Exposure

by Helen Dunmore

  In the hall, the telephone rings.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ says Lily.

  ‘No, don’t get up. It’s probably for me.’

  He goes out, shutting the door behind him. She hears the murmur of his voice but can’t make out any words.

  ‘Put some more coal on the fire, Paul,’ she says, more sharply than she intends, so that he looks at her in surprise.

  The fresh coal makes the fire smoke. It must have got wet in the bunker. The smell catches at the back of Lily’s throat, and she gets up to clear away the plates and cups. The empty crumpet plate swims with grease.

  ‘Five minutes until bedtime, Bridget.’

  The murmur from the hall stops. Simon will come back in a minute. She looks away into the guttering fire as the door opens. She turns quickly, and then, as if scorched, her eyes drop. There is something in his face that is all too familiar. It’s like the look on her mother’s face when she turned the three locks with her key. Fear.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Giles Holloway.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Simon slowly. Her runs his hand through his hair until it sticks up. ‘I don’t know why he rang.’

  ‘I thought he was in hospital.’

  ‘He is. They’re hoping to move him to a convalescence place quite soon. He can’t manage in the flat yet.’

  ‘What does he want you to do?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Isn’t that why he rang last time? He wanted you to do something for him? So now what does he want?’

  They are face to face now, locked, staring. Around her she feels the children’s silence. They sit as still as hares on the carpet. They know. Just as she always knew. When her parents talked together, all those frightening words. She listened while she pretended to read or to play. They talked about the documents that were needed, the embassies that must be visited, the forms that must be filled in. Endless forms. She listened to their desperate urgency, cloaked in the everyday.

  ‘You might be going on your travels, Lili! Just you and Mama. To England, right across the sea. How would you like that?’

  ‘You know, Lili, like in Peter Pan!’

  Peter Pan! Did they think that they were going to fly to England? She watched their mouths, their eyes. They’d always told her not to be afraid. Of the dark, of the Kirchners’ dog that raved at the end of its chain. The dog would never be able to get at her. ‘See, Lili, how strong the chain is!’

  Now her parents were afraid, and she soaked in their fear through the pores of her skin. People think children know nothing, that they forget, that they don’t feel things. But she knew everything. Her mother said, when they had been in England less than a year: ‘Lily barely remembers Berlin. She can’t speak a word of German these days.’

  She stands up. She must put Bridget to bed immediately. ‘Simon,’ she says, with all her tenderness, putting her hands up to touch him, and she sees his face change, soften, dissolve, come back to her.

  ‘Lily,’ he answers, recognising her and opening himself to her again. He is about to speak, to tell her. Everything is going to be all right again.

  The doorbell rings. A long ring, a short pause. It rings again. They are pressing on the bell. They don’t intend to go away.

  ‘I’ll get it, Mum,’ says Paul.

  ‘No! No.’ She collects herself. ‘Paul, Sally, I want you to go upstairs straight away, with Bridget. Sally, get Bridget ready for bed. Make sure she cleans her teeth properly. She doesn’t need to have a bath. Bridget, you must be a very good girl tonight and do exactly what Sally says. Quickly now! And shut the bedroom doors.’

  Her children run upstairs without a word. She hears one door slam, and then another. Paul has gone into his own bedroom. Bridget is with Sally. It has all taken perhaps thirty seconds. The bell peals on and now they are rapping on the wood of the door.

  ‘I’d better go and see who it is,’ she says, but already she knows. Her heart thuds up in her throat, quick and hot. The briefcase is buried. No one will be able to find it.

  All the lines and bones of his face stand out. He lifts his right hand as if to touch her, but it drops to his side.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lil,’ he says.

  The hours stretch. The children are at Erica’s. Lily telephoned her, and she came immediately, swathed against the rain, her eyes big and fearful in her pale face. She thought there’d been an accident.

  ‘It’s all right, Erica, no one’s hurt—’

  ‘Your friend should wait at the front door, madam. No one must come into the house.’ He set Lily aside, and said to Erica, ‘We shall need your name, address and telephone number.’

  ‘My God, Lily, what’s going on?’

  ‘Madam, as soon as I have these details we’d like you to take the children and leave.’

  Earlier, under supervision, Lily put the children’s overnight things in a bag, with their school uniforms for the next day. A policeman watched her all the time.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, I shall have to look through that bag before it leaves the house.’

  He thought she had slipped something into the bag. His hands were practised. He picked through Paul’s pyjamas, Sally’s and Bridget’s nighties, the rabbit slippers, the toothbrushes and flannels, and he ran his fingers rapidly up and down the seams of their clothes. ‘You may close the bag now.’

  Thank God that happened before Erica arrived. As it was, they’d treated her as if she, too, might be part of this. Whatever ‘this’ was. They wouldn’t answer any of Lily’s questions. When she offered them a cup of tea, they looked at her as if this were yet another of the gambits with which they were all too familiar.

  ‘Are you Lily Elsa Callington, formerly Lili Elsa Brand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Brand was my maiden name.’ They had made it sound as if she’d changed her name to conceal herself. They wrote it down, even though it was clear they knew it already. She saw her place of birth further up on the form, which was already partially completed in a different hand. Perhaps they had intended her to see it.

  The door shuts. The children are gone. Simon has gone. He has accompanied two officers to Scotland Yard for questioning. He went so quickly, so undramatically that she barely had time to understand that it was happening. He looked at her as he was led down the hall. She saw the shock in him, the fear and shame that they were doing this to him and he could do nothing to stop it. ‘I’m sorry, Lil.’ He said that when they came to the door. He said nothing more, but he looked back at her.

  Through the open door she saw that there was a car outside. It was black but not a police car, and there was someone in the driver’s seat. The rain was still falling, the same rain that had fallen on them earlier in Highgate Woods. Simon went down to the road with the two officers, and another man got out of the car. He was a policeman in uniform. He opened the door for Simon to get into the back and he put his hand over the top of Simon’s head as he climbed into the car. The engine was running now, and the car was moving away from the kerb.

  Lily sits on the red sofa, as she has been told. ‘Please sit down here, Mrs Callington.’ There’s a policewoman with her now, but no one has asked Lily any further questions. They tramp purposefully around the house. She hears the lifting of the metal plate on top of the stove, and the unlocking of the back door. They’ll go down the path and into the shed, and search all around it. Lily rehearses in her mind all the steps she took to conceal the burial of the briefcase. The scuffing of leaves, the covering of garden rubbish, the brambles pulled forward. There’s nothing to see, but her heart beats fast and there’s a lump in her stomach, as if she has eaten too much.

  She draws her knees together, and straightens her back. There they are, overhead, in her and Simon’s bedroom. She can’t help glancing upwards, and the policewoman does the same. She’s wearing very thick make-up: pancake, Lily thinks. Probably she has a bad skin. But it’s surprising that she is allowed to w
ear so much make-up on duty. It makes her look like a man in drag.

  They have searched Lily’s handbag, and all the downstairs drawers. When she first saw the policewoman, she was afraid that they meant to search her personally, but nothing happened. She wonders exactly what it is that they are looking for. The file would be too big to fit into Lily’s handbag. They are going through everything: the cutlery drawers, and the kitchen cabinets. She listens. One by one she identifies them: creak and swing of cupboard doors, chink of knives and forks, rattle of pans. All the everyday sounds of her life. It’s Sunday evening. She should be in the kitchen, laying the table for breakfast, preparing everything for the week that lies ahead.

  Policemen are going through her kitchen cupboards. Nothing can be put back in its right place now.

  11

  Do You Speak German?

  The sitting-room door opens, and a man in a dark civilian suit enters. He sits down in the armchair opposite Lily – in Simon’s chair – and puts his hands on his knees, giving Lily a small smile which she cannot read. Possibly it is apologetic. It looks as if he is separate from the uniformed officers who are tramping up and down her stairs in their boots, over the turquoise carpet that she bought with her first year of part-time earnings. She expects him to introduce himself, but instead he opens his mouth and addresses her. She cannot understand a word of what he says. He stops speaking, and raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I don’t understand you.’ Belatedly, it comes to her: she knows that mesh of sounds. He’s speaking German.

  ‘But you are German,’ he says. His voice is flat and strong, reasonable, sure of itself.

  ‘I am British by naturalisation.’ He hasn’t told her his name. Why hasn’t he?

  ‘You were born in Berlin. You went to school there. Of course you understand German.’

  ‘I left Berlin when I was a child. Since then I have spoken nothing but English.’

  ‘And you are married to an Englishman.’

  She glances round, and sees that the policewoman has a shorthand pad on her knee, and is taking notes.

  ‘You are married to an Englishman,’ he repeats.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your husband works at the Admiralty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you understand the work of the Admiralty?’

  Lily hesitates. ‘To some extent.’

  ‘To some extent. You know the nature of your husband’s work?’

  ‘He doesn’t discuss it with me.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘I suppose – Sometimes a man will mention something about his office life.’

  ‘Of course he will.’ He seems pleased with her.

  ‘But it’s nothing,’ she says quickly. ‘Only that it wouldn’t be natural for a man to – not one word about his work—’

  ‘It wouldn’t be natural for a man to – not one word about his work,’ he repeats. ‘You know, Mrs Callington, you do sound a little German. Perhaps you were being modest when you said you couldn’t speak it?’

  ‘I’ve said already that I don’t.’

  ‘So. We’ve established that your husband sometimes talks to you about his work at the Admiralty.’

  ‘That’s not what I said—’

  ‘He talks to you. Does he also talk to others?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t.’

  ‘You know, I am sure, that he has signed the Official Secrets Act?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He has discussed that with you?’

  ‘No! It’s just that I knew – I assumed—’

  ‘You knew, and you assumed.’

  ‘Simon would never discuss with me anything that was covered by the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Do you mean that he might discuss such things with anyone else, Mrs Callington?’

  ‘Of course not. Of course that’s not what I mean. You are deliberately misunderstanding what I say. I think you misunderstand my husband’s work as well. He is not in a senior position.’ Even as she said it, she felt a stab of betrayal. It might sound as if she were belittling Simon.

  ‘I am not quite sure, Mrs Callington, that you perfectly understand what I am asking you. Perhaps your English is not quite as excellent as you believe it to be.’ Again, suddenly, he switches into another language. This time she knows it’s not German. It isn’t French, Italian or Spanish.

  ‘You don’t understand me, Mrs Callington?’

  ‘I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.’

  ‘And yet you speak English, French, Italian. You speak French well enough to teach it. You are quite a linguist, Mrs Callington, and yet you don’t understand a word of your mother-tongue and you don’t even recognise the language in which I’ve just been speaking to you.’

  Lily says nothing.

  ‘Well? Is that correct?’

  ‘I don’t know if it is correct,’ she says, laying a slight emphasis on the word. ‘But it is the case.’

  At once, sweat starts out under her arms. A blunder. She used that word because she was thinking of the briefcase. Can he see her thoughts? If she hadn’t been thinking of the briefcase she would have answered, ‘It is the truth.’ She must be careful. This man knows what he is about. She is on the defensive and likely to make mistakes.

  He doesn’t take her up on the word. He is quite relaxed, it appears. He watches her face closely, but without obvious suspicion. This is England, she thinks. They cannot throw you down the stairs or lock you into a standing cell until they get the answers they want. They don’t do things like that here.

  ‘Has your husband changed his habits recently? Home late, different routine und so weiter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you recognise the words I just spoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were German. Do you consider yourself English, Mrs Callington?’

  She hesitates just a moment too long. ‘I’m married to an Englishman. My children are English. My life and my work are here. I am a naturalised British subject.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘What right have you to ask me such a question?’

  He sighs, and crosses his legs. ‘This is a perfectly normal part of our investigation, Mrs Callington. I’m sorry if it upsets you. What were you doing on April the eighteenth this year?’

  ‘April the eighteenth?’ She can’t help an upsurge of relief. That was months ago. It can’t be anything to do with the briefcase or the file. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I’d have to look at my diary—’

  ‘You keep a diary?’

  ‘Just for my work and the children’s appointments.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my handbag. It has already been looked at.’ One of the policemen took it out of her bag, opened it and riffled the pages with his thumb, then put it aside.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember what you were doing on April the eighteenth. It was a big occasion. You were at the CND rally in Trafalgar Square.’

  She had forgotten the date. They must have photographs. She signed a petition, too. She didn’t want to go at first, because, as usual, her instinct was to keep her head down. But Erica was going. They talked about it one cold afternoon, outside the school. Erica was taking the baby, even though Clare was only two months old.

  ‘It’s her future. All the children’s future. We’ve got to do something, Lily. Those idiots are quite capable of blowing up the whole world.’ Erica for once not smiling, not ironic, but lit up with anger.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lily, and Erica let go of the pram handles to hug her.

  ‘You were there with a friend,’ says the dark-suited man now. ‘Not your husband?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The same friend, I believe, who has just collected your children. She took her baby along, didn’t she? Quite a surprising decision on her part. How many people were there in Trafalgar Square that day?’

  ‘A hundred thousand.’r />
  ‘Sixty thousand, I think. Even so, a large crowd. Crowds can be dangerous places. You should know that.’

  ‘It was peaceful. There were lots of children there.’

  ‘So, you were there with your friend and her baby. You have three children yourself, but you didn’t take any of them with you. I wonder, why was that? And your husband wasn’t there either.’

  ‘He couldn’t go to a CND rally. He works at the Admiralty.’

  ‘But he wanted to go, didn’t he? He sympathised with the aims of the march. He would have liked to go with you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t want to accompany you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You argued about it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then he was content for you to go. You, Mrs Callington, felt strongly enough that you encouraged your friend to take a baby, almost a newborn baby, to a rally where many thousands of people would be present.’

  She would like to say: It was Erica who urged me. But if she says that, will they go to Erica’s house next and question her? Erica’s looking after all the children. They’re safe with her. She’ll find the right words to calm Bridget down.

  She has told the truth. Simon didn’t go to the rally. He met her afterwards, outside the National Gallery, as they’d arranged. Her mother was visiting, so there was no need to get back for the children. They had supper in Soho later. Those evenings without the children were so rare that she remembers every one of them. She can see Simon now, on the gallery steps, among the flood of people, looking for her.

  ‘There were all kinds of people in Trafalgar Square,’ she says instead. ‘Old people, families. There were other babies.’

  The sharp April sunlight was in her face. They brought a rug and found a corner, shielded by the pram, so that Erica could feed the baby. The light spilled on Erica’s hair as she bent over the baby’s soft skull. Lily saw the pulsing of Clare’s fontanelle. She had never seen so many people all together, and they were still coming. Hundreds and thousands of them pouring into Trafalgar Square.

  Ah, but you have seen so many people, Lili. In Berlin, don’t you remember?

  Posters and banners were everywhere. One read: ‘For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast’. The atmosphere was calm and almost cheerful as the speeches began. The sun was too bright for the baby and she was screwing up her eyes. Easter time: a time for beginnings. A thousand suns exploded at Hiroshima. Children turned to ash in seconds. Maybe they left a shadow on a wall. What kind of a world is it into which we have brought our children? Young men and women chanted with upturned faces: Ban the Bomb! Ban the Bomb! She watched their happiness, their passion and innocence, as if she were a thousand years old. The surge and mass of it, and the April sun much too bright.