the street up like arc lights.
    Fingers of red flame flicked up from the narrow windows, licking the roof as if testing it. Popping sounds came from within as china cracked in the heat, then whooshing sounds as flames found an easier target in cellophane-wrapped towels and sheets.
    But mingled in with the smell of smoke was the distinct whiff of petrol.
    George could almost see the progress of the fire, he knew the layout of his warehouse so well. His paper-littered desk was already engulfed; soon the flames would reach the five gallons of paraffin kept for the stove and that would set alight the old wooden staircase that led to the small storeroom above. China ornaments were stored there, the floor littered with packing straw and that damned drum of meths he kept for the hurricane lamps.
    Four fire engines were in full use, and dozens of firemen, muscles braced as they held high-powered hoses, yellow helmets standing out like Belisha beacons.
    A crowd of residents from both Winthrop and Brady Street around the corner were huddled together, coats over their nightclothes, faces orange in the reflected light, some anxious about their own homes, others excited by the unexpected drama.
    'I'm Collins, the owner.' George tapped one of the firemen on the arm. "The police called me.'
    He had never felt so impotent. If someone would stick a bucket of water in his hand perhaps he could quell his fear and nausea. It wasn't just seeing a lifetime's work being destroyed in front of him, but the sickening knowledge that this was an act of revenge.
    Three hours later the flames had been reduced to steam rising in the cold air and an acrid stink; the spectators had gone home to their beds. As the first rays of daylight appeared the firemen were reeling in their hoses, others stamped through the charred wreckage. Against the background of a pink grey sky the blackened walls and roof timbers of the old mission hall stood out in grim relief.
    'To think it missed all the bombs in the War.' Old Mrs Graham shuffled out of number eight in an ancient dun-coloured dressing gown, and handed George a mug of tea. 'How could it have happened?'
    'Arson.' Her husband behind her sniffed know-ledgeably, clutching a blanket round his shoulders. 'I smelled petrol straight off, there was even pools of it in the yard 'cos the fire licked it all up, didn't it? You wasn't doing it for the insurance money, was you, George?'
    The police and a couple of the firemen had made similar remarks and at any other time George might have seen the funny side of it. He'd lost his valuable warehouse, his stock and in effect his business would take a tumble. With full insurance he would have been laughing, probably got enough to retire if he wanted to.
    But there was no insurance. It had lapsed just after Christmas and he'd put off renewing it because he had other things on his mind. This was something he should have anticipated and it was