Damien Hirst. Weeks later, they had still been arguing whether it was serious art or just a dead fish.
As part of their GCSE history coursework, a lot of the girls were studying the Blitz, the bombing of London by the Germans during the Second World War. Miss Chaplin had decided that they should take an artistic as well as a historical interest in what had happened.
“I want you to capture the spirit of the Blitz,” she explained. “What’s the point of studying it if you don’t feel it too?” She paused as if waiting for someone to argue, then went on. “You can use photography, painting, collage or even clay modelling if you like. But I want you to give me an idea of what it might have been like to live in London during the winter of 1940.”
There was a mutter of agreement around the class. Walking around London had to be more fun than reading about it in books. Scarlett was particularly pleased. History and art had become two of her favourite subjects and she saw that here was an opportunity to do them both at the same time.
“Next Monday, we’re going to Shoreditch,” Miss Chaplin went on. “It was an area of London that was very heavily bombed. We’ll visit many of the streets, trying to imagine what it was like and we’ll look at some of the buildings that survived.”
She glanced outside. The art room was on the ground floor, at the back of the school, with a view over the garden, sloping down with flower-beds at the bottom and three tennis courts beyond. It was Friday and it was raining. The rain was sheeting down and the grass was sodden. It had been like that for three days.
“Of course,” she went on. “The trip won’t be possible if the weather doesn’t cheer up – and I have to warn you that the forecast hasn’t been too promising. But maybe we’ll be lucky. Either way, remember to bring a permission slip from your parents.” Then she had a sudden thought and smiled. “What do you think, Scarlett?”
It had become a sort of joke at St Genevieve’s.
Scarlett Adams always seemed to know what the weather was going to do. Nobody could remember when it had first started but everyone agreed – you could tell how the day was going to be simply by the way Scarlett dressed. If she forgot her scarf, it would be warm. If she brought in an umbrella, it would rain. After a bit, people began to ask her opinion. If there was an important tennis match or a picnic planned by the river, have a word with Scarlett. If there was any chance of a cross-country run being called off, she would know.
Of course, she wasn’t always right. But it seemed she could be relied upon about ninety per cent of the time.
Now she looked out of the window. It was horrible outside.
The clouds, grey and unbroken, were smothering the sky. She could see raindrops chasing each other across the glass. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “It’ll clear up after the weekend.”
Miss Chaplin nodded. “I do hope you’re right.”
She was. It rained all day Sunday and it was still drizzling on Sunday night. But Monday morning, when Scarlett woke up, the sky was blue. Even Mrs Murdoch was whistling as she put together the packed lunch requested by the school. It was as if a last burst of summer had decided to put in a surprise appearance.
The coach came to the school at midday. The lesson – combining art and history – was actually going to take place over two periods plus lunch and, allowing for the traffic, the girls wouldn’t be back until the end of school. As they pulled out of St Genevieve’s, Miss Chaplin talked over the intercom, explaining what they were going to do.
“We’ll be stopping for lunch at St Paul’s Cathedral,” she said. “It was very much part of the spirit of the Blitz because, despite all the bombing, it was not destroyed. The coach will then take us to Shoreditch and we’re going to walk around the area. It’s still a bit wet underfoot so I want us to go indoors and the place I’ve chosen is St Meredith’s, in Moore Street. It’s one of the oldest churches in London. In fact there was a chapel there as long ago as the thirteenth century.”
“Why are we visiting a church?” one of the girls asked.
“Because it also played an important part in the war. A lot of local people used to hide there during the bombing. They actually believed it had the power to protect them… that they’d be safe there.”
She paused. The coach had reached the River Thames, crossing over Blackfriars Bridge. Scarlett looked out of the window. The water was flowing very quickly after all the rain. In the distance, she could just make out part of the London Eye, the silver framework glinting in the sunlight. The sight of it made her sad. She had ridden on it with her parents, at the end of the summer. It had been one of the last things the three of them had done while they were still a family.
“…actually took a direct hit on October 2, 1940.” Miss Chaplin was still talking about St Meredith’s. Scarlett had allowed her thoughts to wander and she’d missed half of what the teacher had said. “It wasn’t destroyed, but it was badly damaged. Bring your sketch books with you and we can work in there. We have permission and you can go anywhere you like. See if you can feel the atmosphere. Imagine what it was like, being there with the bombs going off all around.”
Miss Chaplin flicked off the microphone and sat down again, next to the driver.
Scarlett was a few rows behind her, sitting next to a girl called Amanda, who was one of her closest friends and who lived in the same road as her. She noticed that Amanda was frowning.
What is it?” she asked.
“St Meredith’s,” Amanda said. “What about it?”
It took Amanda a few moments to remember. “There was a murder there. About six months ago.”
“You’re not being serious.”
“I am.”
If it had been anyone else, Scarlett might not have believed them. But she knew that Amanda had a special interest in murder. She loved reading Agatha Christie and she was always watching whodunnits on TV. “So who got murdered?” she asked.
“I can’t remember,” Amanda said. “It was some guy. A librarian, I think. He was stabbed.”
Scarlett wasn’t sure it sounded very likely and when the coach stopped off at St Paul’s, she went over to Miss Chaplin. To her surprise, the teacher didn’t even hesitate. “Oh yes,” she said cheerfully. “There was an incident there this summer. A man was attacked by a down-and-out. I’m not sure the police ever caught anyone, but it all happened a long time ago. It doesn’t bother you, does it, Scarlett?”
“No,” Scarlett said. “Of course not.”
But that wasn’t quite true. It did secretly worry her, even if she wasn’t sure why. She had a sense of foreboding which only grew worse the closer they got to the church.
The art teacher had chosen this part of London for a reason. It was a patchwork of old and new, with great gaps where whole buildings and perhaps even streets had been taken out by the Germans. Most of the shops were shabby and depressing, with plastic signs and dirty windows full of products which people might need but which they couldn’t possibly want: vacuum cleaners, dog food, one hundred items at less than a pound. There was an ugly car park towering high over the buildings, but it was hard to imagine anyone stopping here. The traffic rumbled past in four lanes, anxious to be on its way.
But even so there were a few clues as to what the area might once have been like. A cobbled alleyway, a gas lamp, a red telephone box, a house with pillars and iron railings. The London of seventy years ago. That was what Miss Chaplin had brought them all to find.
They turned into Moore Street. It was a dead end, narrow and full of puddles and pot-holes. A pub stood on one side, opposite a launderette that had shut down. St Meredith’s was at the bottom, a solid, red-brick church that looked far too big to have been built in this part of town. The war damage was obvious at once. The steeple had been added quite recently. It wasn’t even the same colour as the rest of the building and didn’t quite match the huge oak doors or the windows with their heavy stone frames.
Scarlett felt even more uneasy once they were inside. She jumped as the door boomed shut behind her, cutting out the London traffic, much of the light – indeed, any sense that they were in a modern city at all. The interior of the church stretched into the distance to the silver cross, high up on the altar, caught in a single shaft of dusty light. Otherwise, the stained glass windows held the sun back, the different colours blurring together. Hundreds of candles flickered uselessly in iron holders. She could make out little side-chapels, built into the walls. Even without remembering the murder that had happened there, St Meredith’s didn’t strike her as a particularly holy place. It was simply creepy.
But nobody else seemed to share her feelings. The other girls had taken out their sketch books and were sitting in the pews, chatting to each other and drawing what they had seen outside. Miss Chaplin was examining
