Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

by Ken Follett

  There was a crash of gears and the truck moved. Lloyd felt it turn the corner and pick up speed. He lay still, too scared to move.

  He watched the tops of buildings pass by, alert in case anyone else should spot him, though he did not know what he would do if it happened. Every second was taking him away from the guards, he told himself encouragingly.

  To his disappointment, the truck came to a halt quite soon. The engine was turned off, then the driver’s door opened and slammed shut. Then nothing. Lloyd lay still for a while, but the driver did not return.

  Lloyd looked at the sky. The sun was high: it must be after midday. The driver was probably having lunch.

  The trouble was, Lloyd continued to be visible from high windows on both sides of the street. If he remained where he was he would be noticed sooner or later. And then there was no telling what might happen.

  He saw a curtain twitch in an attic, and that decided him.

  He stood up and looked over the side. A man in a business suit walking along the pavement stared in curiosity but did not stop.

  Lloyd scrambled over the side of the truck and dropped to the ground. He found himself outside a bar-restaurant. No doubt that was where the driver had gone. To Lloyd’s horror there were two men in German army uniforms sitting at a window table with glasses of beer in their hands. By a miracle they did not look at Lloyd.

  He walked quickly away.

  He looked around alertly as he walked. Everyone he passed stared at him: they knew exactly what he was. One woman screamed and ran away. He realized he needed to change his khaki shirt and trousers for something more French in the next few minutes.

  A young man took him by the arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said in English with a heavy accent. ‘I will ’elp you ’ide.’

  He turned down a side street. Lloyd had no reason to trust this man, but he had to make a split-second decision, and he went along.

  ‘This way,’ the young man said, and steered Lloyd into a small house.

  In a bare kitchen was a young woman with a baby. The young man introduced himself as Maurice, the woman as his wife, Marcelle, and the baby as Simone.

  Lloyd allowed himself a moment of grateful relief. He had escaped from the Germans! He was still in danger, but he was off the streets and in a friendly house.

  The stiffly correct French Lloyd had learned in school and at Cambridge had become more colloquial during his escape from Spain, and especially in the two weeks he spent picking grapes in Bordeaux. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Maurice replied in French, evidently relieved not to have to speak English. ‘I guess you’d like something to eat.’

  ‘Very much.’

  Marcelle rapidly cut several slices off a long loaf and put them on the table with a round of cheese and a wine bottle with no label. Lloyd sat down and tucked in ravenously.

  ‘I’ll give you some old clothes,’ said Maurice. ‘But also, you must try to walk differently. You were striding along looking all around you, so alert and interested, you might as well have a sign around your neck saying “Visitor from England”. Better to shuffle with your eyes on the ground.’

  With his mouth full of bread and cheese Lloyd said: ‘I’ll remember that.’

  There was a small shelf of books including French translations of Marx and Lenin. Maurice noticed Lloyd looking at them and said: ‘I was a Communist – until the Hitler-Stalin pact. Now – it’s finished.’ He made a swift cutting-off gesture with his hand. ‘All the same, we have to defeat Fascism.’

  ‘I was in Spain,’ said Lloyd. ‘Before that, I believed in a united front of all left parties. Not any more.’

  Simone cried. Marcelle lifted a large breast out of her loose dress and began to feed the baby. French women were more relaxed about this than the prudish British, Lloyd remembered.

  When he had eaten, Maurice took him upstairs. From a wardrobe that had very little in it he took a pair of dark-blue overalls, a light-blue shirt, underwear and socks, all worn but clean. The kindness of this evidently poor man overwhelmed Lloyd, and he had no idea how to say thank you.

  ‘Just leave your army clothes on the floor,’ Maurice said. ‘I’ll burn them.’

  Lloyd would have liked a wash, but there was no bathroom. He guessed it was in the back yard.

  He put on the fresh clothes and studied his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. French blue suited him better than army khaki, but he still looked British.

  He went back downstairs.

  Marcelle was burping the baby. ‘Hat,’ she said.

  Maurice produced a typical French beret, dark blue, and Lloyd put it on.

  Then Maurice looked anxiously at Lloyd’s stout black leather British army boots, dusty but unmistakably good quality. ‘They give you away,’ he said.

  Lloyd did not want to give up his boots. He had a long way to walk. ‘Perhaps we can make them look older?’ he said.

  Maurice looked doubtful. ‘How?’

  ‘Do you have a sharp knife?’

  Maurice took a clasp knife from his pocket.

  Lloyd took his boots off. He cut holes in the toecaps, then slashed the ankles. He removed the laces and re-threaded them untidily. Now they looked like something a down-and-out would wear, but they still fit well and had thick soles that would last many miles.

  Maurice said: ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I have two options,’ Lloyd said. ‘I can head north, to the coast, and hope to persuade a fisherman to take me across the English Channel. Or I can go south-west, across the border into Spain.’ Spain was neutral, and still had British consuls in major cities. ‘I know the Spanish route – I’ve travelled it twice.’

  ‘The Channel is a lot nearer than Spain,’ Maurice said. ‘But I think the Germans will close all the ports and harbours.’

  ‘Where’s the front line?’

  ‘The Germans have taken Paris.’

  Lloyd suffered a moment of shock. Paris had fallen already!

  ‘The French government has moved to Bordeaux.’ Maurice shrugged. ‘But we are beaten. Nothing can save France now.’

  ‘All Europe will be Fascist,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘Except for Britain. So you must go home.’

  Lloyd mused. North or south-west? He could not tell which would be better.

  Maurice said: ‘I have a friend, a former Communist, who sells cattle feed to farmers. I happen to know he’s delivering this afternoon to a place south-west of here. If you decide to go to Spain, he could take you twenty miles.’

  That helped Lloyd make up his mind. ‘I’ll go with him,’ he said.

  (iii)

  Daisy had been on a long journey that had brought her around in a circle.

  When Lloyd was sent to France she was heartbroken. She had missed her chance of telling him she loved him – she had not even kissed him!

  And now there might never be another opportunity. He was reported missing in action after Dunkirk. That meant his body had not been found and identified, but neither was he registered as a prisoner of war. Most likely he was dead, blown up into unidentifiable fragments by a shell, or perhaps lying unmarked beneath the debris of a destroyed farmhouse. She cried for days.

  For another month she moped about Tŷ 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 labour 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. Rumours 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 harbours, 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 open-mouthed 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 7 September, 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-coloured Bentley Airline disappear around the next corner.

  She followed.

  He drove across Trafalgar Square and through the theatre 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 backwards, 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 parlour. 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 promised 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 somet
hing, 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 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.