they were managing to land their tanks and heavy equipment at ports like Folkestone, though their engineers had to clear the harbours of rubble. 'Things will get worse before they get better, George,' Harry Burdon had said gloomily.
George's head was spinning after all that had happened. The worst of it was worry for his daughter, his little girl in her WAAF uniform, caught up in the middle of a lethal conflict. He'd heard nothing of her since Friday, when they had parted in the middle of a row. But he had his duty to fulfil. He took deep breaths of the fresh air, trying to clear his thoughts.
When he got to the town hall the mayor was just arriving. He was carrying a suitcase. 'Morning, George. Sleep well?'
'As well as can be expected, I suppose, Harry. You?'
'Tossed and turned. That bonkers business at the Abbey.'
'Why the suitcase?'
'Well, I'm moving in. Orders of the SS. Me and my family. They don't use the word 'hostages but that's what it amounts to.'
'Hmm. We have to behave or you come to harm, is that the idea?'
'That's it. Of course since no bugger cared for me before the war I'm in a pickle, aren't I?' He smiled, but it was forced.
'It's bloody, Harry.'
A German truck drove up. A couple of soldiers got out, quite young, one bespectacled, talking rapidly. They hauled cardboard file boxes out of the back of the truck and walked up to the door, still talking. They entirely ignored Burdon and George, until they realised that the door was closed. Then they broke off and stared at the two of them.
George said, 'Let me-'
'No, no,' the mayor said, red-faced. He pulled the door back and held it while the two Germans passed through, without further acknowledgement.
George murmured, 'It's going to be a long day.'
Harry Burdon plucked George's sleeve. 'Listen, George,' he murmured, 'Never mind little pricks like those two. There's a bit more news.'
'Where from?'
'Never you mind. Churchill's talking to the Americans. There may be some kind of deal. That's what I've heard. We're not done yet, lad.'
Harry Burdon was a round, sleek sort of man, tall and a bit overweight, with a full head of greying hair and a penchant for old-fashioned waistcoats and fob watches. He looked like a munificent businessman from Victorian times: competent, solid, successful in his modest way, willing to give something back through his elected office. And yet now, behind Harry's unprepossessing figure, George glimpsed a shadow world of secret communications channels – covert phone lines, wireless sets tucked behind panelled walls. He was a man who knew who to trust. And he was a man who was preparing to accept the grim realities of his own new position, as hostage and servant of the new authority, and do what he believed was his duty.
'Thanks, Harry,' George said warmly.
'Just keep your pecker up. Now come on, let's get on with it.'
Inside the town hall the Germans were already hard at work. They were appropriating offices and setting up their own trestle tables in the hallway.
'Efficient, aren't they?' Burdon said.
'This year the Germans have had plenty of practice at the art of occupation.' It was Julia Fiveash, walking towards them. 'And they seem to have an instinct for paperwork. Of course these particular fellows know this is a cushy job compared to fighting on the front line, and they'll go at it the more enthusiastically for that…'
She was beautiful, you could never deny that, with that shock of blonde hair swept back from a fine face, and a smile like a film star. The crisp SS uniform on an athletic body only set off that beauty. She had an unhealthy appeal, George thought, a deadly allure. But, he reminded himself, she was English, an upper-crust over-privileged Englishwoman in that black Nazi uniform, here to lord it over her own people.
George said, 'If you'll excuse me, Mayor, Unterscharfuhrer, I should report to my station-'
'Oh, I think you should stay right where you are, Constable,' Julia said evenly. 'Standartenfuhrer Trojan specifically requested your presence. He liked you, I think.'
George growled, 'Why?'
'For the way you did your job – and for that very lower-class English surliness.' She laughed at him. 'He believes you are a man with whom he can do business. Although he thinks you deserve a decent rank – sergeant, perhaps. I'm sure we can fix that for you. Marvellous, isn't it, the way war opens up opportunities? Perhaps we should talk in your office, Mayor Burdon?'
Harry Burdon led the way. Julia and George followed.
Julia said, walking, 'I need to impress on you both the importance of the work you will be doing here. The military commanders are not interested in running Hastings. They prefer to manage the town through you, through the appropriate local authority. Do you see? There is a great deal to be done; I'm sure you are aware of that. The first priority is to restore the harbour, such as it is. And to requisition the fishing fleet.'
'For landing supplies,' Burdon guessed.
'That's it. The estimate is that nine thousand tons a day will have to be imported from the continent in the first days of the occupation. Much of it will come through the larger ports, but Hastings will play a part too.'
They had to be desperate if they were relying on a tiny port like Hastings. And as it happened George knew the fishermen along the Stade had already sabotaged the winches that hauled their boats up the sharply sloping beach.
'After that we must consider the needs of the civilian population. The restoration of food supplies for one thing, accompanied by an appropriate system of rationing. Water, power, gas. We're aware that many citizens who fled to the countryside will surely soon return. We must prepare for them. And so on.
'The first step in all this is to gather information. That is the German way: everything orderly, everything thoroughly legal. Now. You hold census records here? And of course there is the identity card system. We will need a record of every inhabitant currently in situ in the town.'
George glared at her. 'What for? Work gangs? Looking for Jews, are you?'
Harry snapped, 'George.'
Julia stopped and turned to George. 'Josef was right. You really are a feisty one, aren't you, Constable?'
And she stepped closer to him, breaking an intangible boundary of separation. The polished buttons on her uniform brushed his chest, and he could smell her fresh breath, a smell like apples about her hair. He was almost trembling. He was twenty years older; he could have been her father; she was everything he despised, about the English as well as the Germans. But, by Christ, she caused a heat in his loins he hadn't felt for a long time.
She knew exactly what she was doing to him. She laughed in his face. 'I think it's going to be a pleasure working with you, Constable – George, is it? – I really do.' She stepped back, mercifully. 'But for now your duty is to fetch me a coffee.'
There was a roar, and the building shook. George turned. An immense shadow passed the half-open door. Somewhere a German cheered. And then another shadow passed, another engine's roar, and another.
'It is the second wave,' Julia said. 'Landing all along the coast. Panzers, George! Panzers, on English soil. Now we will see some fun. Come, we have work to do. The first priority is to assemble work parties who will transport rubble from the town to fill craters in the airfield runways…' She stalked away.
'Never mind,'Harry murmured. 'Remember Churchill and the blooming Yanks. Let's go and fill in her forms, eh?'
XXVIII
A few miles north of Battle the bus was pulled over. They had just passed a fork in the road; Mary had no real idea where they were.
