Mother and son prayed every night at cross purposes; Eleanor that he’d stay where he was, and Jonathan that he’d be posted to a place where there was some action to be had. He came home on leave every few months, leaner and fitter, and spoiling for a fight with the Jerries. ‘Everyone in the forces is doing their bit towards the war, including you, darling,’ Eleanor would try to convince him, but Jonathan refused to be convinced. ‘I’d sooner be in Liverpool any day, Mummy,’ he would say sulkily. ‘There’s far more going on. You even had an incendiary bomb in the garden.’ Eleanor was very proud of her incendiary bomb that had done little damage except to the Brussels sprouts Oliver had planted in readiness for Christmas. They’d both been in the Anderson shelter and Oliver had put the flames out with the stirrup pump that he had never imagined using. A bomb in your very own garden was really something to boast about, unlike Brenna having her windows smashed; that happened to loads of people.
