But they didn’t disappear completely. When she closed her eyes, she could still see his face, caked with dirt and blood and glistening with sweat, distorted with pain and terror.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had the nightmare. She’d had the same dream every night since the news came from Dunkirk. For the past week she’d woken to the same awful vision.
But this was too vivid to be a dream. It was as if he were there, so real and solid she could have reached out and touched the rough serge of his uniform, stiff with dirt and blood. Even now, she could still hear the deafening sound of machine-gun fire, the explosions, the sound of panicked screaming, and—
Waves. Underneath the deafening bombardment, the muted roar of the sea, and the smell of salt . . .
Beside her, baby Walter stirred and started to whimper. He was a far lighter sleeper than his sister, who went on breathing softly, her plump little arm curled over Aggy the rag doll. Usually Dora would have waited for Walter to go back to sleep by himself. But this time, glad of the distraction, she got out of bed, disentangling herself from the sheets, and picked him up.
‘There, there, sweetheart,’ she crooned softly, burying her face in the warmth of his shoulder, calmed by his comforting baby smell. Holding her son close, she could feel her frantic heartbeat slowing down at last.
Walter soon nodded off, his head heavy on her shoulder. Dora tucked him back into bed beside his sister, but she couldn’t face getting back in herself. Weary as she was, she was afraid to sleep in case the nightmare came back and she saw Nick’s face again in her dreams. She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs to the kitchen.
She tiptoed past Danny, curled up on his mattress under the window. Not that he stirred – Danny always slept so soundly, his innocent mind untroubled by fears and nightmares. She envied him that.
Dora crept into the scullery and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she went over to the window, lifted a corner of the heavy blackout curtain and looked out. It was a balmy June night, and the air was still. There were no street lamps, but the full moon cast a silvery light over the backyard, illuminating the coal bunker, the outhouse and the makeshift rabbit hutch that Little Alfie had put up for Octavius after he gnawed his way out of his cardboard box.
The day after he’d built it, Nanna Winnie had made a show of going out into the backyard with her knife, much to Little Alfie’s dismay.
‘You can’t eat Octavius!’ he’d cried, distraught. ‘He’s my pet.’
‘He’s another bleeding mouth to feed!’ Nanna shot back. ‘I’m sick of him eating all my best greens. He’s going in a pie.’
As Dora and her mother tried to console Alfie, Nanna had returned five minutes later empty-handed. ‘There ain’t more than a morsel of meat on him yet,’ she’d declared. ‘I’ll wait till he’s filled out a bit.’
Rose had winked at Dora. ‘I knew she wouldn’t do it,’ she whispered. ‘I caught her out there feeding him carrot tops the other day.’
Was that really only two weeks ago? Everything had seemed so normal then. If Dora had known what was to come, she would have cherished their laughter, held on to it with everything she had. Now she longed for those days, when they were full of hope . . .
‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one?’
Dora looked over her shoulder. Her mother stood in the doorway to the scullery, her dressing gown drawn around her.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Dora said. ‘I tried to be quiet.’
Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t sleep much these days, to be honest.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t suppose you do either?’
Dora turned away, taking an extra cup from the cupboard. ‘The kids were restless,’ she said. ‘I think Walter might be teething again—’
‘It’s all right, Dor. I’m your mum, you don’t have to pretend with me.’
No, she
It wasn’t the first time she’d had the nightmare. She’d had the same dream every night since the news came from Dunkirk. For the past week she’d woken to the same awful vision.
But this was too vivid to be a dream. It was as if he were there, so real and solid she could have reached out and touched the rough serge of his uniform, stiff with dirt and blood. Even now, she could still hear the deafening sound of machine-gun fire, the explosions, the sound of panicked screaming, and—
Waves. Underneath the deafening bombardment, the muted roar of the sea, and the smell of salt . . .
Beside her, baby Walter stirred and started to whimper. He was a far lighter sleeper than his sister, who went on breathing softly, her plump little arm curled over Aggy the rag doll. Usually Dora would have waited for Walter to go back to sleep by himself. But this time, glad of the distraction, she got out of bed, disentangling herself from the sheets, and picked him up.
‘There, there, sweetheart,’ she crooned softly, burying her face in the warmth of his shoulder, calmed by his comforting baby smell. Holding her son close, she could feel her frantic heartbeat slowing down at last.
Walter soon nodded off, his head heavy on her shoulder. Dora tucked him back into bed beside his sister, but she couldn’t face getting back in herself. Weary as she was, she was afraid to sleep in case the nightmare came back and she saw Nick’s face again in her dreams. She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs to the kitchen.
She tiptoed past Danny, curled up on his mattress under the window. Not that he stirred – Danny always slept so soundly, his innocent mind untroubled by fears and nightmares. She envied him that.
Dora crept into the scullery and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she went over to the window, lifted a corner of the heavy blackout curtain and looked out. It was a balmy June night, and the air was still. There were no street lamps, but the full moon cast a silvery light over the backyard, illuminating the coal bunker, the outhouse and the makeshift rabbit hutch that Little Alfie had put up for Octavius after he gnawed his way out of his cardboard box.
The day after he’d built it, Nanna Winnie had made a show of going out into the backyard with her knife, much to Little Alfie’s dismay.
‘You can’t eat Octavius!’ he’d cried, distraught. ‘He’s my pet.’
‘He’s another bleeding mouth to feed!’ Nanna shot back. ‘I’m sick of him eating all my best greens. He’s going in a pie.’
As Dora and her mother tried to console Alfie, Nanna had returned five minutes later empty-handed. ‘There ain’t more than a morsel of meat on him yet,’ she’d declared. ‘I’ll wait till he’s filled out a bit.’
Rose had winked at Dora. ‘I knew she wouldn’t do it,’ she whispered. ‘I caught her out there feeding him carrot tops the other day.’
Was that really only two weeks ago? Everything had seemed so normal then. If Dora had known what was to come, she would have cherished their laughter, held on to it with everything she had. Now she longed for those days, when they were full of hope . . .
‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one?’
Dora looked over her shoulder. Her mother stood in the doorway to the scullery, her dressing gown drawn around her.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Dora said. ‘I tried to be quiet.’
Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t sleep much these days, to be honest.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t suppose you do either?’
Dora turned away, taking an extra cup from the cupboard. ‘The kids were restless,’ she said. ‘I think Walter might be teething again—’
‘It’s all right, Dor. I’m your mum, you don’t have to pretend with me.’
No, she
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