Mrs Nethercott set her husband’s place at the table as she did every evening- with a place mat, a knife and fork and a white china plate. Then she set her children’s places.  First, she put a plate out for Betty- her eldest daughter, at the seat facing the window. Betty always liked to look out of the window when she was eating so she could see the red squirrels in the garden. Next, Mrs Nethercott set little George’s place. There was no plate for him- he was such a fussy eater and he’d only eat anything if it was served in his special blue bowl with a picture of a train on it. George loved trains.

Mrs Nethercott went back over to the stove and drained the vegetables, which had started to boil over. She mashed the potatoes and took the pork chops out of the oven, serving up her dinner on her own plate. She looked at the clock. This would’ve been the time that Mr Nethercott would usually come home. Sometimes he’d come in full of joy and energy- with a bunch of flowers he’d bought for her on the way home. Sometimes he’d have had a bad day and he’d be more gloomy; but he’d always find a smile for her even then.

There’d be no flowers today, of course, nor even a smile. Not anymore. Not since that fateful summer night during the battle for Britain’s skies. “It is with the deepest regret…” That was how the letter had begun. She’d known just from those six words and the RAF letterhead what it would say. Mrs Nethercott carried her solitary plate of food over to the table. She felt a raindrop on her shoulder and looked up at the hole in the ceiling and out to the sky above. She still couldn’t bear to get it fixed. The children’s bedroom used to be directly above the kitchen. They’d both been in there when the bomb hit.

Mrs Nethercott sat down with her dinner and, as she had done every evening for the last two years, she ate alone.