V2

by Robert Harris

  Barbara said, ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. Do you know, I think we might just do that!’

  ‘For the rest of you, I’m afraid, it’s back to waiting.’

  There was a good-humoured groan.

  Out on the street, Barbara threw her arms round Kay and hugged her. ‘I can’t believe we did that!’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it marvellous.’ Kay patted Barbara’s back. Over her shoulder she could see a couple of Belgians looking at them. ‘We probably ought not to make too much fuss in public.’

  ‘Oh, right. Good point.’

  They crossed the road and went into the headquarters. Upstairs in the bar, Kay studied the small shelf of bottles. ‘What do you think we ought to have? A beer?’

  ‘Beer? We can do better than that! Two gin and tonics,’ Barbara said to the barman. ‘Doubles. On Wing Commander Knowsley’s tab.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And can we get some food? We’ve just come off duty.’

  ‘I’ll see what the cook’s got.’

  They carried their drinks over to a table by the window. Barbara lit a cigarette. ‘I could almost get to like this place. Two direct hits! We’re winning the war between us, darling.’

  They clinked glasses. The gin and tonic was warm and oily, too strong for Kay’s taste, especially in the middle of the day, but she drank it anyway. Two direct hits? In two raids? She wasn’t sure she believed it. In her experience the RAF always exaggerated their successes. But she didn’t want to spoil the mood. A kind of warm loosening seemed to spread through her head. She nodded at the cigarettes. ‘Do you think I could have one of those? I’ll pay you back.’

  Barbara lit it for her, and they sat back contentedly. The room was empty. Everyone else must be on duty, Kay thought. She had a sense of playing truant. Barbara said, ‘What did you do before the war?’

  ‘Nothing. I was at university. You?’

  ‘Oh, boring. I worked in a gallery.’

  Kay examined her through the cigarette smoke. Yes, that fitted. She could imagine her in one of those expensive Mayfair galleries, decorously drawing in the wealthy clients; it was harder to picture her in Stanmore. ‘Was there any maths involved in that?’

  ‘In the gallery?’ Barbara laughed. ‘Are you pulling my leg? No! After I was called up, I just found I could do it – whoever would have thought it? – so they sent me on a course to train as a filter officer. Where were you?’

  ‘Medmenham. Photo reconnaissance.’

  ‘I was on Chain Home Radar for a year, in some freezing bunker in Suffolk, plotting altitude and angles of approach. It’s annoying, don’t you think, the way the Filter Room makes us just look like croupiers in a casino, moving tokens around with a rake?’

  The soldier from behind the bar arrived, carrying two steaming plates of steak and kidney pudding, the suet crust split at the side and leaking gravy over a few pale and watery tinned carrots and a couple of potatoes. He set them down with unnecessary force. Barbara pulled a face at his retreating back. ‘I don’t think he likes waiting on women very much.’

  They stubbed out their cigarettes and started to eat, Barbara eagerly, Kay more gingerly, breaking up the pudding with her fork and trying to pick out the few pieces of steak from the chunks of kidney. She felt homesick all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the drink. Finally she pushed her plate away. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What did you mean yesterday when you said I had “friends in high places”?’

  Barbara carried on chewing for a while, her head over her plate, as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘Tell me. I don’t mind.’

  ‘God, this is disgusting!’ She cut a carrot in half and ate it. Finally she looked up. ‘All right, since you ask. There’s a rumour that the only reason you’re here is because you’re having a fling with some senior bloke in the Air Ministry.’ She made a shrugging gesture with her knife and fork. ‘What can I say, darling? People are mean. Women are mean, actually – speaking as one myself. I’ll make sure they all know it isn’t true.’

  Kay looked out of the window. A tram went past. Across the street, the sentry outside the bank was talking to a couple of civilians leaning on their bicycles. The balance in her mind between discretion and honesty, so long weighted on one side, suddenly tilted the other way, and she blurted out, ‘I’m afraid it is true. Or it was.’

  ‘Was true? So it’s over?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s definitely over.’

  ‘Well go on. You might as well finish now you’ve started.’

  She hesitated, and then, to her surprise, found herself telling the whole story for the first time, and to a woman she barely knew – Mike’s first visit to Medmenham (although she was careful not to mention his name), and then his second visit with the Churchills, and their drink in the pub, and their assignations in the countryside, and the disastrous decision to spend the weekend in his flat, and the V2…

  ‘No!’ interrupted Barbara, her blue eyes wide. ‘You mean you were actually hit by one of the beastly things?’

  …and the way he wouldn’t let her go with him to the hospital, and the nightmare meeting with his wife in the lobby of the Air Ministry…‘So I decided the best thing was actually just to get out of the country and do something, and this seemed the perfect chance, and I called in a favour.’

  ‘And he was just as keen to get you out of the way, I bet.’

  ‘He said he wasn’t, but I could tell he was.’

  ‘Well then, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, darling, he sounds a complete and utter shit.’ Kay laughed at the ferocity with which she pronounced the word. Barbara looked at her. ‘I tell you what, why don’t we get out of this dump and see if we can find a proper drink?’

  * * *

  —

  It was only just after three, but already the day was fading, the temperature dropping, the lights in the buildings opposite standing out brightly in the dull winter afternoon. Kay stood on the step outside the headquarters and wrapped herself more tightly in her greatcoat. She didn’t much want to go looking for a bar. She would have preferred to go over to the bank to see if there had been any more launches. But Barbara had already set off up the street. She turned, walking backwards, and beckoned to her. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘But what if something happens? What if they need us?’

  ‘Don’t be a bore, Kay. They won’t. Come on.’

  Kay hurried to catch up. Barbara threaded her arm through hers and they wandered together towards the Brusselpoort, then turned left towards the river. The wide cobbled street was lined with shops, half of them shuttered, the rest offering mostly empty windows. Outside a butcher’s, a group of quite well-to-do-looking citizens, including an elderly lady in a fur coat, were picking through the dustbins.

  Further on was a café – a seating area on the pavement, the chairs all folded, the parasols down – obviously closed for the winter. Even so, Barbara hammered on the door and peered through the glass into the darkened interior as if they might open up specially for her.

  ‘Bugger it,’ she muttered. ‘This whole place is shut.’

  ‘Why don’t we just call it a day and go back to the mess?’

  ‘Let’s give it another ten minutes.’

  They started across the bridge into the old town. A barge passed beneath them, rusted and empty. The big market square was surrounded by ancient tall, thin buildings, all crooked and squashed together, like an illustration from a Grimms’ fairy tale, crowned by a profusion of turrets, stone urns, weathervanes and golden balls. The tower of a cathedral loomed behind them. In the centre of this cobbled expanse, a couple of British army lorries were parked. Squaddies stood around smoking, watched by a group of children. One of the men whistled as the two women went by, and Barbara t
urned and blew him a kiss. They pressed on up a side street. Kay glanced back at the square, which seemed to her a more promising spot for a bar than wherever they might be heading. She stopped.

  Barbara said, ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I just think this is a waste of time.’

  To their right was a pair of huge closed wooden doors with Seminarium Archiepiscopale written in faded gold paint above the lintel. To their left, a narrow alley. Barbara said, ‘Let’s try this way. I have a good feeling.’

  Kay peered along it doubtfully. ‘Really? I don’t think we’ll find anything up there.’

  ‘Just give it one last go, all right?’

  The street was narrow, twisting, medieval, enclosed like a tunnel on either side by dilapidated buildings of red brick and crumbling stone. At the end of it, entirely unexpected, was the cathedral. Kay thought she heard footsteps behind them and glanced over her shoulder. Barbara started to say something, but Kay held up her hand to quiet her. She halted and tilted her head, listening, but as the silence lengthened, she decided she must have imagined it.

  Barbara was grinning. ‘Don’t tell me you think we’re being followed, darling? How thrilling!’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Kay felt slightly foolish. ‘We were told to be careful, remember? The Germans have only just left, and we’re pretty conspicuous.’

  Barbara looked at her in amusement for a few more seconds, then shook her head and moved on.

  Kay said, ‘Where are you going?’ She hurried to catch her up.

  ‘We might as well look inside now we’re here.’

  The first door they tried was locked, but a little further on, the handle of the second turned and it opened with a clatter that was amplified by the deserted space inside. They stood on the threshold of the giant nave – pillared, vaulted, hushed, chilly with the smell of incense – a universe unto itself. For a moment even Barbara seemed awed. ‘Well, we won’t find a drink in here,’ she said.

  Kay laughed and took a few steps up the aisle towards the altar. Her footsteps echoed on the polished stone floor. Out of habit, she genuflected and made the sign of the cross. She glanced around at the statues of the saints. Now she came to think of it, she vaguely remembered a St Rumbold of Mechelen – an Irishman, supposedly, which must have been why the sisters made such a fuss of him. How odd that she should find him here! Offertory candles flickered beneath an icon on a table close to the door. On impulse she went over and lit one; she might even have got down on her knees and said a prayer if she hadn’t been conscious of Barbara watching her sceptically, her arms folded.

  ‘You’re praying for him, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I am not!’ But she realised to her dismay that she was about to. ‘You’re right. That’s enough piety.’

  They stepped back out into the gathering dusk. An old-fashioned lamp had come on, attached to the building on the corner of the alley. And then: an odd thing. As they turned into the narrow passage, they heard the sound of running feet, and a woman darted round the corner clutching a loaf of bread. She ran between them, knocking them out of her way, and as she passed, Kay caught a glimpse of her face, grimacing with terror. A second later came the pounding of more footsteps, and suddenly the alley was a mass of running people – twenty or more, men mostly, with a few women and some children tagging along at the rear. The WAAFs had to press themselves into a doorway to avoid being trampled. The mob disappeared around the bend; as abruptly as it had filled, the passage was empty.

  Kay looked at Barbara. ‘What was all that?’

  ‘God knows. It looked like they were trying to kill her.’

  ‘Maybe she stole the bread.’

  They stared in the direction the crowd had run.

  Kay said, ‘Had we better go and see?’

  Now it was Barbara’s turn to be uncertain. ‘It’s not really any of our business, is it?’

  ‘No, but…’ Kay hesitated. ‘We should at least check she’s not being murdered, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  They retraced their steps back down the alley, past the cathedral doors, around its massive walls and into an open space, cobbled at the edges, with grass and trees in the middle. Under the trees, a crowd had gathered in a circle. They seemed to be watching something. More people were joining all the time, hurrying from the side streets. Instinct warned Kay to keep back; curiosity propelled her forward. Barbara caught her sleeve – ‘Don’t get involved’ – but they went on together anyway, over the grass, shouldering their way through the wall of turned backs, until they reached the centre of the crowd.

  The woman was on her knees. Her coat had been dragged halfway down her back, pinioning her arms. Not that she was offering any resistance. Her hands hung limply by her sides, her eyes were closed, her expression resigned. Behind her, a man was wielding a large pair of scissors, grabbing her hair in handfuls and cutting it off. He worked fast, professionally, roughly, as if he were shearing a sheep. The loaf lay in the mud beside her. Each time he seized her hair, the woman’s head jerked backwards. The crowd was silent.

  Kay said loudly, in English, ‘Can we stop this now?’ She felt weirdly detached from it all. Listen to yourself, she thought. You sound like a nanny. She stepped forward with her hand outstretched. ‘Arrêtez!’

  For the first time, the crowd began to sound angry.

  ‘Putain anglais femme!’

  ‘Occupe-toi de tes oignons!’

  One man gripped her arm. Another blocked her path. The half-shorn woman opened her eyes and looked at her, imploring her to go away. Kay thought: she doesn’t want your help; you’re only making it worse. She could hear Barbara shouting her name. Even so, she struggled to get closer, until another hand, much stronger, grabbed her from behind and pulled her roughly backwards. She turned, outraged, and saw that it was Arnaud.

  ‘They are right,’ he said quietly, ‘It is none of your business.’

  She tried to shake him off. He tightened his grip and steered her away. Barbara took her other arm. Finally she surrendered, and allowed herself to be marched off the grass. The wall of backs closed behind them. Arnaud didn’t let her go until they were clear of the open area and in a side street. She leaned against the wall and covered her face with her hands.

  Barbara was rubbing the top of Kay’s arm. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘Who was that woman?’ She lowered her hands and looked at Arnaud. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What had she done?’

  ‘They thought she was a collaborator.’

  ‘They thought?’

  ‘They’re not usually wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘Someone said she had had a child by a German soldier.’

  ‘God!’

  ‘You mustn’t be too hard on them. They suffered a lot.’

  ‘Were you part of it?’

  ‘No!’ He seemed angered by the suggestion.

  ‘Then what were you doing there?’ When he didn’t reply, she said, ‘Were you following us?’

  He paused for a moment or two. ‘Yes, as it happens,’ he answered calmly. ‘I saw you crossing the square. I thought to myself: those two could get into trouble. And I was right.’ He looked back at the crowd. It was starting to break up. People were walking in their direction. The cathedral clock chimed the half-hour. ‘We should get away from here. Where would you like to go? Back to your headquarters?’

  Barbara said, ‘Is there a place where we could get a drink?’

  * * *

  —

  He led them on a circuitous route through the back streets to the river. It was dark by the time they reached it. A flight of worn stone steps led down from the bridge to a quay. Barges were moored up close to one another, mist rising off the water. He held out his hand to help them.

  They would never have discovered it
in a year of searching. From the outside it looked like a derelict warehouse, with a block and tackle hanging above a pair of doors with a smaller entrance cut into one of them. Inside, the smell of beer and tobacco was so strong it was like walking into a wall. A dim light cast by naked electric bulbs showed sawdust on a bare brick floor, a long counter with wooden kegs behind it, chairs and tables that did not match, a game of shuffleboard in progress in one corner, and an entirely male clientele. They turned to stare at the two Englishwomen in their uniforms.

  Arnaud found a table and pulled out two chairs. Kay said, ‘This is Barbara Colville, by the way. Barbara, this is Arnaud Vermeulen. I’m billeted on his family.’

  He kissed her hand. ‘Enchanté.’

  He went over to the bar, said something to the barman and then started talking to a man who was drinking on his own, perched on a stool. Barbara said, ‘He seems charming. Rather attractive, from the knees up. Like Byron with his club foot. “Mad, bad and dangerous to know.” ’ She pulled out a powder compact and checked herself in the little mirror, then quickly applied some lipstick.

  Kay watched her uneasily. ‘We can’t stay long, you know. There is a curfew.’

  ‘All right, don’t fuss. You’re the one who almost got us involved in a fight.’ She offered Kay the lipstick.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Most of the men had gone back to their drinks and their games of cards, but a few were still staring at them. Kay doubted if any other British servicewomen had ever been seen in Mechelen. It was not official policy to send women abroad. She felt exposed, embarrassed. It had been naive of her to try to intervene earlier. Stupid. What had she been thinking?

  Arnaud came back. ‘I’ve ordered us beer, if that’s all right.’ He sat across the table from them.

  ‘Heavenly.’ Barbara offered him a cigarette. He took one and she lit it for him.

  He said to Kay, ‘You shouldn’t judge us harshly. If England had been occupied for four years, the same would have happened in your country.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m sure I would have lost all my hair.’