December 1938

‘ANY sign of them yet?’ Helen Parsons’ voice sang out from the kitchen.

Dee, her seventeen-year-old daughter, paused from studying a box of Christmas decorations and went to the window. The narrow London street outside seemed empty, but the darkness made it hard to see far so she slipped out of the front door and down the small garden to the gate.

‘Not a sign,’ she said, returning to the house and hurriedly closing the door.

Her mother appeared, frowning. ‘Have you been out without a coat, in this weather?’

‘Just for a moment.’

‘You’ll catch your death of cold. You’re a nurse; you should have more sense.’

Dee chuckled good-humouredly. ‘It’s a bit soon to call me a nurse. I’ve barely started my training.’

‘Don’t tell your father that. He’s dead proud of you. He tells everyone that his daughter became a nurse because she’s the bright one of the family.’

The bright one, Dee thought wryly. Her older sister, Sylvia, was the beautiful one, and she was the bright one.

‘Now, don’t start that again,’ her mother said, reading her face without trouble.

‘It’s just that sometimes I’d like to be gorgeous, like Sylvia,’ Dee said wistfully.

‘Nonsense, you’re pretty enough.’ She bustled back to the kitchen, leaving Dee to gaze into the mirror.

She had pleasant, regular features under short brown hair, with dark brown expressive eyes. Pretty enough. That was about the best anyone could say and, if it hadn’t been for Sylvia, Dee might have been content with it. But when she compared Sylvia’s luscious features with her own, which were pleasant but not spectacular, she knew she could never be content.