Stages

I'm reading, inter alia, A God in Ruins by Kate Atkinson: this is my bedroom book but I have three others on the go as well, in different rooms. A God in Ruins follows on from Life After Life and covers many of the same people, especially the heroic, the lovely, the truly decent Teddy. One-word reviews on my paperback edition include 'Magnificent', 'Heartbreaking', Breathtaking' and 'Dazzling', and they do not exaggerate. It's a wholly absorbing book, luckily very lengthy, and its only mild irritation is its temporal agility. Completely absorbed in Teddy's wartime experiences as an RAF pilot, you turn a page to find the next chapter covers the present day, and vice versa. It only annoys for a second because both periods are fascinating, emotionally inclusive. Anyway, steeped as I have been in the exploits of the Halifax bomber Teddy and his crew are flying, I find myself thinking again about my father, a rear gunner in an Avro Lancaster. Bomber crews didn't stand much chance of surviving even one tour which consisted of 30 missions. Thousands upon thousands of them lie rotting at the bottom of the North Sea or are buried all over Europe. Or not. Many died on landing when their shattered planes crashed, or on training flights. The figures are staggering. But among all the statistics one stands out for me: only one in four rear gunners survived. My father didn't talk much about his experiences, but if certain German cities were ever mentioned - Dresden and Hamburg chief amongst them - he would say ruefully "We dropped a load on them". We didn't ask and he didn't tell. How I wish I still had the chance.

I've got his wartime records, and on sudden inspiration I decided to ask Roger if he could help me interpret them. Roger was a career RAF officer, but he said the records only showed his postings and I needed my father's log book to see how many missions he went on, and their destination. Alas I don't know its whereabouts.

On a different tack I have a real wounded soldier on my hands. Hugo has a sore foot, probably caused when he careered wildly around Sizewell beach with his friends last week. He's had cream and bandages applied when he's gone for short comfort breaks, but today Ben the sweet vet checked it over and it's healing nicely. On the way home I stopped at the pet shop and bought him a rubber shoe that rises up his skinny leg and is held in place with velcro. He did very well this evening, limping at first but then trotting confidently. He has to be the most accommodating dog ever.