I was eight but not supposed to know about the war. For me, a nervous child, it would be best, my ignorant parents thought. The door was shut while Daddy heard The News. I listened at the keyhole once, got caught was made to feel I’d done a dreadful thing. Gasmasks? They told me that the fitting would be fun. The rubber smell was strong, the straps too tight. I hated it. On the way home my father’s hand was warm, the stars were bright. That was the part I liked. At school, of course, all the children knew and played air raids. One would be the siren. Others joined him, made a piercing din. You had to stop skipping, hopscotch, talking, whatever you were doing, and rush away to hide. The slower ones, like me, were counted dead. When I got home, My mother asked ”Have you had a nice day at school, dear?” Yes, Mummy. I knew I must not tell. In a secret corner of our garden I dug a shallow hole lined it with special stones, comfy moss, roofed it with slate and earth camouflaged with daisy plants and grass. Neat steps of earth led to the little door. My mother, when she found it, had to know. It was my air raid shelter. For the fairies. “How sweet” she said and showed it to her friends. Invasion.