embassy. As it had been an attack on Rommel, the British police might have handed the demonstrators over. He felt powerless. He hadn’t even contradicted Steve. But he had to keep his cover intact, never step out of line, try to play the model civil servant. All the more because of Sarah’s family’s past. David felt a stab of unreasonable irritation against his wife.
His eyes were drawn back to the veterans. An old man of about sixty, his face stern and defiant, was marching past, his chest thrust out proudly. On one side of his coat was pinned a row of medals but on the other was sewn a large, bright yellow Star of David. Jews knew to stay out of the limelight now, not to attract attention, but the old man had defied common sense to go on the march wearing a prominent star, although he could have got away with the little Star of David lapel badge all Jews had to wear now, very British and discreet.
Someone in the crowd shouted out ‘Kike!’ The old man did not flinch but David did, anger coursing through him. He knew that under the law he too should have worn a yellow badge, and should not be working in government service, an employment forbidden to Jews. But David’s father, twelve thousand miles away, was the only other person who knew his mother had been that rare thing, an Irish Jew. And half a Jew was a Jew in Britain now; the penalty for concealing your identity was indefinite detention. In the 1941 census, when people were asked for the first time to state their religion, he had declared himself a Catholic. He had done the same thing whenever renewing his identity card, and the same again in the 1951 census, which this time also asked about Jewish parents or grandparents. But however often David pushed it all to the back of his mind, sometimes, in the night, he woke up terrified.
The rest of the ceremony went ahead without interruption, and afterwards they met up with Jim, Sarah’s father, and went back to David and Sarah’s mock-Tudor semi in Kenton, where Sarah would cook dinner for them all. Jim had known nothing about the paint-throwing until his family told him, though he had noticed the red stain on the Cenotaph steps. He said almost nothing about it on the journey back, and neither did Sarah or David, though Irene and especially Steve were full of outraged indignation. When they got back to the house Steve suggested they watch the news, see what it said about the attack.
David switched on the television, rearranging the chairs to face it. He didn’t like the way that in most houses now the furniture was arranged around the set; over the last decade, ownership of what some still called the idiot- box had spread to half the population; having a television was a mark of the sharp dividing line between rich and poor. It was coming to take over national life. It wasn’t quite time for the news; a children’s serial was on, a dramatization of some Bulldog Drummond adventure story, featuring Imperial heroes and treacherous natives. Sarah brought them tea and David passed round the cigarette-box. He glanced at Jim. Despite his conversion to pacifism after the Great War, his father-in-law always took part in the Remembrance Day parade; however much he loathed war, he honoured his old comrades. David wondered what he thought of the paint-throwing, but Jim’s prosthetic mask was turned towards him. It was a good prosthesis, close-fitting and flesh-coloured; there were even artificial eyelashes on the flat painted eye. Sarah confessed once that when she was small the crude mask he wore then, made from a thin sheet of metal, had frightened her and when he sat her in his lap on one occasion she’d burst into tears and Irene had to take her away. Her mother had called her a nasty, selfish girl but Irene, four years older, had held her and said, ‘You mustn’t mind it. It’s not Daddy’s fault.’
The news came on. They watched the young Queen paying her respects, and listened to Dimbleby’s sonorous, respectful reporting. But the BBC did not show the incident with Rommel; they simply passed from the Dominion representatives’ wreath-laying to Ambassador Kennedy’s. There was a flicker on the screen that you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it, and no break in the commentary – the BBC technicians must have done a re-recording later.
‘Nothing,’ Irene said.
‘They must have decided not to report it.’ Sarah had come in from the kitchen to watch, flushed from cooking.
‘Makes you wonder what else they don’t report,’ Jim said quietly.
Steve turned to him. He was wearing one of his glaringly bright sweaters, his plump stomach straining it unattractively. ‘They don’t want people to be upset,’ he said. ‘Seeing something like that happen on Remembrance Day.’
‘People should know, though,’ Irene said fiercely. ‘They should see what these despicable terrorists do. In front of the Queen, too, poor girl! No wonder she’s so seldom seen in public. It’s a disgrace!’
David spoke up then, before he could stop himself. ‘It’s what happens when people aren’t allowed to protest against their masters.’
Steve turned on him. He was still angry, looking for a scrap. ‘You mean the Germans, I suppose.’
David shrugged non-committally, though he would have liked to knock every tooth out of Steve’s head. His brother-in-law continued. ‘The Germans are our partners, and jolly lucky for us they are, too.’
‘Lucky for those who make money trading with them,’ David snapped.
‘What the devil’s that supposed to mean? Is that a dig at my business in the Anglo-German Fellowship?’
David glowered at him. ‘If the cap fits.’
‘You’d rather have the Resistance people in charge, I suppose? Churchill – if the old warmonger’s even still alive – and the bunch of Communists he’s got himself in with. Murdering soldiers, blowing people up – like that little girl who stepped on one of their mines in Yorkshire last week.’ He was beginning to get red in the face.
‘Please,’ Sarah said sharply. ‘Don’t start an argument.’ She exchanged a look with Irene.
‘All right.’ Steve backed down. ‘I don’t want to spoil the day any more than those swine have spoiled it already. So much for civil servants being impartial,’ he added sarcastically.
‘What was that, Steve?’ David asked sharply.
‘Nothing.’ Steve raised his hands, palms up. ‘Pax.’
‘Rommel,’ Jim said, sadly. ‘He was a soldier in the Great War, like me. If only Remembrance Day could be less military. Then people mightn’t feel the need to protest. There’s rumours Hitler’s very ill,’ he added. ‘He never broadcasts these days. And with the Democrats back in America, maybe changes will come.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘I always said they would, if we waited long enough.’
‘I’m sure they’d have told us if Herr Hitler was ill,’ Steve said dismissively. David glanced at Sarah, but said nothing.
Afterwards, when the rest of the family had driven off in Steve’s new Morris Minor, David and Sarah argued. ‘Why must you get into fights with him, in front of everyone?’ Sarah asked. She looked exhausted; she had been waiting on the family all afternoon, her hair was limp now, her voice ragged. ‘In front of Daddy, today of all days.’ She hesitated, then continued bitterly, ‘You were the one who told me to stay out of politics years ago, said it was safer to keep quiet.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But Steve can’t keep his damn trap shut. Today it was just – too much.’
‘How do you think these rows make Irene and me feel?’
‘You don’t like him any more than I do.’
‘We have to put up with him. For the family.’
‘Yes, and go visit him, look at that picture on the mantelpiece of him and his business pals with Speer, see his Mosley books and
Unexpectedly, Sarah shouted. ‘Haven’t we been through enough? Haven’t we?’ She stormed out of the lounge; David heard her go into the kitchen, and the door banged shut. He got up and began gathering the dirty plates and cutlery onto the trolley. He wheeled it into the little hall. As he passed the staircase he could not help looking up, to the torn wallpaper at the top and bottom of the stairs, where the little gates had stood. He and Sarah had talked, since Charlie died, about getting new wallpaper. But like so much else, they had never got round to it. He would go to her in a minute, apologize, try to close the evergrowing gap a little. Though he knew it could not really be closed, not with the secrets he had to keep.
IT HAD BEGUN TWO YEARS BEFORE, with the results of the 1950 election, a few months after Charlie’s death. Since the Hungarian banking crash of 1948, caused by the drain on Europe’s economies from the endless German war in Russia, the economic and political news had been getting steadily worse. There were strikes and
