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had quite a masculine face for a boy his age, despite his pathetic attempts to grow a pencil-thin moustache. Her main concern was that Ernie fancied her. He had always fancied her, and she knew it. Ever since the first day he set eyes on her when he came to work at the Bagwash, she had caught him staring, leering at her. On one occasion, when she had to squeeze past him in a narrow passage to get to the women’s toilet, she had felt him deliberately press his body against her. But then, in her heart of hearts, she knew that there were times when she had led him on, so if he tried anything she only had herself to blame.
    High above them, searchlights were scanning the sky for the two intruder aircraft, who were dodging in and out of the killer wires of the barrage balloons.
    ‘Must be a couple of strays,’ Ernie said, watching the dark outline of Sunday’s silhouette as he spoke. ‘’Itler’s last fling before it’s all over.’
    Ernie was now standing so close to Sunday that she could smell the beer on his breath. ‘We ought to get to the shelter, Ernie,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe out here.’
    ‘Wouldn’t go out there just yet,’ said Ernie immediately. ‘If them guns open up again, there’ll be shrapnel comin’ down all over the place.’
    ‘If you don’t mind,’ insisted Sunday, easing her way past him, ‘I’ll take my chances.’
    As she spoke, the Finsbury Park guns fired a deafening salvo of shells up into the sky. Sunday literally fell back against the church door as the building vibrated from top to bottom.
    Ernie immediately grabbed his opportunity and leapt forward to protect Sunday with his own body, pinning her back against the church door. ‘See wot I mean!’ he yelled, above the cacophony of gunfire. And leaning his body as close as he could against hers, his head buried into her shoulder, he croaked breathlessly, ‘Nuffin’ ter worry about, Sun. You’re safe wiv me. I won’t let no ’arm come to yer. Not now. Not never.’
    With pieces of shrapnel from the anti-aircraft shells now scattering down on to the road outside and the gravestones in the churchyard, and Ernie pinning her against the church door, Sunday felt trapped. By now she could feel that Ernie was aroused. The thin cotton trousers he was wearing were bursting at his flies, and she now realised that if she didn’t get out of there fast it would be too late. And yet, although she didn’t quite know why, something inside told her that she didn’t particularly want to get out of there. Maybe it had something to do with the danger she was in, danger from the air-raid, danger from Ernie Mancroft. The dilemma she was facing was exciting her, and as she felt Ernie’s body pressing hard against her own, and his hands starting to explore her breasts, she felt an urge to go along with whatever he wanted to do. For some reason she wasn’t frightened by the prospect. But then, why should she be? After all she’d done it before with a couple of other blokes, so why not Ernie? After all, he
was
a bloke, and young blokes were hard to find during wartime.
    At that moment, another gigantic salvo lit up the sky, and in that split second, Sunday not only felt this boy’s body pressing hard against her, but she could also see him. Suddenly reality took over from fantasy. ‘No, Ernie,’ she said, trying to push him away. ‘No more. I want to get home.’
    ‘Wot’s the rush?’ Ernie asked, as he held her tight and refused to let her go. ‘You’re safe I tell yer. Come on, Sun. Yer know ’ow I feel about yer. Yer know yer want me –
really
.’
    ‘No, Ernie! Get away from me!’ Sunday was now struggling, but Ernie was very muscular, and much too strong for her.
    He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away. He pulled her face back again, and when he did press his lips against hers, she pushed him off, and wiped her own lips with the back of her hand. Then she felt his hands clawing at her dress, trying to pull it up