Perspiration beaded on Lily's forehead; pooled and trickled on to the pillow.

In fact, the whole bed was wet and uncomfortable since her water had broken only a few minutes earlier. Rose appeared with a damp cloth and gently sponged Lily's face. The twin sisters smiled at each other although Lily's smile was more of a grimace now as another spasm of pain flooded through her body. She made no sound, just squeezed her eyes tight and clenched her teeth. Words could not describe this frail woman's inner strength.

The bedroom was dark. Blackout regulations required the heavy curtains to be drawn tightly at dusk. Ghostly dancing shadows cast from the fluttering candles gave the room an eerie feel and an oily, toasted smell of burnt candle wax lingered throughout the stuffy room as windows had been closed from early evening.

Rose's husband, Arthur, was downstairs in the semi-detached with their two boys, eleven-year-old Roy and his nine-year-old brother Tom. Arthur was exempt from war service as his blacksmith skills were deemed an essential service to the war effort.

He got the odd accusing look and some sideways sneers from a few of the First Great War veterans, too old now to serve themselves but not too old to remember what they had sacrificed for King and country. As the war furnished more deaths, the taunts increased. The white feathers came much later. "Bloody coward!" was the worst he'd gotten from a one-armed man in his sixties who jostled him as he came out of the pub.

If it hadn't been for the disability, Arthur, with iron-hard blacksmith arms, would have flattened him on the spot.

Even though blameless, he still felt the sting of the barbs and gritted his teeth. Maybe I should join up, he thought. What would happen to Rose and the boys though if I didn't come back? Caught between protecting his country or protecting his family he was damned by one or the other no matter how he resolved the dilemma. His fractious mood matched the blackness of the night as he stumbled off home some half-dozen pints of ale worse for wear.

The banshee wail from above was not the final agonising throes of Lily giving birth but the gradual keening build-up of the air-raid siren, its wailing note a warning to all Londoners. Criss-crossing searchlights began their macabre swordfight across dark, leaden skies anxious to find the enemy while the distant crump of bombs reverberated from the London Docks.

"You go with the boys!" panted Lily. "I'll be all right here. It sounds like they're bombing the Docks again. It's miles away! I'll hold on 'til you get back."

"I'm not leaving!" stated Rose. Her tone told Lily not to argue, but Lily tried once again. No need for all of them to be in danger, she thought.

"Look, I'll be all right! You go with Arthur and the boys to the shelter. If it's my time, then it's my time! Now go!"

Rose set herself four square at the end of the bed. Jaw set firm. "Don't be daft. I'm the eldest so you'll do as you're told!" she said. This statement and the inclination of her head was a strategy Rose used to good effect when she wanted to remind Lily that she was the older twin. It was a point Rose brought up from time to time when needed and it rankled with Lily because she was only two minutes younger. But Rose knew it was a powerful weapon. As he came in, Rose yelled to Arthur downstairs, to take the boys to the shelter.

"What about you? Are you coming?"

"Of course I'm not! I'm staying with Lily. She can't make it now; she's too far along. You go. We'll be all right!"

London bombing near St Paul's Cathedral.

The bombing was a little closer now and the searchlights frantically scrabbled across the darkness, seeking targets. The worry for the sisters was not so much that they may be a target in Kingsbury, but of a stray bomb that would accidentally overshoot, or of a pilot releasing unused bombs as the Luftwaffe ran for home.

An hour later, during the height of the bombardment, with the house shaking and the air full of electric tension, the two sisters brought a wee boy into the world. Lily the mother; Rose the aunt. And even though the circumstances weren't the best, he couldn't have asked for two better women to shape his life on March 26, 1943.

A murky wash of smudged sunlight greeted the next morning and misty rain softened the smouldering piles of rubble that once represented family homes. Four houses in a street of 20 were razed to the ground. Lily was oblivious to the rank smell of burnt charcoal held down at ground level by the heavy, clinging fog. Splintered timbers and jigsaws of brick angled from the ruins as mute testimony to the night's bombing raid. She was busy with her newly born son.

"I have decided to call you Stephen," she said to no one in particular. Just happy that he was perfect in all departments. "He's got inventor's hands!" she called to Rose.

"How can you tell?

"I just know. That's all!"

Rose came up the stairs. "You can tell it's your first!" she threw at Lily. "Don't hold him so tight. He'll suffocate. And you don't want to mollycoddle him either." Rose tutted and, feigning exasperation, said, "Here, give him to me!" when all she really wanted was a cuddle. "This is how you hold him, just under your breast and then he can see you at the same time, though you're not much to look at at the moment. Not the best-looking twin this morning are we?" she chuckled.

Lily couldn't see herself in the mirror across the bedroom but she could imagine what she looked like and that was probably worse than seeing. The manageress had told her that hairdresser's models needed to advertise their good looks all the time. She knew Rose didn't mean it but it reminded her of her promise to her husband Fred, that she would always try to look her best

"I'm naming him Stephen!"

"Yes, I know. I'm so glad he's not a Stephanie!" Rose grinned. "You weren't really going to call him Stephanie if he was a girl, were you?"

"Fred liked the name."

"Probably one of his many old girlfriends," Rose teased, waiting for the reaction she knew would come. And it did.

"Don't be silly, Fred's not like that! He would have told me," Lily bit as Rose expected.

"I know! I know! Fred's every woman's dream!" Rose sighed, pretending a mock swoon. "You've said that a few thousand times now," Rose rolled her eyes to the ceiling. In her thoughts, though, she knew that Fred, at six foot four, was a great catch even if he was a bit austere. I'd soon thaw him out, she smiled.

"Rose? When I bath him how will I clean around his ...? You know!"

"What?"

"His, you know ..." By this time Lily had coloured and Rose, looking up, had noticed.

"Oh, his willy you mean? For goodness sake, Lily! You just wash it like any other part of his body!"

"But it's private!"

"Lily, I worry about you sometimes. How on earth you and Fred even managed to have this child in the first place is beyond me! What did you do, roll together by accident?"

"Rose, don't be crude!"

"You call that crude? Arthur and I ..."

"I must write to Fred and let him know all the news," interrupted Lily, quickly changing the subject to save further embarrassment. "Would you fetch me an airmail form, Rose?"

"Fetch and carry now is it?" Rose gave Lily a tissue-thin airmail sheet and left her to it. "Call out if you need anything else, Your Majesty!" A quick exaggerated bow and she was gone to put on the lunch.

How twin girls could be so different in personality was beyond most people. Lily was somewhat prim and proper while Rose somewhat rough and ready. But together they were fabulous. Each had the ability to win people over as friends; real friends. Stephen would adore them both.

Ground is always hard but when you've been lying on stony rocks for 12 hours without moving, the numbness somehow creates a cushion. That is until you move and then all the fires in hell make you very much aware of your predicament. A shallow dugout on rock-hard ground was precious little cover. The protection they did have was a low wall constructed of random stones gathered from the immediate vicinity, enough to shield a man if he kept flat.

"Keep still and don't wriggle about, old chap, or you'll have Jerry down on us quick and lively!"

"What about if we have to advance quickly? Our legs will just give out. We've got to get some circulation going otherwise we won't stand a chance when the order comes."

"Fred, my good fellow, we're not going anywhere. The Germans want this hill! It's raining! There's no cover! No food, and it's nearly dark. Relax, keep your head down and dream of getting back to that gorgeous wife of yours and your new son, and the fun of starting another."

Silence. "Sorry, old chap, wrong thing to say!"

Fred, in fact, was thinking of the letter he'd received from Lily the other week full of news about his six-month-old son and wondered how she'd react to the fact that he wanted to hear news about her. His son was precious but he hadn't even seen him yet let alone held him and he felt no bond. His only love was for Lily. Dear, precious, beautiful Lily. He hated this war and had mentioned it a number of times in his numerous letters. He longed for the old times when they were courting, just the two of them, cycling all over the English countryside. Those were carefree, idyllic times and he yearned to have them back.

"I hope Lily doesn't misunderstand my last letter about wanting to hear news of her rather than Stephen. I'll probably be jealous of the attention she gives him when I get back."

"Just keep your head down old chap or you won't be going back to have any jealous feelings."

Hands, ripped and bleeding from scratching loose rocks together for cover, the two Coldstream Guards settled again to wait out another frigid night.

During the night of November 8, 1943, the Germans launched an all-out offensive. Under heavy covering fire, they forced the Guardsmen to keep their heads down. But on hearing the call to improve their positions, the Guards rose without hesitation as one disciplined group from behind their meagre protective cairns and drove the enemy off, fighting with rifles from the shoulder and Tommy-guns from the hip. The order was to advance to the end of their endurance.

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die ... ran through Fred's mind.

Early next morning, German stormtroopers crawled to within yards of the makeshift forts of stone, hurling grenades into them. Fred and John were the only survivors of the assault on their group. Using the rifles strewn around them, they redoubled their rate of fire to deceive the enemy.

Drinking from the water canisters of their dead comrades and rationing their food, Lance Corporal Morgan and Private Rew survived two more days and nights on Hill 819.

Bone-weary, covered in mud, and exhausted from lack of food and sleep, the two men comforted each other with dreams of what they would do when the war was over.

"Fred, what if I don't make it?"

"Of course you'll make it!" cut in Fred quickly. "We haven't come this far together to give it up now! Someone knows we're here otherwise Jerry would have attacked again. You'll see. We'll be relieved before you know it!"

"Yes, but if I don't make it," John persisted, "would you visit my wife and see that my family's cared for? Go round and visit. Tell them how it was. How it all happened?"

"You know I would but we're going to get through this, I promise you."

Suddenly becoming aware of his own vulnerability and the fact that this may be his last chance, Fred chose his words carefully. "But ... I suppose if the worst should happen and we don't make it," he said hesitantly, "maybe we should visit each other's family."

Both Guardsmen prayed to their own God for a safe return but both held private fears that this was to be the end. No one was coming for them. Jerry held the high ground. No one would be reckless enough to sacrifice an assault to save a few scattered Guardsmen. They would be listed as casualties of war. Collateral damage. Expendable. Fred clutched his precious photo inside his battledress jacket, closed his eyes and prayed that he might survive this last ordeal and live to see his wife and son.

On the night of November 10, an allied regiment relieved the Grenadier Guards on top of Bareback Ridge but still had to reach those scattered few Coldstream Guardsmen stranded on Hill 819. Light Infantry on a mule track attacked the Germans on Hill 819 and against all odds drove them back and the situation was saved. One Coldstream Guard didn't make it. Struck by a stray bullet he died in the arms of his friend.

The war had a major psychological effect on the women left behind, especially those who had husbands and loved ones on active duty. They learned to live without men. They worked on the farms and filled the gaps left by men in industry. They kept the home fires burning. They gave the fighting men at the front hope, something to fight for and something to come home to. They gained a collective strength. A camaraderie that had been exclusively a workingman's privilege. But strong as they were, deep inside they feared more than anything, the daily post.

Conflicting emotions surged through them when they saw the black bicycle turn the corner. Yearning for letters of good news, those with men at the front knew the postman could carry a double-edged sword.

Rose took the letter but read the message on the postman's face as he stayed astride his bike. The War Office logo embossed on the envelope was the only clue they needed. Both knew the dreaded words within.

"You going to give it her?"

"Yes. I'll see she gets it," Rose replied with more conviction than she felt. A sadness welling up inside her as she felt for her innocent sister.

"I've got another one for Berkley Street. Mrs Connolly. Nice lady. Husband fought in the First War. Tempted fate once too often I guess."

Rose didn't hear the postman's words. Her body had succumbed to the initial frisson of adrenaline numbing her mind into a trance. Nothing registered except racing thoughts of panic. How can I tell Lily?

A call from the laundry refocused her. "Rose! Any news from Fred in the post? I sent him a photo of Stephen in my last letter. He should have replied by now." Lily moved closer, "And no smutty remarks about how he's charming all those Italian girls and hasn't got time to write." Lily moved closer still. Rose was feeling sick. "His last letter was about how he can't wait to get back and start another baby. Fancy Fred writing that!" Lily called. She had made it through the kitchen toward the front door, focused on wiping her hands on her apron. Finally she lifted her eyes.

It was enough.

One look at Rose and she knew. Standing like a stunned animal trapped in the on-coming headlights of Lily's eyes, Rose stood silhouetted in the doorway. This is it, Lily thought. Heart pounding, throat dry, she reached out a hand for the envelope.

"I'd better open it," she said quietly.

Rose didn't move, paralysed in her grief. Lily's eyes never left her sister's, as she reached forward and took the letter from her hand. Not a word was said but the eyes conveyed all the sadness that only twin sisters could feel. Twins who had shared everything all their lives, with that invisible psychic thread they now shared this tragic feeling of utter despair.

"It is my painful duty to inform you ..." is as far as Lily read before she slumped to her knees. Rose jerked into action and caught her before she fell any further.

That simple phrase and Lily's universe underwent a paradigm shift.

"Rose, what did I do to deserve this?" she sobbed. "Did I love him too much? Was I too wrapped up in my own happiness?" And while Rose shushed and comforted her, Lily knew that this was God's way of balancing the ledger. You're not allowed to be too happy. You have to give something in return. God is in charge of the big picture.

"It is my painful duty to inform you ..." she read again and collapsed further into her sister, spiralling down into a vortex of desolation. Rose loved her twin and would have gladly taken her place. Suddenly, being the older sister had become a great deal more important than just scoring points. She needed all her willpower to summon up the strength to take control again. This was something that was going to be hard to get through. A new baby, no husband, a war on and nowhere of her own to live. She made a unilateral decision. Lily has to stay with us, she thought. I don't care what Arthur says. The two boys can carry on sharing a room. We'll manage. Lily would do the same for me she thought.

The heavily embossed military logo glared poignantly up at her from the discarded envelope on the floor.

"You bastards!" she muttered.