Philippa arrived an hour before the Germans. It was a slow hour that didn’t last quite long enough. She counted each station between Paddington and Moorgate, surprised at her patience and at how little interest she had in what turned out to be her first memory of London: A pigeon flying up from the tracks, its wings splashing the windows of the carriage, then gathering itself to race the train into the tunnel. From Moorgate, Philippa found her way to St. Giles. She was sitting in her father’s pew when she turned toward the north doors and the bomb exploded.
That morning, Philippa walked the two miles from Low Fields Farm to Youlgreave. At least she hadn’t crept away in the middle of the night, she thought. Everyone in the village saw her traveling case in hand or heard from someone who heard from someone who saw her board the near noon bus to Matlock. The sky turned green with rain while she waited beside the sluggish current of the Derwent for the train to the city. The two-mile walk had made it necessary to send her trunk ahead by lorry a week earlier. She’d sent it even without a satisfactory answer to her question of expected delivery at the room she had let by mail.
“There’s a war on, Miss,” the lorry driver said.
“Yes, thank you, a war. We’re quite far off here in the country, you know. Never really heard of that fellow with the cute moustache.”
This isn't a hook. It's a first page. You know the drill by now: what's the dilemma, what are the stakes, the choices? What goes wrong if she fails in her mission? You've got a girl and bomb. We need to know there's a problem if it kills her, or if it doesn't.