They sat down and she told him about the attack. ‘Those boys were just distributing leaflets. Those Auxiliaries are barbarians, they beat them within an inch of their lives then took them away in a van. An old man told me they were taking them to the Gestapo.’
David looked into the fire. He said, ‘Didn’t Gandhi say peaceful protest only works if those you’re protesting against are capable of being shamed?’
Sarah looked up. ‘They were taking a stand. They were brave. All this violence that the Resistance has started, it’s just making things worse. That’s why the government’s recruiting more and more Auxiliaries. It’s a vicious circle.’
David gave her a strange, intent look. ‘What are people supposed to do? We’ve let it all go. Democracy, independence, freedom.’
‘Just go on waiting.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for the last twelve years? Well, I suppose it’s how ordinary people have coped with bad times through the ages. Hitler hasn’t appeared in public to meet Beaverbrook, has he? His most important ally. Maybe Hitler
‘If he dies, Himmler could succeed.’
Sarah looked at David. He was as much against the regime as she was these days, and she had thought he would shout and rage about what had happened to the boys. At length he said, ‘It’s all unbearable, what’s happening in the world.’
‘You’re tired,’ she said. ‘Go upstairs and change out of your work clothes. I’ll lay the table.’
She put the decorators’ note beside his plate. As David sat down to eat, and Sarah set out the lamb chops, she said, ‘That came this afternoon, while I was out. He can come next week.’
David looked across the table. ‘Has that upset you, too? As well as those boys being attacked?’
‘A little, yes.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t think we’ve always helped each other as we might.’
‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s been a tough couple of years, hasn’t it, one way and another?’
‘Tough as hell.’
‘I’ve got another committee meeting on Sunday.’
‘Will you be all right to go?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll go.’
Afterwards they watched the news on television in their separate armchairs. Beaverbrook was broadcasting from Berlin; he stood on the steps of the Reich chancellery smiling cheerfully at the reporters, bright as buttons as always. He spoke in his sharp voice with its Canadian twang: ‘I am happy to report, gentlemen, that my talks with Herr Goebbels have gone very well. I also had an audience with Herr Hitler this morning. He sends his warm greetings to the British people and the Empire. A new era of economic and military co-operation with Germany is dawning, which can only help our country in these difficult times. Tariffs on trade between Britain and Europe are to be reduced, easing trade conditions and helping our industries. The size of the British army is to be increased by a hundred thousand men, amending the Treaty of Berlin, to strengthen our Imperial forces. I shall bring back the keys to a new prosperity and strength for our country and Empire. Thank you.’
David laughed emptily. ‘If the Germans are going to let us trade more with Europe and recruit more soldiers they’ll want something in return. Trade – I expect that’ll mean contracts for our arms industry; they’ve been trying to get in on the Russian war for years.’
‘Oh, God.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Remember in the thirties, how people used to laugh at Mosley and his Blackshirts strutting along. We used to think British people could never become Fascists, or Fascist collaborators. But they can. I suppose anybody can, given the right set of circumstances.’
‘I know.’
The television was now showing a giant fir being cut down in Norway, the annual gift that in a few weeks would be erected in Trafalgar Square. Prime Minister Quisling clapped as the huge tree fell, sending up clouds of snow. Sarah knew the sight of him would bring back memories for David of the 1940 Norway campaign. He said, ‘I’ve got to go into the office tomorrow, early. Just for a meeting. It’s a bore. I’ll be back by lunchtime.’
‘All right,’ she said with a sigh.
‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed,’ he said. ‘No need for you to come up yet. Stay downstairs if you want.’
Late on Saturday morning David returned from his meeting with Jackson with a hard, tense feeling inside him. Sarah must not know about Frank’s call, and when he went to Birmingham tomorrow to visit him, she must think he was going somewhere else.
David had a great-uncle in Northampton, who had helped his parents when they first came to England. He had owned a small building firm but was in his eighties now, a childless widower. David’s father had asked him to keep an eye on Uncle Ted, and David visited the old Irishman a couple of times a year, usually on his own for Ted’s grumpiness was legendary. The story, he had decided, would be that Ted had had a fall and was in hospital. Frank’s telephone call, which Jackson said would come between four and five that afternoon, would supposedly be from him. David had asked at the meeting, ‘How can I stop Sarah taking the call? We’ve a phone in the bedroom but why would I be up there at four on a Saturday?’
‘An illness,’ Jackson had suggested. ‘Not something that would stop you travelling the next day.’
On Saturday morning, after breakfast, he went out into the garden and tidied up the leaves. It was another cold, raw day. Sarah came out in a headscarf and old coat and helped him rake the wet leaves into a pile. They lit a fire, and a thin column of smoke rose into the still air. Sarah’s cheeks had reddened with the cold; it was a long time since they had done something like this together. She looked pretty, relaxed by the work. She was so honest, so good. David felt a dreadful stab of mingled affection and guilt.
At half past twelve Sarah went in to prepare lunch. As he worked on alone, digging out dead plants from the flowerbeds, David wondered what on earth it was that Frank knew. Or did he know nothing? Had that fragile mind just snapped at last? No, that couldn’t be it, the Americans wanted him. He hated the thought of Frank in danger, hunted. He had felt in danger himself for so long.
He remembered standing with his father on the wharf in Auckland, in 1946, waiting to get the ship back to England, at the end of his posting to New Zealand. Sarah had gone to the ladies. David’s father said, ‘They say they’re having a bad winter in England. Still, it should be over by the time you get back.’
‘Yes, we’ll go from late summer straight into spring.’
Suddenly his father said, ‘Stay here, David. Things are getting worse in England.’
‘Dad, we’ve been through this. Sarah and I feel – it’s our country, we belong there.’
His father said quietly, ‘There’s one way you don’t belong there, son, not now. And that hardly matters here.’
‘Nobody knows. There’s no way anybody can.’
His father sighed. ‘I’ve often wondered what it was your mother was trying to say to you. Just before she died. Perhaps it was a warning.’
David remembered the last sight of his father, waving from the quayside as the ship pulled away, his greying black hair flying in the wind. He put down his spade and went in. He said to Sarah, ‘I think I’ve done too much bending, my back hurts. I think after lunch I might lie down.’
Over the meal Sarah looked at him sympathetically. ‘You did too much,’ she said. ‘Go on up and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Lie flat on your back with your knees bent, that’s the best way.’ She believed him and that made David unreasonably angry with her again – he wanted to shout that there was nothing wrong with his bloody back. But he went up and lay down on the bed in the position she had suggested. On the table beside him stood the telephone extension he had installed last year; in case there was a night-time emergency at work, he had told her.
She brought up the tea and he drank it. After a while the posture made him uncomfortable so he sat on the side of the bed, looking through the net curtains at the bare trees and grey sky.
At ten past four, just as the light was starting to go, the phone rang. Though he had been waiting for it the shrill sound made David jump. He snatched up the receiver. ‘Kenton 4815.’
For several moments he heard only silence, then a voice, thin and tremulous. ‘Is that David Fitzgerald?’
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘It’s – it’s Frank, David. Frank Muncaster. You remember?’
‘Of course. Frank? Long time no see. How are you?’ David spoke quietly.
‘Oh . . .’ There was a despairing note in the voice. ‘I’m – having a few problems. I’ve not been well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Frank. Really sorry.’
