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the ones at home, and she wondered if her little family was experiencing the same sense of disorientation as they travelled north to Liverpool.
    Exhausted by the emotional events of the day, and lulled by the regular clickety-clack of the wheels and the warmth of the bright sun coming through the window, she dozed off.
    It was only a small train of five carriages and a guard’s van. The other occupants of Polly’s compartment were middle-aged or elderly civilians who kept up a desultory conversation about the inconveniences of war and the lack of any real information from the government. The corridor outside was jammed with Canadian servicemen and their huge kitbags. Despite their loud voices and sudden bursts of laughter, Polly’s doze was not disturbed.
    The urgent volley of sharp blasts from the train whistle woke her immediately. One glance out of the window into the almost blinding sun was enough. ‘Get on the floor,’ she shouted. ‘Enemy planes.’
    The eight of them scrambled to the floor as the guard furiously blew his whistle and ordered everyone to get down. Polly could feel the train speeding up, could hear the first deadly rat-a-tat-tat of bullets and the roar of the two fast-approaching Messerschmidts. The train was now screeching along, jolting them hard against one another, the wheels rattling over the rails, smoke and soot streaming from the funnel.
    Polly tried to make herself as small as possible in the tight gap beneath the seat as the train hurtled along, the carriages swaying alarmingly as it took a curve in the tracks far too fast. She could hear the enemy planes returning; could see two of the fool-hardy young Canadians lean out of the corridor window and cock their rifles.
    Enemy bullets thudded and whined, pinging off metal, splintering wood and shattering glass. The carriage window exploded, showering them with deadly shards. Someone screamed and Polly curled into a tighter ball, head buried in her arms.
    The answering salvo of gunfire from the corridor was deafening above the shouts and the thunder of the racing train wheels. Polly remained tightly curled in the sooty dust and cobwebs that lay beneath the seat. She could feel the stiff terror of the woman beside her and reached for her hand, seeking comfort as well as giving it.
    ‘Cease fire immediately that soldier!’ The roared command came from the end of the corridor and was obeyed instantly.
    The train continued its hectic pace, iron thundering over iron as the vibration of the turning wheels shook the carriages and reverberated through the huddling passengers.
    After what felt like hours, Polly realised the enemy planes had gone, and the train’s pace had slowed. She dared to peek from beneath the seat so she could scan the small area of sky to be seen from the shattered window. The sun glared from an empty, cloudless blue.
    ‘All-clear!’ shouted the guard. ‘All-clear!’
    Polly eased out from her hiding place and looked at the others. ‘Is anyone hurt?’
    ‘If you could just help me up, dear, the old knees don’t work as well as they used to.’ It was the elderly woman who’d clung to her hand so tightly throughout the raid.
    Polly tried to keep her balance in the swaying compartment as she helped the woman to her feet. ‘You aren’t hurt, are you?’
    ‘Bless you, no, but thank you for holding my hand,’ she replied, straightening her dusty hat and clutching her capacious handbag. ‘I’m not usually so timid, but I really thought I was a goner there.’
    Polly noticed that despite her cheerful words, her smile was fleeting and barely reached her fearful eyes. ‘Sit down for a minute and catch your breath,’ she advised. ‘We’ve all had a bit of a shock.’
    Polly settled her comfortably and tried to dust herself down as she took stock of the damage to her clothing. Her cotton dress and cardigan were filthy, there was a ladder in her stockings, her hair was a mess, and she’d banged her head at some point, for