When the long howl of the all clear sounded, Mrs Cavendish had emerged from Charing Cross station. She headed home amid shouts and calls, people hurrying; smoke and confusion. She"d found an empty space where her home should have been. Only half a jagged wall remained; her house and that of her next door neighbour had been reduced to one teetering tower of shared masonry. Mrs Cavendish"s side sported a cream paper with a tiny floral print; on Betty Millbank"s wall at number 22 the paper was blue. A crooked picture hung on Betty"s side and a ribbon of net curtain clung to the corner of its frame, the only remaining piece of the nets lovingly bleached and billowing on the washing line like delicate clouds only last week.
Mrs Cavendish was certain Jane was in the house or what was left of it
