them, though, this procession was silent. Apart from the clop of the horses’ hooves and the tramp of feet the only sound was a shrill, persistent squeak from the wheels of a pram a young woman was pushing along. As they drew close Sarah saw flashes of yellow in people’s lapels.
‘They’re Jews,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘Something’s happening to the Jews.’
Most of the passers-by walked quickly on or disappeared into side-streets. Others, though, stood watching. The two mounted policemen at the head of the group rode past. One was an older man with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve; the other was young, with a wispy pencil moustache. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his horse steady. One of the passers-by, a young woman holding the hand of a little girl, nodded with satisfaction and spat into the gutter. Someone else called out, ‘Shame!’ One of the Auxiliary Police, a tall, thin man with a Mosley moustache, smiled at the watchers, then looked back to the marching prisoners – for that was what they must be – and said, with mocking cheerfulness, ‘Come on, pick those feet up. Let’s have a song, give us “A Long Way to Tipperary”.’
Mrs Templeman clutched her handbag to her chest with her gloved hands. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They can’t do this. Not here, not in England.’
‘They’re doing it,’ Sarah answered bleakly.
‘Where are they taking them?’ Mrs Templeman’s face was anguished now, white beneath her powder, all her brisk confidence gone. A big Vauxhall passed by slowly on the other side of the road, a middle-aged woman looking out from the passenger side in astonishment. An Auxie waved it briskly on. Sarah looked at the Jews shuffling past. An old man in a bowler hat marched stiffly by, like the old soldier he had probably once been, marching as though to the front. Behind him a middle-aged woman, still wearing a flowered pinny and headscarf, held a skinny little boy in shorts and school pullover tightly to her. A young couple in fashionable duffel coats and bright university scarves held hands; the boy, tall and squarely built, had a defiant expression; the girl, slight with long dark hair, looked terrified. The squeaking pram passed; Sarah glimpsed a baby bundled up inside.
Then there was a shout, a yell, from the other side of the road. Everyone, Jews and policemen and the people on the pavement, turned to look. The door of a shabby building between two department stores had opened and a group of a dozen men in Sunday-best clothes had come out. They were carrying, of all things, musical instrument cases of various sizes. Sarah saw a notice board on the wall,
The old man’s face was red with fury, fierce little eyes under white brows fixed on the mounted sergeant. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted in anger. ‘What’s happening to these people?’
The older policeman’s back was to Sarah but his voice carried back, deep and firm. ‘Move along, sir. All the London Jews are being moved out of the city.’
The Auxie nearest Sarah, a middle-aged man with the white flash of a Blackshirt badge on his coat, laughed scoffingly. ‘Bloody academics.’ He turned to the Jews, putting a hand to the pistol at his belt and said threateningly, ‘You lot stay put. This show won’t last long.’
Sarah felt shocked, frozen to the spot. Beside her Mrs Templeman was breathing hard, a strange expression on her face, her fingers digging into Sarah’s arm. The old musician didn’t move. He gestured wildly at the group of Jews. ‘You can’t do this! These are British citizens!’ The young policeman’s horse, frightened, tried to step back. The sergeant turned, snapping, ‘Keep that bloody animal steady.’
Someone shouted from the pavement, ‘They’re Yids, you old nosy parker!’ One of the men outside the music department turned up his coat collar and began walking quickly away. Another followed, then another.
The mounted policeman’s voice was loud and clear, still steady. ‘We’re following official orders. You’re causing a breach of the peace, sir. Move on or you’ll be taken into custody.’
Then, letting go Sarah’s arm, Mrs Templeman stepped out into the road. She walked up to the old musician and stood beside him. Sarah could see she was trembling, grey curls shaking beneath the fur hat.
‘Fuck this,’ the policeman nearest Sarah said, fingering his holster. The Jews were shifting uneasily, looking frightened.
‘Right, that’s it,’ the sergeant said. ‘You two are both under arrest.’ The musician looked appealingly across to those of his people who remained standing on the pavement. They looked at each other. Three more men walked away. One young man carrying a violin case stood where he was with an agonized expression on his face, but the four remaining others stepped hesitantly into the road, walked across and stood beside the old man and Mrs Templeman. The sergeant called over his shoulder, waving an arm. ‘Get these people out of the road!’
‘You turn this world into hell!’ the old musician shouted. He was beside himself, spittle at the corner of his mouth. Along the line, some of the Auxies began to move forward, reaching for the batons at their belts. Sarah’s heart began to pound, thumping in her chest. Mrs Templeman looked at the approaching Auxies and then suddenly sat down on the cold tarmac, the skirts of her coat billowing out, fat stockinged thighs exposed. Her white face was determined now. The old man stared at her for a moment, then sat down as well, stiffly putting a hand on her shoulder as he got down. The four other men, all younger, hesitated for a moment then sat down too. On the pavement, the one who hadn’t been able to make up his mind turned and walked away.
Four of the Auxies ran forward, past the horses. The one ridden by the young policeman bucked and reared. The rider cried out, trying to bring the animal under control. It jolted forward and Sarah watched in horror as a big flailing hoof struck Mrs Templeman on the forehead. She gave a little moan and fell backwards, her hat and the fox- fur stole falling off onto the road. She lay quite still, her arms flung out backwards, blood spilling from a huge gash on her forehead and dripping, shockingly red, onto the grey tarmac. Her eyes were as still and glassy as Charlie’s had been that terrible day, and Sarah realized with horror that she was dead. The demonstrators and the Auxies both looked at the bucking horse; somehow amid the mayhem, the young policeman managed to bring it under control.
On the kerb Sarah froze. All the instincts of self-preservation made her want to do what the young man with the violin case had done, turn and walk away. An image of David flashed into her mind, of home and safety. Then something firm and cold rose up in her and she gripped her handbag tightly and strode into the road. As soon as she stepped off the pavement she thought, quite coolly, there, that’s it, everything’s over. Two Auxies had grabbed the white-haired musician under the arms and were hauling him to the pavement. He was shouting and struggling furiously. Sarah went over to where Mrs Templeman lay sprawled on the street in that awful indignity, and sat down beside her body. She looked over at the pavement, hoping desperately that others would follow her example. A thin young man in a muffler stepped out and sat down with them, sweating with fear. Four more Auxies ran forward. Sarah stared at them, her heart pounding so fast it made her gasp.
The Jews stood huddled together, terrified, though some of the younger ones were looking around them now, perhaps wondering if they could run. The remaining Auxies pulled out their pistols, covering the prisoners. The old musician had been pushed roughly down onto the pavement but was still struggling, shouting and swearing. The other Auxies began hauling the demonstrators to their feet. Sarah felt hard, strong hands grip her under the arms and pull her up. One of the musicians tried to resist and was hit over the head with a truncheon, slumping forward unconscious. As Sarah was lifted up she realized she might never see David again and thought, how I love him.
Then she heard more shouts. Glancing round, she saw half a dozen Jive Boys rushing down the street towards them, quiffs bouncing absurdly, the tails of their long coats flapping behind. They looked the worse for wear, unshaven. One had a black eye, another carried a near-empty whisky bottle. They were probably on their way home from a long night out, drawn by the noise. One shouted, ‘It’s a ruck! Pig down! Get the fuckers!’ The whisky bottle sailed up and out, just missing the sergeant, as the Jivers pitched into the Auxies who were moving the demonstrators. The one who was lifting Sarah said, ‘Shit!’ as one of the boys went for him. Sarah saw the flash of a blade in the Jiver’s hand. The Auxie let her go and she fell sideways into the road. The sergeant pulled out his pistol and fired into the air. It was too much for the nervous horse. It reared right up on its hind legs, throwing the young policeman into the road. He lay there, screaming and clutching his leg, as the horse turned and ran off down the empty road, hooves clattering. The sergeant’s horse was uneasy now too, trying to turn in a circle. It was pandemonium. Sarah looked wildly round, and saw a glimpse of Mrs Templeman’s dead face, her bloodied head.
