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. 13 

A charming soldier swept me off my feet tonight. 

They were all there, the soldiers, with their gleaming brass buttons and perfectly ironed uniforms. They stood rigid and their shoes shone from hours of polishing.  And there was tarte au sucre bruxelloise, which is my very favourite because the sugar melts and sticks to my fingers and teeth. There was music, too--Slow Waltzes and Waltzes that enchanted everyone to dance across the floor.  It was something like Magic, although I am horridly clumsy when it comes to dancing with a partner. (Despite Grandmum's attempts to make me otherwise.) But my soldier had a kind smile and amused eyes that glittered with Something I cannot name. He reminded me of Papa when he tries not to laugh aloud. 

He told me all the things I know of soldiers. He whispered fondly of Bravery and Loyalty and Adventure and carefully of Blood and Death and Fear and Hate. But then his voice was very small when we weaved through the dancing couples out to where the Moon watches carefully. I must have looked quite tiny standing next to him, for I felt as though I was as small as Thumbelina living in her rose. There was a letter in his pocket--crinkled with worn edges as though it had been read a thousand times--and he unfolded it with careful hands. Exactly one word was penned across the paper. 

He told me then of Thole.