I had, for a very long time, decided to tell the absolute truth.

No rhymes, no embellishments.

I got first-hand accounts of all the events I didn't personally witness, the conditions in prison, the evacuation to Dunkirk, everything.

But the effect of all this honesty was rather pitiless.

You see, I couldn't any longer imagine what purpose would be served by it.

By honesty. Or reality.

Robbie Turner died of septicaemia at Bray-Dunes on June the first, 1940, the last day of the evacuation. ‖ Cheerio, pal.

And I was never able to put things right with my sister, Cecilia, because she was killed on the 15th of October, 1940, by the bomb that destroyed the gas and water mains above Balham tube station.

So… My sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for, and deserved.

And which, ever since, I've… Ever since I've always felt I prevented.

But what sense of hope, or satisfaction, could a reader derive from an ending like that?

So, in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life.

I'd like to think this isn't weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness.

I gave them their happiness.