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seat. We got into Paddington very early in the morning, just at the first light. Shaking sleep from my eyes, stretching and yawning, I walked out into the streets.
    There were a lot of people about, for such an early hour. A lot of them were wearing siren-suits, and tin hats, with letters painted on them, in white. Otherwise London looked the same, her usual grimy old self.
    I caught a bus to go home. I sat on the upper deck, looking at the streets. In two places on the way I saw collapsed buildings, lying in a heap of rubble behind some hoardings. The wood of the hoarding looked new, still raw and clean. It carried posters. I remember one of them said, ‘A grand use for stale bread!’ And I shuddered, and felt a brief twinge of regret for Mrs Williams’ kitchen, and soft Welsh talk in the suffused fragrance of new baking.
    Then suddenly the bus took a wrong turn. It rattled away in the new direction, and I looked up and said to the conductress, ‘Where are we going?’
    â€˜Don’t ask me, mate,’ she said.
    â€˜Well what’s up?’ I demanded. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’
    â€˜Haven’t you heard there’s a war on?’ she said. ‘For all I know the street ain’t there no more.’
    But I could see down the side turnings, and all the streets were still there. I rang the bell, and scrambled off the bus. I started to walk towards home. Everything looked the same. I wasn’t surprised at that; I didn’t know why it shouldn’t. At the corner by the traffic lights a newspaper stall had the headlines, MORE HEAVY RAIDS 30 ENEMY AIRCRAFT SHOT DOWN.
    We lived on high rising ground, with a view at the end of every street. I remember seeing haze in the air over London, where usually, between the rows of houses, one saw quite clearly the skyline of the City: spires, and the dome of St Paul’s. I thought only that it was misty that morning. Then I rounded the corner, and turned down my own street.
    Right across the street, halfway down, was a barricade made of kitchen chairs, and a couple of oil drums with string rigged across them. Propped up against the middle chair was a red board, which announced in roughly-painted white letters: DANGER UNEXPLODED BOMB.
    A few doors down from the notice, my aunt’s house stood, just the same. The roses in the tiny front garden were in a riot of overblown flower. The little iron gate was shut. But the stone step under the gate looked dirty; it hadn’t been scrubbed down yesterday. I think that, more than the notice, told me that she wasn’t there.
    In a doorway, just beside the barrier, a man was leaning, half asleep. He was wearing a siren suit, and his tin hat had W painted on it. He stared at me. I was standing there, in the middle of the road, looking at the notice.
    â€˜What do you think you’re doing?’ he said.
    â€˜Going home.’
    â€˜Where’s home, sonny?’ In spite of his weariness, he was taking an interest in me.
    â€˜Down there.’
    â€˜Sorry, no go. Not till the bomb unit come and debug the bomb. There’s nobody there, anyway.’
    â€˜I don’t see a bomb,’ I said, sullenly. I was bewildered, resentful, the way one is when something has been going on one doesn’t know about.
    â€˜It’s in the back gardens, down there.’
    â€˜Where have they gone?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜All the people in these houses.’
    â€˜Oh, to stay with relations I suppose. There’s a rest centre in the High Street. If they haven’t anywhere else to go, they’ll be there.’
    â€˜Can’t I just go home, and wait for her to come back?’ I asked. ‘And my Dad’s due home, too. What will he do?’
    â€˜Look, son,’ he said, still wearily, but with an edge on his voice. ‘There’s a bloody great bomb down there, that’s maybe going up any minute. You go across that barricade and you’ll