Read the opening of Letters from the Lighthouse

We were halfway through the news when the air raid started. It was a Friday in January: we were at the Picture Palace for the 6 p.m. showing of The Mark of Zorro. All month the Luftwaffe had been attacking us, their bombs falling on London like pennies from a jar, so the fact they couldn’t hold off for just a few measly hours made me hate the Germans that little bit more.

The cinema trip had been my sister Sukie’s idea, as most things were. We were all in need of cheering up that evening: after the tea we’d just eaten at home it was a wonder we were still alive. ‘It’s like brains,’ Cliff, my eight-year-old brother, said, lifting the pan lid to show us. It was probably only minced meat and potatoes, but you never knew with Mum’s dinners, especially the ones you had to reheat when she was working late.

And Cliff relished gory details, being the sort who’d pick scabs off his knee just to see what was underneath. ‘Well, you never get scabby knees, Olive,’ he once said to me, like it was the biggest character flaw in the world. The truth was I preferred reading books to running about in the street. I didn’t see it as a weakness, either.

But we had to eat the horrid supper, of course. No one chucked food away with a war on, not even stuff that resembled brains. You simply pinched your nose and swallowed hard, then glugged down a glass of water. Afterwards, Sukie, being the eldest and in charge, said we deserved a trip out. She’d already seen the film last week with a friend.

‘It’s the cat’s pyjamas. You’ll both love it!’ she gushed, as we went around the house closing the blackout curtains. Then to me, teasingly: ‘Cheer up. It’s going to be fun!’ People were always telling me I had a serious face, because I was dark and thoughtful-looking like my dad.