It was typical – completely bloody typical – for Beatrice to be interrupted by the ear-splitting wail of the air-raid sirens just as she was getting ready to settle down for the rest of the evening. Sighing deeply, she snatched up her coat and hurried into the kitchen.
“Betty!” The short, mousy-haired woman looked up from the piece of paper lying on the table, staring blankly at Beatrice. “Betty! Come on, we practised this – the sirens mean we have to go to the air raid shelter.”
“Okay…” Betty hopped off her chair, only to stop still halfway across the room. “Wait.” Beatrice noticed, with growing dread, that the familiar look Betty always had when she got an idea had appeared on her face.