My mood lightened as I remembered one of Powell’s rumours. She had gravely informed us last week that the best West End restaurants were paying people to shoot the Trafalgar Square pigeons, so they could pass the meat off as chicken. Perhaps it was true, although I could not understand how any sniper could take proper aim at pigeons in the blackout. I suspected that this, like most of Powell’s rumours, was claptrap.
We passed the now common sight of shops whose windows had been blasted. In place of glass the owners had erected plyboard facings with small holes cut in the middle so customers were still able to see the window displays. All around the plyboard were painted vivid and exuberant depictions of the shop’s wares.
From shop doorways the usual queues stretched out along the footpaths. In January the meat ration had been halved. This was not such a deprivation for me as it seemed to be to everyone else, because meat was available only as a special treat when I was a girl. But it wasn’t just the lack of meat that was so dispiriting to Londoners; for the past couple of months our diet had been generally restricted and meagre. There were so few items available to choose from. We weren’t starving so much as bored, and food seemed to have replaced the weather as the main topic for conversation. What was particularly annoying was that everyone knew it was much easier for the rich than the poor to find a good meal.
It seemed to me that war was a mixture of horror and tedium. The horror was in my job. Tedium was everywhere else. There were no street signs, so you never really knew where you were. Every spare bit of wall was covered in posters nagging you not to waste bread, use unnecessary fuel, make long telephone calls, take an unnecessary journey or talk carelessly. Every day there were fewer items on the shop shelves, not just food and clothing, but the little things that made life easier. I could no longer imagine an end to any of it, not to the bombing or to the queuing or the black-out or any of the petty inconveniences of war.
‘It broke my heart.’ The woman in the seat behind me was chatting to her friend. ‘How could I feed the poor little blighter if I’m not even supposed to give him scraps? Had to put him down. I don’t know as how I’ll tell Stan. He doted on that dog.’
‘My little Tiger more than earns her keep, what with all the rats and mice she kills,’ said her companion. ‘But she can’t survive on that alone. I have to feed her. I don’t care what they do to me.’
‘Bloody stupid rule, us not being allowed to feed our dogs and cats. I say, let’s starve a politician instead.’
‘Bloody stupid rule,’ echoed her friend.
They fell silent when the bus turned into Whitehall and the terrible destruction of the past few nights became clear. I had to blink away tears. Smoke was still rising from the new ruins, and the bus bumped over the twisted coils of fire hoses that snaked across the road and disappeared into the rubbish and the wreckage.
My stop was just beyond the Cenotaph, and as I walked back past it to Richmond Terrace I remembered an old woman I’d treated, early on in the Blitz. She’d only suffered mild abrasions but seemed unable to stop crying. I had put my arms around her to let her weep on my shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss,’ she had said, between sobs. ‘But my only son was killed in the Great War, the one they said was to end all wars. What good was it, my boy dying like that, now that we’re doing it all over again?’
New Scotland Yard was an imposing building, sitting in red and white striped splendour on the Embankment. I took a deep breath, marched in and asked to see Inspector Wayland. As I followed the constable down a series of narrow corridors, I unbuttoned my jacket.
His office was small. Files were piled high on the desk and had spilled over on to the floor. He apologised for meeting me there, but said that the interview rooms were all being used.
There was a commotion at the door and Sergeant Norris bustled in and sat beside me, pad and pencil ready.
‘So, Miss Halliday—’ Wayland began.
‘I don’t have Mr Egan’s locket.’ My hands were gripped tightly around my handbag, which rested on my lap. I sucked in a quick breath and huffed it out, then looked up into his eyes.
‘A Mr Michael Harker, from the American Embassy, tricked me into letting him see it and he took it. Stole it from me.’
I reached into my handbag and pulled out his card. As I did so I brushed my powder compact, which was empty except for the negatives. I still had not decided what to do with them. Michael had said that they were secret.
‘He told me to give you this.’ I handed over the card.
Wayland read carefully, front and back, then gave it to Norris.
‘Did he say why he wanted the locket?’
‘He … he wanted to give it back to Mr Egan’s widow.’ Wayland’s brow wrinkled and he exchanged looks with Norris.
‘Did you look inside the locket?’ Wayland asked.
Now was the tricky part. How to tell some, but not all of it. I crossed my legs slowly and sat back in the chair, arching my back slightly as I did so. The jacket fell away, and my assets were clearly outlined in the tight sweater. Neither man was now looking at my face.
‘Yes, I did look inside,’ I said. Wayland looked up and held my gaze. I shifted again in my seat and smoothed my skirt over my knees. It was quite a short skirt. He no longer looked me in the eye. ‘There was a photograph of a woman inside. From the way she was dressed, it had been taken about forty years ago.’
‘Yes,’ said Wayland. ‘Well. Thank you, Miss Halliday.’ He seemed about to say something else, but just then I reached up to brush a small piece of lint off my chest. There was silence for a moment. I looked enquiringly at Wayland, who dragged his eyes up to meet mine.
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Well. Thank you, Miss Halliday. I’ll telephone this Mr Harker and see what he has to say.’
I stood. Both men jumped up. Norris ushered me out, and Wayland followed him to the door. As I walked slowly away along the corridor I knew they were watching. My skirt was tight and I made the most of the long walk.
Outside the building I breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at my watch. Five o’clock. I could return to the club straight away, but I felt jittery, anxious and wanted to walk it off. What I needed, I decided, was a nice cup of tea. I’d pop into an ABC for refreshment and think about what I should do.
I was walking along the Embankment when I heard a whistle. I was used to men whistling, so I ignored it. What I could not ignore was the nasty feeling that someone had come up close behind me. I twisted around, ready to face whoever it was. Michael Harker was standing behind me.
‘What do you want, Mr Harker?’ I instinctively clutched my handbag closer. ‘I gave your card to the Inspector. He said he’d telephone you. There’s no need to stalk me.’
‘But it’s so delightful to stalk you,’ he said, looking me up and down. He seemed less amused than usual. His voice was cool, and there was no smile. ‘I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you cleaned up and, my word, don’t you just look pretty as a peach. Or is that too wholesome an image?’
‘What do you want?’
He sighed. ‘If you’ve got it, you know already. If you haven’t got it, then it’ll just have to remain a mystery.’ He gave me a quick sharp glance. ‘Did you take it? Give it to the police?’
I turned away from him and continued my stroll. He caught up and walked beside me.
‘Bet I can walk longer than you can in those skyscraper heels.’
I looked steadily at the river, continued walking and said nothing.
‘You know,’ he said, musingly, ‘one of my colleagues – a female one – tells me that when she wants to avoid the hard questions she dresses up real pretty. Works a treat, she tells me, and she has nowhere near the, er, natural advantages that are clearly – very clearly – outlined by that little number you’re wearing.’
I continued my stroll, pretending I wasn’t listening. His accent had changed, become different, more of a drawl. I had the feeling that he was extremely angry indee
d. I wouldn’t look at him. He wasn’t to know I had the negatives in my handbag. He’d never dream I’d be that stupid. If I said nothing then perhaps he’d go away and I could work out what I should do with them. Perhaps I’d even give them to him, but I needed time to think about it.
‘So I have to ask myself,’ he went on, ‘why would the kid dress up like that for a simple police interview? All I can think of is that she wanted to avoid the hard questions.’
He put a hand on my arm, pulled me around to face him and took hold of my chin to force me to look directly into his eyes.
‘Questions like, did you find anything in the watch fob, behind that picture? Did you take the negatives, Maisie?’
I managed to look into those icy blue eyes for only a few seconds before I felt myself reddening and I dropped my gaze. His hand fell away from my face and he let go of my arm. He pointed to a bench and said, abruptly, ‘Sit down.’
I sat, staring at the ground in front of my feet. My hands clutched my handbag. Michael sat beside me.
‘Kid, this is not a joke. It’s not a movie or a book or some jolly game. It’s deadly serious and it’s dangerous. For you and for me and for others also. I need them, and quickly. Where did you put them?’
I stared at the concrete path near my feet. It was cracked and pitted from shrapnel and bullets. Red brick-dust had filled the cracks so that it looked like a crazy painting in the earth.
‘Answer me, kid. Where did you put them?’
‘I’m not a kid.’
‘Inhabiting a woman’s body doesn’t mean you’re grown up. Where did you put them?’
‘Or what? You’ll torture me?’ I was still looking at the ground.
I felt him shift uneasily beside me.
‘My colleagues will decide what to do with you.’
‘Now you’re trying to scare me.’ I looked at him. ‘I’ll run back to Scotland Yard. They’ll protect me.’
He took hold of my arm again and his voice was low and very cold. ‘I won’t let you do that.’
I shuddered. ‘And you wonder why I don’t trust you.’
His hand fell away.
Across from us was a half-destroyed building. All around me was evidence of what had been happening in the past six months. My face flamed, but now it was with anger. How dare he threaten me? Here, in London.
‘Now you listen to me, Mr Michael Harker.’ My voice was low and bitter. ‘You told me that I’m mixed up in a very serious business. You said I’m in danger. What of it? I’m living through a Blitz. I’m in danger every bloody night. Don’t you dare to talk to me about danger.’
I took a breath and tried to moderate my voice, but I was furious and I didn’t care if he knew it.
‘Britain is at war. London is under constant attack. Thousands of civilians have died already and more will die before the end. And I’ve been out there, night after night. I’ve watched them die. Our men are dying on battlefields and in the air and at sea. This country – my country – is fighting for its very existence as a free nation. Don’t you dare talk to me about danger.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but I pressed on.
‘How can I know that giving the – this thing – to you will help Britain? President Roosevelt seems to want to help us, but many prominent Americans are isolationist.’
I raised my eyes, and this time I held that blue gaze, forced him to look at me.
‘Your Ambassador Kennedy has made it clear he wants to keep America neutral, stop any help coming to Britain. It’s almost as if he would be happy for Germany to – to annihilate us.’
Michael shifted uneasily on the bench, then his mouth firmed. He said, ‘There’s a new ambassador now, who thinks differently about it.’
‘And he’s been in Britain, what? – a week? How do I know that you aren’t in sympathy with Ambassador Kennedy’s views?’
‘I’m not.’ His voice was low, urgent. ‘Believe me, kid, I’m not. Of course I want to help this country. I’ve seen what it’s going through, seen the everyday bravery and it’s been an eye-opener for me. I do want to help you.’
I shook my head. ‘Even if you sympathise with us, how do I know that your superiors – the ones who want this thing so desperately – how do I know they feel the same? What if they don’t?’
I stopped my tirade and glared at him. This time his gaze fell first, which gave me a quite unreasonable feeling of elation.
‘So I have to convince you that what you’ve got will be used for Britain’s benefit?’ he said slowly.
‘At the very least, that it won’t be used against us.’
‘Hungry?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Let’s talk over dinner.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I decided to accept his offer, mainly because I still had no idea what to do with the negatives. I could have screamed, made a fuss, insisted on returning to Scotland Yard, but how would I explain what I had done? I wasn’t at all sure that Inspector Wayland would not have insisted that I immediately return the negatives to the American Embassy, if they could prove that the locket belonged to Mr Egan. A thought struck me like a shard of ice. Was it theft to remove the negatives? Had I committed a crime? And if I hadn’t actually lied to the police, I’d come very close. Was it a lie to withhold information? Was that a crime, too?
‘It’s too early for dinner,’ I said. ‘What I’d really like is a cup of tea.’
Apparently I’m what the Americans call ‘a cheap date’. Or so Michael said, after we alighted from the bus at Charing Cross Road and I passed by the more exclusive teahouses. Instead I chose an ABC. Michael ordered a pot of tea for me and quaffed two cups of coffee himself as we talked disinterestedly about the weather and what was likely to go under the ration next, and anything but what was on our minds. It was a relief to sit quietly drinking tea and let my thoughts settle.
‘I take it this is designed to make me trust you?’ I said, as I finished my second cup. ‘It might work. I was becoming desperate.’
Michael’s eyes widened as I poured myself a third cup from the dregs in the pot.
‘That’ll tan your insides,’ he said, looking at the dark brown liquid that emerged from the teapot.
‘It’s certainly well mashed, as we say in Sheffield,’ I said. ‘No point in an insipid cup of tea, it’s an abomination.’
‘You’re from Sheffield? That’s where they make the steel, isn’t it?’
I felt my cheeks become heated. ‘Yes. Not many people know where I’m from. I usually keep my background to myself.’
‘Why? Ashamed of it, or something?’
I took a sip of tea, which was strong even by my standards, and very bitter.
‘Not ashamed.’ I paused, considering how to answer. ‘It’s a wonderful city, and the people there – my people – are wonderful. Tough, no-nonsense and hard-working. They take nothing from no one but they’ll always stick up for those around them. I’m proud to be of that stock. But I’m from a poor working-class background and that counts against you in this country.’
He raised the corner of his mouth in a slight sneer. ‘Your English class system? That why you speak like you do? To fool people you’re from a better class?’
I sighed. ‘As I said, it counts in this country.’
Michael sat back in his chair, looked at me, but said nothing. I had a strong, almost irresistible, urge to talk to him about my childhood, and checked it with another sip of the almost undrinkable tea.
Then I told him anyway. ‘I had a hard childhood. We were terribly poor. I was earning money for the family dancing in pantomimes from the time I was eight.’
‘What about your dad?’
I stiffened and unwisely took another sip of tea.
‘He, um, left when I was very young. We lived with my grandparents, who were … difficult.’
‘But you got yourself out of that poverty with your dancing. That’s admirable. Why hide it?’
‘You’re American. In
your country it’s a badge of honour to have been born poor and overcome hardship to be rich.’
‘Log cabin to president, you mean?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose so, although I’m not sure what that means. I mean that in America you’re not judged by where you were born and who your parents were, and you’re not put into a box because of that and never allowed to really break out of it.’
He started to speak, but I carried on. ‘It’s subtle, our class system. It’s how you speak, and how you dress and how you hold your cutlery and where you went to school, and there are a thousand traps to catch those who pretend to be a higher class. But if you don’t pretend then you’re trapped, put into a box. Working class. Lower class. Common.’
How I hated the word ‘common’. I’d heard it when I moved to London. That Maisie Halliday, she’s such a common girl. Common as muck. And a bastard to boot.
‘I love Sheffield,’ I went on. ‘In many ways I miss it terribly. But my dancing took me out of Sheffield to a dance academy in London. There it was made perfectly clear that my accent had to go. I’m not sorry about that, because even in the chorus line, if I spoke the way I was brought up to speak, I’d be treated entirely differently.’
He leaned back and looked at me. ‘So, how were you brought up to speak?’
I laughed. ‘Ge’ore.’
He smiled.
‘Nah then, chuff, da shunt ask a lass aboot sech ma’ers. Tha bes’nt’t dood at.’
Michael laughed. ‘I got only two words in all of that.’
I laughed, too. ‘It’s a grand place, Sheffield. If you went, you’d probably only hear the constant thud of the drop hammers and see the black walls and the soot – all the walls are black and there’s always soot and smoke in the air – but it’s so much more than that.’
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