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.
