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by kindly nurses and other volunteers. A white-coated doctor sat with one woman, gently trying to prise something from her. As she drove past, Mary saw that it was an arm, the severed arm of a child, blackened and burned. The sight bewildered Mary. She was supposed to be a journalist, at least pro tem. How could she write about this?
    She came to yet another hold-up, ahead of a piece of wasteland. This was the anchor point for one of the barrage balloons. The steel-grey monster, an envelope of hydrogen sixty feet long, loomed quite low over the rooftops, in the middle of being deployed. It was tethered to the ground by thick steel cables, and its crew was struggling to control the cables’ release from massive winches. Most of them were women, straining and sweating, in the colours of the ATS, the Wrens, and a few WAAFs, the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. An officer, male, stood by, steadily counting to give the crew rhythm as they heaved. Mary stared, amazed at the sight of this miniature zeppelin rising up from the streets of this seaside town.
    One of the WAAFs lost her hat as Mary watched, and bright red hair tumbled loose. Mary thought she knew who she was. She parked hastily, ignoring the shouts of yet another ARP warden, and she got out of the car and ran forward. ‘Hilda! Hilda Tanner!’
    The young WAAF turned. Mary waved, still pushing forward. The WAAF had a word with the officer, and he released her from the crew with a brisk nod. Hilda picked up her cap, crammed her red hair beneath it, and hurried towards Mary.
    Mary felt relief gush. It wasn’t Gary, but it was one step closer. ‘Hilda? Look, you don’t know me. We haven’t met. I only knew you from the photographs—’
    Hearing her accent, Hilda evidently guessed who Mary was. ‘You’re Gary’s mother.’
    ‘He did speak of you, and how he’d met you here - I was stuck in London, you see - and then the embarkation came—’ Unaccountably her vision blurred.
    The girl took her arms. ‘Here, don’t take on so. Come with me. Here, sit down.’ She led Mary to a bench; some of its slats had been removed, maybe for firewood, but it was possible to perch on it. Sitting there, in the sharp sunlight, Mary felt the last of her energy drain out of her.

    Hilda was as pretty as her photographs had suggested, but with a long, rather serious face, a strong nose, and a determined set to her chin. She didn’t seem to be wearing any make-up; that bright red hair, struggling to escape from her cap, was the most colourful thing about her. ‘What are you doing here, Mrs Wooler?’
    ‘Mary. Call me Mary, for God’s sake.’
    ‘It’s Gary, isn’t it?’ Her voice rose. ‘Has something happened to him? I’ve had no news since—’
    ‘There’s nothing bad, that I know of.’ She told her what she had learned from the War Office.
    ‘And so you came.’
    ‘Yeah. The trouble is I don’t know what to do now I’m here.’
    ‘Then it’s lucky you found me,’ Hilda said firmly. ‘We’ll ask my dad.’
    ‘Your dad?’
    ‘You’ll see.’ Hilda took Mary’s hand, stood, and led Mary away from the sea front and into the town. But as they walked she glanced across at the work unit still labouring at the balloon.
    Mary asked, ‘Are you sure you can get away?’
    ‘Oh, they can manage without me. Tricky job, mind. If the wind changes you get a bag of hydrogen coming down in the middle of town, and one fag-end and it’s blammo. Of course we WAAFs could manage it alone, but the men would never admit to that.’ She turned her palm to show what looked like rope bums. ‘They call us “amazons, you know. In the papers.’ She laughed, quite gaily.
    ‘I’m partly responsible for that, I suppose. I’m a journalist of sorts, a stringer for the Boston Traveller.’
    Her eyes widened. ‘You are? Gary says you’re a historian.’
    ‘A historian by profession. I, we, happened to be here when the war broke out. I looked for something more useful to