What Child Is This
Author: Rhys Bowen
Date: 2018-11-06 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical Fiction; Christmas; Fiction; Short Stories; Holiday; World War Ii; Historical; Audiobook; Mystery; Novella
Description: Christmas during World War II is a time for small miracles in this bittersweet short story by the New York Times bestselling author of The Tuscan Child and In Farleigh Field.Jack and Maggie Harris are adrift on ravaged streets during the London Blitz. Their home is gone. They have nowhere to go and nothing left to lose. With only the memories of their greatest loss—the death of their child during a Christmas years before—Jack and Maggie settle in a seemingly deserted mansion for the night.Inside they find shelter, warmth, and a bit of cheer. They also discover a surprise. Now, in the darkest o
Publisher: Amazon Original Stories

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2018 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle
www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781542003773

Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

About the Author

Chapter 1

London, 1940

It won’t even seem like Christmas this year.” Maggie Harris’s voice cracked as she swallowed back the tears. She had resolved to be strong and brave for Jack’s sake, but it was hard. “No pudding. No mince pies. And no tree. Nothing.” She turned away, staring at the blackout curtains that covered the kitchen window. An image flashed into her mind of another Christmas, not so long ago. There was a turkey on the table, and a Christmas tree sparkling with lights, and a little girl, her face alight with joy . . . Then Maggie spun back again and dug an angry finger into the parcel wrapped in white paper that lay on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. “It’s bad enough having no turkey, no chicken, no goose . . . not even a bloody pigeon, but this—liver! Expecting me to have liver for my Christmas dinner and be grateful for it!”

“You’ve often said that liver and onions go down a treat!” Her husband, Jack, stood with the table between them, trying to sound bright and encouraging.

“I’ve said liver and bacon,” she corrected. “Maybe it goes down a treat on a Thursday evening, but not on Christmas Day. And I don’t want the whole house smelling of onions at Christmas.” She paused, fighting back her emotions. “I can understand that we couldn’t have a turkey with only two mouths to feed, but there was that skinny little chicken in Morris’s butchers. I saw it myself.”

“We didn’t have the coupons, love. All he could give us was liver. That or heart, and I didn’t think you’d want to boil a heart for Christmas.”

“No heart. That just about sums it up, doesn’t it?” she said bleakly.

Jack came around the table and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I did my best, Maggie.” He gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “I got you that extra sugar, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t like to use it,” she said angrily. “Stolen, that’s what it was. Not ours to use.”

“It fell off a pallet at the docks, I told you. It would only have gone to waste.”

“It didn’t fall off no pallet. You and your mates helped yourselves to it. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on down at them docks.” She turned away from him again.

“Everyone’s doing it, Maggie . . . helping themselves to a little bit here and there. It’s only natural when we’ve got nothing, isn’t it? The blokes at the top, the bigwigs—don’t think they aren’t helping themselves to what they want. They get plenty of everything, and you and me have nothing this Christmas and you’re getting upset because I bring you home half a pound of sugar.”

“Just because everyone’s doing it doesn’t make it right. Wrong’s wrong, even in a ruddy war.” She walked across the room to the window and pulled back the blackout curtain for just a second before letting it fall again. The narrow backstreet outside was wrapped in darkness, no one moving, even at this early hour. And again for a second she saw a little girl, pulling back the curtains, asking excitedly, “Is it time for Father Christmas yet?” She squeezed her eyes shut as if this would make the image and the pain go away.

Jack came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Cheer up, love. We’ve got each other. At least I’m not off fighting in Africa like other poor sods, am I? I’m in a protected occupation—a dangerous occupation, mind you, but if a bag of sugar happens to fall off a pallet now and then, well, I’m going to take advantage of it. You make us a little cake tomorrow and it will seem more like Christmas. You can even make a bit of icing for the top with that sugar and do one of them snow scenes like you used to.” He gave her a little kiss on the back of her neck.

“You need icing sugar for that, you silly sod,” she said, but she didn’t sound quite so angry now. “And eggs. I was saving the two eggs so we could at least have a decent breakfast for once.”

“We’ll share an egg for breakfast and you use the other one for your cake.”

“It will have to be a small cake with only one egg.”

“Don’t matter. You’ll make it taste good, I know you will. And we’ll have a drop of port to wish good health to the king and queen when he gives his speech.”

“Humph.” Maggie shook herself free, tossing her head defiantly.

“Don’t be like that. He’s a good bloke. Stayed on in London, didn’t he? Didn’t run off to the country or to America.”

“I’m not saying he’s not a good bloke,” she replied. “But I bet he’s got a chicken or a turkey for Christmas.”

“Well, they’ve got land, haven’t they? A farm at Sandringham. Lots of turkeys, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Land. Just like my sister has,” Maggie said bitterly. “You can bet she’s having a proper Christmas dinner. We could have had one, too, if only.”

“Maggie.” His voice was softer now, as if he were talking to a child. “I know you find it hard being cooped up in the city, what with the bombing and everything, and you’d rather be in the country with your sister. But I can’t leave my job, can I? Even for a couple of days. It’s good steady work at the docks. Men would give their eye teeth to get this job. And we have to live nearby in case I’m called in sudden like.” He gave her an encouraging smile and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s put up some paper chains, make it a bit more festive, and listen to the carol service on the radio later, all right?”

When her face was still a mask of misery, he went on. “I told you, it wasn’t my fault that we didn’t get that chicken at the butchers. You can’t go on blaming me for that. Old man Morris said it had to go to a family with more coupons, and it’s just you and me, isn’t it?”

“So the Johnsons get rewarded for having five children. They have their children and they get the chicken, too. It’s just not fair.”

“Only four children now,” Jack reminded her. “Their Reggie went down with his ship, didn’t he?” There was a long silence between them. Somewhere in the houses in the row behind their minute back garden, a radio was playing big-band dance music, and a train rattled as it went over the railway bridge at the end of the block. Jack sighed. “Look, love. You’re always upset at this time of year. I am, too. Our Joanie was a lovely little kid. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about her and what a joy she was—always happy, always dancing around . . .” He broke off as the emotion threatened to overwhelm him for a moment, then he went on. “And I know it wasn’t fair that she came down with diphtheria and we lost her. And it’s not fair that we haven’t had another one—not for want of trying, eh?” And he gave her a little nudge. “But life isn’t fair, as all those poor buggers know who’ve been bombed out of their homes or on ships that sank in the Atlantic, like Reggie Johnson. We just have to make the best of things and be happy with what we’ve got.”

“I suppose you’re right . . .” She blinked back tears. “It just always hits me extra hard at Christmas. And this year—well, it starts to get to you, never knowing when the next raid is coming over, always half listening for planes and the air-raid warning. It’s easier for you. You’ve got a job to do and mates working beside you. I do my volunteer work with the Townswomen’s Guild, but I’ve too much time on my hands to think. The other women are all working at the factory, so it’s lonely here.”

“I’ve told you, Maggie.” His voice was forceful now. “I don’t want you working down no munitions factory. It’s too dangerous. They had girls blown to pieces last year.”

Maggie stared back defiantly. “I don’t see what the difference is, being blown to pieces at the factory or by a bomb here in my own house.”

Jack grinned suddenly. “At least that’s one thing you can be thankful for. The buggers aren’t likely to come on a bombing raid on Christmas Eve, are they? Even the Jerries celebrate Christmas.”

“I don’t know why. They can’t think that God is on their side,” she said. “Acting the way they do.”

“It’s hard to imagine there is a God at the moment, isn’t it?” he said. “If I was watching this from up in heaven, I’d want to step in and put a stop to it.” Then he forced a smile again. “You know what? We’ll have a little swig of that port right now and put on a record while we put up those paper chains.” He led her through to the front parlour, humming a little tune to himself. Like most front parlours, the room was only used for guests, on special occasions. These days with coal on ration and in short supply, most of their time was spent in the kitchen, where the boiler did the double duty of heating the water and the room. The front parlour always felt a little too grand for the rest of the house. There were two china dogs on the mantelpiece, an ornate clock that came from Maggie’s grandmother and a reproduction of Monarch of the Glen on the wall from Jack’s mother’s house. The three-piece suite looked as pristine as when they had bought it twelve years previously. A fire was laid ready in the grate. The heavy green velvet curtains were drawn over the blackout blinds, and walking into the room felt like entering a mausoleum.

“The fire’s not even lit in here, Jack,” she said as he went over to the gramophone and sorted through a stack of records beside it. “And it’s not worth lighting it this evening and using up our supply of coal.”

“Then we’ll dance to get warm.” He selected a record and took it from its sleeve. “How about this, ‘In the Mood’?” He wound up the gramophone, put the record on, and Glenn Miller blared out. He grabbed Maggie, swept her into his arms and started to swing her around. She found herself caught up in the moment. Jack always had been a lovely dancer, light on his feet. He held her close and she was conscious of his heart beating against hers, his warm breath on her cheek. She remembered the day she had first set eyes on him: His lorry had broken down outside her parents’ farm. She thought she had never seen anybody so handsome, and when he had winked at her with that cocky assuredness of a Londoner, she was smitten. She’d known from the start that he was a bit of a bad boy—that was part of the attraction after the lumbering farm labourers she’d grown up with. They had run away together and her suspicion had proved right. Jack wasn’t a real bad boy but a typical Cockney, ready to take advantage of anything that might come his way, like that sugar falling off a pallet.

She closed her eyes, smiling now. Trumpets competed with the staccato of the drums, filling the room with sound, which was why they weren’t immediately aware of the air-raid siren. It wasn’t until the record ended that Maggie looked up, frowning. “Wait a minute. What’s that? Is it the siren? It can’t be. Not tonight?”

“It bloody well is,” Jack said. He left the room and opened the front door.

“Jack, close that door! You’ll have the ARP warden after us,” Maggie shouted after him.

Jack stood for a moment, looking up at the sky. Searchlights criss-crossed the sky in great arcs, bouncing back from the pall created by many thousands of coal fires. As they swung they picked up the ghostly shapes of the barrage balloons moored over the Thames. He turned to Maggie, who was hovering in the doorway to the front room. On the gramophone the record had ended and was still turning to a rhythmic click, click.

“Grab your gas mask, love. We’d better go down the shelter.”

“I hate that shelter,” she said, shaking her head. “There is no way I’m going down there again. I feel like I’m trapped and I can’t breathe. I’m getting under the table in the back parlour. You can go down the shelter if you like.”

The drone of aeroplanes was already distinguishable over the wail of the siren. “If you’re going under the table, you’d better be quick about it.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the back parlour, and they squeezed in together under the heavy oak dining table. There was a distant muffled boom, then another.

“Sounds like they’re bombing the docks, the bastards,” Jack said.

“They’ve no right to do this.” Maggie was close to tears. “Not on Christmas Eve. There ought to be a law!”

Jack laughed. “A law? About when it’s all right to bomb? Yeah, I’d like to see—” He broke off as the next thump was louder. Jack went to say something but obviously thought better of it. Then came an explosion so loud that the house shook. Then a second boom. “Bloody ’ell,” he muttered. “That was too close for comfort.” He extricated himself from under the table.

“Jack. Don’t you go out there!” Maggie shouted.

“It’s all right. They’ve passed over by now,” he said, heading for the front door. As he opened it, dust and flying debris swirled into the house along with the smell of burning. Jack took an involuntary step back as heat hit him in the face. “It’s a bloody incendiary,” he shouted back to Maggie. “It’s hit the Joneses’. And the Lucases’ by the look of it. Grab your coat, Maggie, love. We’ve got fire on either side. We have to get out while we can.”

The front hall had already filled with acrid smoke as Jack fumbled to remove their coats from the hooks on the hall stand.

“Wait, I’ve only got my house shoes on,” she said.

“We don’t have time to go upstairs to look for your outdoor shoes,” he shouted, breaking off to cough as another wave of smoke poured in.

“The firemen will be here any minute, won’t they?” Still Maggie hesitated. “They’ll be able to save our house.”

Jack stood in the front doorway, feeling the strong east wind from the river. He could see the glow of another fire down towards the docks. It was quite likely that the fire engines’ approach would be cut off there. And there was only a pedestrian passage under the railway bridge, so they had to face the fact that the fire engines might not come for a while, if at all. But he didn’t express these thoughts to Maggie.

“Best to get out now, love. While we still can,” he said. “Here, put on your coat.” He held it up for her and she slipped her arms into the sleeves as if he were dressing a child.

“I’ll just get my handbag,” she said.

“Maggie, come back here. We have to get out now.” Jack tried to grab her as she darted back into the kitchen then snatched her purse from the kitchen dresser.

The previously deserted street had now erupted into chaos. There were shouts and screams. A child wailing. Running footsteps echoed over the roar and crackle of the fires. The flames were being aided by the wind, roaring as they devoured the house next door. Then came the thump of a wall collapsing.

“Get out now, while you can,” a fire warden shouted, rushing towards them with a bucket of sand in his hands.

“You want me to join a bucket brigade?” Jack shouted back.

“Too late for that, mate,” came the reply. “The whole bloody street’s going up. Go on. Move it.”

Jack took Maggie’s hand. Maggie’s house shoes flapped up and down as she tried to run. They turned into the Mile End Road and into darkness. The windows of the butchers and the newsagents on the corner reflected the glow of fire. Otherwise it was impossible to make out shapes.

“Where are we going?” Maggie gasped, already fighting for breath at the speed Jack was dragging her.

“Down the Tube shelter with everyone else.”

“Come on, mate. Down here,” a friendly voice called, the air-raid warden shining a torch with a blacked-out grid over it. It was just enough light to let them see the opening to the Tube station. They went in through the open turnstiles, and another warden shone his torch down the wooden steps of the escalator, which was no longer working. A steady stream of people was picking its way down ahead of them, one step at a time. They followed it down a dark tunnel and on to the platform. Crude bunk beds already lined the walls, and there were occasional lamps, this far from the street above. The bunks they could see were already occupied by sleeping people, and snores punctuated the sounds of crying children and low conversation, along with the occasional crude laugh. There were smells, too—someone had brought down fish and chips, and someone else had spilled beer. These competed with the less pleasant odours of unwashed humanity, of babies whose nappies needed changing.

Maggie recoiled, putting her hand up to her face to cover her nose and mouth. “I can’t stay down here, love. I really can’t. It’s awful. All these people, crammed like sardines. And the smells. It fair turns my stomach. It’s like my vision of hell.”

“We have to right now. There’s nowhere else to go.” Jack put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “In the morning they’ll find somewhere to billet us, but it’s not safe up on the street. Chin up. We’ll get through the night.”

“How can we, knowing that our house is probably burning by now? Everything we own, Jack. All gone.”

“We’ll just hope for the best, shall we? You never know, those firemen are plucky blokes. They may have it out in no time at all.”

“Not incendiary bombs, Jack. You know that. They have phosphorous in them so that you can’t put them out. No, we just have to face the fact that we have nothing and nowhere to go. Might as well throw ourselves under the next train right now.”

“Don’t talk so bloody stupid.” His voice was now sharp with fear. “Get back here and we’ll find a corner where we can park ourselves for the night. In the morning we’ll see if one of my mates at the docks can take us in.”

He led her down the platform, stepping over people already lying down, having claimed their space. The earlier arrivals had brought blankets and pillows with them. Some even had a little spirit stove to make a cup of tea. Jack looked up and down the platform, but every inch seemed to have been taken.

“Let’s try the up platform. Might be a bit clearer through there.”

Again Maggie allowed herself to be led through a dark passageway, where their footsteps echoed back from the tiled walls, to a similar platform, equally filled with bunk beds and recumbent people. This lot seemed a bit merrier. A group was sitting together. One of the men looked up as they approached.

“Cheer up, love,” he said. “It’s Christmas Eve. Come on. Have a nip of sherry with us. Do you a power of good.” He held out a chipped china beaker to her.

“No, thank you.” Maggie shrank away, grasping Jack’s hand.

“What’s the matter? My drink not good enough for you?” He started to get to his feet, swaying a little unsteadily.

“Hang on, mate.” Jack stepped between them. “Her home’s just gone up in flames. She’s in no mood to be merry with anyone.”

“Sorry, missus. Didn’t mean to offend. Just trying to keep our chins up, right?”

Maggie nodded, but couldn’t find words.

Just then a voice on a megaphone drowned out the sounds of the crowd. “Attention, platform one. Train arriving. Stand back from the edge. Let people off and mind the gap.”

There came the gust of wind that preceded the train. It swirled up newspapers and scarves as the train came thundering into the station.

“Last train for the night, going west,” the station employee called. “If you’ve a mind for Christmas in the West End, now’s your chance. Dancing at the Dorchester? Dinner at the Ritz?”

A collective chuckle ran up and down the platform. Doors opened. The carriage in front of Maggie was almost empty and nobody got out. At the last moment, she yanked her hand free of her husband’s and jumped aboard. He flung himself in just as the doors were closing, and the train rumbled off into the night.

Chapter 2

What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack demanded, still gasping from the effort, his voice shrill with fear. Maggie had collapsed on to a seat and sat staring straight ahead, her face like a wax dummy’s.

“Have you gone stark staring mad? You’re on a train with no ticket and no idea where it’s going . . .”

She shuddered. “Sorry, Jack. I don’t know what came over me. I just knew I had to get out of there. I couldn’t take it another second. All those people and the smells and knowing I was buried underground. I would have gone mad if you’d made me stay there.”

“Sorry, love.” He sat beside her and covered her shaking hands with his own. “It’s been a bit of a bugger tonight, hasn’t it?”

“A bit of a bugger?” She fought back hysteria. “Jack, we’ve lost everything. We’ve nowhere to go.”

“You’ve still got me, old girl,” he said gently. “We’ll get through this. But where in God’s name do you think you’re going now?”

“I suppose it’s too late to go down to my sister’s in the country?”

“Don’t be daft! There won’t be trains tonight. Besides, we don’t have no money, Maggie.” He started to put his hand into his trouser pocket, then grimaced. “You know what? I left my pay packet on the table beside the bed when I changed my trousers when I got home. All we have is the coins in my pocket and whatever you’ve got in that handbag of yours.”

“Only a couple of shillings, Jack. You didn’t give me this week’s housekeeping money yet, and I spent a little extra on a present for you.”

He stared at her with hopeless eyes. “My Christmas pay packet with the bonus will have gone up with the house. And we can’t get our hands on our little savings account until the banks open after the holidays. Besides, we can’t risk going down to the country. I have to show up at work whether I’ve a place to live or not. Supplies have to be unloaded. I can’t be too far from the docks or I’ll lose my job. And I need you with me, Maggie.” He squeezed her hand now. “I need you. I can’t get through this alone. A wife’s place is with her husband. Isn’t it?”

Eventually she nodded. “I suppose it is. But you just tell me where our place is in this world. We don’t have no place, do we?” Her voice rose as she spoke.

Jack looked around the carriage. A couple of tired and dispirited people, maybe returning after long shifts or with nowhere warm to go on Christmas Eve, were staring at them.

“Keep your voice down, Maggie,” he whispered. “Now you just tell me. Where do you plan on getting off this ruddy train? Or are you just going to ride to the end of the line? Don’t think you can come back again, mind, because the bloke said it was the last train of the night.”

She was staring straight ahead again, that look of blank hopelessness on her face. “I just want somewhere where I feel safe. Open air, like it was at home. Where no building is going to fall on me. They’ve got big parks up west, don’t they? Remember when we went to Hyde Park to hear that band concert?”

Jack stared up at the Tube map on the carriage wall. “This is the Central Line. Let’s see. I think you’re in luck. Marble Arch. That’s Hyde Park, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I don’t really care which park.” She sounded defeated. “Just somewhere away from houses, where nobody’s going to bomb me for a night.”

The train rattled through the darkness. As they passed through the stations of the city, there were fewer people on the platforms. Tired air-raid wardens got on at St Paul’s.

“We’ll be lucky if they can save the cathedral tonight,” one said to the other.

By the time they approached Oxford Street, the carriage filled with a different type of traveller. These were revellers who were returning from dinner out or a Christmas Eve celebration. Maggie stared at them as if they were creatures from another planet.

“Here we are. Marble Arch.” Jack grabbed her hand and led her from the train. There was no one taking tickets, so they trudged up the escalator that had shut down for the night, then the final flights of steps leading to the street. Although Oxford Street was in darkness, the fires burning across the East End illuminated the sky with an eerie pink glow. The air smelled of smoke, stinging their eyes. The occasional searchlight still strafed the clouds.

“Which way is the park?” Jack looked around, trying to get his bearings.

“What street are we on?” Maggie asked.

“Oxford, I think. Hang on. Here comes somebody.” A well-dressed couple, she in a long fur coat and he in a dark overcoat with a scarf around his neck, came towards them. The woman was giggling.

“I don’t know what was in that punch, but it certainly had a kick to it, didn’t it?” she said.

Jack stepped out in front of them. “Which way to the park, mate?” he asked.

The young man recoiled, then pointed to the right. “Aren’t you a little old for that sort of thing?” he asked. The girl giggled and they walked on.

“You’d better sober up before your mother sees you, Gwendolyn,” Jack and Maggie heard him say.

“What did he mean?” Maggie asked as they started walking.

“He thinks we wanted to make love. I suppose that’s what people do in parks at night.”

“Not when it’s this cold,” she retorted.

Jack looked at her and started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“Your face, love. And you have to laugh sometimes, otherwise you’d cry, eh?”

They came to a street corner. A night bus was turning from Edgeware Road, and its shaded headlamps gave just enough light to reveal the impressive shape of the arch on their left and, behind it, the entrance to the park. Jack took Maggie’s hand and led her across the street.

“Here you are. Hyde Park,” he said. “Now what? We’re in a bloody park. What next? Sit here until we freeze?”

“I’d rather freeze than be bombed,” she said. “Look, here’s a bench out of the wind. Let’s just sit here awhile, all right?”

They sat. Jack put an arm around her. “You’re shivering,” he said. “It won’t do no good if you catch pneumonia, will it? Why don’t we see if we can find a spot open somewhere and I can get you a cup of tea?”

She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere until morning.”

They sat. In the distance they heard the ringing of a fire engine or ambulance bell. And singing, although it was hard to tell if it came from carollers or a pub turning out rowdies. Otherwise the only sound was the sigh of the wind through the bare trees. At last Maggie said, “You’re right, Jack. This wind is a bit cold, isn’t it?”

Jack stood up, taking her hand. “Come on. Let’s try and find somewhere for the night. A shelter nearby.”

“I’m not going down no shelter.” Maggie tore her hand from his.

“Come on, old duck,” he coaxed. “You can’t stay here all night. It’s getting colder by the minute. Maybe there’s a little boarding house or something.”

“We don’t have no money, do we?” Her voice quivered. “We can’t pay for nothing. Just about a cup of tea each.”

“Then let’s go and find a cup of tea.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. Everything will be closed except for pubs.”

“Then at least a bloody drink!” Jack’s patience was ebbing fast. “Come on, old girl. It’s not like you to give up.”

“Well, I have given up, haven’t I? I lost my little girl. And now I’ve lost my home, all my things. I’ve got nothing, nowhere. Why shouldn’t I just sit here until I freeze to death?”

Jack stroked her cheek. “You’ve still got me, Maggie. I need you,” he said.

“Yeah, right. To cook your meals and keep your clothes clean.”

“Not just that. I’ve got nothing, either. And I’m nothing without you. Look, you stay put if you want to, but I’m going to see what I can find. We need somewhere to shelter for the night. There’s bound to be something open in the West End, isn’t there? I’ll be back soon, all right?”

Maggie nodded. “Take care of yourself, though, crossing the street.”

She hugged her knees to her chest as she curled up on the seat. The wind had risen now and came straight from the east, ice cold. Bare trees swayed and creaked in the wind. Searchlights still played across the sky. It wasn’t long before Maggie heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel path and saw Jack’s dark shape hurrying towards her.

“Come and see what I’ve found!” he called to her. “You won’t believe it. A real miracle.”

He grabbed her excitedly and started dragging her along.

“What is it? Where are you taking me?” She tried to break his grip on her.

“You’ll see.” He was grinning like a schoolboy.

“I’m not going down no shelter.” Still she resisted.

“It’s not a shelter. You’ll like it. Trust me. Come on.”

They crossed Bayswater Road, turned into a side street, passed a barrier and then stood before a grand-looking house. It was painted white, with steps leading up to the front door.

“What is it?” she demanded again.

“This house. I noticed the front door was open. There’s nobody inside. They’ve all gone. See the barrier down there? The street’s been shut off.”

“Because there must have been a bomb or something, you silly sod.”

“Well, there ain’t no bomb now, is there? Look. The street’s deserted and quite peaceful. Nothing. So come on. We’ve got our place to shelter for the night. And wait till you see what kind of place it is, too.”

Maggie hung back. “I don’t like to, Jack. It’s trespassing, isn’t it?”

“Look, love, if the owners come back we’ll explain. They would understand. We’re not going to damage anything, just shelter for the night. Come on. Up we go.”

He led her up the steps as if she were a small child.

“The electricity’s still working,” he said as he closed the door. “And I checked. They have their blackout curtains up.” He flipped a switch on the wall, and the hallway was flooded with light, revealing marble-tiled floors and a grand staircase curving up on one side. Old portraits in gilded frames looked down from the walls. Maggie stared up at them, feeling that the eyes in those paintings were looking at her. As her gaze moved beyond them, she started in fear. For a moment she thought she had seen a white face, peering through the railings on the landing above.

“I don’t like it,” she whispered. “I think I saw a ghost.”

“You’re imagining things,” he said. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to park ourselves.” He led her through to a large and ornate sitting room with a brocade sofa and armchairs set before a fireplace. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. Jack went over and checked the blackout blinds before turning on the light. A fire was laid, ready to be lit.

“We’ll get a fire going, then we’ll have a little explore, all right?”

Maggie nodded. Jack knelt down and struck a match. The newspaper blazed up and soon the kindling was crackling. Jack added coal and the fire burned bright.

“Now let’s see if they left anything to eat,” he said. He struck out fearlessly while Maggie followed, less enthusiastic. They went along the hall but only came to a dining room, a library and another sitting room at the back of the house. “Kitchen must be downstairs, I suppose,” he said. “That’s the way they do it in big houses, isn’t it? Keep the servants out of the way.”

“I wonder what happened to the servants,” Maggie said, still glancing around nervously. “Where can everyone have gone?”

They came to a flight of steps going down. Jack went ahead, Maggie hesitating at the pool of darkness below. Jack found a light switch, and when he turned it on he gave a delighted laugh. “Will you look at that! A Christmas hamper. From Fortnum and Mason no less.”

“Jack, don’t touch it,” Maggie said, slapping at his hand.

But he was already undoing the leather straps. As he opened it, even Maggie gasped. Mince pies, smoked salmon, pâté, cheese straws, sausage rolls, a Christmas pudding, a small Dundee cake and a bottle of champagne . . .

“Everything you could ever have wanted, Maggie,” he said, beaming as if he were a magician who had just produced this from a hat.

“But it’s not ours, Jack. We can’t touch it.”

“They aren’t coming back, are they? They’ve gone. Scarpered. They left their front door open. And this stuff will spoil. Nobody will mind if we have a couple of mince pies and sausage rolls. And see here on the table—there’s a packet of pork sausages. What do you say you cook us up a few sausages, eh, love?”

“Well, the sausages would certainly go bad,” she agreed. She went over to the big gas range and tried to turn it on, then shook her head. “They must have turned off the gas.”

“No matter, love. We’ll cook them over the fire upstairs, like we used to do on picnics. Find us a couple of forks and plates and we’ll be right as rain.”

He was stalking around the kitchen as he spoke. “Not very well stocked for a big house like this,” he said. “Look, the icebox is empty. Nothing much in the larder. Not even a decent bottle of beer. There’s a half-empty bottle of milk and a ginger beer, and that’s about it. I reckon they must have planned to be away for Christmas and taken their servants with them.”

“Then why the hamper and the sausages?”

Jack shrugged. “I can’t answer that, love. I just know we’re going to enjoy them. Come on. Give me one of them frying pans and bring them plates upstairs. And put on some of them mince pies and things. We’re going to have a blowout Christmas Eve.”

They made their way up the stairs again. As they walked along the hall, Maggie glanced up nervously at that staircase. Had the owners fled because of a ghost? It all seemed too uncanny—the empty house, the open door, the untouched hamper . . .

Jack seemed to have no such fears. He was already kneeling in front of the fire, balancing a pan over the coals. The room began to be filled with the enticing aroma of frying. Suddenly Maggie turned around and put her hand to her mouth, giving a little gasp to stifle the scream. “Jack!” She could hardly get the word out, pointing at the doorway.

A small boy stood there, dressed in striped pyjamas and holding a battered stuffed dog in one hand. “Are those sausages?” he asked.

Jack had scrambled to his feet. “What the blooming hell . . . ,” he began.

“If you are burglars, please don’t hurt me,” the boy said, staring at them with big frightened eyes, “but I’m awfully hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat for ages, apart from a packet of biscuits.”

“We’re not burglars, love,” Maggie said in a soft voice. “But what are you doing here all alone? Where is everybody? What were they thinking, leaving you in the house all by yourself?”

The boy chewed on his bottom lip. “Mummy and I came up to town yesterday. We’d been living down in the country, you see. Then Mummy suddenly decided it would be fun to have Christmas in London, even though the house was all closed up and the servants had gone. So we came. And I said we had to have a Christmas tree, and she went out to find one . . .” His voice faltered for the first time. “And she never came back. I’ve waited and waited and I didn’t know what to do.”

Maggie went over to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “You poor little love. You’re freezing. Come and sit by the fire.”

“What’s your name, son?” Jack asked.

“It’s Peter.”

“How old are you, Peter?”

“I’m six years old. Almost seven.”

“Come and sit next to me on the rug.” Jack patted the floor beside him. “You can help with the sausages.”

The boy sat. “What are your names, please?” he asked.

“I’m Jack and this is Maggie.”

Peter looked worried. “I’m supposed to call grown-ups by their last name.”

“Well, we’ll forget about that for tonight. We’ll be instant friends, all right?”

“I’m not sure. What are you doing in our house if you aren’t burglars?”

“We got bombed out, love,” Maggie said, squatting beside them by the fire. “Our house burned. We had to get away, and we saw the front door open here and it looked like nobody was home, so we thought we’d shelter for the night.”

“I’m awfully sorry about your house,” Peter said.

Maggie looked at him. Such a solemn child, incredibly polite after his ordeal. How he must have worried about his missing mother. And being alone in this great big house in the dark. She wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be all right and she’d take care of him from now on.

“What was your mummy thinking, coming up here with no servants or anything?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned, trying to process this. “I expect she thought Christmas in the country wasn’t very jolly for me. We were staying with this lady, you see. Mrs Bradshaw. And she had all sorts of rules, and I had to be very quiet and not make a mess. Mummy took me there to start with because she wanted to keep me safe, and there weren’t enough servants left to run the house, so she sent the rest away, even Nanny.” He paused again, thinking. “I didn’t want Nanny to go. She was the one who took care of me, you see. Mummy said she could do it, but she couldn’t. Not properly. And Mrs Bradshaw was hopeless.”

“Where is your daddy?” Maggie asked. “Off fighting somewhere?”

Peter nodded. “He was in Egypt but we haven’t heard from him for a long, long time. Mummy thinks he might be dead. I heard her telling someone that.”

“Do you have any relatives living nearby that we can take you to—until we find your mummy, that is?” Maggie asked.

He shook his head. “Mummy and Daddy were both born in India, and my grandparents were dead before I was born.”

“You must know somebody,” Jack insisted. “Friends of the family?”

Peter frowned again. “Mummy had lots of friends. She went out a lot, but they weren’t my friends, only grown-ups, and I had to stay in the nursery. I had Nanny. The only person I know now is Uncle Arthur.”

“Your uncle? Where is he?”

“He’s not my real uncle,” Peter said scornfully. “Mummy said I was to call him that. He’s Mummy’s friend. I don’t like him very much. He pretends to make a fuss of me, but he doesn’t really like me, either. I can tell.” His face brightened up. “I say—are those sausages ready, do you think?”

Jack put a couple on a plate for him and he wolfed them down. They sat in companionable silence, following the sausages with mince pies and then crystallized fruit.

“What a feast, eh?” Jack said, giving Peter’s head a friendly rub. “Not a bad Christmas Eve after all.”

“Is it really Christmas Eve? I’d forgotten,” Peter said. “I sort of got the days mixed up. Do you think Father Christmas will come?”

Jack shot Maggie a worried look. “I’m not sure about that, love,” she said. “He might not realize that you’ve left the country.”

“I suppose it’s hard for him, with the aeroplanes and the bombing,” Jack said.

Peter nodded, staring into the glowing embers of the fire.

“This Uncle Arthur,” Jack said. “Do you know where he lives?”

“In a big house, near Mrs Bradshaw. I haven’t seen it, but Mummy said it’s very nice. He’s very rich. He drives a Lagonda! But I’m not sure now. Mummy and Uncle Arthur had a big row and she was really angry. I think that’s why she decided to come back to London.”

“And where do you think your nanny is?”

“She went back to Scotland, I think. She was really sad to go.”

“I bet you were really sad, too,” Maggie said.

He nodded. “I am. She used to sing to me before I went to sleep. She was awfully nice. She never got cross. Mummy doesn’t know any of the proper songs to sing, and most nights she goes out and leaves Mrs Bradshaw to look after me. And Mrs Bradshaw is absolutely awful at singing. She sounds like an old toad.”

Maggie put a tentative arm around him. “Don’t you worry, love. We’ll find your mum and make everything all right for you. And we won’t leave you alone, I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m really glad you came, even if you were burglars.”

Maggie looked at him fondly. “I think it’s time you went to bed, don’t you? I don’t expect you’ve been able to sleep, worrying about your mum.”

“And about burglars,” Peter said. “I think there were burglars earlier tonight. I heard people downstairs, and a voice said, ‘That’s all right. There’s nobody here.’ So I hid and then they’d gone.”

“Oh, you poor little love. I expect they were just ARP wardens checking on the house. Maybe they saw the front door open. Come on. I’ll take you up to bed. I might even know one of the songs you like.” Maggie took his hand and they went up the stairs together, across the first landing and then up a second flight.

Peter’s room was very different from the grandeur of the rest of the house. A simple small bed, a shelf of stuffed toys and books. It was also icily cold up there.

“Will you be warm enough?” Maggie asked.

“My eiderdown is really warm,” Peter said. “Nanny used to put a hot-water bottle in my bed so it was always nice and warm. And there’s a fireplace in the day nursery next door. But I’m not allowed to touch matches, so I couldn’t light it.”

He climbed into bed with the stuffed dog beside him. Maggie pulled up the covers. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Bowo. I’ve had him since I was a baby.”

“And what song are we going to sing?”

“Do you know ‘You Are My Sunshine’?”

“Of course,” she said and sang it in a soft voice. She watched his eyelids flutter shut, his face so young and innocent, feeling a great rush of love for him. When he was asleep she tiptoed out. On the first landing she met Jack.

“Just having a look around for where we can sleep,” he said. “Here, come and have a look.”

He led her into a bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed and a giant mahogany wardrobe. “Take a look at these,” he said, opening the wardrobe door.

“Jack, you’ve no right to go snooping,” Maggie scolded.

“I’m not doing no harm. But look—three fur coats. Three! And look at these ball gowns. That blue one would suit you a treat, Maggie.”

“It’s lovely.” For a second she fingered the delicate silk. “But it’s no use showing me what I’ll never have.”

“I don’t reckon she’d miss one or two, do you?” Jack grinned, giving her a nudge.

“Jack, don’t even say that in fun. And I’m not sleeping up here, either. I’ll do fine in one of them chairs by the fire.”

“Hang on a minute.” Jack reached into the wardrobe and gave a little shout of joy. “Look what I’ve found.”

“Jack, you shouldn’t be touching things!”

“No, look,” he said, bending to drag out two packages. “I bet these are the presents for the little nipper. Yes, there you are. They’ve got his name on them. Why don’t you creep up and put them by his bed. At least he’ll have one good surprise when he wakes up in the morning.”

Maggie took the nicely wrapped packages from him. “Do you think his mum is dead? Or in hospital somewhere?”

“Either that or she’s done a bunk.”

“Keep your voice down, just in case he hears us.” Maggie put a finger to her lips. “Left Peter alone, you mean?”

“Yeah. Run off with that Uncle Arthur. It’s quite clear she didn’t care much for the boy, isn’t it?”

“I can’t believe that, Jack. What mother would walk out on her son?”

“Plenty do. Perhaps she just went off dancing or to spend the night with this bloke and something happened—the car broke down.”

“But if a car broke down, wouldn’t she find a telephone and let someone know her child was all alone? No, Jack. I reckon she was caught by a bomb.”

She paused, gazing up the dark stairway to Peter’s room on the floor above. “Poor little mite. What on earth will become of him?”

“Let’s not worry about that tonight,” Jack said. “Go on. Take them presents up to him and then come on back by the fire. It’s time we got some kip, too.”

When Maggie returned to the sitting room, she found Jack standing by one of the side tables, holding a silver candlestick.

“A lot of good stuff in this house, ain’t there, Maggie? Must be worth a fortune. And you know what I’m thinking . . . If this little nipper’s mum and dad really are dead, then he inherits the lot. He won’t know all the stuff that’s in the house. And what’s the betting a few people help themselves along the way and young Peter’s none the wiser?”

“What are you saying, Jack?” Maggie was frowning now.

“I’m saying that nobody’s going to miss the odd bit of silver. It means nothing to them, but to us . . . Well, it could help us get started again, couldn’t it? Find a decent place to rent, get you some new clothes.”

“Jack Harris, I’m ashamed of you!” Maggie confronted him, glaring into his face. “There’s a poor little chap upstairs who may have lost his mum and his dad, and you’re talking about how you can steal from him?”

Jack gave a nervous grin. “Just toying with the idea, Maggie. Not really serious, like.”

“You promised me when you married me that there would be no funny business from now on. You promised.”

He reached out to touch her cheek, but she shrank away from him. “How can you even have let that thought cross your mind?”

He gave an embarrassed grin. “Just thinking that it doesn’t seem right that some people have so much they don’t know what to do with it and others, like us, have nothing at all. That’s not right, is it? Not fair.”

“You yourself said that life isn’t fair, Jack. That bomb on our street could have been a direct hit on us. We could both be dead now. And yet we were spared. And we found this place to spend the night. And we’re making one boy’s Christmas a little bit happier. So we’ve already had our share of good luck, I reckon. A sort of Christmas blessing.”

Jack put the candlestick back on the side table. “I suppose you’re right. But it makes you think, don’t it?”

“I’m going to try to get some sleep now,” Maggie said. “And don’t you dare touch anything while I can’t see you.”

Jack gave her a sheepish grin. “You can be quite a tartar when you put your mind to it, Maggie. A proper little Hitler.”

“And don’t you ever compare me to that monster. I only hope one of our boys dropped a bomb on him tonight. That would be my Christmas wish.” She sat in one of the big armchairs and curled up like a cat. “And don’t forget to make up the fire before you go to sleep.”

Jack came over to her and bent to give her a kiss on her forehead. “Sleep well, love, and don’t worry. It will all work out all right.”

Maggie lay her head against the upholstered arm of the chair, then she raised it again and stared into the fire, thinking, before she said, “Jack, if we do find out that Peter’s mum has been killed, what do you think will become of him? If they can’t find a relative or guardian, I mean. I was just thinking . . . I could take him down to my sister’s place. He’d love it down there, on the farm, with the animals. And I’d take good care of him . . . just until something could be settled properly for him, of course.”

Jack gave her a knowing look. “Now who’s wanting to take something that isn’t theirs?”

“It’s not the same at all, Jack Harris. I just want to do the best for the boy. He’s lonely. He needs love, and I have the feeling that the Good Lord might have sent us to this house for that very reason.”

“He can’t replace the child you lost, Maggie,” Jack said softly.

“I know that. But just for now. Just until things get sorted out.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Likely as not, his mum will show up with a good reason why she was detained, and will probably be mad at us for eating her hamper. Now go to sleep.”

“All right.” Maggie laid her head down again. She tried not to think, but she could picture it so clearly—she and Peter, running across the fields, playing with dogs, feeding the chickens, and he growing strong and healthy. It was like a Christmas miracle.

Chapter 3

The first streaks of a red dawn were showing in the eastern sky when Maggie felt herself shaken awake. She sat up, heart pounding, with no idea where she was.

“What? What is it?” She looked around the unfamiliar room and then focused on the small figure standing in front of her. He was still wearing the striped pyjamas but now with a dressing gown over them.

“He came, Maggie.” The child’s face was alight with excitement. “Father Christmas. He did know I’d moved back here, and he came. Look. Presents. He brought me presents.” He held out a clockwork bus in one hand and a box of toy soldiers in the other. “New soldiers for my fort. Isn’t he clever? He knew I’d lost most of the old ones at Mrs Bradshaw’s.”

Jack was now sitting up on the sofa. “Good for you, boy,” he said.

“I expect there will be more presents when Mummy comes back, don’t you?” Peter asked. “She likes buying me things.”

Jack got to his feet, stretching. “I’ll get the fire going again and find a kettle to make us a cup of tea. I reckon it will be more of those mince pies for breakfast. And some of that smoked salmon. Not a bad start to Christmas Day.”

Maggie went across and pulled back the curtains and then the blackout blinds. The morning was bright and crisp, with a layer of frost over the world outside. “Lucky we didn’t try to spend the night in that park,” she called after him. “We’d have been stiff as boards by now.”

She stood staring at the empty street, listening. No bells. On Christmas Day there would always be bells ringing from all the churches—a great cacophony of sound to herald the day. And now silence. Bells were only to be rung to warn of an invasion. She had just let the net curtain fall and turned to Peter, who was winding up his clockwork bus, when Jack came back into the room.

“Couldn’t you find the kettle?” she asked. Then she looked at his ashen face. “What’s wrong?”

“Come and see,” he said.

Maggie followed him along the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. He had removed the blackout blinds, and daylight streamed in. “Look. That’s why this street was cordoned off,” he said.

An unexploded bomb stuck out from the small square of lawn outside the back window, its fins glinting in the first rays of the sun.

“Bloody hell,” Maggie said, not even noticing that she was swearing. “We need to get out of here right now, Jack.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a huge rush,” Jack said, without too much conviction. “We could probably have that cup of tea first.”

“Cup of tea? Are you out of your mind? It could go off any minute, Jack.”

“It hasn’t so far. Sometimes they’re duds.”

“And sometimes the least little noise can set them off. Come on. Let’s get Peter and go.” She took his arm and began to drag him out of the kitchen. “Now we’ve got no choice, Jack. We’ll definitely take him down to my sister. At least he’ll be safe there.”

“We need to find out about his mother first,” Jack said, following her up the stairs. “We need to tell someone what’s happened.”

“What? And have them shove him into some sort of orphanage or care home? No, I’m not having it, Jack. He’s been put into my life for a reason. We’ll take him down to the country and let the authorities know where they can find him if his mother turns up. Now for God’s sake, let’s get him dressed and out of here.” She ran up the last few steps.

Peter had removed the cellophane from his box of soldiers and had lined them up on the carpet. He looked up when Maggie came into the room. “I’m using my bus to transport the troops to the front,” he said.

“Peter, love, we need to go out first,” Maggie said, trying to sound calm. “I want you to go up and get your clothes on, as quick as you can.”

“Right now? Are we going to church? We usually have to go to church on Christmas morning before I’m allowed to play with my new toys.”

“We may go to church later, but right now we just need to leave the house, as quickly as we can.”

“Why?” Peter looked up, a worried frown on his face.

Jack had come in behind her. He didn’t bother to mince words. “There’s a bomb in your back garden, Peter. It hasn’t gone off yet, but it might any moment. So we need to get away, until they can defuse it. All right?”

“Golly,” Peter said. “Can I see it?”

“Yes, go and look out of your dining room window. Only then you need to hurry. Maggie will help you get dressed.”

Maggie followed the boy as he ran into the dining room.

“Crikey!” he exclaimed, staring down at the explosive. “I had no idea they were so big.” He turned back to Maggie. “You know, I felt something the night when Mummy didn’t come home. There was a sort of noise like a whoosh and a thump, and the house shook. But then it was all quiet again. And later that’s when I heard the voices and I thought they were burglars.”

“I bet they were ARP wardens checking the house to see if anyone was living here,” Maggie said. “Come on. Let’s get you dressed.”

“Shouldn’t I have my bath first?” Peter asked.

“Peter, the whole house could blow up.” Maggie’s voice was no longer calm. She took him up to his room, where she helped him out of his nightclothes and into a pair of shorts, a shirt, a pullover and shoes.

“Do you have an overcoat, cap and scarf?” she asked. “It’s really cold out there.” She looked around for a bag to pack his nightclothes in but couldn’t find one. When they’ve defused it, we can come back, she thought. She bent to tie his laces.

“I can tie my own shoes,” he said, brushing her hand away indignantly. Maggie had to wait while he tied them. Then he insisted on using the lavatory. She realized she wanted to go, too, but didn’t dare hang around. Jack was waiting in the front hall.

“Here’s your overcoat and cap, Peter,” he said once they joined him. “Posh-looking school cap, that is.”

“That was my old school,” Peter said as Jack jammed it on to his head. “I’ve been going to the village school near Mrs Bradshaw’s, but it’s actually quite awful. The other boys tease me. If there hadn’t been a war, I was supposed to go to my father’s old boarding school when I turned seven.”

“Sending you away to school at seven? What were they thinking?” Maggie demanded.

“My father went when he was seven,” Peter said. “They sent him home from India to go to school in England. It’s what everybody did.”

“Well, let’s not talk about it now,” Jack said, wrapping a scarf around the boy’s neck.

“Where will we go?” Peter asked, the worried frown wrinkling his forehead.

“I thought you might like to stay with my sister in Essex,” Maggie said. “They’ve got a farm with animals. Lots of animals.”

“Horses? And cows?” For a second Peter’s face lit up, but then he blurted out, “But what about Mummy? What if she comes back and I’m not here?”

“We’ll look for your mummy first,” Jack said. “We’ll do that right away. We’ll go to the nearest police station and ask them to help us.”

Suddenly Jack paused. “What’s that? Listen, there’s something going on in the street.” He opened the front door. There was shouting and the rumble of heavy vehicles, and a man wearing a warden’s tin hat was walking down the street with a megaphone.

“If anyone is still in the area, they need to evacuate immediately,” he barked into the megaphone. “The bomb-disposal team has arrived to defuse an unexploded bomb.”

Maggie grabbed Peter’s hand and hurried him down the front steps, with Jack following. Suddenly Peter wrenched himself free. “Wait. I’ve forgotten Bowo and my Christmas presents.” He darted back into the house.

“Peter, come back here.” Jack chased after him.

“Jack! No! Come back!” Maggie screamed. She stood on the pavement, torn between going after them and staying where she was.

The warden had heard their voices and came striding up to Maggie. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? This area was evacuated. There’s an unexploded bomb!”

“I know.” Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the house. “But we found this young boy, left all alone here. His mum went out and never came back. And my husband’s gone back in there to get him!”

“Bloody hell,” the man muttered. “They’re working on that bomb right now and they say it’s a bugger, pardon my language. It’s one of those tricky new ones with the double fuse. They aren’t at all sure—” He didn’t finish the sentence. There was a deep boom. A wave of heat, dust and debris came flying at them, knocking Maggie off her feet and sucking the air from her lungs. For a second she lay there, unable to move while debris rained on to her. Then she tried to stagger to her feet, gasping for air.

“Jack!” she screamed. What had once been a fine-looking house was now a broken pile of rubble. The roof and upper floor were gone. The front wall had fallen away, revealing the bedroom they had looked at, with the four-poster still standing but the wardrobe burst open and clothing strewn everywhere. Maggie stood staring at it, not wanting to believe what she was seeing. A fire engine must have been waiting nearby, because a fireman appeared at her side and put an arm around her.

“Were you just in that house, missus?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“My husband,” Maggie gasped, still not able to speak properly. “There was a little boy . . . My husband went after him and they were both . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“It wasn’t your house, then?”

Maggie shook her head emphatically. “No, our house got bombed last night. Incendiary. The whole street went up. We came here to get away from the bombing, and we found the boy . . . all alone in the house.”

“And your husband went back in to rescue him? Brave chap. Don’t worry. We might still find them. We’ve got our men in there now.”

Maggie stared at the ruin, hopelessness overwhelming her. “They can’t possibly . . .”

Then there was a shout, and through what had once been the front door Jack emerged, with Peter in his arms.

“Jack!” Maggie ran towards him. “You’re alive. I thought . . . I couldn’t believe . . .” Tears streamed down her face.

“It’s all right, old girl,” he said. “We’re both fine. We were on the stairs when it happened, so we were shielded from the worst. It knocked us down the flight, of course. Plucky little chap here . . . A bit of ceiling came down on my leg, and Peter here managed to help me get free, didn’t you, son?”

Peter was covered in dust, and his eyes were very wide, but he nodded. More firemen surrounded them and one said, “Bombs are strange things. You’d be surprised how many times we’ve found a house in rubble and someone lying in bed in the middle of it, quite unharmed.”

Another fireman chimed in, “Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Just a few cuts and bruises, I think,” Jack said. “Bloody miracle, if you ask me.”

The men all nodded in agreement. “Let’s get you to one of the evacuation centres,” one offered. “A cup of tea and a warm blanket for shock. That’s what you need. Wait here and I’ll find someone to transport you.”

From behind the house came the ringing of an ambulance bell. Those men who were trying to disarm the bomb, Maggie thought. They must have been blown to pieces. At least one wife or mother would have the worst news on Christmas Day. She nestled her head against Jack, her arm around Peter.

A crowd had gathered where the street was cordoned off. As Maggie, Jack and Peter were escorted towards a waiting vehicle, a man stepped out of the crowd to intercept them. He was well dressed in a dark overcoat and trilby hat, a bright red scarf around his throat, and he tipped the hat to Maggie. “Excuse me, if I might have a word. My name’s Andrew Pearson. I’m a reporter with the Daily Express. I was on my way to church when I heard the blast. I’ve just been told that you’re a hero, sir.”

“Me?” Jack gave an embarrassed grin.

“Yes, you. These firemen told me your own home was bombed, but that you went in to rescue this young boy who’d been left in the house alone. You were both inside when the bomb went off? Lucky to make it out alive.”

Jack looked as though he was about to confess that it hadn’t been exactly like that, then obviously thought better of it.

The newcomer held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, sir. And your name is?”

“Harris. Jack Harris. And this is the wife, Maggie. And this young nipper is called Peter.”

“Splendid.” The man was beaming at them. “Delighted to meet you.”

Maggie stepped forward. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but we’ve all had an awful shock and I don’t think we should be standing in the street chatting at the moment.”

“I quite agree,” Andrew Pearson said. Inquisitive onlookers were now pressing closer. “Look, I live just around the corner. Would you like to come back to my flat? It’s nice and warm, and I’d like to interview you for my paper. My editor told us to be on the lookout for a heart-warming Christmas story, and I think you just fit the bill.”

“Oh, I don’t think we want to be in the papers,” Maggie began, but Jack cut her off.

“Of course we do.” He gave her a wink. “It may help us find Peter’s mum.”

“All right then. If you say so, Jack.” Maggie took Peter’s hand.

Andrew Pearson gave her an encouraging smile. “Splendid. This way then. You’re able to walk all right?”

“We’ll manage,” Jack said.

“You all right, love?” Maggie asked Peter.

He nodded, his eyes still wide with fear. They walked in silence to the end of the street. Some of the crowd followed, hoping to be in on the story. Andrew led the trio up to a second-floor flat in a large red-brick building. Inside was clearly a man’s residence—leather chairs, Christmas cards on the mantelpiece but no other ornaments. Still, it was warm and pleasant, with a fire burning in the hearth and radiators around the walls. Andrew told them to make themselves comfortable while he boiled a kettle. “I expect you’d like to clean up a little first, wouldn’t you?” he suggested. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall.”

“You’d better go first, Jack. You’ve got bits of plaster in your hair, and your face looks like a ghost,” Maggie said.

“I bet I look a right spectacle, eh, Peter?” Jack said, grinning at the boy. “And you better come with me. You don’t look much better.”

He put an arm around Peter’s shoulder, and the boy allowed himself to be led down the hall. He’s in shock, poor little thing, Maggie thought. He hadn’t said a word since they had emerged from the bombed house.

As Maggie waited for them to come out of the bathroom, she heard Andrew Pearson on the telephone. “Yes, really good story. ‘Bombed-out hero rescues abandoned child.’ I’ll send it in right away.”

She glanced at Jack as he and Peter came back into the room. “We can’t let him think . . . ,” she began.

“Think what?” Jack gave her a warning frown. “I did what he said, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you were brave, but he’s making it sound as if you dashed in to be a hero, when actually we spent the night there and ate their food.”

“I went back in to rescue Peter, didn’t I? Besides, what’s the harm in it? It might work out well for us. Someone might see the article and offer us a place to live. Or at least send us some clothes or furniture.”

As he spoke, Maggie was observing him. There was a large lump in his pocket. Maggie stared in horror. “Jack, you didn’t . . . ?” she whispered, pointing at his overcoat pocket.

“Didn’t what?”

“You know.” She moved closer and whispered in his ear. “What we were talking about last night, that silver. You didn’t nick a bit?”

“What?” He looked at her and laughed. “This?” He reached in and produced Peter’s old toy dog. “This is what we went to find, remember?”

“Bowo!” Peter grabbed him. “You found him! Thank you so much. But my Christmas presents are gone. All my toys.” He looked up hopelessly, blinking back tears. “Our whole house is gone, isn’t it?”

“I know, boy. You just have to be brave right now. It will all come right in the end,” Jack said, pulling the boy to him.

Maggie slipped down the hall to the bathroom. Her overcoat was covered in dust and debris. Her face in the mirror looked haggard and old. She used the loo, splashed water on her face and combed her hair. As she joined the others, Andrew Pearson appeared with a tray containing a teapot and cups and saucers. “I don’t suppose you’ve had breakfast yet,” he said. “I’ve managed to get my hands on some bacon. How about it?”

“Bacon?” Peter’s face lit up.

Maggie didn’t think she could swallow anything, but she nodded politely. “Lovely, thank you. Would you like me to give you a hand?”

“No. All under control. You get that tea down you. Wonderful for shock.”

Once breakfast was cooked they sat around the table, eating eggs, bacon and sausage.

“Best meal I’ve had in months.” Jack sighed in satisfaction.

“Absolutely smashing,” Peter agreed, making the grown-ups smile.

“Now . . .” Andrew Pearson took out a notebook. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

They explained about being bombed out, Maggie wanting to escape from the East End, the house with the door open and finding the boy alone inside. Andrew was fascinated by this part of the story. Peter related the sudden decision to come up to London and his mother going off to find a Christmas tree.

“You’re a very brave little boy,” Andrew said. “But don’t worry. We’ll track down your mother, I’m sure. What is her name?”

“It’s Felicia,” Peter said. “Felicia Wentworth.”

“And what does she look like?”

“Very pretty.”

Andrew smiled. “Hair colour, height?”

“Just normal,” Peter said. “Her hair is sort of light brown, and she’s about as tall as most ladies. But she’s really pretty. Everyone says so.”

Andrew went through to his study, and they heard him on the telephone again. He came back. “My colleagues at the newspaper are searching for your mother now. They’re very good at finding out things. Now, what about the rest of your family—where are they?”

“My daddy is in the army in Africa. That’s all.”

“And your daddy’s name?”

Peter frowned, trying to remember. “I think it’s Charles. Yes, that’s right. Mummy calls him Charlie.”

“Charles Wentworth. Do you know what regiment?”

Peter knew this one instantly. “Grenadier Guards.”

“Oh, a guardsman. He should be easy enough to locate.”

Again he left, relayed this information into his telephone and came back. “Now just give me a moment to write up this story, and then we wait to see what the newspaper can dig up.”

They sat, listening to the clatter of the typewriter. When he had finished he came back to them. “Jack, Maggie, what do you think you’ll do next? Do you have any relatives to go to?”

“My sister has a farm in Essex,” Maggie said, glancing across at Jack. “We could go there. We could take Peter with us, if his parents can’t be located. He’d like it there. Lots of animals.”

“Unfortunately I have to be back at work right after Boxing Day,” Jack said, “so I’m not sure how that’s going to happen. I’ve a mate we can stay with for the time being. He’s got a spare room since his son was lost in the war.”

Andrew looked from one face to the next. “Look, I have to go to Christmas lunch with my sister. She made me promise I’d come. I’ve just telephoned her, and she insisted you join us. She’s got two young boys and it will be nice for Peter.”

“If you’re sure it’s all right?” Maggie glanced at Jack. “We don’t like to intrude, and we’re not dressed for anywhere posh.”

“My sister won’t mind,” Andrew said. “It’s just her and her sons. No big party.”

“We ain’t had no better offers, have we?” Jack replied. “Ta. We’d be glad to.”

“We’ll take a taxi,” Andrew said. “I have to drop off the article at my newspaper, but it’s not far out of our way.”

They piled into a taxicab that took them along Oxford Street, down Regent, through Trafalgar Square to the Strand. The London streets were almost deserted, except for the crowd spilling out of St Martin-in-the-Fields at the end of a service. There were a few taxis pulling up at the Savoy. Then they turned into Fleet Street and stopped outside an art deco building.

“I won’t be a jiff,” Andrew Pearson said. They waited in the cab until he reappeared, this time with another man. “I’ve a photographer wanting to take your picture, if you don’t mind,” he said. They could hardly refuse, but Maggie was horribly conscious of their tattered appearance, Jack’s overcoat still dusty and dishevelled, and herself wearing her house shoes. She was relieved when they climbed back into the taxi and took off again. Andrew cleared his throat. “So my colleagues at the paper have found out about your father, Peter. You didn’t tell us he was a brigadier.”

“Is he?” Peter looked impressed. “I knew he was something important. Is he all right? Mummy was worried . . .”

“I think we’d have heard if anything bad had happened to a senior officer,” Andrew said. “Grenadier Guards, eh? Splendid old regiment.”

“You weren’t called up yourself?” Jack asked. There was an undertone of accusation in his voice.

“Oh, indeed, I was,” Andrew replied. “RAF. Battle of Britain. I got shot down and now my lungs aren’t much good. So it was back to Civvy Street. How about you, Jack?”

“I’m at the docks. Protected occupation.”

“Of course. Hard work, too, I’d imagine.”

The taxi came to a halt outside a grand Georgian house in a quiet street just behind Oxford Circus. Andrew went ahead and was met by two excited boys. “Did you bring us presents, Uncle Andrew?” they asked, grabbing at his sleeves.

“Oh dear, I completely forgot,” Andrew said, then burst out laughing. “I already delivered them to your mother. We’ll have to ask her.”

“Are they being pests?” A slightly harassed-looking young woman appeared behind the boys. “I’m Amelia Cameron. How lovely to see you all. Do come in.”

“Maggie and Jack Harris. And this is Peter. It’s very kind of you,” Maggie said. “We don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t be silly,” the woman said. “I’d hope someone would take me in if my house was bombed. And it’s Christmas. The more the merrier. Only you’ll have to excuse my cooking. We no longer have a cook—she went off to join the Wrens—and I’m still a learner.”

She swept them through to a large sitting room. The floor was strewn with wrapping paper and toys.

“I’m sorry if the place already looks as if a tornado hit it,” Amelia said. “These two hooligans are Alistair and Robin. Make sure you include Peter in your game, boys.”

“Look what we got,” one of the boys said, grabbing Peter by the arm.

“A fort!” Peter said, nodding with approval. “I have one just like it.” He paused and his face fell. “Oh. I mean I used to have one. It’s gone now.”

“You can play with ours,” the boy said. “I’m Alistair. I’m eight. And this is Robin. He’s five. How old are you?”

“Almost seven.”

And the boys were down on the floor together, playing with the new fort as if they were old friends. Amelia came over to Maggie and led her aside. “I expect you’d like to freshen up,” she whispered.

“I did just manage to wash my face at your brother’s place,” Maggie said. “But I’m feeling a bit out of place in my old skirt and jumper. We had to leave the house in a hurry, see.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all having to wear old clothes these days.” Amelia put a comforting hand on Maggie’s arm. “I can see if you fit into something of mine, if you like. But you are much slimmer than me.”

“Skinny, that’s what I am,” Maggie said. “Jack says I’m a bag of bones.”

Amelia grabbed her arm. “Come on. At least let’s see if you fancy a scarf or some jewellery. And I’ve make-up, too.”

“You’re very kind.” Maggie felt tears threatening again. When she and Amelia returned downstairs, Maggie was wearing a flowery red scarf.

“You look nice,” Jack commented. “That’s put some colour back into your cheeks.”

Andrew had poured sherries before lunch. The table was decorated with silver candlesticks and sprigs of holly. Amelia carried out a platter with turkey, roast potatoes and parsnips on it.

“Andrew, you’ll have to carve, I’m afraid,” Amelia said. Maggie could see the tension come into her face. “My husband is on a destroyer in an Atlantic convoy.”

“That must be hard for you,” Maggie said gently.

Amelia nodded. “But it’s the same for most people, isn’t it? Christmas without our dear ones, and just praying that they’ll be safe.”

“You said you wished you could have a turkey,” Jack said to Maggie, trying to lighten the mood as Andrew attacked the bird with a carving knife.

“My husband’s brother sent this down from Scotland,” Amelia said. “Aren’t we lucky? And the Christmas pudding was one that Cook made before the war. Golly, I hope it’s still good. They are supposed to last forever with all the brandy in them.”

They tucked into the feast, wearing paper hats, everyone talking and laughing. Maggie found herself caught up in the festivity and able to put her worries aside. It wasn’t until they were sitting around the fire after lunch that reality began to overwhelm her again. Soon they’d have to walk out of this safe, warm house with nowhere to go. She was just trying to keep this thought at bay when the telephone rang. Andrew answered it. Maggie knew instinctively that it was bad news. She watched Andrew standing in the doorway, talking to his sister, before he came back into the room. He perched on the edge of the sofa, composing himself.

“Well, we’ve located Peter’s mother.”

Peter looked up from his game.

“She’s in University College Hospital. It seems she was buried under debris when a wall collapsed on to her.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Peter asked. He had risen to his feet.

“I hope so, Peter. I think so, but it was a very nasty injury. She was unconscious quite a while, and when she woke she had no recollection of coming up to London. Her rescuers didn’t recover her handbag, so for a while they had no idea who she was. But she’s on the mend, apparently, and we’ll find out when you can go and see her.”

“So what I was suggesting,” Amelia said, glancing at Andrew, “is that Peter stay with us. He’s already getting on well with my boys, and we’re close to the hospital so he can visit his mum. That seems like a good idea all around, doesn’t it?”

Jack glanced at Maggie. “Yeah. Best thing all around, eh, Maggie?”

She nodded, unable to speak, not taking her eyes off Peter, who was still kneeling on the floor, holding a toy soldier.

“So what do you think, Peter?” Amelia asked him. “Would you like to stay here with us until your mummy comes out of hospital? We can take you to visit her often. You can share a room with the boys. And I think we can find some of Alistair’s clothes that will fit you for the time being.”

Peter nodded. “Yes. That would be very nice. Thank you,” he replied in his polite and serious little voice, sounding so much older than his years.

Jack stood up. “I think we’d best be getting on our way, if you don’t mind. You’ve been very good to us and we really appreciate it, but we can’t impose any longer.”

“On your way, Jack?” Andrew asked. “Where will you go?”

Jack’s voice was bright and breezy. “I’m taking the wife down to her sister on the farm in Essex. It will do her good to be out of the city for a while.”

“You really don’t have to leave,” Amelia said. “Not on Christmas Day. I’m sure the trains won’t be running. Why don’t you stay the night?”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Jack said hastily, glancing across at Maggie.

“No bother, I assure you. I’d love to have you here. I’ll put you to work helping with that mountain of washing-up.” Amelia laughed.

Jack glanced at Maggie. “She’s right. There probably won’t be trains running today. Best wait and go down in the morning, eh?”

Maggie nodded. She was still finding it hard to talk. Her eyes kept straying back to Peter, who was now building a tower of blocks with Amelia’s boys and then laughing as they knocked it down again.

Andrew stood. “Come on then. I suppose we’d better tackle that washing-up sometime.” He indicated Maggie and Jack should join him.

“I’ll apologize in advance for the state of my kitchen,” Amelia said as they went through to the back of the house. “I really wasn’t brought up to be domestic, and now my cook has gone and my maid has left to work in a munitions factory, so I’m muddling through. I have a cleaning lady once a week, but . . .”

“Bloody ’ell,” Jack couldn’t help saying as he saw the stack of pots and pans in the sink.

Amelia gave a nervous laugh. “You see what I mean. I burned the Brussels sprouts. Hopeless.”

“I think you did very well,” Maggie said. “The dinner was perfect. Everything I wanted.”

Amelia gave her a grateful smile. They set to work and between them soon had everything cleaned and put away. They listened to the King’s Speech on the radio, then had tea with a small Christmas cake. As day turned to evening Maggie found it more difficult to shut out thoughts of their grim reality—that when these happy moments ended, there would be nowhere to go and she’d never see Peter again. The evening seemed to drag on and on, with cold turkey and pickles for supper and a hot toddy before they went to bed. It was only when they were in a pleasant bedroom at the back of the house, having climbed into bed after putting on a borrowed nightdress and pyjamas, that Maggie could no longer hold back the tide of emotions. Jack put an arm around her.

“I know what you were hoping for, love, but it’s better this way, isn’t it? He belongs with his own kind. And he needs to be near his mother so that she can see him and get well quickly.”

“I know.” Maggie’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “It’s just that it seemed like a miracle. Christmas Day and I’m given the chance for this lovely little boy. And now I’m back to where I was, with nothing.”

“You’ve got me, Maggie,” he said. “You’ve got someone who loves you and who’s going to take care of you. We’ll make it through together, I promise. I’ll take you down to your sister in the morning, and you stay there until I’ve found a new place for us. All right?”

“But what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I don’t need much. Someone’s sofa will do.”

“No, Jack,” she said. “I’m not leaving you. We’re all we’ve got in this whole stupid world, you and me. We have to stick together, watch out for each other. It can’t go on forever.”

“Oh, Maggie.” He wrapped her fiercely in his arms, hugging her as if he were clinging on to a lifeline. Then he added, “I bet you never thought you’d sleep with a man wearing silk pyjamas!”

She nestled her head against his shoulder and they fell asleep.

The next morning Maggie was woken by Jack tiptoeing around the room. “I was going to nip down and make us a cup of tea,” he said. “And then I thought we’d be off, without going through all the goodbyes.”

“We have to thank Amelia for being so kind,” Maggie said.

“We’ll leave her a note then,” he said. “Best that way, don’t you think?”

Maggie was on her way back from the bathroom when the door at the far end of the hall opened and Amelia came out.

“Sorry if we woke you,” Maggie said. “We were going to make a cup of tea and then go.”

“Don’t leave yet,” Amelia said. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I’ve had an absolutely brilliant idea. It might seem like awful cheek, but I’m wondering if you’d stay on for a while.”

Maggie gave an embarrassed grin. “Oh no. It’s really kind, but we couldn’t impose any longer . . .”

“It’s not imposing,” Amelia said. “It’s the other way around. I thought we could help each other. You need a place to stay, and I’m floundering trying to run this house and look after the boys alone. I wasn’t taught any of the things a housewife should be. I wasn’t expected to find myself in a situation like this. You could teach me how to cook, and stay with the boys when I take Peter to the hospital.” She paused, watching Maggie’s face.

“But you hardly know us,” Maggie said.

“You saved Peter. You really care about him, I can tell,” Amelia replied. “And these days we don’t have to go through all the silly introductions and conventions. We could at least try it. I think we’d get along well enough.”

“Yes, I think we would.” Maggie fought to keep the emotion out of her voice. “I’d have to ask Jack. He may feel it’s too far from his work at the docks.”

“We’re only a few steps from the Oxford Circus Tube station,” Amelia pointed out. “It shouldn’t take him too long to get there.”

“No, not too long,” Maggie agreed, her thoughts whirling. Would Jack feel too out of place in a household like this? Could she make him understand how important it was to her right now to be somewhere safe and sane, and that she wanted to be with Peter? “And if he needs to be on an early shift, he can always stay at his mate’s house,” she added, as if trying to convince herself. “He’s down in the kitchen making tea. But he’s a proud man. He wouldn’t accept charity.”

Amelia actually laughed. “My dear Maggie. You saw his reaction to my kitchen yesterday. He’d be the first one to admit that I’m in desperate need of help. Come on. Let’s ask him now.”

And they went down the stairs together. Tears were welling up again in Maggie’s eyes, but this time there was a small bubble of hope. Perhaps there were Christmas miracles after all.

About the Author

Photo © 2016 John Quin-Harkin

Rhys Bowen is the New York Times and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of more than thirty mystery novels, including The Tuscan Child and In Farleigh Field, the winner of the Left Coast Crime Award for Best Historical Mystery Novel and the Agatha Award for Best Historical Novel. Bowen’s work has won sixteen honors to date, including multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. Her books have been translated into many languages, and she has fans around the world, including seventeen thousand Facebook followers. A transplanted Brit, Bowen divides her time between California and Arizona. Visit the author at www.rhysbowen.com.