Sometimes our horses back in Nottingham would get spooked. They were used to storms, but not bombs. Their eyes would roll and they would kick the doors of their stables, wanting to be set free. But Papa was away at war and we couldn't let them out, or they would run wild through the streets and never came home. Marjorie would climb into bed with me and hold me tight, singing in my ear so we wouldn't hear their cries.