There are spitfires over my garden. Mrs Christie next door cheers.
“Hello,” I say. And then I add “Magnificent aren’t they?”
There’s a pause as she eyes me. “Kept us safe in the War. The Few.”
I sing “There’ll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover.”
That seems to do it. She grudgingly invites me in for a nice cup of tea.
Spitfires don’t bother me. But when the helicopter comes over, I again see the barrel bomb falling and taste the choking gas.
“It must be hard for you people,” she says, and I feel utterly alone.