Fifty
Hari found herself with a house full of people: Jessie took charge of the kitchen and of Hari’s father—who liked the attention—and tried her best with George Dixon, who sat around like a lost soul. Hari’s small house seemed to bulge at the seams and yet soon, the disparate group of people became like a family.
Hari went into the small kitchen that was filled with the warmth of the fire and steamy with pots of vegetables boiling on the gas stove. ‘Jessie, how are you managing with all this work?’
‘It’s the breath of life to me.’ Jessie was serious. ‘I was dying a slow death in that farmhouse with no one to look after.’
She did look better, more alive, there was a light back in her pale blue eyes and her mouth turned up in a smile. ‘I feel in my gut that Michael is safe and you know Meryl is alive. She’s a fine, honest girl, whatever she’s doing it will be for the good of her country, mark my words.’
‘I know.’ Hari touched Jessie’s arm. ‘But why did they marry, Jessie? Michael said he loved me, he…’ Embarrassed, she stopped speaking.
‘They are meant for each other,’ Jessie said. ‘From the moment I saw them together I knew that much about them. They’re like two sides of the same coin. As for love—’ she shrugged—‘I’m afraid you’ll learn that a man says he’s in love, perhaps even
It was a long speech for Jessie to make and Hari knew she meant well but Michael was not the type to be ruled by the urges of his body. He was an honourable man. And yet he’d married her sister, hadn’t he?
Her mind kept running round the problem, eating away at it, trying to make sense of it. He’d meant it when he said he loved her, she was sure of it. Wasn’t she? And yet she woke each morning to a sense of foreboding, as if some tragedy had occurred, and then she realized it had. Michael was lost to her forever, there was no hope for her, he was married to Meryl and even if they all survived this awful war, what future was there for them?
Spring came and turned into summer and Hari had a few small messages from ‘Black Opal’. Nothing really of note but each was like a knife wound, fear tangled her entrails each time a message came because she might read that Michael was dead. Hari was never able to respond and the signal was soon lost, possibly swept away by the Bletchley Park’s impressive might. Worse, she could imagine Meryl packing everything quickly away in danger of being shot. Every time she sent a message she was risking discovery by the Germans.
After the death of the colonel Hari was put in charge of the small radio section at the munitions factory. She was sometimes lonely without the gruff presence of the old man and heavy with the responsibility that had settled upon her shoulders, but all she could do was her best, or so she told herself.
‘I’m in late tonight,’ she said out loud. She interrupted her father, who was reading something from the paper to Jessie who, face alight, was listening to him intently.
He looked up and blew Hari a kiss. ‘Try and get your head down if only for an hour or two, you’re looking tired these days, darling girl.’ He paused. ‘I’ll be off your hands Monday, I have to get back to London. I have work to do after all.’
Jessie’s face stiffened, but she said nothing. Hari said it for her.
‘Oh Dad, we’re all going to miss you very much.’ Jessie looked silently down at her hands.
That night, Hari drove to Bridgend through the darkened roads and looked up at the sky wondering what on earth was going on in the moonlight beauty of the night. Was Michael coming over to bomb Wales and England tonight? Could he possibly be a traitor to his country as well as to her? The questions raced mercilessly through her mind.
She sat in her office with hardly anything to do. The radio tapped intermittently but nothing important came through. It was about twelve midnight when she heard the sound of German planes overhead. She went outside and looked up at the sky but she could see nothing through the low cloud that always hung in the dip of Bridgend.
She saw one of the girls from the factory come out on to the roof; Hari knew it was the usual practice for one of the girls to look out for planes overhead and caution the workers to stop all activities though no one took any notice anyway.
Hari put her hand over her brows and tried to see through the darkness but it was just the hum of engines she heard. She caught a flash of light at the corner of her eye and saw that the girl on the roof was holding a torch that sent a pool of light over herself and the roof. Hari hurried upstairs to the roof.
‘Doreen, put that light out, you fool!’ It was the girl who’d tried to get Kate to abort her baby. ‘Doreen, stop shining that light! Put it out!’
A bomber swooped low over the buildings and, with a cry, Doreen dropped the torch, teetered on the edge of the roof and slowly, like a rag doll fell into the darkness. At the sound of the screams, shadowy figures rushed from the buildings. The planes roared away as if intent on other business and Hari surmised the airmen had not seen anything of the small light from Doreen’s torch.
She hurried back down the stairs; outside a crowd had gathered round the crumpled girl.
‘Hari—’ blood trickled from her mouth—‘I’m dying. Come closer to me.’
Hari was on her knees in an instant, regardless of the hard earth scratching her legs.
‘In my house, top drawer, bedroom cabinet, money.’ Doreen coughed on her own blood. ‘My ill-gotten gains.’ She drew a ragged breath and a gush of blood poured down her chin.
‘Use it, Hari, to bury me, decent, mind, and may God forgive me for my sins.’ Doreen fell back against the ground, her eyes staring unseeing up at the skies.
‘Bloody war!’ one of the girls cried, ‘and bloody, bloody Germans.’ Violet waved her fists at the cloudy sky but there was no sound except for the crying of Doreen’s friends.
Fifty-One
It was sunny when I woke, the spring breeze wafting gently into the bedroom. I sighed and snuggled down under the blankets again. It was the weekend—no work—and I had two whole days free to myself. I indulged in sweet memories of Michael holding me close, loving me, possessing me, and the moment’s dreaming was delicious.
After breakfast I went out to the barn and drove out the old jeep I’d found there with a screech of the brakes. The chickens scattered like so many fussy hens, which of course they were.
With the help of one of Herr Euler’s men I’d worked on the jeep and made it presentable. The engine was good and once the mud and mulch were wiped away and all the relevant parts oiled and cosseted the thing was quite presentable.
Herr Euler approved and even presented me with some petrol. He was glad I had something to do in my spare time.
I took my jeep for a run into the country. I had the radio tucked away in a battered old picnic basket hidden under plates and cloths but if ever I was stopped, it would easily be discovered and then I’d be for it.
But at least now I was free to drive miles from the farmhouse and I didn’t feel so vulnerable when I needed to make contact with home. I stopped near a small duck pond and left the jeep. The grass was lush and warm and I sat down and ate my sandwiches of fresh bread and jam. I could have murdered a cup of tea but I had to make do with a bottle of home-made dandelion and burdock pop.
I lay back and closed my eyes and felt the warm May sun on my face. I must have dozed because someone was nudging me and I sat up anxiously. The figure was outlined against the sun; all I could see was a hat and a stick and the bent shoulders of an old man.
‘What is it?’ I demanded in German. He sat down beside me with difficulty and held out his hand towards the bottle of pop.
‘We have to talk.’ He spoke in French and I had a job understanding him. Also I was deeply suspicious and afraid.
‘Speak German?’ I said in my stuttering French. He shook his head.
‘A little only.’
