Prologue

It was a calm night, though bitterly cold; the stars twinkled in the sky above and the moon’s light only served to deepen the shadows. The city was deserted save for those whose business it was to patrol the wartime streets. Folk were in their homes or already down in the shelters. Only a solitary girl, weighed down by a heavy basket, was walking cautiously but with the air of one who knows her destination, remaining always where the shadows were deepest.

But now at every side street she began to hesitate, suddenly unsure of her way, for she had not reckoned with the stygian darkness of the blackout which hid the street names and made the familiar strange. She had provided herself with an elderly torch but knew that if she used it she might easily be seen, cross-questioned, maybe even sent to the nearest shelter. And then of course the contents of her basket would be her own particular secret no longer.

She was hesitating on the kerb when she heard the distant thrum of engines, and even as her mind screamed ‘bombers’ moon!’ the siren began to wail. The girl broke into a clumsy run. She was wearing a long dark coat and boots too big for her and now, filled with panic, she tripped and fell, landing painfully on hands and knees, feeling the blood trickling from her palms and down her shins. Hastily she scrambled to her feet and checked the contents of the basket, but the tiny baby within seemed not to have noticed her tumble.

Even as she grabbed her burden, a figure appeared further down the street, shouting at her to get to a shelter and be quick about it. The girl spun on her heel and began to run, the breath sobbing in her throat. Hunted and terrified, she plunged down the nearest alley, emerging from the other end of it into a street which in her panic-ridden state she thought vaguely familiar.

But above the city the drone of the planes grew louder, their menacing shapes blotting out the stars. The girl stopped in her flight, sweat trickling down the sides of her face, and she saw that these houses were large and imposing and had porches in which her basket would be a good deal safer than if she were to abandon it near a humbler dwelling. Quickly, she crossed the pavement, climbed a couple of steps, and pushed the basket as close to a front door as it would go.

For a moment she hesitated, her hand going out towards the small round head of the child which still slept soundly within. Then she snatched her hand away and turned and ran up the street. It no longer mattered if she were caught, or sent to a shelter; she had left her unbearable burden with rich people. She remembered the conscience note she had painfully written, which would be the first thing the householder noticed when he or she opened the front door next morning: I’ll cum bak for her, it read.

By this time the girl was a good fifty yards away from the porch. She stopped for a moment, a hand going to her thumping heart. The planes were directly overhead now, but her fear of the bombs was nothing compared to the fear of discovery she had been feeling a few moments earlier. She began to walk more slowly, reminding herself that what she had just done would be best for her little daughter in the long run. Besides, perhaps she really would go back and claim the child one day. She turned to give the porch – and the basket – one last valedictory glance. I hope she’ll be all right, she thought. I hope someone will love her the way I would have done had things been different. But now, relieved of her responsibility, she resumed her unhurried walk along the pavement. She could go to the nearest shelter . . .

A bomb fell from one of the enemy aircraft above and there was a tremendous explosion. Two houses disintegrated, clouds of dust rose and a solitary cat streaked past the scene of destruction, fur on end, eyes wide with terror. The occupant of the basket began to wail, the sound so tiny that it sounded more like the mewing of a frightened kitten than a human voice.

Presently, the dust settled. Workers came running, cordoning off the area, calling to one another. There was no movement, no answer to their shouts, no girl in a long dark coat to cry for help, or answer their calls.