“And what reason did they give?”
“Waste of money.”
Laurie shook his head, the lines across his forehead twitching in consternation. Bertram cracked the knuckles of one hand and asked if the interview was over. Laurie nodded.
“Then may I show you something, sir?” Bertram reached into the bag at his feet. “Mr. Wycomb says the Regional Commissioners requested this, but now the Regional Commissioners say they did not. They think it was the London County Council or possibly the Ministry of Information.” He opened the notebook as he spoke. “I was asked to inventory the victims’ belongings. The bodies were still in the hospital and the morgue, and I went through their pockets, but now no one seems to want the list. No one seems to know who needed it.”
“Let me see,” Laurie said. He skimmed a few pages, read what he might have expected:
Amanda Park: four buttons, a hairpin, some crushed juniper needles
Paul Popper: one white chess bishop, a pair of steel pocket scissors
Eliza Cannon: a spool of blue thread, a buttonhook, a small pocket
handkerchief monogrammed WFW, a trunk key
William Fendell: nine pennies, a toothpick, a key ring
Not one of the casualties had more than a half dozen items, Bertram said. The children, in general, had nothing but small toys and scraps, sometimes a piece or two of boiled candy. One elderly man had a silver pocket watch that looked to be valuable. The women seemed united in their possession of spools of thread, probably intending to get the mending done until they could sleep.
Laurie closed the notebook.
“Looking at the still bodies was the hardest part,” Bertram said. “After I got used to it, touching was less difficult than I thought it would be. I tried to be gentle, but some of the pockets were so small. I had to apologize to a little boy whose only possession was a key on a strip of leather.”
Laurie cleared his throat. “Did you return the items to the families?” he asked quietly.
Bertram explained that most of the families had seen his signs and claimed the items at the town hall. His girlfriend had arranged for the mobile canteen to serve tea. The unclaimed items, he’d wrapped in paper and distributed personally.
“Good.” Laurie held the notebook out to Bertram.
Ross stood, but Bertram didn’t move.
“Sir, I’m not an expert, but I wanted to say that I agree with the coroner’s evidence. The victims did not look like there’d been a stampede or a panic. Blood was only in their mouths, sir. No twisted limbs. Very bad bruising, of course, but that’s to be expected.
“I saw all the bodies, sir, eighty-four women, sixty-two children, twenty-seven men.”
“You’ve done a good job,” Laurie said. “It must have been very difficult.”
Bertram took the notebook. “What am I to do with it?”
All three men stared at the green cover. “Type it up,” Laurie said. “I believe it can be said someone will want it eventually.”
Bertram asked if it should be alphabetized.
“I don’t see how that will matter much.”
“Plain or bond paper?” Bertram asked.
Laurie turned to Ross.
“All right, Bert,” Ross said. “Time to go.”
When Constable Henderson reappeared, he was nervous and slightly drunk. He announced that he was off duty but that, as he had an academic interest in history, he was more than happy to see them again. Ross smiled.
“Very kind,” Laurie said. “An academic interest, you say?”
“Yes, sir, though I don’t have time right now to indulge it.”
“So that’s not why you weren’t at the entrance when you should have been the night of March third? You weren’t studying your history books?”
Henderson turned red.
“I don’t mind telling you that I and several of your superior officers believe there are some miscalculations in your statement about when you arrived at the entrance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have anything to add? Would you like to revise your statement?”
“I stopped, sir, for a few minutes.” He rubbed his face as if to banish the beer. “There was a group of boys with torches they weren’t handling properly. They were running and waving ’em, sir. I thought someone might get hit, you know. They also had a couple of bottle rockets.”
“Bottle rockets?”
“Yes. Three or four, I think.”
“Did they set these off?”
“Not while I was there.”
“If they had set some off earlier, before you came upon them, could someone have mistaken the sound for that of bombs or antiaircraft fire?”
“Hard to imagine, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“Everyone knows what a bottle rocket sounds like, don’t they?”
“Were the boys shouting anything?”
“No.”
“Not inciting the crowd in any way?”
“No, sir. Just running around with their torches.” He shook his head slowly. “Sir, if I’d known that something was going to happen at the shelter, I would have ignored those boys and walked right on as fast as I could. But on another night, I might have been reprimanded for not speaking to them.” Henderson put his hand over his eyes. “It’s hard, sir, to know what’s right.”
Laurie conceded that that was certainly true.
Twenty-seven
They ate their cake quickly, Laurie pleased with both it and the progress of the interview. He was glad he’d bought the cake, even though it had taken him several minutes of deliberation in the store. After the war, the habit of deciding when such a treat was justified lasted a lifetime. He’d revised, however, his opinion on the merits of a casual luncheon, thought he might even consider eating outside next time if the weather were cooler. He’d tell the mighty William that the younger members of the club were on to something after all.
He enjoyed Barber, found him clever and appreciative of the report. It touched him when the boy had shown up for their second interview wearing a tie. At least that was what Laurie thought it was, though it was as wide as a plank.
But talking to him was like talking to any young person about the war years: they spoke from a background of black-and-white pictures, while your memories were very much in color. They asked about the rationing, while you saw coupons. They spoke about the public morale, when what you remembered were the faces. Try as they might, they heard only a chord or two, while the whole symphony still roared in your head. Laurie felt he was back in the house on Bonner Road again, with Armorel, sirens wailing. He had that old peculiar feeling of waiting for the planes rushing toward them in the dark.
And yet it was a relief to be discussing Bethnal Green again. He disagreed with the view, expressed in a number of articles over the years, that he’d done little else of consequence. He thought he’d shown courage in his handling of a number of extradition and deportation cases after the war, but opinion had swung against him. Before the war the public praised his ability to resist extralegal pressure. After the war his judgments were considered insensitive. He’d been told he did not understand the difficulties of the era.
Bollocks.
Barber was saying something about the plight of messengers.
Laurie sighed and wondered aloud if Samuel Johnson would have agreed that, like second marriage, producing a report was the triumph of hope over experience. He was eager to turn the conversation to lighter topics. The day demanded it. But Barber had opened his notebook and was studying a page.
“A refugee?” Barber said. “The first woman who fell? But wouldn’t that suggest—”
“Is a mistake always an accident? An accident always a mistake?” Laurie said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. The wine was making him glib. He’d never been able to drink quite as much as his friends and remain discreet.
“Low committed suicide,” he said suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “The chief warden
of the shelter.”
Barber stared.
“There. Something new. That’s what you want, isn’t it? He tried to resign. Sent a letter to the home secretary, but we wouldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t accept it.”
“That’s not in the report.”
“Right.”
“Why not?”
“Someone stepping forward to accept responsibility doesn’t do away with the need for blame.”
“Doesn’t it depend who the person is?”
“Does it? In my experience what people want to believe is more important to them than what actually happens.”
Then Laurie, forgetting he was not, in fact, on Bonner Road, reached for the lamp that would have been on the table next to the chair. But that table had not moved to the house on Nelson Close, and the room wasn’t really dark yet. His hand groped a moment, then sank. Barber seemed not to have noticed, but Laurie covered with a few coughs and a stretch.
Barber said, “You didn’t assign individual blame.”
“It’s a relief to know that hasn’t been forgotten. It wouldn’t have been fair to her.”
“Who?”
“Ada Barber.”
Twenty-eight
It was obvious Ada had taken great care with her clothing, her best gray wool, a blue scarf over her hair. She had long legs, a round middle, and pitched herself forward when she walked, like a shorebird. Ross was standing when she came in, so she sat in one of the wooden chairs and wouldn’t move when Laurie indicated she might be more comfortable in the armchair. She was very nervous. Ross made a cup of tea; Laurie closed the window.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little better. I’m still very shaky.”
“It is Ada Barber?”
“Yes.”
“Three Jersey Street, Bethnal Green?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the third of March, you went to the air-raid shelter with your daughters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long after the warning did you get there?”
“Soon after the warning left off.”
“How far is it from your home?”
“I should think it would take us five or six minutes.”
“There were a number of people hurrying along, too? Like you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I was going down the stairs, as usual, when there was a rush behind me. I was holding on to my two girls, and as I went down the rush dragged me along the wall. I got to the bottom, and a man pulled us out, on the right side, where there was a lane open for a moment. We were the last ones out before the accident.” Ada’s voice had started strong but now thinned to a whisper. “Have you talked to him?”
“Who?”
“The man at the bottom of the stairs.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I just wonder, have you talked to anyone who said they helped out a woman and her girl before the crush?”
“In general, Mrs. Barber, I am here to ask you questions, but I can tell you that no one’s told us yet that they were able to pull anyone out.”
Ada readjusted herself on the chair.
“You said a lane was open for a moment?”
“Yes.”
“How, exactly?”
Ada swallowed. “A woman fell.”
“Yes,” Laurie said, “I’ve heard that. Do you know who she was?”
“No.”
Something made Laurie wait.
“I only knew her name. Mrs. W.”
“Mrs. W.?”
“Mrs. Wigdorowicz. We shortened it, everyone shortened it.”
“Mrs. W. Mrs. Four-by-Two,” Ross whispered to Laurie, illustrating for him the slang rhyme.
“I see,” Laurie said.
“She tripped,” Ada said. “It was awful. But I had my girls with me, so I had to keep moving.” She tucked her hands beneath her legs, trying to warm them between wool and wood.
“Perhaps you knew her a little from the area?”
“She came into our grocery sometimes, but they don’t make a regular practice of it. They shop around, sometimes as far as Stepney.”
“They? The Jewish refugees?”
“Yes.”
“How did she trip?”
“She was carrying something, a load of blankets and pillows. It was too much for her.” Her voice had been fast and bright. Now it went flat. “And some people say a baby. I didn’t know it at the time.”
“Did the infant survive?”
“I don’t know.”
“And this was on the right-hand side of the stairway?”
“Yes. The crowd was packed but on the move.”
“And the force swept you through to the other end?”
Ada nodded. “I have been going down to the shelter since the beginning and never take anything. I’m always careful.”
“Have you ever had any trouble before?”
“No.”
“What do you think of the entrance?”
“It is very dark.”
“But you have always got up and down all right?”
“Yes.”
“You have not known many people to tumble on the stairs?”
“No. And there wouldn’t have been any trouble this night if that first woman had stayed on her feet.”
“Did you see her fall?”
“It’s hazy now.”
“Of course. What do you remember?”
Ada hugged herself and rubbed her sleeves. “I don’t know. The stairwell was so dark; everyone was hurrying.” She began to rock and looked up suddenly. “I lost one of my girls, Mr. Dunne.”
“I’m so sorry. Mrs. Barber, it is our hope—”
“Too late for that!”
“Your surviving child. She was pulled out by this man you mentioned?”
“Tilly,” Ada said. “Emma is the one I lost.”
Laurie turned to Ross, who quickly produced a handkerchief.
“Would Tilly speak to us?” Ross asked.
“No,” she said. She looked scared.
Laurie frowned. He’d interviewed few children, finding them unreliable at best, but Ada’s reaction interested him.
“Why?”
“She hasn’t talked since the accident.”
“It’s a common reaction. I might be able to reassure her.”
“Could I stay with her?” Ada asked. “I wouldn’t want her to tell any stories.”
So is the girl mute or a liar? Laurie wondered. He told Ada she could remain when Tilly came.
At the door Ada turned around. “I remembered something. Mrs. Wigdorowicz’s name was Raisa.” She paused.
“I’ll make a note of it,” Laurie said.
“It means ‘rose.’ ”
On March 14, a Sunday, the inquiry did not meet. “Because the story should add up to more than the facts,” Laurie told Ross. “That’s faith, and our report is going to need it.”
But the sermon at St. James’s that day irritated and annoyed him. Concerned with the hierarchy of angels, it seemed more than unusually irrelevant. After the service he and Armorel walked back to No. 17 Bonner Road. The row of fine eighteenth-century houses had not been directly hit, but the street was suffering a slow dilapidation and looked shabby in the sunlight. Half the residents had gone to weather the war elsewhere; those who remained were understandably negligent. Only the Dunnes’ house, with its ruddy brown brick and painted red door, still had a winter wreath in place. Seeing it, Laurie took Armorel’s hand.
“It looks nice, doesn’t it?” she said.
After lunch, Laurie worked and Armorel read. He’d been listening to nothing but Bach since the inquiry started, mostly the Goldberg Variations but also the cello suites. The structure of these monumental works calmed the agitation he felt about the inquiry.
“What about a little Mozart?” Armorel asked when she joined him in the study with her tea and a book. “Wouldn’t that help?”
“Wife to Mr. Milton,” Armorel said, “by Robert Graves.” She turned the book around in her hand and examined the cover. “I thought it was going to be a biography, but it appears to be a novel about the life of Milton’s first wife.”
“Any good?”
“Very. Better, probably.”
In the late afternoon they went for a walk in Victoria Park and stood for a time on the bridge over the narrow end of the lake. Laurie said he was enjoying the Taverner and was eager to try some new flies in Scotland.
“When will we go?” Armorel asked.
“Oh, not until the inquiry’s over. And then, once the report is published, I’ll need to be in London, I should think. Autumn, probably.”
“Good. I don’t want to leave Elizabeth at the moment.”
“How is she?”
“Not well, but I’ve got her working again on the landscape. She’s quite good, and the RAF is eager for it.”
He patted his wife’s shoulder.
“You’re wrong, you know,” she said. “From fifty feet up they give an accurate impression of what the landscape will look like from the cockpit.”
“But how? Where do they do this?”
“Hertfordshire. An airplane hanger there, apparently. They put all the parts together, and the pilots study them from scaffolding up to the ceiling. They told us there’s been a decrease in the amount of creep-back when the pilots have practiced with a landscape beforehand.” She pronounced “creep-back” with the solemnity befitting its new place in the language. The phenomenon—successive waves of bombers retreating from a target—was a national curiosity.
“I’m surprised it’s not Lord’s,” he said. “Or Wembley. Sounds like sport. Probably will be after the war.”
Armorel didn’t smile. Her expression told him that she’d moved on to something else. “I’ve done some research for you.”
“Oh?”
Armorel stopped walking. “How wide are the stairs at Bethnal Green?”
“Ten feet.”
“And how many handrails are there?”
“Handrails down both sides. Why?”
“When were they put in?”
The Report Page 12