by Leo McNeir
“Zwetschgenkuchen … plum cake taken from the oven to cool, lightly coated with sour cream.”
She became suddenly serious. “I’d never done it before.”
“I know. Neither had I.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The alarm clock went off, and the moment passed.
*
Donovan was putting the chairs and buckets of Fortress Garfield back where they belonged, and Anne was squashing the last of her things into the rucksack when the mobile rang. Six-fifteen exactly.
“Everything’s fine here, Marnie. Just about to leave.”
Thank goodness! Marnie tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Good. Remember the caretaker’s coming early to check the place over, even though it’s Saturday.”
“I know. Serena persuaded him, used her charms.”
“Of course. I’ll have breakfast ready for you. Drive carefully.”
“Er … Marnie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m feeling a bit peckish. I might just grab something on the way.”
Odd. “Okay. I’ll expect you when I see you. You’re sure everything’s all right?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely fine. See you soon.”
*
They threw their things onto the back seat of the Mini and drove off without attracting attention. Anne threaded their way through the Victorian terraces and emerged into the town centre’s one-way system. Donovan offered her a choice. She could drop him off if she wanted to get home quickly or come for breakfast on the boat.
In a few minutes they were on board X O 2 at its mooring beside an attractive park on the River Nene Navigation. Donovan produced a dark rye loaf, butter and honey, and a small tin of evaporated milk. The coffee pot stood on the table between them.
“Donovan? Why did you walk to the school and not go on your bike?”
“A Muddy Fox mountain bike, bright yellow? Too conspicuous.”
“True. It is rather eye-catching.”
“It’s a classic. I like classics. But it’s not good camouflage.”
“Same as your cameras,” said Anne. “Leicas are classics, aren’t they? Are those ones very old?”
“They belonged to my uncle Reinhardt’s father. He was a photo-journalist between the wars. There were quite a few of them before television news came along. Sorry, another history lesson.”
“No. Tell me, if you don’t think I’m prying.”
“He was an ethnic German from the Sudetenland. It’s in Czechoslovakia now, you know, but they were Germans by cultural background. He even fought in the German army in the first world war. I’ve got his medals somewhere.”
Anne almost said she knew, but managed to steer him back to his subject. “You were saying he was a photo-journalist?”
“Yes, working on magazines. He used the middle camera at the Olympic Games in Berlin in 1936. That thing was aimed at Hitler, Goering and the rest. Pity it wasn’t a cannon.” He smiled at the unintentional pun. “With one of the others he took the racing car pictures at the German Grand Prix in 1938.”
“You even kept the one with the swastika.” It was almost an accusation.
Donovan was still smiling. “Did you know that ‘swastika’ means ‘good fortune’? Ironic, isn’t it?”
“He must’ve been in a privileged position to have taken those photos,” Anne said tentatively.
The smile faded. “These are almost the only photos I have from him. He was arrested after filing a report on the so-called liberation of the Sudetenland by Hitler the following year. Another irony. That invasion brought my uncle’s family out, otherwise they’d have been caught by the Russians.”
“What about your uncle’s father?”
“No-one ever saw him again. His report was never published.”
“There must be lots of families that suffered like yours, loads of horror stories to tell.”
“Yes. That’s why I want to help with things this summer. You can add my name to your list of volunteers, if you think I could be of use.”
As they breakfasted neither spoke about the night they had spent together. But there was now a relaxed atmosphere between them. Donovan stroked Anne’s hair when he rose to clear the table, and she reached up momentarily to touch his hand. They washed the dishes together in an easy silence.
When it was time to go, Anne took out her car keys and offered Donovan a lift to a shop where he could get milk. It was a small detour, and both were pleased to be together for a few minutes longer. Anne drove up towards the one-way system and was following the obligatory route when she was overtaken by a fire engine, lights blazing, siren wailing. At a point where the road narrowed, a second fire engine loomed up in her mirrors.
“What do I do now?” she yelled at Donovan.
“Go faster!” he shouted over the noise.
The Mini was an unlikely filling in the sandwich as the three red vehicles wove their way rapidly through the streets in procession. With white knuckles Anne gripped the wheel, knowing she would relive this scene in her dreams for years to come. Thankful that the driver behind her had switched off his siren, she clung on doggedly. And suddenly the ordeal was over. Finding the road blocked by fire engines and cars, she pulled in behind an ambulance and let her pursuer pass. For a moment she rested her head on the steering wheel.
“You did brilliantly, Anne. That was…” Donovan’s voice faded.
Anne looked up to see him staring ahead. She followed his gaze. The activity going on around them was centred on a bus depot. The sign on the wall was just legible amid the chaos: Graham White Travel – founded 1933. Jets of water were raining down from hoses mounted on extending ladders. Fire-fighters in yellow helmets were rushing to and fro. The sky was clouding with smoke, some black, some grey. The smell of destruction was seeping into the car.
“This looks like my idea of hell,” Anne said. She jumped as a gloved hand rapped against the window. Winding it down she looked up to see a face concealed behind a breathing mask.
“You must leave the area at once,” came a man’s muffled voice. He pointed back down the street. “Reverse up, turn round and make your way in that direction. Drive slowly on dipped headlights. Understand?”
“But how do I get out? The road’s blocked off.”
“Go between the houses. You’ll come into a back alley. Turn right, follow it to the end. Got it?”
In the background an explosion erupted. Flames and debris flew up into the air from the yard behind the garage wall. One of the ladders rocked in the blast, its occupant clinging on bravely, redirecting the water cannon onto its new target. Anne was aware of the man shouting at her.
“You must get out of here. Now!”
Anne nodded, summoning all her reserves of willpower to keep calm. The words cool under fire were running through her mind. What a hope! Donovan’s hand was on her shoulder, and she could feel extra strength flowing into her from his grip. The street was becoming darker by the second as smoke filled the air. The noise from the inferno was growing to a hideous roar.
“Your window!” Donovan shouted.
Anne wound it shut and almost missed the gap between the houses. Thanking providence that she had a Mini and not a Range Rover, she guided the car down the narrow passage and found the alley that ran behind the houses. She blew air from her lips and trundled over the cobbles. Here all was quiet and calm. Nearing the top of the passageway she halted to take her breath. Donovan reached across and hugged her.
*
Marnie was just beginning to wonder what had become of Anne when the phone rang.
“Is everything all right? You sound a little … tense.”
“Marnie, you won’t believe what’s just happened to me.”
“Fire away.”
“Good guess. On the way back I got sucked in between these fire engines and ended up at the scene. It was the garage belonging to a coach company. Graham White Travel. It was awful … fire … smoke … an explosion. I wondered if it might’ve
been another attack.”
“I don’t think so. There’s been nothing on the radio. Don’t worry about it. You’re Okay?”
“I’m fine. And I’m on my way back, at last.”
Only a minute had passed when the phone rang again. It was Serena and she was in high spirits.
“No problems at the school? All well?”
“I didn’t go back. Things got complicated here. Anne did the stint on her own. She insisted, thought it would be a good test-run. There were no problems.”
“Brave girl. Good for her. Though I’m glad you told me now, not last night. I’d have worried about her.”
“Quite.”
“Listen, Marnie. I just want to let you know how things are going. We seem to be making progress again. I’ve managed to sign up another coach firm. That means we have all the transport we need for the extra summer scheme outings.”
An alarm bell started clanging in Marnie’s head. “This is recent?”
“I got the confirmation letter in the post this morning. I was in discussions with them all week, and I thought they weren’t going to be able to do it, but they’ve written to say it’s on.”
“Serena, does the name Graham White Travel mean anything to you?”
“Oh my God, Marnie, that is so weird. You must be psychic. That’s the firm I’m talking about.”
“Graham White?” Marnie’s voice was distant.
“It’s a kind of play on words,” said Serena. “Their coaches are painted in grey and white. Get it? They’re an old local firm and they’ve … Marnie, what made you think of them?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Serena, but I think I’ve got some bad news.”
*
Such a pleasant day. It was the usual mixture of sunshine flitting through wispy high clouds. A comfortable temperature. It should have been a relaxing summer lunch with friends, then a trip on the boat. Instead, it would be the usual council of war, the main activity that summer.
Ralph and Anne set up the table in the courtyard as Marnie finished preparing lunch. On any other day it would be a delicious summer medley: chilled asparagus soup with mint leaves, a salade niçoise and fresh raspberries with cream; white wine from the Loire valley. Today, Marnie wondered if anyone would taste it.
The table was covered in a cheerful cloth of yellow gingham, with small vases of marigolds. While Ralph was in the office barn’s kitchen area chopping sticks of French bread, Marnie inspected the setting, determined at least to sound upbeat.
“This is great, Anne. You’ve done a marvellous job, you and Ralph. The table goes well with the roses, too.”
They were standing in front of the cottages that were glorying in their first season of roses climbing round the doors. Marnie and Anne had planted them in the autumn, and an abundance of bright yellow and pink blooms lit up the yard. Bees were droning softly. The call to sniff the flowers was irresistible, and Marnie inclined her face towards them.
“Mm, gorgeous. That is wonderful.”
“Donovan says roses are the smell of summer in England.”
“Yes, he’s right.” Marnie frowned. “Er, when did he say that?”
“What?” Anne stepped across and buried her face in the roses, breathing in long and slowly, her eyes closed. She saw his face close to hers on the pillow. “Oh, some time,” she added vaguely. “He’s all right, you know, on our side.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.” Anne looked at her watch. “When were you expecting Serena and the others?”
“She should’ve been here by now.”
As if on cue, everyone made their appearance. Estelle and Luther emerged from the cottage. Before they even had time to speak, a car hove into view from the field track, and Serena’s Clio pulled up by the farmhouse, followed by George’s Range Rover. Last to arrive was Ronny, flicking his leg effortlessly over the saddle as he braked to a halt and rested the bike against the wall of the office barn in one fluid movement.
Amid the general kissing of cheeks, Ronny went towards Anne as if he intended to do the same. To his surprise, at the last minute Anne pointed to the office and asked him to bring out an extra chair, turning to adjust the flowers on the table. Ronny at once did as he was asked. Marnie observed them with curiosity. Everyone else huddled round Serena who brandished the lunchtime edition of the local paper.
“There’s nothing in it about the Graham White depot fire,” she announced.
“Must’ve happened after they’d gone to press,” said Ralph.
George edged up beside Serena and leaned close to read over her shoulder. “What’s Brandon up to today?”
Serena folded the paper and held it up. “Guess where he is? The front page.”
The headline read: BRANDON SLAMS IMMIGRANTS POLICY.
Ralph shook his head. “For the BFP this is the equivalent of a back-to-basics campaign. What’s Brandon saying?”
“He’s trying to outgun the right wing, undermine the Tories and steal their votes. As if they weren’t bad enough.” Beside her, George cleared his throat. “Oh, sorry, George, no offence.”
“None taken, my dear. We’re all in the same camp. But I would just like to mention that not all of us Tories are actual fascists.”
Serena turned and kissed him on the cheek. “Apology accepted?”
“None needed.” George caught the eye of his wife, and his smirk evaporated. “So what does the article say?”
Serena chanted the main points. “Basically, the whole of Europe needs a firm hand on immigration policy. Britain should lead by example, stop jobs being taken by so-called refugees and bogus asylum-seekers … bla-bla-bla … Tory government not strong enough … bla-bla-bla … the usual.”
“That’s positive proof.” Luther spoke for the first time.
Serena pinned him with a stare. “Of what?”
“It proves we must be the cleverest people in the country. We come over here – notice we always come over here – even those of us who were born in this country – and succeed in taking over all the jobs while simultaneously living entirely on the dole. That’s brilliant.”
There was general laughter. George cleared his throat again.
“You don’t think …” he began, as all eyes turned in his direction, “purely playing devil’s advocate, you understand. You don’t think that some people might have jobs and claim benefits?”
Ralph joined in. “There’s no evidence that ethnic communities are more guilty of that than any other section of society, George.”
“The figures show quite the opposite, actually,” said Luther. “Among Afro-Caribbeans there’s always been a stigma attached to claiming benefits. Anyway, who wants to come over here – it’s a long way from Jamaica – and live on the dole? People came here to make a better life for themselves and give their kids a good future.”
George nodded. “Good point. And many people have forgotten – or never knew – that the West Indians came to Britain in response to a call to come and help rebuild the old country after the war. They must’ve been sorely disappointed at not getting a better welcome when they’d come so far.”
“That’s all very well,” said Serena impatiently, “but it’s history. What do we say to refute Brandon’s statement?”
“There must be figures on who actually claims unemployment benefit,” said Luther.
“No, no.” Ralph raised his hands. “Not statistics … big turn-off. No-one believes them, and the papers won’t be interested. We have to lead with something positive.”
“The summer scheme is all we’ve got,” said Estelle. “It’s hardly going to make banner headlines on the front page – Summer Play scheme Exclusive … KIDS GO ON COACH TRIPS. Big deal.”
“What about the fire at the coach depot?” They all looked at Anne. “That was horrible. That should make the front page. Newspapers like horrible.”
“Trouble is, it might scare off the other coach operators,” said Ralph. “We’ve got to be careful. It’l
l depend on whether the police find any evidence. Now, if they arrested someone – someone linked with Brandon or New Force – that would be something. But without proof …”
*
During that Saturday lunchtime the weather grew steadily brighter in every part of the county, with one exception. In the courtyard of Glebe Farm a single grey cloud hovered about three metres above the table. No-one could see it but all felt its presence, Serena more than any of the others.
“Why does it always have to be us? Why can’t the political parties tackle Brandon and his cronies more effectively? Oh, sorry to be bitching like this, Marnie. Your food is delicious.”
There was a chorus of agreement.
“I share your frustration,” said Marnie. “But we all have to do what we can. That’s what we’re here to talk about.”
“We need to focus on the positive,” said George. “Keep our morale up.”
Serena nodded vigorously. “You’re absolutely right. First I’d like to thank Anne for doing last night’s guard duty at the school.”
Another chorus.
“Tell us, how was it for you?”
“Oh, er, it was fine.”
“What did you do? How did you organise things? Presumably you didn’t just listen to Radio One till eleven and turn out the light?”
“Not quite.” Anne paused as if searching her memory. “Well, I tried to fortify the place.”
“Fortify? Interesting. Go on.”
“I rigged up cleaners’ buckets on chairs leaning against the doors to the outside. If anyone tried to push the doors open, the bucket would fall off and make a noise.”
“An intruder alarm,” said Luther. “That’s good.”
“And I put chairs under the doorknobs of the classrooms to block them. Not much of a barrier, but enough to hold up anyone trying to get in through the classroom windows, give me time to raise the alarm.”
“Brilliant!” said Ronny. “Did you think it all up by yourself?”
“No.” For a few seconds she looked flustered.
“One of Marnie’s bright ideas?” said Luther.