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It was breakfast time on a sunny and warm July morning. There were four of us — my mother who, having fallen in the blackout and smashed her fibia and tibia, was in plaster up to her thigh and occupied a single bed in the living room: myself, aged eight and my two younger brothers, one aged seven and the other aged five.
We heard the click of the letterbox and I went to see, expecting another wonderful letter from our Dad telling us that we were all going to do together when he came home from the war. He was in the army in Italy.
It was a small brown envelope. I gave it to my mother and she opened it, screamed and fell forward saying ‘Daddy is dead’. My nightmare had come true. I scampered as fast as I could up the road to my auntie’s house. I cannot remember what happened the rest of the day.

We scavenged with the rest of our friends in the neighbourhood. We were helping to build an enormous bonfire — a victory bonfire!!!
At last it was lit. All our friends and neighbours were laughing, singing and celebrating. I stood there with my younger brother watching. He said, ‘Our Daddy isn’t going to come home is he?’ and started to cry.
We left the bonfire and went home to Mum and our younger brother. She made us some cocoa and then we all went quietly to bed.

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