‘Is it?’
‘Yes. I phoned the office this morning and they told me. They still haven’t found anyone she’ll marry. They say the Queen Mother’s pressing German princes on her.’
‘Maybe she’ll stay single, like the first Elizabeth?’
He looked across to the shore again. ‘I remember this place in 1940. Barbed wire all along the promenade, down on the beach too, concrete tank traps in the water. You can’t believe it now.’
‘No.’
‘And the rationing, remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now you can buy what you like. So long as you can afford it.’ He spoke with a touch of bitterness. ‘I was in the Home Guard for a couple of months, remember them?’
She did: old men and boys on the newsreels, parading with wooden sticks because there weren’t enough rifles. She had thought of how they would all be slaughtered in an invasion. Danny went on, ‘I was just too young to be called up. Then in a couple of months it was all over.’ He leaned on the railing again. ‘I wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t made peace, whether the Germans would’ve invaded. It would have been difficult, you know, getting an army across the Channel.’
‘They tell us it would have been easy. We’d lost all our equipment at Dunkirk.’
‘Maybe. Well, we made our choice in 1940 and here we are.’ From his tone he was anti-regime, though he hadn’t actually said anything incriminating.
‘Yes.’ Sarah sighed heavily.
Danny shook his head sadly. ‘I worry about my kiddies’ future, I do. I saw one of those places where they’re holding the Jews outside Worthing yesterday. In the distance, from the train, it looked like an old army barracks. Surrounded with wire, guards patrolling. My wife says the Jews deserve it, they can’t be trusted, they’re not really loyal to Britain.’ He shook his head again. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do.’
Sarah realized she had hardly thought about the Jews over the last few days. ‘There’s been nothing on the news,’ she said.
‘No. People will forget soon, they do if it’s things they can’t see and don’t affect them.’
‘How old are your children?’ she asked.
‘Two boys. Six and eight. You?’
‘No. I – I’m a widow.’
‘From the 1940 war?’
‘No. Recently. My husband died in a car crash.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’
‘Maybe I should be getting back,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s cold.’
He looked at her. ‘Must be a hard time for you, Christmas.’
‘Yes. That’s why I had to get away for a few days.’ She realized that lying was already coming easily to her. Had it been like that for David? She looked into Danny’s sad face and felt guilty.
He said, nervously, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come for a drink. Lots of nice little pubs in the Lanes, warm coal fires. They’ll be opening up about now.’
She thought, he’s trying to pick me up. But maybe not, perhaps he was just looking for companionship on this bleak morning. She hesitated a second, then smiled and said, ‘Thank you very much, but no. I should be getting back.’
He was apologetic and a little embarrassed. ‘Of course, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind—’
‘Not at all. But I must go.’
He tipped his hat again, an awkward little gesture, then said, ‘This is a sad sort of town in winter. Maybe, don’t think I’m intruding, but maybe you’d be happier back in London.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, perhaps. Well . . .’ She turned away.
‘I hope I didn’t speak out of turn—’
‘No. No, it was nice to talk to you.’
She walked away, down the pier, back to the promenade, bleakly conscious of the loneliness that might now lie ahead for ever.
As she reached the promenade a newsboy was shouting, from the stand outside the Old Ship Hotel. ‘Hitler dead!’ she heard, ‘Fuhrer dies!’
AFTER PASSING THROUGH the roadblock the fire engine continued racing dangerously fast down the road, sirens blaring. At one point the driver sounded the horn and a man in a white facemask crossing the road jumped wildly out of the way, his leaping figure momentarily visible in the headlights. Then, so suddenly that David was thrown violently sideways, the powerful machine juddered to a halt. He and the others stood, a little shakily, and looked over the side. The headlights were still on and though they barely penetrated the fog David was able to see that they had stopped in front of a large stationary truck, its canvas-covered back facing them. An army truck, he thought with horror. Beside him the young man who had rescued them threw off his helmet. ‘Go on,’ he said cheerfully, ‘get down. Your new transport’s waiting.’
‘But it’s army . . .’
He laughed. ‘We stole that, too. Now, come on. It won’t take the police long to realize this engine was on a fake call.’
David climbed down into the street, Ben and Natalia and their young rescuer following. The three firemen who had been in the cab stepped out too. David looked round; they were in a cobbled street, lock-up garages on either side. He saw a man in military uniform standing beside the army truck, tall and burly.
‘Who’s that?’ David asked the young fireman.
‘Don’t know, mate. We were just told to bring you here.’ He clapped the side of the truck. ‘Good old Merryweather engine, never lets you down.’ He brought out a packet of cigarettes and passed them round. David took one gratefully.
The military man came over, looming out of the fog. He was in his fifties, with a lined face, black moustache and severe, hard eyes. He wore the uniform of a captain. He looked them over.
‘Are you a real soldier?’ Ben asked.
‘Yes,’ the captain answered brusquely. ‘I’m with Churchill now. Right. All of you in the back of the truck. We need to get you out of here.’ He turned and barked, ‘Fowler, open up!’ The canvas back was pulled aside and a stringy little man in a private’s uniform jumped down, lowered the tailgate and waved them up impatiently. David saw he was carrying a rifle.
David shook the hand of the young fireman. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at the rest of the crew. ‘Thank you all.’ They raised their hands in acknowledgement.
‘Come on,’ the captain said impatiently. ‘We haven’t much time.’
They all climbed in. The truck smelt of sweat and machine oil. The private shone a torch into the back, showing a double row of benches. Another man in private’s uniform sat at the far end, with a rifle across his knees. Next to him was a civilian in a dark jacket, hunched over. David’s heart jumped when he saw it was Frank. Frank’s face lit up and he cried out, ‘It’s true! You’re alive!’
‘No thanks to you,’ the stringy man said grumpily in a Cockney accent. He waved his arm to indicate that David and Ben and Natalia should sit down on the benches. He closed the canvas flap, and the soldier next to Frank leaned over and banged on the back of the cab. There was a little window, giving a view into the front. The driver, another man in military uniform, was already sitting there; the captain got in beside him. The truck started and began moving slowly down the street.
The stringy private played the torch across their faces. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll get into one of the sidestreets and then you’re all going to change into uniform. We’re going to be a group of soldiers travelling to guard duty at the Jew camp in Dover.’ He turned the beam on Natalia. ‘Except you, miss, they’ll not take you for a soldier if we’re stopped, you’re going to be dropped off and debriefed about today. You’ll rendezvous with the others later.’
‘Where?’ Ben asked.
‘You’ll find out when we get there,’ the soldier next to Frank answered quietly, in a Yorkshire accent. ‘Can’t
