Dominion

wondered if he was a Great War veteran, like her father. He smiled. ‘She was a character, wasn’t she?’

‘She was a very selfless woman.’

‘Well, I must carry on with my rounds. Good morning, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

Sarah watched as he went off down the store, nodding at the assistants as he passed the tills. His gentle touch had brought tears to her eyes. She went back out, into the cold.

She had lunch in a cafe, then went to the National Portrait Gallery and spent an hour with the pictures of kings and queens and statesmen. The gallery was almost empty, uniformed janitors dozing in dim corners. She came to the section where portraits of modern leaders were displayed. Although the gallery was dedicated to English portraits, a picture of Adolf Hitler was prominent. It had been painted about five years ago, before the Fuhrer became so ill. He wore a brown double-breasted jacket, standing with one hand on a globe of the world, the blue eyes under the grey forelock gazing into the distance, contemplating destiny. He had spent twenty years building a world of blood and fear and there seemed no end to it, ever.

She walked the streets for an age, thinking again how normal everything looked, as though nothing had happened the week before. She looked at her watch. Half past three. Her resolve was weakening; it would be so easy just to go home. She thought, I’ll go to Highgate now, wait in a cafe or something. She walked to Embankment tube, stopping at a newsagent to buy a London A–Z. She found Carol’s street and saw it was close to Highgate Station.

She stood on the platform, waiting for the train. Workmen were altering the Underground maps. There were black circles round several east London tube stations, Bethnal Green and Whitechapel and Stepney Green, and the men were painting on the words Closed to the General Public. She thought, those were Jewish areas, maybe the Blackshirts are looting their houses and don’t want people to see.

The train came and rattled slowly up to Highgate. When she came out into the street the gloomy winter’s day was already starting to fade towards dusk. She took a deep breath and then, A–Z in hand, went to find Lovelock Road.

It was a street of Victorian terraced houses, tall lime trees on the edge of the pavement, small front gardens behind dusty privet hedges. She walked up the even-numbered side of the street until she was opposite Number 17, then stopped and looked across. The privet hedge was neatly clipped, net curtains over the windows. She walked further up the street, then slowly back down again. There was little traffic. A milk-float puttered along behind her, crates rattling on the back.

She stopped again in front of the house. She felt as she had in Tottenham Court Road, that she needed to see the place, but it was just an ordinary suburban home. She realized again how cold it was. She was wearing her old brown coat, and hoped the Jewish girl, Ruth, was still wearing her new one, somewhere safe.

The front door of the house opened suddenly and a little old woman stood in the doorway, glaring at Sarah. She wore a grubby housecoat and had a wrinkled face and angry eyes. Her bushy white hair was unbrushed. She advanced down the path with quick, jerky steps, keeping those wild eyes fixed on Sarah’s. She thought with horror, it’s Carol’s mother. She knows who I am, she knows everything.

The old woman threw open the gate and walked across the road without looking to see if there were any cars. She planted herself a few feet from Sarah, staring up at her. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ she shouted furiously in a fluting upper-class voice. ‘I’m not as stupid as you think I am. You want to take me away, don’t you?’

‘No. I was—’

‘Anyone can get taken away these days, I know! Well, my daughter won’t let you. She steals things, I know that, but she won’t let you take me away! Do you understand?’

Sarah realized the woman was senile, half-mad. She looked into her blazing eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll go.’ She stepped away. The old woman remained where she was, arms folded across her thin chest. Sarah turned and walked a few paces before turning to look back. The woman was still standing in the road. Sarah called, ‘Be careful! A car might come!’

‘You mind your own fucking business, damned snooping cow.’ The sudden tirade of abuse sounded even more deranged in that cultivated voice. Sarah walked on a few more steps and when she turned back again the old woman was stumbling back across the road to her house. Sarah realized her legs were shaking.

She went back to the station. She was exhausted, freezing cold. It was starting to get properly dark, the streetlights coming on. Next to the station she saw a cafe, yellow light visible through the steamed-up window. She walked in, desperate to get warm. It was what they called a greasy spoon, tired-looking old men in caps sitting at tables covered with black-and-white oilcloth reading the Mail or Express, a couple of bored-looking boys in their teens with quiffed greasy hair. The air was thick with steam and cigarette smoke. A big old-fashioned radio played music from the Light Programme. She went to the counter where a fat man in an apron stood under a framed portrait of the Queen, and ordered a cup of tea and a bun. The man looked at her curiously, as this wasn’t the sort of place a woman of her class came to; but Sarah didn’t care, it was any port in a storm. She took her tea and found an empty table. The boys stared rudely at her. She looked away.

She sat for nearly two hours, drinking several cups of the strong, sweet tea. Nobody spoke to her, and the boys went after a time. She felt oddly relieved to be in a place where no-one knew her. She thought about the mad old woman and found herself actually pitying Carol, who must have to deal with her day in, day out. On the other side of the steamed-up window it was quite dark now, passers-by vague shadows in the gloom. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to seven; David would be on his way home now, he would return to an empty house. It was a strange thought. She could telephone and say she had gone into town, been held up somewhere. But the obstinacy that had come over her that morning still gripped her.

She left the cafe. It was even colder and there was a faint sulphurous tang in the air now, though no fog. She walked slowly back to Lovelock Road: Carol might be home by now. She stood in front of the house; the curtains were drawn but she could see several lights on. She shrank from the thought of going and ringing the doorbell, maybe finding herself face to face with the mad old woman again. But she made herself walk up the path and, with a deep breath, pulled the old-fashioned bell cord.

It was Carol who came to the door. Sarah recognized her at once. She wore a roll-neck sweater and baggy slacks. She looked red-eyed, as though she had been crying. She stared blankly at Sarah for a second, then a look of alarm crossed her face. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’

Sarah felt the blood pounding in her ears, but forced herself to speak firmly and calmly. ‘Yes. Miss Bennett, I’m very sorry, but I need to speak to you urgently.’

She thought there might be some sort of argument on the doorstep but Carol just quietly said, ‘Come in,’ and stood aside to let her enter. Sarah saw her look quickly up and down the road before she closed the door. Inside, the hallway was full of heavy old-fashioned furniture. A voice called out from behind a closed door, ‘Who is it, Carol? What do they want?’

‘It’s all right, Mother. Stay there, I’ll bring your dinner in a minute.’

‘What’s happening?’ The elderly voice quavered. ‘Something’s happened, Carol, I saw from your face when you came in!’

Carol shouted, ‘Mother! Just wait!’ Sarah was frightened the door would open and the old woman would come out raving again but she didn’t. Red-faced now, Carol opened another door and ushered Sarah into a cold front room.

‘Please, have a seat,’ Carol said quietly. ‘Can I offer you a sherry?’

Sarah sat in a big armchair with white crocheted antimacassars. She said, with cold formality, ‘No, thank you.’ On a big table in the window, next to an aspidistra, stood several framed photographs, the largest showing a young officer in naval uniform.

Carol sat on a settee opposite her. ‘What’s happened?’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Sarah stared at her.

‘To David – Mr Fitzgerald – please, what happened to him?’

Sarah frowned. ‘Nothing, so far as I know he’s home by now. What on earth do you mean?’ Her own voice was rising now. She began to feel uneasy. Something was going on here she didn’t understand.

Carol asked abruptly, ‘Then why have you come?’

‘Why did you telephone my house last night? I was by the phone, I heard what you said. Why did you want to meet my husband today?’

Carol looked down. Sarah could see the woman was fighting for control. She took a deep breath. ‘I need to