by C. J. Sansom
Frank thought again about the shame of telling David where he was. When he’d been with him and his friends at university, sometimes then he had felt almost normal, human. But that was all gone now.
Ben raised his eyebrows, inclined his head interrogatively. ‘Deal?’ he asked.
‘All right,’ Frank said. He essayed a smile; a real one this time.
Chapter Twelve
SARAH RETURNED HOME FROM her meeting shortly after five on Friday. As she walked down the road she looked across the little park to the old air-raid shelter; she had often thought, thank God we never had to use the shelter, but now she wondered, would fighting on in 1940 really have brought something worse than this? She shook her head in helpless perplexity.
There was a handwritten note on the doormat. It was an estimate from the builders she had contacted, offering to come and re-wallpaper the staircase. She sat down wearily in an armchair, the note in her hand. She thought of the boys who had been beaten up outside the tube, all the blood. She wished her father had a telephone; despite the cost she would have phoned him in Clacton. She could have phoned Irene but knew what her sister would say: there had to be law enforcement, even if the Auxiliary Police did go over the top sometimes.
She remembered her father’s arrest, back in 1941. The pacifists who had supported the 1940 Treaty – the pacifist Labour MPs, the Peace Pledge activists, the Quakers – all those people had had qualms early on when anti-Nazi refugees, mostly Jewish, were sent back to Germany under the Treaty. But it was the start of the German war against Russia the following spring that had stirred them into mass protest when the ancient warhorse, Lloyd George, delighting in being back as Prime Minister after almost twenty years, urged British volunteers to join Germany’s campaign against communism.
A new campaigning organization, For Peace in Europe, had sprung up, and Sarah’s father had joined. There were marches, leafleting campaigns, a boycott of German produce. The newspapers, like Beaverbrook’s Express, had mocked the sandal-wearing vegetarian brigade who had turned their coats, as the Communists had, now Hitler had broken the Nazi-Soviet pact and invaded the homeland of communism.
In October 1941, just after the fall of Moscow, there had been a huge demonstration in Trafalgar Square and Sarah’s father had decided to go. It was the only time Sarah and Irene had had a major row; Irene was married to Steve and no longer a strict pacifist, but Sarah still planned to go on the march with her father. It was Jim who had refused to let her; even the BBC was calling the anti-war campaigners dangerous Communist stooges and though Jim was retired now, Sarah had her teaching job to lose. So she wasn’t there; she only heard on the news that the demonstration had collapsed into violent anarchism. She heard later, from her father, what had really happened, about the thousands sitting peacefully under Nelson’s Column: Bertrand Russell and Vera Brittain and A.J.P. Taylor, clerics by the hundred, London dockers, housewives, the unemployed and peers of the realm. The authorities had ringed the square with armoured cars, then sent in the police with batons. Many of the leaders had ended up in the Isle of Man detention camp with a ten-year sentence, and some were rumoured to have been shipped over to the Germans on the Isle of Wight. Further demonstrations were prohibited under the old wartime regulations that had remained in force after 1940. Lloyd George spoke of crushing subversion with a firm hand. Some famous pacifists, such as Vera Brittain and Fenner Brockway, went on hunger strike on the Isle of Man but were left to die. It was, Lloyd George said, their choice. There were other, smaller demonstrations, that Jim heard from old friends, but they were never publicized and ruthlessly suppressed. Jim said he was too old to be of use in illegal political activity, and told Sarah she should keep quiet, wait for better times. That had been David’s view too, when Sarah met him. But things had got steadily worse; people groused and muttered but they were powerless now.
Standing in her hall, Sarah wondered if she would even tell David what had happened this afternoon; he wouldn’t be back for hours and she didn’t know whether his story of working late was true. She walked into the lounge and stood there for a moment, arms wrapped round herself. She sighed. It was so easy to forget the things that went on now; perhaps it was good to have them thrust in your face. She lit the fire, which the daily woman had made up, then went back into the hall. She looked at the torn wallpaper. On a table in the hall stood the large, colourful Regency vase, decorated with bright flowers, which had been one of David’s mother’s proudest possessions. When his father moved to New Zealand he had left it with David. Sarah remembered another afternoon, a lifetime ago. Charlie, crawling now, had gone over to the table and slowly, steadily, tried to stand, clutching at the table edge. The vase had wobbled. David stepped towards his son, big, silent steps so as not to startle him, and grabbed Charlie under the arms and pulled him away. The little boy turned and stared at his father with an expression of such astonishment it made his parents laugh and Charlie joined in too. David raised him above his head. ‘We’ll have to move Grandma’s vase, or little Charlie rascal will get it.’ They had put the vase in a cupboard; but after Charlie died David had wanted to put it back. ‘It was always in the hall at our house.’
Sarah looked at the vase now. Then she doubled over, and began weeping helplessly.
David arrived home at eight. Sarah had composed herself by then and made dinner. She was knitting a pullover, a Christmas present for Irene’s elder son. She spent more and more time knitting these days; it was one way of passing her time alone in the house. She put the pullover down and looked at her husband. He seemed tired and pale, not like someone who had been in bed with a lover. She kissed him as usual. There was no smell of perfume on him, just the stale, cold tang of the London streets. He said, ‘I’m sorry, I wanted to get home at a decent time.’ He has been working late, she thought, he’s tired out. Unless the strain was from trying to act a part. She pulled away. David looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. And then, when she did not reply, he took her gently by the arms. ‘Sarah, has something happened?’
She must look more rattled than she had thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In town, this afternoon. I saw something horrible.’
They sat down and she told him about the attack. ‘Those boys were just distributing leaflets. Those Auxiliaries are barbarians, they beat them within an inch of their lives then took them away in a van. An old man told me they were taking them to the Gestapo.’
David looked into the fire. He said, ‘Didn’t Gandhi say peaceful protest only works if those you’re protesting against are capable of being shamed?’
Sarah looked up. ‘They were taking a stand. They were brave. All this violence that the Resistance has started, it’s just making things worse. That’s why the government’s recruiting more and more Auxiliaries. It’s a vicious circle.’
David gave her a strange, intent look. ‘What are people supposed to do? We’ve let it all go. Democracy, independence, freedom.’
‘Just go on waiting.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for the last twelve years? Well, I suppose it’s how ordinary people have coped with bad times through the ages. Hitler hasn’t appeared in public to meet Beaverbrook, has he? His most important ally. Maybe Hitler is dying.’
‘If he dies, Himmler could succeed.’
Sarah looked at David. He was as much against the regime as she was these days, and she had thought he would shout and rage about what had happened to the boys. At length he said, ‘It’s all unbearable, what’s happening in the world.’
‘You’re tired,’ she said. ‘Go upstairs and change out of your work clothes. I’ll lay the table.’
She put the decorators’ note beside his plate. As David sat down to eat, and Sarah set out the lamb chops, she said, ‘That came this afternoon, while I was out. He can come next week.’
David looked across the table. ‘Has that upset you, too? As well as those boys being attacked?’
‘A little, yes.’ She hesitated. ‘I d
on’t think we’ve always helped each other as we might.’
‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s been a tough couple of years, hasn’t it, one way and another?’
‘Tough as hell.’
‘I’ve got another committee meeting on Sunday.’
‘Will you be all right to go?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll go.’
Afterwards they watched the news on television in their separate armchairs. Beaverbrook was broadcasting from Berlin; he stood on the steps of the Reich chancellery smiling cheerfully at the reporters, bright as buttons as always. He spoke in his sharp voice with its Canadian twang: ‘I am happy to report, gentlemen, that my talks with Herr Goebbels have gone very well. I also had an audience with Herr Hitler this morning. He sends his warm greetings to the British people and the Empire. A new era of economic and military co-operation with Germany is dawning, which can only help our country in these difficult times. Tariffs on trade between Britain and Europe are to be reduced, easing trade conditions and helping our industries. The size of the British army is to be increased by a hundred thousand men, amending the Treaty of Berlin, to strengthen our Imperial forces. I shall bring back the keys to a new prosperity and strength for our country and Empire. Thank you.’
David laughed emptily. ‘If the Germans are going to let us trade more with Europe and recruit more soldiers they’ll want something in return. Trade – I expect that’ll mean contracts for our arms industry; they’ve been trying to get in on the Russian war for years.’
‘Oh, God.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Remember in the thirties, how people used to laugh at Mosley and his Blackshirts strutting along. We used to think British people could never become Fascists, or Fascist collaborators. But they can. I suppose anybody can, given the right set of circumstances.’
‘I know.’
The television was now showing a giant fir being cut down in Norway, the annual gift that in a few weeks would be erected in Trafalgar Square. Prime Minister Quisling clapped as the huge tree fell, sending up clouds of snow. Sarah knew the sight of him would bring back memories for David of the 1940 Norway campaign. He said, ‘I’ve got to go into the office tomorrow, early. Just for a meeting. It’s a bore. I’ll be back by lunchtime.’
‘All right,’ she said with a sigh.
‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed,’ he said. ‘No need for you to come up yet. Stay downstairs if you want.’
Late on Saturday morning David returned from his meeting with Jackson with a hard, tense feeling inside him. Sarah must not know about Frank’s call, and when he went to Birmingham tomorrow to visit him, she must think he was going somewhere else.
David had a great-uncle in Northampton, who had helped his parents when they first came to England. He had owned a small building firm but was in his eighties now, a childless widower. David’s father had asked him to keep an eye on Uncle Ted, and David visited the old Irishman a couple of times a year, usually on his own for Ted’s grumpiness was legendary. The story, he had decided, would be that Ted had had a fall and was in hospital. Frank’s telephone call, which Jackson said would come between four and five that afternoon, would supposedly be from him. David had asked at the meeting, ‘How can I stop Sarah taking the call? We’ve a phone in the bedroom but why would I be up there at four on a Saturday?’
‘An illness,’ Jackson had suggested. ‘Not something that would stop you travelling the next day.’
On Saturday morning, after breakfast, he went out into the garden and tidied up the leaves. It was another cold, raw day. Sarah came out in a headscarf and old coat and helped him rake the wet leaves into a pile. They lit a fire, and a thin column of smoke rose into the still air. Sarah’s cheeks had reddened with the cold; it was a long time since they had done something like this together. She looked pretty, relaxed by the work. She was so honest, so good. David felt a dreadful stab of mingled affection and guilt.
At half past twelve Sarah went in to prepare lunch. As he worked on alone, digging out dead plants from the flowerbeds, David wondered what on earth it was that Frank knew. Or did he know nothing? Had that fragile mind just snapped at last? No, that couldn’t be it, the Americans wanted him. He hated the thought of Frank in danger, hunted. He had felt in danger himself for so long.
He remembered standing with his father on the wharf in Auckland, in 1946, waiting to get the ship back to England, at the end of his posting to New Zealand. Sarah had gone to the ladies. David’s father said, ‘They say they’re having a bad winter in England. Still, it should be over by the time you get back.’
‘Yes, we’ll go from late summer straight into spring.’
Suddenly his father said, ‘Stay here, David. Things are getting worse in England.’
‘Dad, we’ve been through this. Sarah and I feel – it’s our country, we belong there.’
His father said quietly, ‘There’s one way you don’t belong there, son, not now. And that hardly matters here.’
‘Nobody knows. There’s no way anybody can.’
His father sighed. ‘I’ve often wondered what it was your mother was trying to say to you. Just before she died. Perhaps it was a warning.’
David remembered the last sight of his father, waving from the quayside as the ship pulled away, his greying black hair flying in the wind. He put down his spade and went in. He said to Sarah, ‘I think I’ve done too much bending, my back hurts. I think after lunch I might lie down.’
Over the meal Sarah looked at him sympathetically. ‘You did too much,’ she said. ‘Go on up and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Lie flat on your back with your knees bent, that’s the best way.’ She believed him and that made David unreasonably angry with her again – he wanted to shout that there was nothing wrong with his bloody back. But he went up and lay down on the bed in the position she had suggested. On the table beside him stood the telephone extension he had installed last year; in case there was a night-time emergency at work, he had told her.
She brought up the tea and he drank it. After a while the posture made him uncomfortable so he sat on the side of the bed, looking through the net curtains at the bare trees and grey sky.
At ten past four, just as the light was starting to go, the phone rang. Though he had been waiting for it the shrill sound made David jump. He snatched up the receiver. ‘Kenton 4815.’
For several moments he heard only silence, then a voice, thin and tremulous. ‘Is that David Fitzgerald?’
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘It’s – it’s Frank, David. Frank Muncaster. You remember?’
‘Of course. Frank? Long time no see. How are you?’ David spoke quietly.
‘Oh . . .’ There was a despairing note in the voice. ‘I’m – having a few problems. I’ve not been well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Frank. Really sorry.’
‘I’m – well, I’m in a mental hospital.’ Frank’s voice was louder now, full of anxiety. ‘David, I’m really, really sorry to trouble you like this out of the blue, but I need someone to help me. I’m in the hospital and there’s a problem with the fees – it’s not the money, I’ve plenty of money, but I can’t get at it.’ Frank stopped suddenly, as though he couldn’t go on.
‘Listen, Frank, I’ll do anything I can to help. Just tell me.’
The voice became tremulous again, speaking rapidly now. ‘I’ve been certified as a lunatic, David. I can’t get out. They need a relative to be my trustee. But Mum’s died and Edgar’s in America and they can’t get hold of him. David, is there any way you could help me get things organized somehow? There’s no-one else. No-one.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Bartley Green Hospital, just outside Birmingham.’
David took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Frank, I could come up tomorrow.’ He spoke quickly, he could hear Sarah’s footsteps on the stairs.
‘Could you? Oh, it’s so much to ask . . .’
Sarah came in, stood in th
e doorway looking down at him enquiringly. David said carefully into the telephone, ‘I’ll come. It’s easy on the train. What are the visiting hours?’
‘If you could come in the afternoon. There’s a nurse, he’s called Ben. They have male nurses here, attendants—’
David cut in. ‘I’ll come tomorrow, say about – oh – three o’clock?’
‘Yes. Yes, that would be so good. Oh, thank you.’ Frank’s voice trembled again. ‘It’ll be good to see you. But I’m sorry – it’s your weekend, I never asked how you are, and your wife—’
‘Sarah’s fine. Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow, I’ll do anything I can to help—’
‘Thank you. David, I have to go, this is the hospital line and it’s a trunk call.’
‘All right. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, David.’ Frank sounded tremendously relieved. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ There was a click. David waited a second, then said into the dead line, ‘All right, Uncle. Don’t worry, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.’ He put the receiver down slowly, and turned to Sarah. ‘It’s Uncle Ted. He had a fall at home, he’s in hospital.’
Chapter Thirteen
GUNTHER LOOKED ROUND THE LOUNGE of the big flat in Russell Square. It was Friday evening. I might be here for weeks, he thought. The flat was in a Victorian building but the interior had been modernized, all clean lines, rectangular furniture, the lights round the walls shaped like inverted shells. In contrast the pictures were German scenes, standard diplomatic issue. His eye was caught by a seascape, a view across windswept marram grass to the Baltic, grey-blue under a wide pale sky. A lone sailing boat was visible near the horizon. It reminded Gunther of visits to the coast during his childhood.
There was a double bedroom, and a study with a large desk, where a notebook and pencil were laid neatly on the blotter. In a corner was a photograph of Reichsführer Himmler, his face in half-profile, the keen eyes behind the spectacles staring at something just off-camera. It was a reminder that Gunther’s loyalties were to the SS now, not Ambassador Rommel.