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to her waist.
    ‘No, Ernie!’ she snapped. ‘If you don’t cut it out, I’ll yell the place down.’
    Ernie was now tugging at her panties. ‘Stop ’avin’ me on, Sun! You’re always ’avin’ me on. You’re mine, Sun. Yor’ll always be mine!’
    Sunday was so shocked to hear Ernie talk like this, that when the next salvo of shells burst with a deafening crack overhead, she somehow found the strength to push him off and make a quick dash for the road.
    To her surprise, Sunday found that she was able to outpace Ernie, for once she was in the Caledonian Road, a quick glance over her shoulder showed that he had turned back towards the church portico.
    The Caledonian Road itself was completely deserted, for the audience had left the nearby Mayfair Cinema over an hour before, and clearly no one was taking the chance of being caught out in the first air-raid for months.
    Once she was certain that she was no longer being followed, Sunday made her way straight towards one of the small public shelters on the road itself. Although the two intruder aircraft had now passed over, the ack-ack barrage was still in full swing, and pieces of jagged shrapnel were tinkling down on to the rooftops all around her. As she hurried along, she had to cover her ears against the deafening gunfire, which seemed so different to the claps of thunder that so excited her whenever there was a thunderstorm.
    Sunday finally managed to reach the public shelter unharmed. She had always thought these brick and concrete constructions to be nothing more than a sitting target should they receive a direct hit, but at least she would be protected from the falling shrapnel, and there would be people there with whom she could slog it out.
    ‘Come on in gel – quick as yer can!’
    To Sunday’s great relief, an air-raid warden was waiting at the door to let her in, and as she entered, she was met by a thick pall of fag smoke. The place was jam-packed, mainly with young people from the dance hall. Needless to say, none of the boys offered to give her their seat, so an old bloke who was smoking a pipe of stale baccy immediately got up and gave her his. Sunday was about to take up his offer when she heard someone calling to her.
    ‘Sunday! Over ’ere – Sun!’
    It was Pearl, at the far end of the shelter. Lennie Jackson was with her, but he had his back turned towards Sunday, and she could only just see Pearl’s face peering out over his shoulder. They were clearly snogging against the back wall in full view of everyone.
    A cold chill went up Sunday’s spine, and she suddenly decided not to sit down.
    ‘Sunday! Wot yer doin’? Come over ’ere! There’s room!’
    Lennie turned only reluctantly to look across at Sunday. Then after a smile that was more a smirk, he turned back to Pearl again, and smooched her on the neck.
    Sunday felt quite sick. All she could do was to turn, make her way back to the entrance again, and leave.
    The old bloke who had offered her his seat shook his head in bewilderment. Then he sat down again, and continued to puff away at his pipe.
    Once in the street outside, Sunday started to run. She was only a short distance from ‘the Buildings’, and despite the tinkling of shrapnel which now sounded to her like a mad song being played on a strange musical instrument, she was more prepared to take her chances in the street than sit in a stuffy old air-raid shelter with Pearl and Lennie.
    Pearl may have been her best friend, but tonight she could have bloody well strangled her.

Chapter 3
    Louie Clipstone hated men. Well, that’s what most people assumed, for every time a member of the opposite sex was mentioned in her presence, her chiselled features swelled up in indignation, and her dark grey eyes turned bloodshot. No one could ever make out why she felt the way she did, for she always refused to discuss the matter. To avoid embarrassment, her younger sister Madge usually excused Louie’s odd behaviour by telling how the poor