The audience broke into applause. Three or four, including Creevey-Adams, rose to their feet and shouted ‘Bravo’. The speaker held up his hand.
‘Those who know me will know I am not one to indict our Jewish fellow-citizens with lack of patriotism. Whether at this juncture in our nation’s affairs it is right to have a Jew minister of war is a different matter – one on which opinions will vary. And opening nature’s fortress to a torrent of so-called refugees, many of whom carry the bacillus of bolshevism and anarchism, cannot be called wisdom.’
Dinah – such sharp wit and intelligence shining out of her brown, hazel, green eyes. Dinah enjoying the roast beef of Old England – carrying the Bolshevik bacillus? Such tosh. A communist, yes, as so many, intellectuals and workers, school friends and contemporaries at Oxford and Cambridge. Party members, some, and others who sympathised with its ideals. Bacillus tosh. He dragged his thoughts back to silver hair.
‘But one thing is clear: we must not allow this land we cherish and our beloved empire to be misled into waging a totally unnecessary war against her true interests at the urging of cosmopolitan capital. That is beyond doubt. We have no quarrel with Germany. The memory of the suffering on both sides in the Great War should unite us, as Herr Hitler has said, not divide us, and should give us a common interest in avoiding a wholly unnecessary conflict. In war I have fought them; in peace I have taken their hand. I know we can meet men of honour on common ground.
I call on all those present, who include some with experience and responsibility in guiding our national affairs, to take every step within the law – within the law I say – to bring this government to see sense before it is too late, and avoid plunging our people into the tragedy of wasted lives and wasted treasure.’
The audience rose to him. Questions were taken, none hostile. At last, not soon enough for Peter, came the vote of thanks, offered by a clergyman of military bearing. ‘We are your men; tell us what you need of us.’
At the door, a slender young man handed out copies of a letter that had been sent to Lord Halifax, calling for friendship with Germany.
The salt-and-pepper aunt tugged at Peter’s sleeve. ‘Miriam Baggot.’ She hadn’t seen him at one of these meetings before, she added, but if, as a friend of Mr Creevey-Adams’s—
‘And Brigadier-General Hill’s son’, Creevey-Adams interjected.
— he was interested in following it up, a smaller working group met at the Russian Tea Rooms in Kensington from time to time. Perhaps he would like to join them? Her blonde companion produced a notebook and asked for his name and address. As Peter fished for his card case, Miriam put two fingers in her mouth and brought a taxi to a halt with a piercing whistle. ‘Not lady-like, I know. But it works. That’s what’s important, don’t you think? What works.’
Alone again, Creevey-Adams said it was good to hear the case for peace and friendship with Germany put so clearly and persuasively, ‘even if he had soft-pedalled the pernicious influence of the “Scotchmen” in our midst’. The wily old bird knew the press had sneaked in. Still, he was doing all the talking. Peter was being very discreet. What had he thought?
‘A very impressive speaker. It was a considerable experience to have heard him. Thank you.’
A series of ear-splitting crashes, making them jump, came to his rescue. A little further up the road, workmen were unloading metal sheeting, picks, hammers, pipes and planks from their lorry, throwing them piece by piece over the side. Peter smiled to himself in relief. An unlikely deus ex machina. Then another – a stream of Territorials in new ill-fitting uniforms and stiff, heavy boots, running from a near-by drill hall, heading towards the pub, laughing and chanting ‘Beer. Beer. Beer now’.
‘Up the Gunners!’ The workmen raised a cheer.
Creevey-Adams shuddered. ‘Our reserves, God help us.’ He turned away, declining Peter’s offer of a drink. Dinner was waiting at home, but they should dine after the next meeting. In the meantime, not to forget discretion was the order of the day and ‘Do think over the invitation to the Russian Tea Rooms. Quite a privilege, I can tell you, coming from Miriam. Just round the corner from you, isn’t it?’
****
The meeting had left Peter thirsty and he put his head into the four-ale bar, but the counter was packed with soldiers, the air already thick with smoke and a stale compound of bodies and unwashed khaki. As he turned to go, he dropped the letter to Halifax and a man sitting by the door picked it up and held it out to him. On his table was the evening paper, open at the racing results; a stubby pipe smouldered in the ashtray. He stood up, forced to shout over the din. ‘Mr Hill, isn’t it? Nick Harry. We met when you kindly rescued my hat at that Left Front meeting.’ He pointed to his head. ‘As you can see, I’ve managed to hang on to it. This your local?’
‘No, not at all. I met a friend from chambers here earlier.’
‘So you’re on your own this evening?’ A knowing smile.
The contradiction lost Peter for a moment. Dinah? ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Not her sort of meeting tonight, I imagine?’
‘I wasn’t actually at that one before, the Left one. But you … ?’
‘I suppose I like to keep my finger on the pulse.’
Two soldiers, one white-faced and hanging on to the other, forced themselves between them and out of the pub, leaving the doors swinging. Nick Harry picked up his paper and pipe. ‘I must be off – too damn noisy with all these pongos here. Good to meet you again.’
In the street, the workmen were jeering a soldier bent double over the gutter. ‘Can’t hold his beer. Can’t hold Hitler.’
****
That day had been heavy with the government’s attempts to ready the civilian population for war. Announcements prepared the way for mass evacuation, clearing hospital wards, calling up Civil Defence, appealing for blankets. Summoning the nation to stand to, he reflected. Yet wasn’t there a strange unreality to it all? People were doing what the government required of them, yet seemed unconvinced that war was approaching yet again, or that this whole business of buying torch batteries, preparing gas-proof rooms, setting up first aid posts, evacuating children, reporting to head-quarters in municipal buildings and drill halls would be worthwhile—was, somehow, it.
Wasn’t there something to that disengagement? If not fight for Czechoslovakia, our creation, why for Poland? What was it Chamberlain had said during Munich? Thoughtful enough, moral-sounding enough. “However much we may sympathize with a small nation confronted by a big and powerful neighbour, we cannot in all circumstances undertake to involve the whole British Empire in war simply on her account. If we have to fight it must be on larger issues than that.” But when had Britain ever fought for a large issue? A great threat or large gain, maybe. Was Poland a larger issue for Britain and her Empire? Scarcely a beacon of democracy. Not that we’d backed that in Spain. And anyway, how for Poland? What possible strategy? Launch an attack on Berlin? Overthrow Hitler? With what? Would those trenches in Hyde Park, dug for cowering against German air attack, hold Hitler back in Poland? His father had said the army was now fit only to fight minor colonial wars. Adding that anyone who listened to Churchill should remember he had never mastered the difference between strategy and tactics – and was just as hot-headed and unreliable at both.
But none of that made at all palatable what he had just heard from that evil old man and his Jew-hating supporters. He made a note to put something from the Left Book Club on his chambers’ desk where Creevey-Adams might see it. Brailsford’s Why Capitalism Means War would do nicely.
Chapter Three
Next morning, when he emerged late from the flat, the streets seemed hushed. He noticed at once how many were carrying gas masks. Outside the grocer’s, a group of women shoppers were all in tears. At the newsagent’s, posters trumpeted “Hitler Invades Poland”. So the moment had come. What now? How was Dinah feeling?
In search of a beer and a sandwich, he dropped into his local. The barmaid looked as if sh
e had been crying and was only just holding back tears. The landlord’s wife sent her out on an errand and confided to Peter that the girl’s intended was a regular and posted to the advance guard for France. ‘No cheering in the streets this time,’ she said. ‘I’ve never known it so quiet.’ Customers clustered round a wireless placed on the bar, waiting with muttered conversation and occasional nervous laughter for the cinema organ to stop its medley of sea shanties and the news to begin.
A final flourish of Drake’s Drum and the pub fell silent. German advances deeper into Poland. Berlin claims of Polish aggression on the border. Warsaw and Krakow bombed. Mr Chamberlain had formed a War Cabinet, Mr Churchill accepting an invitation to become First Lord of the Admiralty—the pub applauded. Evacuation of children going smoothly with the help of parents, teachers, transport staff; the Ministry of Health had reported no hitches in departure areas or reception zones. People who had work to do should stay at their posts—the pub gave an ironic cheer. Those who had orders to report for Civil Defence duties should do so immediately. Preparations for mobilisation should be completed; an announcement would be made on the wireless. Complete blackout should be observed from nightfall—the pub gave a groan and emptied.
Going back to the flat for his gas mask, Peter found a note left by Mrs Beaston. She would not be able to attend them further, having accepted an invitation by her sister to move to the country where she would help out looking after the evacuees. Apologising for the short notice, she had been glad to have been of service and wished Mr and Miss Hill all the very best.
Was that more to do with Madame Duverger’s visitation? Ella would certainly think so. As if to justify her, while he stood with the note in his hand, the telephone rang and it was Madame Duverger, glad to have caught him in. She understood Madame Beaston had departed. For the country. However, all was made good. She would be coming in Madame Beaston’s place. Naturally, at Madame his mother’s express wish. And then, much as an afterthought, Madame his mother had been in Rome, was entertained in the golf club of Acquasanta. She had been introduced to the foreign minister Count Galeazzo Ciano and had thought him charming. The count was being very helpful towards her photographic commissions, smoked only English cigarettes. She rang off with the adjuration to blackout the flat thoroughly, as Madame his mother would wish.
How did Duverger know about Mrs B, or that he was in the flat? Was she watching from the phone box opposite the entrance to the block? A ring at the door made him jump. The porter with a letter by messenger from his father’s solicitor. Notice had been given to the tenant occupying the family home, The Old House. Would Peter kindly go down to Hampshire and collect the keys and make sure it was secure?
It was all a bit much. So Father was coming back from Kenya after all. And his children were among the last to know. Typical of the old man. Just typical.
On impulse, he decided to go to the house that afternoon. He could spend the night at the local inn. He scribbled a note for Ella, adding a p.s: ‘Says the Assassin, “Don’t forget the blackout”’, packed an overnight bag, threw his gas mask into a corner, and took a cab to Waterloo.
****
‘Soldiers and apples,’ he said to Ella over early breakfast on Sunday morning. ‘The stations and trains packed with soldiers. Just like the Great War, I imagine. And the orchard full of apples, don’t remember its being so rich.’ He had brought back a bag of Worcesters, red and rough-skinned. ‘And the smell in the house, just the same – his pipe tobacco, her powder.’
‘Presbyterian Mixture and Congo Impérial.’
‘The sunflowers she planted were in full bloom. A great mass of yellow heads.’
The inn had been full. Officers from a temporary local camp were using it as their mess. He had eaten there, then walked back to the house to bed down in what had been the nursery. In the dark. The tenant hadn’t done much by way of blackout.
‘Was it awful? Being back there?’ Ella interjected.
‘No worse than the inn – or cold water ablutions at prep school. Good preparation for the war, I should think. When the knockout blow comes.’
‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
‘There were echoes, lots of echoes. Good as well as awful. I did wish you were there, Ella. To share it again.’
She leaned over and hugged him. ‘What now?’
‘Father’ll simply turn up, I suppose, and greet us as if he hadn’t been away.’
‘In uniform again, do you think?’
Peter shrugged. ‘Back to the colours? I’m sure he’s really missed grandeur militaire, regretted resigning.’
‘And the Belgian assassin telling you all about Mother in Rome.’
‘Being ogled by Musso’s son-in-law! Perhaps she’s just trying to tell us how full Mother’s life is since she went off. She’s so much more in touch with Mother – after all they were together in Paris long before we arrived.’
‘She still gives me the jitters—as if she has secret plans for me.’ Ella was off to her ambulance post. ‘We agreed to listen to Mr Chamberlain as a group in case they send over bombers on a sneak raid.’ She had news: the possibility of her being commissioned as a war artist if war really came. ‘Apparently my style of social drawing will be what they want.’ Wonderful, but … ‘Do you think I should accept?’ Wouldn’t her work as an ambulance driver be more valuable if bombs started to fall? Wouldn’t making art from ruined streets and frantic people be a selfish lack of responsibility?
‘You’re an artist. For an artist, art must always come before life. Or death.’
‘Only a flâneur could say that.’
He waved his buttery knife like an orchestral conductor. ‘My strolling is my art.’
‘I’ve news. Wilde is dead and buried.’
‘If you get the offer, and if bombing starts, I’ll take your place at the wheel.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to come down to the station now and meet the girls?’
‘No thanks. I’m meeting a friend for a walk on the Heath.’ He jumped up and began to clear the breakfast table, covering the gap as she waited for a name.
Putting on her hat and coat, Ella was smiling at him. ‘I thought there was someone. You’ve been quite different lately. In another world.’
‘Absolute nonsense. If it’s anything, it’s just the war and wondering what to do.’
‘I hope you’ll introduce me before things get too fraught.’ At the door she turned. ‘Aren’t you listening to Chamberlain?’
‘I expect we’ll hear him in a café.’
****
He had paid off the taxi only minutes before she came striding out of the Underground, and then had to look again to be sure that this carefree young woman was, indeed, Dinah. Her hair was let loose, long and lustrous, tied back with a broad red ribbon. She was ready to walk: a jersey over a blouse, a pleated skirt, and solid walking shoes. She carried a mackintosh and a green tweed hat with a feather.
For the first time, in a glance, he saw how slender she was, though certainly womanly enough. Quite tall. He was a shade under 6ft, though his lean frame and long legs made him look taller, and she would reach his chin. Her head was slightly long for her narrow shoulders, and her eyes large for her narrow features, but so brilliant. His head was long. Did like attract like? he wondered. Not really alike: his face more oval; his nose beaky, not aquiline; his eyes deeper set.
She waved the hat, smiling as she caught sight of him.
He took them into a narrow lane that led down towards the Heath, passing by a dark red-brick Victorian church set in a little triangle of grass and trees. As they walked by, they could hear the resonant swelling of the organ. In a long queue, people of all ages, in families and alone, were filing in; children were running round the churchyard, waiting for their parents to approach the door.
‘I bet that’s the best congregation the vicar’s had in years. Well, since Munich,’ Peter observed. ‘But will he be preaching “Blessed are the peacemakers” or “I come with
a sword”?’
‘Should you like to go in and hear?’ she asked.
‘Only if you would like to.’
Dinah halted and looked back thoughtfully at the crowd of worshippers. ‘I have never been before. Perhaps now is the time.’ Something in his expression made her smile. ‘Yet perhaps not. Do you go to church?’
‘Not since leaving school, where chapel was compulsory. You had to go. Part of daily life.’ Certain services he’d enjoyed as an aesthetic experience; choral evensong in the depth of winter, listening to the intoned responses, yellow candlelight playing on ancient stonework. He decided not to go into that, took a breath and dared a question. ‘Do you go to the synagogue?’
‘I went only when I stayed with my mother’s parents in the country in the summer. I didn’t understand any of it and was very boring.’
‘Bored. How do you speak such wonderful English?’
‘From Agatha Christie. My father had all the Poirots sent from here. He came to a medical congress and found The Mysterious Affair at Styles in his hotel room. The congress was very dull and he read it. And then he asked a medical contact to send new ones to him, and he did, up to Death on the Nile. First my father read them aloud and then I read them by myself. I have learned so much from them. It was very confusing sometimes. Words like “bounder”. Are you a bounder?’
‘I hope not.’
‘And you pronounce your “h”, so you are not of the lower class. “’Orrible, ’orrible”. So I have learned all about the English from Mrs Christie.’
‘But Poirot is a Belgian.’
‘No. He is not Belgian. He is the English idea of a foreigner. And so I also learn from his funny ways what is not English and what is English. And how Mrs Christie’s Captain Hastings and Inspector Japp are English as she makes them see him.’
He was trying to recall the Poirots, read during bouts of flu.
‘But it is true I also learn French. Très bien, C’est dommage! C’est bien dommage! Merci, mon ami! Ma foi! Zut alors!’
Innocence To Die For Page 4