A nervous child, her parents thought she should be shielded from talk of war. While her father listened to the six o’clock news the door was locked. She pressed her ear to the keyhole, was caught by her mother and punished. Crazy parents. They never thought that at school fire drill would become air raid practice, that children would be taught what to do if the siren sounded when they were half way home. In the playground, boys were spitfires, weaving, zooming. They talked excitedly about bombs falling. Instead of tag one would be a siren, loud as he could and scary. At his screech skipping and hopscotch stopped as girls and boys rushed to the shelter door. Always last, caught by the siren, and ‘out’ she learned to live in two worlds. At half past three a swarm of children rushed through the gate pealed off in ones and twos as they reached their turnings and disappeared behind their own doors. She lived another mile away, walked on alone. The road was empty, silent apart from a bike or bird. A hum high in the distance got louder. Was it a plane? She listened hard. Even the crunch of her footsteps became harsh and alien. The noise came nearer. Should she lie in a ditch? “Face down.” the teacher said. Dirty her dress, make her Mum cross? Slowly silence descended, like a familiar blanket. She got up, dusted herself down, hurried home. At her gate she waited for her breath to settle, stuck on her smile. “Have you had a nice day at school, dear?” “Yes, Mum”.