SARAH LEFT THE HOUSE AN HOUR after David. There was a special meeting of the Christmas Toys Committee at twelve. It was a nuisance having to go into town on a Sunday, but an important committee member, who was on the board of a major toy manufacturer, was unable to attend during the week. She walked briskly up to Kenton tube station. She thought of David, driving north. She couldn’t prevent the niggling thought that perhaps it hadn’t been Uncle Ted phoning, but that woman from his office. She told herself she was being stupid, she had heard the tail end of his conversation and he had looked worried and anxious for the rest of the day.
On the way into the station she saw a poster by the newspaper kiosk:
There were fewer trains on Sundays but Sarah had to wait an unusually long time, over half an hour in the open. She was cold, she was glad she had put on a thick jumper and her new grey winter coat, though the fashionably wide sleeves left her wrists bare. The few other people on the platform looked at their watches and tutted. Sometimes on these journeys to committee meetings Mrs Templeman got on at Wembley. At least, Sarah thought, if there were problems with the trains she might be less likely to run into her and have to listen to her talking nineteen to the dozen all the way to Euston. When the train arrived at last she got into the nearest carriage, even though it was a smoker. An old man in cap and muffler sat across from her, a labourer in heavy hobnailed boots. He was smoking a pipe, surrounded by a cloud of aromatic blue smoke. Sarah’s father had always enjoyed his pipe, and she didn’t mind the smell.
Her luck was out; when the train came into Wembley she saw Mrs Templeman’s tall, stout figure on the platform, swathed in her heavy coat, a round fur hat over her permed curls and the fox-fur stole round her neck. She saw Sarah, waved a plump hand, and headed for her carriage. She sat down heavily opposite her. ‘Hello, dear. Goodness, I had to wait ages.’
‘So did I. It was jolly cold on the platform.’
‘They say it’s the coldest November for years. Let’s hope we don’t get another winter like ’47. All our pipes froze.’ As ever Mrs Templeman spoke loudly, in a rush. She adjusted her stole, the fox’s eyes staring glassily at Sarah. ‘All shipshape for the committee, dear?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the costings here.’ Sarah tapped her bag. ‘If everything gets approved today I can start placing the orders tomorrow.’
‘I do wish we hadn’t had to come in on Sunday. It’s all such a rush, after church.’
‘It’s a nuisance, but I suppose we have to keep Mr Hamilton sweet.’
‘He is generous. Goodness, it’s a bit of a fug in here, isn’t it?’ Mrs Templeman looked disapprovingly at the man with the pipe. He gave a little smile and turned to face the window, blowing out a fresh cloud of smoke.
‘It’s a smoking carriage,’ Sarah said mildly.
‘Yes, of course. I do like a cigarette myself in the evening, but my husband—’ She broke off as the train juddered to a halt, jerking them violently in their seats. ‘Oh, dear, what now? We shall be late—’
‘There must be a problem on the line.’ Sarah looked out of the window, thinking that no trains had passed them on the ‘up’ line. They hadn’t entered the tunnels yet, they were on a stone bridge looking down on rows of back-to-back houses of soot-stained yellow London brick. Grey smoke rose from chimneys, washing was hung out to dry in the backyards. A big poster had been put on a wall:
‘In a brown study, dear?’ Mrs Templeman smiled at her enquiringly.
‘Sorry. I was just thinking about my little boy.’
‘Left him at home with hubby, have you?’
‘No. He died in an accident at home, two years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry, dear.’ Mrs Templeman looked shocked, genuinely concerned. She spoke softly: ‘That must have been terrible for you.’
‘He fell down the stairs.’
‘I still think of my Fred,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘He died in the war, at Dunkirk. He would have been forty this year.’ She paused, then added, ‘I find my faith a great help. I don’t know how I’d cope without it.’ Sarah didn’t answer. ‘I believe He leads us all, though often we can’t see the path clearly. But we know He wants us to help those in need. That’s why I’m on the committee.’
‘I sometimes wonder if it’s any use,’ Sarah answered bleakly. ‘Whether anything is.’
Mrs Templeman changed the subject, talking about her brother who had just retired from the Indian Civil Service and was living with them till he found a house; he had had a bad time, in the thick of the Calcutta riots last year. Sarah asked if Mrs Templeman had heard the news about Mosley’s address but she shook her head, saying she avoided reading the papers these days, it was all so depressing.
The meeting at Friends House went well. Nobody could deny Mrs Templeman was a good chairwoman, moving business quickly along. Afterwards coffee was served. Sarah had a headache and couldn’t face the thought of the long journey back in Mrs Templeman’s company. She decided to tell a white lie. ‘I’m not going back to Euston,’ she said. ‘My husband’s meeting me at Tottenham Court Road tube.’
‘I’ll walk that way with you, dear, if I may. I need a breath of air after the meeting. It’s a nice walk through the squares. I can get the tube at Tottenham Court Road and then change.’
‘Oh, all right. Yes.’ Sarah supposed that when they got there she would have to pretend her husband hadn’t arrived, that she would have to wait for him. Well, that was where lies got you.
‘I’ll go and put my face on.’ Mrs Templeman walked off to the ladies, and Sarah went over to stand by the door. A couple of committee members called goodbyes as they passed her, huddling into their coats as they stepped outside. Sarah noticed there wasn’t a policeman at the entrance today. Probably off having a cigarette somewhere.
Mrs Templeman returned, face freshly powdered. ‘Right, dear,’ she said, adjusting the hideous fox fur. ‘Let’s face the cold.’
They turned into the network of Georgian squares behind Euston Road, wide streets with gardens in the middle, full of expensive flats, little hotels and university departments displaced when the German embassy took over Senate House. They walked along quickly; it really was cold, the sky a leaden grey. There was hardly anyone around.
‘Thank you for all your work, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ Mrs Templeman smiled. ‘I know phoning round shops isn’t the most exciting job in the world.’
‘It’s all right. It gives me something to do during the day.’
‘Your husband works in the Civil Service, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes. The Dominions Office.’
‘My sister lives in the Dominions. In Canada. Vancouver.’ She laughed. ‘Family scattered all over the Empire, you see. I keep pestering my husband to go out and visit – ’ She broke off. ‘Good God, what’s going on?’
They were turning into Tottenham Court Road. It was almost as quiet as the squares had been. The shops were closed, although behind a plate-glass window in one department store opposite an assistant could be seen putting up Christmas decorations. The few pedestrians, though, had all stopped in their tracks, watching the extraordinary procession coming down the road towards them. Perhaps a hundred frightened-looking people were trudging along, men and women and children, some in coats and hats and carrying suitcases, others wearing only jackets and cardigans. They were escorted by a dozen greatcoated Auxiliary Police in their black caps, pistols at their hips. At the front two regular policemen in blue helmets were mounted on big brown horses. For a second Sarah was reminded of the crocodile of children she had helped escort to the station for evacuation in 1939. Unlike
