Unable to sleep, with adrenalin still coursing through her body, Audrey rose before sunrise, pushed her feet into her dust-covered shoes and crept out of Pat’s house.

‘Back later,’ she told Mary, who stirred in her sleep. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Before she left the house, she caught sight of her face in the mirror by the front door and gasped. Smudges of dust and soot covered her face, a gash on her forehead that Pat had cleaned up was sealed with dried blood and her eyes were pink from sleep deprivation. She hardly recognised herself, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it – there were more important matters to attend to.

Walking swiftly back to the bakery in the cool morning, she stared in disbelief at the state of the shop and the first floor of the house. Fisherman’s Road was quiet, as, after the disturbed night and various evacuations, the business owners were catching up on a few hours’ sleep before the working day started. The AFS had cordoned off the bakery, but Audrey walked past it and stepped inside, her feet crunching on broken glass.

‘Heavens above!’ she said, as she stared up at the decimated shop. The front windows, bearing the word ‘Bakery’ in elegant gold lettering, were blown out, the door had been blown off and strips of wood from the doorway were hanging like stalactites from above. The first-floor window had smashed and a fraction of the roof collapsed. The ceiling of the shop had caved in, leaving the beams and the lath and plaster exposed, where the lime plaster had crumbled. The shop was covered in thick grey dust, the shelves fallen, the walls blackened, the clock and counter broken. Her chocolate-box bakery shop had been turned upside down and inside out, as if the devil himself had visited.

Audrey lifted her hand to the brass bell still in place and sounded it gently – she smiled sadly as it released its merry little jingle. Walking through the shop, slowly and carefully avoiding the debris underfoot, she moved into the cake room, which was, thankfully, relatively undamaged, though she dare not look in the stockroom at her labelled boxes and jars of precious ingredients.

With her heart pounding, she continued on through to the bakehouse.

‘Thank heavens!’ she whispered into the room, which was strangely cool after John had extinguished the bakery ovens. Quickly scanning the small outhouse for damage, it seemed the bakehouse and the ovens were unscathed. Audrey’s tired mind whirred with questions. Even if the ovens were working, where would she make the cakes and sell the produce if the shop was out of action? It probably wasn’t even safe to be in the building at all.

Deciding to go back outside, she felt something shatter underfoot and looking down on the floor to see what she’d stepped on, she cried out: ‘Oh no! Oh, heavens above!’

Flashing her torch onto the floor, tears poured from her eyes as she realised she’d trodden on the framed photograph of Charlie’s Uncle Eric and his wife Edith, who had started up the bakery with little money, but elbow grease, skill and passion, decades earlier. She dusted off the photo, which was now scratched and soiled, and stared down at Charlie’s ancestors, blinking madly when she felt sure she’d seen Uncle Eric’s eyes move.

I’m that tired, I’m starting to hallucinate now, she thought to herself, but it was as if she could feel Uncle Eric’s presence in the room with her. Audrey shivered, cold with exhaustion and shock. What nonsense, she told herself.

‘At least nobody was hurt,’ she said out loud, carefully wrapping the photograph in a hessian sack to protect it. She would take it to the Photography Studio to see if there was anything that could be done to repair it. A shiver passed from head to toe, as she thought about what might have been: they could have all been killed.

‘It could have been so much worse,’ she muttered to the empty room, though to Audrey’s exhausted and emotional brain, it felt as if someone was listening.

---

It was Maggie’s sister, Nancy, that came to tell Audrey the news.

‘Is anyone here?’ Audrey heard Nancy’s voice calling outside the bakery and, drying her eyes, she carefully negotiated her way out to greet her and warn her not to come inside as it was too dangerous.

The sun was just beginning to rise now, above the homes and businesses on Fisherman’s Road, turning parts of the sky the colour of deep golden honey. Nancy, wearing just a short-sleeved dress and clearly shivering, looked pale as milk.

‘What are you doing here so early?’ said Audrey in surprise. ‘Maggie’s not here, love – she’s enjoying her wedding night, I should hope. As you can see, we’ve had some trouble overnight.’

Audrey gestured to the bakery and watched Nancy’s face crease with concern, though she hardly looked at the building at all. Wrapping her arms around her waist, Nancy blinked away tears.

‘Maggie sent me,’ she said. ‘She wanted me to tell you that she wouldn’t be coming in for a few days. She didn’t know the bakery had been hit in the raid. Her hotel was hit and she spent the night in a shelter, but we’ve had some awful news.’

Nancy swallowed hard and Audrey tensed, sensing something dreadful.

‘What, love?’ said Audrey. ‘What is it?’

‘Isabel,’ said Nancy. ‘Our sister Isabel was killed last night. After the wedding I went to work my night shift, and Isabel was apparently trying to get our grandmother into the public shelter down the road from our house when the siren sounded, but she was hit by a motorcar. The driver panicked when the air-raid siren went off and was driving too fast in the blackout. Course he didn’t even see Isabel until it was too late. Maggie’s with our grandmother now.’

Nancy’s face blurred in front of Audrey’s eyes, as she tried to digest her words. Steadying herself on the gas street lamp that stood outside the bakery, she felt light-headed and nauseous.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, barely able to speak. ‘Isabel is dead?’

Nancy nodded her confirmation – and in her sister’s face, Audrey saw the wretched truth: Isabel was gone. And what of poor Maggie? Only yesterday she was a happy bride, dancing into the evening with her great love, George. Today she was facing the loss of her sister, who she deeply loved. Audrey’s heart broke into a million pieces and she felt she might collapse under the weight of the news. It was more than her heart and shoulders could bear.

‘I have to go,’ said Nancy. ‘I have to get home. I borrowed my neighbour’s bike. I can hardly ride—’

‘Yes… go,’ said Audrey, softly, taking Nancy’s hand in hers and dropping it gently. ‘I’m lost for words.’

Audrey stumbled and sat down on the edge of the kerb. Watching Nancy get on her bike – obviously a man’s and much too big – and ride off down the road towards the munitions factory, her narrow body balancing precariously on the saddle, she felt paralysed in disbelief. If the siren hadn’t sounded, the driver of the motorcar wouldn’t have panicked and Isabel would be alive today.

‘This heinous war!’ Audrey said, picking up a shard of broken glass and hurling it across the pavement. ‘This sickening, wretched, blasted war! I want nothing more to do with it! I wish it would stop! I hate it!’

Standing now and marching along Fisherman’s Road, not knowing where she was going, but wanting to go somewhere, anywhere, Audrey walked until she reached the Overcliff. Here, she stared out at the ocean, her arms folded across her chest, the breeze blowing her hair across her face and her dress against her legs. Outrage and horror coursed through her as she longed to blame someone, to find the pilot who had dropped this bomb, to make him accountable for everything that happened as a result. Maggie’s wedding night ruined, the death of her young and gentle sister. Who was he? she wondered. A young man, perhaps no more than twenty years of age, dropping bombs on people he knew nothing about, in the name of what? And, Audrey knew very well, the British army were doing the same overseas – bombing innocent people and devastating civilian areas in Cologne and Dusseldorf, dissolving people’s hopes and dreams in a split second.

Feeling as though she would burst with anger and grief, Audrey swept her gaze over the coastline, which was pockmarked with hideous reminders of war: 250-foot high metal masts from the radar station, the pillboxes, dragon’s teeth, trenches and weapons pits and reams of barbed-wire barriers. It was all so ugly and in conflict with the beautiful coastline. The early morning sun threw a long, golden spotlight over the quivering water. Another day was beginning. A day without Isabel in it.

‘Mrs Barton?’ said a voice from behind her, making Audrey jump. She swiped at the tears running down her cheeks and turned to face Arthur, the engineer working at the radar station, who had returned her wedding ring and stayed for dinner. Concern was etched on his face when he saw her expression. He rested his hand on her arm, in comfort, and put his head to one side. ‘Please, can I help you, Mrs Barton?’ he asked, in a voice so caring and gentle and in contrast to the fire and death and destruction, that Audrey was lost for words.

The fury rushed out of her and she felt suddenly empty and utterly alone. She longed for Charlie’s strong arms to be around her, to bury her nose in his skin, to listen to his warm, serious voice reassure her. But Charlie was on the other side of the world. Was he even still alive? She stared down at her hands and couldn’t hold it in any longer; she started to weep and when Arthur tentatively put his arms around her, she didn’t move away but rested her face against his chest. He was as good as a stranger, but he was there.

‘Let me buy you a hot cup of tea,’ Arthur said when she managed to pull herself together. ‘Seems to me like you need a bit of looking after.’

---

Holding the tea in her hands in the café, the steam drifting up towards the ceiling and clouding the window by her side, Audrey’s nose and eyes were swollen and red from crying. She knew she must look a dreadful sight, but it didn’t occur to her to care. Once she’d told Arthur the whole terrible story of the bakery fire and Isabel’s untimely death on her sister’s wedding day, and he’d sat quietly listening, shaking his head and occasionally murmuring his sympathies, she wondered if she’d said too much.

‘I’ve taken up too much of your time and burdened you with my troubles,’ she said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, which itself was dark grey from the fire. ‘I’m ever so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just felt like I couldn’t take any more.’

Arthur was a good listener and seemed genuinely affected by what Audrey had told him, and she sensed he had something he wanted to share too. She waited quietly as he chewed his lips, looking as if he was contemplating whether to speak out or remain quiet.

‘My wife was killed in the Blitz,’ he said, eventually. ‘She was a schoolteacher in east London, and she was killed when a bomb fell, along with dozens of the children in her care. Her body was found with her arms around three children, trying to protect them, I expect – she was like that.’

Audrey’s hand flew to her mouth and she let out a gigantic, shuddery sigh. ‘Goodness me!’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. Here I am, pouring out my troubles when you have your own heartache. I don’t know what I’d do if my Charlie was killed. How do you get through the days?’

Arthur folded and unfolded the napkin on the table, seemingly not knowing how to answer this question. His silence spoke a thousand words and when he looked up at her, he rolled his eyes at himself.

Audrey smiled at him and he returned the smile – something passed between them; an understanding, a mutual respect, a glimmer of another life, in another time.

‘Thank you for the tea,’ said Audrey, standing now, brushing down her dress and neatening her hair, which had escaped the pins. ‘I must get going, there is so much to sort out.’ She held out her hand to shake Arthur’s. He took it and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze; tenderness and warmth travelling between them.

They walked out into the morning, where people were going about their business as usual – how quickly life carried on – and Audrey realised she had dropped her handkerchief as she was leaving.

Entering the café again, she called out to the owner. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just dropped my hanky.’

The owner, a woman she didn’t know, rushed out from behind the counter and spoke to her in low, urgent tones. ‘You don’t want to be seen with that fella,’ she said, jerking her head towards Arthur, who was waiting outside.

‘Why ever not?’ Audrey asked, frowning.

‘He’s a member of the Peace Pledge Union, ain’t he?’ she said. ‘One of them bleedin’ conscientious objectors. He’s been stationed here to do a non-combatant job, but he’s a traitor, a spineless coward. And cowards have no place in this town.’