That last flight of stairs saw me like a criminal stepping lightly in my socks. Balancing, I swear, on one toe alone so I did not make noise enough to rouse her. It was early morning – not even the birds had sensed a new day – and I am approaching her door so light, my feet are feeling no floor, just hovering above lino. ‘Gilbert,’ I heard her call. Man, this woman’s hearing so good she must catch the sound of the stitching rustling in my socks. ‘Is that you, Gilbert?’ To avoid her I would have to float down from my window on angel’s wings. ‘No,’ I called. ‘I can tell it’s you,’ she told me, her face now at the door. How? I wanted to ask her. Tell me how, in God’s name, she always knows when I am near? ‘Queenie, I am just off to work. You wan’ me be late?’ ‘Won’t take a minute.’ Luck is a funny thing. To some only a large win of money at the pools is luck. Or finding a valuable jewel at your feet on a London street. That surely is luck. But during the war luck take another turn.
