Winter of the World

by Ken Follett

  For another month she moped about Ty Gwyn, hoping to hear more, but no further news came. Then she began to feel guilty. There were many women as badly off as she or worse. Some had to face the prospect of raising two or three children with no man to support the family. She had no right to feel sorry for herself just because the man with whom she had been contemplating an adulterous affair was missing.

  She had to pull herself together and do something positive. Fate did not intend her to be with Lloyd, that was clear. She already had a husband, one who was risking his life every day. It was her duty, she told herself, to take care of Boy.

  She returned to London. She opened up the Mayfair house, as best she could with limited servants, and made it into a pleasant home for Boy to come to when on leave.

  She needed to forget Lloyd and be a good wife. Perhaps she would even get pregnant again.

  Many women signed up for war work, joining the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, or doing agricultural labor with the Women's Land Army. Others worked for no pay in the Women's Voluntary Service for Air Raid Precautions. But there was not enough for most such women to do, and The Times published letters to the editor complaining that air raid precautions were a waste of money.

  The war in Continental Europe appeared to be over. Germany had won. Europe was Fascist from Poland to Sicily and from Hungary to Portugal. There was no fighting anywhere. Rumors said the British government had discussed peace terms.

  But Churchill did not make peace with Hitler, and that summer the Battle of Britain began.

  At first civilians were not much affected. Church bells were silenced, their peal reserved to warn of the expected German invasion. Daisy followed government instructions and placed buckets of sand and water on every landing in the house, for firefighting, but they were not needed. The Luftwaffe bombed harbors, hoping to cut Britain's supply lines. Then they started on air bases, trying to destroy the Royal Air Force. Boy was flying a Spitfire, engaging enemy aircraft in sky battles that were watched by openmouthed farmers in Kent and Sussex. In a rare letter home he said proudly that he had shot down three German planes. He had no leave for weeks on end, and Daisy sat alone in the house she filled with flowers for him.

  At last, on the morning of Saturday, September 7, Boy showed up with a weekend pass. The weather was glorious, hot and sunny, a late spell of warmth that people called an Indian summer.

  As it happened, that was the day the Luftwaffe changed their tactics.

  Daisy kissed her husband and made sure there were clean shirts and fresh underwear in his dressing room.

  From what other women said, she believed that fighting men on leave wanted sex, booze, and decent food, in that order.

  Boy and she had not slept together since the miscarriage. This would be the first time. She felt guilty that she did not really relish the prospect. But she certainly would not refuse to do her duty.

  She half-expected him to tumble her into bed the minute he arrived, but he was not that desperate. He took off his uniform, bathed and washed his hair, and dressed again in a civilian suit. Daisy ordered the cook to spare no ration coupons in the preparation of a good lunch, and Boy brought up from the cellar one of his oldest bottles of claret.

  She was surprised and hurt after lunch when he said: "I'm going out for a few hours. I'll be back for dinner."

  She wanted to be a good wife, but not a passive one. "This is your first leave for months!" she protested. "Where the heck are you going?"

  "To look at a horse."

  That was all right. "Oh, fine--I'll come with you."

  "No, don't. If I show up with a woman in tow, they'll think I'm a softie and put the price up."

  She could not hide her disappointment. "I always dreamed this would be something we did together--buying and breeding racehorses."

  "It's not really a woman's world."

  "Oh, stink on that!" she said indignantly. "I know as much about horseflesh as you do."

  He looked irritated. "Perhaps you do, but I still don't want you hanging around when I'm bargaining with these blighters--and that's final."

  She gave in. "As you please," she said, and she left the dining room.

  Her instinct told her that he was lying. Fighting men on leave did not think about buying horses. She intended to find out what he was up to. Even heroes had to be true to their wives.

  In her room she put on trousers and boots. As Boy went down the main staircase to the front door, she ran down the back stairs, through the kitchen, across the yard, and into the old stables. There she put on a leather jacket, goggles, and a crash helmet. She opened the garage door into the mews and wheeled out her motorcycle, a Triumph Tiger 100, so called because its top speed was one hundred miles per hour. She kicked it into life and drove out of the mews effortlessly.

  She had taken quickly to motorcycling when petrol rationing was introduced back in September 1939. It was like bicycling, but easier. She loved the freedom and independence it gave her.

  She turned into the street just in time to see Boy's cream-colored Bentley Airline disappear around the next corner.

  She followed.

  He drove across Trafalgar Square and through the theater district. Daisy stayed a discreet distance behind, not wanting to be conspicuous. There was still plenty of traffic in central London, where there were hundreds of cars on official business. In addition, the petrol ration for private vehicles was not unreasonably small, especially for people who only wanted to drive around town.

  Boy continued east, through the financial district. There was little traffic here on a Saturday afternoon, and Daisy became more concerned about being noticed. But she was not easily recognizable, in her goggles and helmet. And Boy was paying little attention to his surroundings, driving with the window open, smoking a cigar.

  He headed into Aldgate, and Daisy had a dreadful feeling she knew why.

  He turned into one of the East End's less squalid streets and parked outside a pleasant eighteenth-century house. There were no stables in sight: this was not a place where racehorses were bought and sold. So much for his story.

  Daisy stopped her motorcycle at the end of the street and watched. Boy got out of the car and slammed the door. He did not look around, or study the house numbers; clearly he had been here before and knew exactly where he was going. Walking with a jaunty air, cigar in his mouth, he went up to the front door and opened it with a key.

  Daisy wanted to cry.

  Boy disappeared into the house.

  Somewhere to the east, there was an explosion.

  Daisy looked in that direction and saw planes in the sky. Had the Germans chosen today to begin bombing London?

  If so, she did not care. She was not going to let Boy enjoy his infidelity in peace. She drove up to the house and parked her bike behind his car. She took off her helmet and goggles, marched up to the front door of the house, and knocked.

  She heard another explosion, this one closer; then the air raid sirens began their mournful song.

  The door came open a crack, and she shoved it hard. A young woman in a maid's black dress cried out and staggered backward, and Daisy walked in. She slammed the door behind her. She was in the hallway of a standard middle-class London house, but it was decorated in exotic fashion with Oriental rugs, heavy curtains, and a painting of naked women in a bathhouse.

  She threw open the nearest door and stepped into the front parlor. It was dimly lit, velvet drapes keeping out the sunlight. There were three people in the room. Standing up, staring at her in shock, was a woman of about forty, dressed in a loose silk wrap, but carefully made up with bright red lipstick: the mother, she assumed. Behind her, sitting on a couch, was a girl of about sixteen wearing only underwear and stockings, smoking a cigarette. Next to the girl sat Boy, his hand on her thigh above the top of the stocking. He snatched his hand away guiltily. It was a ludicrous gesture, as if taking his hand off her could make this tableau look innocent.

  Daisy fought back tears. "You pr
omised me you would give them up!" she said. She wanted to be coldly angry, like the avenging angel, but she could hear that her voice was just wounded and sad.

  Boy reddened and looked panicked. "What the devil are you doing here?"

  The older woman said: "Oh, fuck, it's his wife."

  Her name was Pearl, Daisy recalled, and the daughter was Joanie. How dreadful that she should know the names of such women.

  The maid came to the door of the room and said: "I didn't let the bitch in, she just shoved past me!"

  Daisy said to Boy: "I tried so hard to make our home beautiful and welcoming for you--and yet you prefer this!"

  He started to say something, but had trouble finding his words. He sputtered incoherently for a moment or two. Then a big explosion nearby shook the floor and rattled the windows.

  The maid said: "Are you all deaf? There's a fucking air raid on!" No one looked at her. "I'm going down to the basement," she said, and she disappeared.

  They all needed to seek shelter. But Daisy had something to say to Boy before she left. "Don't come to my bed again, ever, please. I refuse to be contaminated."

  The girl on the couch--Joanie--said: "It's only a bit of fun, love. Why don't you join in? You might like it."

  Pearl, the older one, looked Daisy up and down. "She's got a nice little figure."

  Daisy realized they would humiliate her further if she gave them the chance. Ignoring them, she spoke to Boy. "You've made your choice," she said. "And I've made my decision." She left the room, holding her head high even though she felt debased and spurned.

  She heard Boy said: "Oh, damn, what a mess."

  A mess? she thought. Is that all?

  She went out of the front door.

  Then she looked up.

  The sky was full of planes.

  The sight made her shake with fear. They were high, about ten thousand feet, but all the same they seemed to block the sun. There were hundreds of them, fat bombers and waspish fighters, a fleet that seemed twenty miles wide. To the east, in the direction of the docks and Woolwich Arsenal, palls of smoke rose from the ground where the bombs were landing. The explosions ran together into a continuous tidal roar like an angry sea.

  Daisy recalled that Hitler had made a speech in the German parliament, just last Wednesday, ranting about the wickedness of RAF bombing raids on Berlin, and threatening to erase British cities in retaliation. Apparently he had meant it. They were intending to flatten London.

  This was already the worst day of Daisy's life. Now she realized it might be the last.

  But she could not bring herself to go back into that house and share their basement shelter. She had to get away. She needed to be at home where she could cry in private.

  Hurriedly, she put on helmet and goggles. She resisted an irrational but nonetheless powerful impulse to throw herself behind the nearest wall. She jumped on her motorcycle and drove away.

  She did not get far.

  Two streets away, a bomb landed on a house directly in her line of vision, and she braked suddenly. She saw the hole in the roof, felt the thump of the explosion, and a few seconds later saw flames inside, as if kerosene from a heater had spilled and caught fire. A moment later, a girl of about twelve came out, screaming, with her hair on fire, and ran straight at Daisy.

  Daisy jumped off the bike, pulled off her leather jacket, and used it to cover the girl's head, wrapping it tightly over the hair, denying oxygen to the flames.

  The screaming stopped. Daisy removed the jacket. The girl was sobbing. She was no longer in agony, but she was bald.

  Daisy looked up and down the street. A man wearing a steel helmet and an Air Raid Precautions armband came running up carrying a tin case with a white First Aid cross painted on its side.

  The girl looked at Daisy, opened her mouth, and screamed: "My mother's in there!"

  The ARP warden said: "Calm down, love, let's have a look at you."

  Daisy left the girl with him and ran to the front door of the building. It seemed to be an old house subdivided into cheap apartments. The upper floors were burning but she was able to enter the hall. Taking a guess, she ran to the back and found herself in a kitchen. There she saw a woman unconscious on the floor and a toddler in a cot. She picked up the child and ran out again.

  The girl with the burned hair yelled: "That's my sister!"

  Daisy thrust the toddler into the girl's arms and ran back inside.

  The unconscious woman was too heavy for her to lift. Daisy got behind her, raised her to a sitting position, took hold of her under the arms, and dragged her across the kitchen floor and through the hallway into the street.

  An ambulance had arrived, a converted saloon car, its rear bodywork replaced by a canvas roof with a back opening. The ARP warden was helping the burned girl into the vehicle. The driver came running over to Daisy. Between them, they lifted the mother into the ambulance.

  The driver said to Daisy: "Is there anyone else inside?"

  "I don't know!"

  He ran into the hall. At that moment the entire building sagged. The burning upper stories crashed through to the ground floor. The ambulance driver disappeared into an inferno.

  Daisy heard herself scream.

  She covered her mouth with her hand and stared into the flames, searching for him, even though she could not have helped him, and it would have been suicide to try.

  The ARP warden said: "Oh, my God, Alf's been killed."

  There was another explosion as a bomb landed a hundred yards along the street.

  The warden said: "Now I've got no driver, and I can't leave the scene." He looked up and down the street. There were little knots of people standing outside some of the houses, but most were probably in shelters.

  Daisy said: "I'll drive it. Where should I go?"

  "Can you drive?"

  Most British women could not drive: it was still a man's job here. "Don't ask stupid questions," Daisy said. "Where am I taking the ambulance?"

  "St. Bart's. Do you know where it is?"

  "Of course." St. Bartholomew's was one of the biggest hospitals in London, and Daisy had been living here for four years. "West Smithfield," she added, to make sure he believed her.

  "Emergency ward is around the back."

  "I'll find it." She jumped in. The engine was still running.

  The warden shouted: "What's your name?"

  "Daisy Fitzherbert. What's yours?"

  "Nobby Clarke. Take care of my ambulance."

  The car had a standard gearshift with a clutch. Daisy put it into first and drove off.

  The planes continued to roar overhead, and the bombs fell relentlessly. Daisy was desperate to get the injured people to the hospital, and St. Bart's was not much more than a mile away, but the journey was maddeningly difficult. She drove along Leadenhall Street, Poultry, and Cheapside, but several times she found the road blocked, and had to reverse away and find another route. There seemed to be at least one destroyed house in every street. Everywhere was smoke and rubble, people bleeding and crying.

  With huge relief she reached the hospital and followed another ambulance to the emergency entrance. The place was frantically busy, with a dozen vehicles discharging maimed and burned patients into the care of hurrying porters with bloodstained aprons. Perhaps I've saved the mother of these children, Daisy thought. I'm not completely worthless, even if my husband doesn't want me.

  The girl with no hair was still carrying her baby sister. Daisy helped them both out of the back of her ambulance.

  A nurse helped Daisy lift the unconscious mother and carry her in.

  But Daisy could see that the woman had stopped breathing.

  She said to the nurse: "These two are her children!" She heard the edge of hysteria in her own voice. "What will happen now?"

  "I'll deal with it," the nurse said briskly. "You have to go back."

  "Must I?" said Daisy.

  "Pull yourself together," said the nurse. "There will be a lot more dead and i
njured before this night is over."

  "All right," said Daisy, and she got back behind the wheel and drove off.

  iv

  On a warm Mediterranean afternoon in October, Lloyd Williams arrived in the sunlit French town of Perpignan, only twenty miles from the border with Spain.

  He had spent the month of September in the Bordeaux area, picking grapes for the wine harvest, just as he had in the terrible year of 1937. Now he had money in his pockets for buses and trams, and could eat in cheap restaurants instead of living on unripe vegetables he dug up in people's gardens or raw eggs stolen from hen coops. He was going back along the route he had taken when he left Spain three years ago. He had come south from Bordeaux through Toulouse and Beziers, occasionally riding freight trains, mostly begging lifts from truck drivers.

  Now he was at a roadside cafe on the main highway running southeast from Perpignan toward the Spanish border. Still dressed in Maurice's blue overalls and beret, he carried a small canvas bag containing a rusty trowel and a mortar-spattered spirit level, evidence that he was a Spanish bricklayer making his way home. God forbid that anyone should offer him work: he had no idea how to build a wall.

  He was worried about finding his way across the mountains. Three months ago, back in Picardy, he had told himself glibly that he could find the route over the Pyrenees along which his guides had led him into Spain in 1936, parts of which he had retraced in the opposite direction when he left a year later. But as the purple peaks and green passes came into distant view on the horizon, the prospect seemed more daunting. He had thought that every step of the journey must be engraved on his memory, but when he tried to recall specific paths and bridges and turning points he found that the pictures were blurred, and the exact details slipped infuriatingly from his mind's grasp.

  He finished his lunch--a peppery fish stew--then spoke quietly to a group of drivers at the next table. "I need a lift to Cerbere." It was the last village before the Spanish border. "Anyone going that way?"

  They were probably all going that way: it was the only reason for being here on this southeast route. All the same they hesitated. This was Vichy France, technically an independent zone, in practise under the thumb of the Germans occupying the other half of the country. No one was in a hurry to help a traveling stranger with a foreign accent.