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wedged with some cushions, then tucked sheets over it all as best we could. It’s not quite like a real bed, but the four of us can sleep there side by side. It’s more crowded than the shelter in the garden was, but we can’t sleep in that because the canvas of the bunks has rotted away in the damp. Morrisons are supposed to protect you from being crushed under the wreckage if the house gets blown up. I think it’s a good idea – much handier than having to rush out across the garden, though we do nip into the outside shelter during the day if we happen to be out of doors.
    Dad hates the Morrison – he says it makes him feel as if he’s shut in a box. That’s rubbish, of course – it’s a steel table withopen sides, so it’s not dark or anything. But it’s less than waist-high to an adult, so you can only get in by crawling, so I suppose he feels a bit cramped.
    Ian loves it, though. He spends quite a lot of time in there with his blanket and Bun. He’s got a passion for doing jigsaws at the moment. They’re the wooden sort, with quite big bits. He’s supposed to put them away before we go to bed, but he doesn’t always manage it.
    â€˜For goodness’ sake, boy,’ Dad said when he tucked him in one night, ‘this bed’s like a timberyard.’
    Ian laughed a lot. He’s got a weird sense of humour. He kept saying, ‘Timberyard, timberyard,’ as if it was a kind of poem.
    I had a weird moment this evening. I was out in the garden, gathering plums that the wasps hadn’t got at. Everything was quiet and the sun was going down behind the trees. I could hear Dad playing the piano. He always plays after tea, for hours sometimes. I’ve grown up with his music so I don’t usually take much notice, but this time I heard it in a new way. It wasvery wistful and beautiful, something by Chopin I think, and it made me want to cry. I’ve never cried about the war, not even the time little Moira Blake was killed when their flat over the chemist’s shop was hit. I just thought,
No, I mustn’t give in
. But standing in the garden with the evening smell of the grass and the slow, lovely music, I suddenly felt the pity of it all, and tears came.
    Mrs Potter’s cat had kittens yesterday. I wanted to go and look at them, but Mum wouldn’t let me. There were six, but Mr Potter said that was too many. He took four of them up to Hedge’s cottage to be ‘dealt with’. I know what that means. Hedge will drown them. I think that’s really horrible. Poor little things. I hate Hedge.
    We’re back at school now. They sent a letter saying we’d lost so much time at the end of last term due to ‘enemy activity’, we really had to get back to work.
    Mrs Potter’s in the kitchen again. She’s always popping in. Mum gets a bit fed up with it sometimes.
    They both look up as I come in, and their faces are grave. There’s something wrong.
    â€˜Katie,’ Mum says, reaching out an arm for me. ‘Something very sad has happened. You know Mr Freeman?’
    I nod. He’s a carpenter. He came here to put up some shelves for Dad’s books, and got a splinter in his thumb. Mum sat him down at the kitchen table and took it out for him with a needle.
    â€˜He was killed yesterday, in that big explosion. He lived over on the estate. That’s where it fell.’
    â€˜Oh, no!’ I can see him so clearly, sitting at this table where Mrs Potter is now.
    â€˜Sunday, you see,’ says Mrs Potter. ‘He was at home, playing football in the garden with his two little boys.’
    â€˜Billy and Martin,’ I hear myself say. Billy is at my school. Martin’s too small to go to school yet.
    Mrs Potter is rattling on. ‘They heard a doodlebug coming and ran to their shelter, only Martin tripped and fell. Mr Freeman stopped to help him up.’ She shakes her head. ‘It was