Lover by Laura Wilson

but he said that none of them are fifth columnists, or they’d have been interned by now. And two of the owner’s sons were serving in the army—he’s put a notice about it on the wall—so I suppose it must be all right. Then he added, ‘Besides, they’re Italians ,’ which made us both giggle, and then I said, ‘We shouldn’t really be laughing. I mean, that business over Somaliland made us look pretty silly, giving it up like that after everyone had said what a shame for Hitler having the Italians as allies and how lucky they weren’t on our side.’
    B said, ‘Well, at least they’ve got plenty of sand.’ We were laughing again, when he suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, Lord.’ His face had gone white.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜Chap we know. Down there. Just stood up.’ He jerked his head towards the back of the restaurant. ‘Don’t look, you fool!’
    â€˜What shall—’
    â€˜Get out! Just go. I’ll settle the bill and come after you. Meet round the corner.’ He stood up, jerked my hat and coat off the stand, and almost threw them at me.
    Thirty seconds later I found myself standing on the pavement in the dark, shivering and feeling as if I’d just had a bucket of cold water flung in my face. In the restaurant, it had felt so warm and happy and right , and then to be pulled up short like that… Chap we know, he’d said. Meaning him and his wife. The wife whose existence I’d conveniently forgotten. I’ve no idea what she looks like, but suddenly I could imagine her, a real, flesh-and-blood woman, sitting in a chair in their house, listening to the wireless and thinking that her husband was out fire-watching. It all seemed so sordid, standing on the street corner in the middle of a raid, putting myself in danger and causing worry to others through my own selfishness, that I suddenly found myself wishing I was back under the stairs with Mums and Minnie.
    Then I heard footsteps, and as they grew closer I saw that it was B. As I started towards him I saw him make a quick shooing movement with his hand, then he crossed over to the other side of the road. I didn’t understand immediately, and was about to call out to him when I heard another set of footsteps, hurrying towards us. I shrank back into a doorway just as whoever it was must have caught up, because I heard a man’s voice say, ‘Bridges! I thought it was you. Which way are you going?’ I didn’t catch B’s reply, but they moved off together down the street, and I was left on my own, feeling very cheap and rather frightened. I suddenly thought of the warden this morning, handing the old man his hat, and it made me want to cry. Not because I wanted somebody to hand me a hat—I was wearing one—but the small kindness of it, wishing it for myself. It seemed such a terrible contrast with what had just happened in the restaurant, such a little action from a simple desire to help another human being without thought of gain or favour. It made me feel like the worst person in the world, an outcast from the rest of humanity, and I remembered the bird’s wings in the garden and thought, where’s my angel? If I had my own angel, everything would be all right. Not that I deserve one.
    The noise of the guns bucked me up, and I thought I’d better stop feeling sorry for myself and concentrate on getting home before it got any worse. I thought B and his friend must be heading for Tottenham Court Road, and I didn’t want to follow in case we met up at the station, so I turned and walked the other way. It was very dark, and pretty soon I was dashing around in a panic, with no idea which way to go. I could hear machine guns and aircraft, far off at first, then nearer, and when I looked up there were flares like exploding chandeliers, breaking up and dropping downwards, and then the sky was lit up in red and orange, turning