Diary extract No. 18

Where Susan reads dictionaries by torchlight in their bomb shelter, memorising the words and meanings by heart to keep her mind off the sound of the aeroplanes and explosions. Where Edmund clutches the framed photograph of his uniformed father to his chest. Perhaps he might play toy soldiers with us, lining up all the green ones. (He's hidden the khaki-coloured ones because he never wanted a War, pretend or not.) Where Lucy will lay her head in our laps and fiddle with the loose thread on our coats, stuffed dog tucked under her arm. Perhaps she might give us lessons on sleeping in the Blitz, how to breathe so we can't hear the bombs.  Where Peter sits beside the wireless, listening to Churchill's scratching voice rallying Hope and wishes he knew how to do the same for his family. He listens to the radio because he can't be there. So he does his best here, protects them as best he knows. 

Where the professor's War Drobe holds more than secrets. 

Where they are all waiting to be Brave.

Diary extract No. 17

Alexandre has taken all the black keys off the piano. Pasted skeleton keys there instead. He tells me he needs them to open the castle doors. There are no castles here, though. We've left them all behind. Now there's no way to play without unlocking all the doors in the castle. (The one across the ocean. Remember the Earl and his fragile little wife and the window that had a light at all hours.) My fingers hover over the keys, but I never play. Never, because there are Ghosts behind those doors. Not Ghosts like Alexandre. There can never be Ghosts like Alexandre. At night, I almost think I see him when I walk round the corner; his shadow darts about. He is only still when he is sad. Or when I am sad. He always likes to sit with me when I am sad, like he Understands every little thought in my tiny head. Still, it is rather bothersome not being able to find what he's done with the piano keys. (Alexandre is the best secret keeper because he is a Ghost. Skeletons are the worst, you see.)

We watched the fireworks, curled up in quilts because it was a cold night. Not like summer. Not at all. Like it was hailing bombs, only they burst into stardust before they could ever harm us. Sometimes, I thought I could feel coarse wool brush against my arms and the smell of gunpowder invade my nose. When I closed my eyes, the sound of people running became the heavy stride of soldiers marching. As though, for a few moments, I wasn't me any more. Hunkered down in bomb shelters, warmth pressed against ribs as the earth trembled, dreaming of jam and cake and re-reading dictionaries. Trying to be Brave. But the next moment, Maman is pouring out hot chocolate from the thermos and we are all cuddling closer together. (There is a secret about chocolate, you know. It fixes many, many things.) She smells of warm sugar, like biscuits right from the oven, as she points to the lights in the sky. Like exploding constellations, she says. It's all a Magic Trick, I think, the whole world's one grand sleight of hand.

Oh, yes. Also, Papa had his birthday. We parcelled up books for him. Books wrapped in shimmering gold paper and satin ribbons. All he ever wants is books. I think that maybe he could live off of them. Build a fortress of leather books with gold lettering and read for breakfast and lunch and supper. But I will never tell him that. It is so very easy to get Lost in a fortress of Books. Easier to escape a labyrinth than to find your way out of Books. (Labyrinths don't know how to convince you to stay.)