you’d comfort me. I always felt guilty about that, how it must’ve hurt Daddy.’
‘Those masks people wore just after the Great War were terrible things. It was easier for me, I was older. Any little girl would have been frightened.’ Irene led Sarah upstairs and saw her safely into bed again. She drifted off to sleep once more, to the reassuring sound of Irene washing up downstairs.
She slept another couple of hours. When she woke again she felt properly awake. It was nearly three. Irene was sitting in the lounge, drinking tea. She looked tired herself. There were streaks of grey in her sister’s hair, Sarah saw; she was starting to look middle-aged. Irene turned to Sarah with a weary smile.
‘How are you, dear?’
‘Oh – all right. I’ve a bit of a headache.’
Irene stood. ‘Now you’re awake, why don’t I go home and get an overnight bag, then come and spend the night here?’
‘What will Steve say?’
‘It’ll be all right, I’ll tell him you’re not well. I’ll just go to the loo, then get my coat.’
She went upstairs, touching Sarah’s arm as she passed her. Sarah sat looking out of the window. Across the road there was frost on the lawn of the little park with the old air-raid shelter at the end. She thought of David: looking dapper in his suit and bowler hat; dancing with her the night they met; collapsing in the snow after Charlie died. His cold withdrawal recently. Why had he come back for her? Was it just his sense of duty, a reluctance to throw her to the wolves, or something more? If I’d known what he was doing, she thought, would I have supported him? That’s the pity of it, he didn’t trust me enough to ask. A cold anger began to grow inside her.
A ring at the doorbell brought her back to reality with a jump. Fear clutched at her again as she walked to the front door. She called out, tremulously, ‘Who is it?’
‘Police.’
She opened the door a crack. A tall, middle-aged man with a bushy moustache stood on the doorstep, a sergeant’s stripes on the blue sleeve of his coat. He looked like the traditional image of a British policeman but he wore the flat cap of an Auxiliary and there was the bulge of a gun at his waist.
‘May I come in, madam?’ His tone was polite but very firm. Sarah stepped back and he entered, looking around the hall as he wiped his boots carefully on the doormat. He took off his cap, revealing a head as bald as his moustache was luxuriant.
‘Mrs Sarah Fitzgerald?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you in for questioning, madam.’
‘Senate House again?’ Her voice rose.
‘I’ve to take you to the local station for now. There’s a Special Branch officer there wants to talk to you.’
Sarah asked, ‘Is there – is there news of my husband?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about that, madam.’ The sound of the toilet flushing came from the floor above. The sergeant looked up the stairs. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked abruptly.
‘My sister.’
Then, looking past him into the kitchen, Sarah saw the back door slowly open. To her astonishment a middle-aged woman in a grey coat came in; she was short and stocky and had a round face, hard, sharp eyes behind steel spectacles and a tight mouth. She was carrying, of all things, a shopping bag. She put a finger to her lips, indicating Sarah should be quiet. Then, as Sarah watched frozen to the spot, she walked quietly but very quickly through the kitchen into the hall, up behind the policeman. She drew something from her pocket, raised it and hit the policeman sharply on the back of the head just as, becoming aware of something, he’d begun to turn towards her. He let out a cry and stumbled sideways into the banisters, blood seeping from the base of his skull. Sarah saw the woman had a small lead pipe in her hand, the sort of weapon the Jive Boys used.
‘I’m from the Resistance,’ the woman said, quickly and sharply. ‘Your husband is with us, we’ve come to get you.’ All the time she had one eye on the dazed policeman. He groaned and to Sarah’s horror began to stagger upright, blinking as he looked at the two women. ‘You fucking bitches,’ he said groggily, ‘You’ve had it now . . .’
He reached inside his coat. The woman was holding up her piece of pipe threateningly, ready to lunge forward, but the policeman was pulling a gun from his pocket. Sarah heard a click as he cocked it. Then he turned at the sound of a shriek from the top of the stairs. Irene stood there, her coat over one arm, staring at the man in horror.
Sarah reached out and picked up the heavy Regency vase from the telephone table. She lifted it above her head with both arms and brought it down with all her strength on the top of the policeman’s head. He made a little moan and fell down in a heap.
Irene put her hands to her face. ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ she moaned, over and over again. The stranger reached down and picked up the gun. Then she put a hand to the policeman’s neck. All her movements were swift and professional.
‘He’s alive,’ the woman said in a sharp voice. ‘You did well there.’ She stood up, then went into the lounge and, twitching the net curtain aside, looked out. Irene came down the stairs and stood at the bottom, staring. Sarah put her arm round her. The woman came back. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald,’ she said sharply, ‘we must go now.’ She looked at Irene. ‘Are you her sister?’
‘Yes. Are you from—’
‘The Resistance. Does anyone else know you’re here?’
‘No—’
‘Then you get out of here, now. Get into your car and drive away. We’ll go out the back way. Go on. We won’t have much time; they’ll soon start wondering what happened to him.’ She looked down at the unconscious policeman. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
‘What do you mean, deal with him?’ Irene asked, her voice horrified.
The woman looked meaningfully at the gun, then back at Irene.
‘No!’ Sarah shouted. ‘You’re not going to kill a man in my house.’
‘He saw me,’ Meg answered levelly. ‘And worse, he saw your sister. Do you want her identified, her family arrested and questioned?’
‘Oh God, the children . . .’ Irene sat on the bottom stair, on the point of collapse.
Meg looked fixedly at Sarah. ‘This is a war, and you’re in it now. You’re not on the sidelines any more.’
Sarah said, ‘How did you know to come in when you did?’
Meg snapped, ‘Because I’ve been watching this house for hours. Watching you two through the window. I was just about to come and get you this morning when –’ she inclined her head at Irene – ‘you drove up. I’ve been walking up and down the road, waiting for you to leave, pretending to be a woman shopping. I saw the police car come and thought it was now or never. All right?’ Her voice rose angrily.
‘Go now,’ Sarah said to Irene. ‘Now.’ She went to her and gave her sister an immense hug. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
Irene pulled away. She looked at the body by the stairs, the brightly coloured pieces of the broken vase. She said to Sarah, ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too. Now go, think of the children.’
For an unbearable moment Irene stood irresolute, then she put on her coat, walked slowly to the door and went out.
The woman turned to Sarah. ‘You’d better get your coat too, it’s cold. Go on.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Meg. Now hurry.’
Sarah fetched her coat and handbag. Outside, she heard Irene’s car engine start and the vehicle pull away. She wondered if she would ever see her again. Meg said, ‘Go and wait in the back garden. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Standing in the cold garden, looking at the brown flowerbeds she and David had worked on not much more than a week ago, Sarah heard a muffled bang from inside the house. She closed her eyes.
Meg came out. Her prim little mouth was set hard. She met Sarah’s look challengingly. ‘We have to climb over the fence, get to the lane that runs along the back. That’s how I got in. Be careful not to tear your clothes. We’re going on public transport, you don’t want to draw any attention to yourself.’
