by Daisy Wood
He pushed back his cap. ‘Why, so it is. I thought you were safely in the country, though?’
‘I was,’ she said hurriedly, ‘but Arthur telephoned earlier and I managed to cadge a lift to London. Please, do you have any idea what’s happening?’
He glanced at the people rushing past, anxious to get home before the air-raid siren sounded. ‘We can’t talk here. Come up to the workroom with me.’ He took a visitor’s pass out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. ‘This’ll get you through.’
He shepherded her back through the door, nodding at the guardsman, and down the tunnel into the colonnade, a covered walkway that ran along the side of the building. Nell had to contain her impatience as Mr Watkinson unlocked the door to the clock tower and proceeded to climb the stairs. You couldn’t hurry Ralph, Arthur had told her. He was a quiet, deliberate man in his late fifties.
‘You were lucky to catch me,’ he said, when at last they had reached the door to the clockmakers’ room. He unlocked this too, very slowly. ‘I’ve been off sick for a while, and I shall be working back at company headquarters from tomorrow. The stairs are getting too much for me.’ He ushered her inside, adding in a lower voice, ‘Or so I’m told.’
‘But with Arthur gone, there’ll only be Mr Talbot left,’ Nell exclaimed. ‘How can he manage on his own?’
‘They’re bringing in a couple of outsiders, people I’ve never heard of. And there’s the lad, too, for what he’s worth. Not much, in my opinion.’ Mr Watkinson sat on a bench, pulling up his trouser legs so they wouldn’t crease, and indicated Nell should do the same. He glanced uneasily at the door.
‘Where’s Mr Talbot now?’ Nell asked.
‘Over at engineers’ control. Spends most of his time there, these days.’ He shifted uneasily. ‘Something odd’s going on, Mrs Spelman, I don’t mind admitting.’
‘Do you have any idea where my husband is,’ Nell begged, ‘and why anyone should want to question him?’
‘I can’t make head nor tail of it, to be honest. Arthur seems to have got himself mixed up in some sort of trouble but I’ve no idea what it could be. Two men arrived this afternoon and took him away. I don’t know how he managed to make a telephone call; they wouldn’t even let him change out of his overalls.’
‘What sort of men?’ Nell asked. ‘Police?’
‘I’m not sure. They weren’t in uniform but I heard them say he was to answer some questions, and that it was a matter of national security.’
A sense of dread had settled in Nell’s stomach like a cold, coiled snake. ‘Couldn’t anybody have stopped them?’ she asked. ‘If Arthur hadn’t telephoned me, I’d have had no idea what had happened to him. People can’t just be carted off like that!’
But of course, these days, people could; Mr Watkinson didn’t need to point that out. ‘Sorry,’ she said, rubbing her forehead. ‘This isn’t your fault. Do you know where he’s been taken?’
‘Scotland Yard, that’s what they said. So I suppose they must have been police, mustn’t they?’
Nell dug her fingernails into her palms. ‘I’ll go there. They have to let me see him.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Watkinson said doubtfully, ‘but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Still, at least it’s close by. Won’t take you more than ten minutes to walk there along Victoria Embankment.’
Nell tried to think clearly. ‘I’d better collect Arthur’s things, in case they keep him there a while. He’ll need his jacket, for a start.’
‘It’s in there.’ Mr Watkinson nodded towards a metal locker in a corner of the room. ‘You’ll find the key in that Coronation mug on his bench.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll wait for you outside, give you some privacy. Take your time, I’m not in a rush.’
Arthur’s sports coat was hanging on a hook inside the cupboard and the siren suit and tin helmet he wore for fire-watching were rolled into a tidy bundle on the shelf underneath, along with the torch he’d brought from home. She took them, too. For reasons she couldn’t explain, or didn’t want to acknowledge, she sat on the bench to go through his jacket pockets. Inside she found a set of keys, his security pass and wallet, a clean handkerchief folded into a square, an engagement diary, the fountain pen she’d given him on his last birthday, and a small metal badge in the shape of a bundle of rods. She looked at it for some time before stowing his possessions away in her haversack. Why on earth would her husband be carrying an emblem of the Fascist party?
Arthur in police custody! The very idea was inconceivable. He was the most law-abiding of men, scrupulous in observing every regulation, from drawing the blackout blinds to the level of water in his weekly bath. He’d once found a blank book of clothing coupons in the street and insisted on handing them in. When she arrived at Scotland Yard and told the custody officer she was Mrs Arthur Spelman, he took her to an interview room and told her to wait; somebody would be along shortly to answer her questions. She had ended up being interrogated herself, however, by a detective sergeant in a shabby suit. Had she ever been a member of the Fascist party? Or attended their rallies? Did she agree with their beliefs? Had she lived in Germany for any length of time or travelled there recently? Where could she be contacted if they needed to question her again?
She answered concisely, her anger growing. ‘May I ask what my husband is meant to have done?’ she asked coldly, when the stream of questions had at last dried up.
‘You can ask but I’m not at liberty to tell you,’ the detective replied. Davis, his name was. ‘Or not in any detail, anyway.’
‘This is a travesty,’ she burst out. ‘You can’t lock him up just because his parents are German!’
‘We can lock up anyone who’s working with the enemy, I’m pleased to say.’ He gave her a chilly smile. ‘With the minimum of fuss.’
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous! Arthur’s completely loyal to this country.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ the policeman replied. It was an exchange he’d probably had many times before. ‘He’ll be released after questioning and home in a jiffy.’
Still, he had at least allowed her to give Arthur his jacket, after it had been thoroughly checked. The visit was highly irregular, he stressed, only granted as a favour because she had cooperated with enquiries. She and Arthur weren’t allowed to touch. They had to keep six feet apart and had ten minutes, at most, in which to talk. And they were strictly forbidden from discussing anything to do with Arthur’s ‘situation’.
When she saw him, she had to struggle to keep her composure. He was trying so hard to maintain his dignity, too, to keep a straight back as he walked into the interview room beside a uniformed officer, his hands cuffed in front of him. They sat facing each other across a wide table while the constable stood sentry by the door.
‘Nell?’ he asked, staring at her with desperate eyes. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Lord Winthrop gave me a lift. I had to come, Arthur. You mustn’t worry, everything will be all right.’
He carried on looking at her without a word, as though he were trying to memorise her face.
‘Here’s your jacket,’ she said, passing it over. ‘Just as well I emptied the pockets,’ she added, seeing the flash of alarm in his eyes. ‘I found that handkerchief you’ve been on at me to wash.’
A flush crept up his neck. ‘Do you need your wallet?’ she asked. ‘Or anything else?’
He shook his head. ‘Is Lord Winthrop taking you back again? I can’t bear to think of you here, darling, mixed up in all of this. Please, you must go home. London is far too dangerous.’
‘But I had to see you. This has all been a silly mistake, I’m sure.’ She longed to take his hands in hers, to smooth back the hair from his forehead and comfort him. ‘We’ll soon have it straightened out.’
‘That might not be possible. You must understand, I only wanted to—’ The policeman coughed, pointedly, and Arthur stopped speaking. A muscle worked in his cheek. Then he cleared his throat and said, ‘S
trange what comes to mind at times like these. Do you remember when my bicycle was stolen?’
‘Of course.’ Arthur had been extremely proud of his Raleigh with Sturmey-Archer three-speed gears, and a particularly comfortable saddle that he’d customised himself. He’d reported the theft but the police had shown little interest, so he’d scoured the local papers for bicycles advertised for sale, and let it be known at every local market that he wanted to buy one second-hand. Eventually he had been offered his own Raleigh by a weaselly youth on a street corner, and had brought a policeman along with him when he arrived with the cash to buy it back. But what did his bicycle have to do with anything?
‘I was thinking about the row we had,’ he went on. ‘Turns out you were right all along.’
It had been one of their rare arguments. She had been angry with Arthur because of the risk he was running, getting mixed up with the wrong sort of people. ‘You should leave criminals to the police,’ she had told him.
‘But I’m tired of waiting for them to act,’ he’d replied. ‘If one wants something done, one has to do it oneself.’
Finally, now she understood. ‘I’m your wife,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Of course I was right. Listen, is there anyone you want me to telephone? Your mother, perhaps?’ Arthur’s father had died suddenly in the spring, just after Alice was born.
‘No, please don’t. She mustn’t know I’m here, it would only upset her. Go back to the country, darling, take care of Alice and try not to worry about me.’ He did his best to smile, too.
‘I have your watch.’ She pulled it out from under her blouse. ‘We’ll carry on thinking of each other at nine. Stay strong, my darling.’
There was nothing more to be said; she left the room with her head high.
‘There’s something odd going on,’ Mr Watkinson had said. Arthur was evidently of the same opinion, and had decided to carry out his own investigation. She knew he would have nothing to do with Fascists under normal circumstances. He hated everything they stood for: violence, mob rule, anti-Semitism. Surely the police would realise that, and let him go? Yet she couldn’t leave the city until she was certain.
She made her way slowly through the dark, up Haymarket towards Regent Street. She felt safest on foot at night, ever since she’d seen the wreck of a bus that had crashed headlong into a bomb crater. She kept her eyes on the white stripe painted along the pavement’s edge and inched along with the help of Arthur’s torch, trained downwards. Central London had been badly knocked about; the pavement beneath her feet was fractured and uneven, and fragments of glass that had escaped the street sweepers’ brooms glittered in her torch beam. On she went, around the vortex of Piccadilly Circus and up into the sweep of Regent Street. Several of the department stores had shelters in the basement; if Dickins and Jones were full, she might try Liberty’s or John Lewis. John Lewis had been hit by incendiaries a couple of months before, when two hundred people had been sleeping in the shelter, but she couldn’t waste time worrying about bombs. One would either get you or it wouldn’t, and there was no point fretting.
In the basement of Dickins and Jones, mattresses were laid out on the floor like bricks on a herringbone path. She managed to bag one in the corner, with a nail on the wall above to hang up her coat and a shelf for her haversack. It cost sixpence for the privilege but she had enough money. The shelter was filling up fast. A middle-aged couple with a carpet bag took the mattresses next to hers and agreed to guard her place while she queued for tea and a sandwich from the refreshment counter. She ate and drank quickly, standing up, and when she had finished, locked herself in a cubicle of the ladies’ lavatory to go through Arthur’s things. She took out the badge and stared at it, running her fingers over the smooth enamel, then opened the engagement diary and flicked through. A card had been pushed between the pages. The Rt Hon Lord Lionel Winthrop, House of Lords, London SW1A was printed on the front, and on the back was written: Flat 227, Howard House, Dolphin Square. She knew they had met, yet it seemed odd that Lord Winthrop should have given Arthur his home address, and odder still that Arthur hadn’t mentioned this fact to her.
She flicked through the pages of his engagement diary, but no meeting seemed to have been recorded with an LW. Several days had been marked ‘FW’, which she assumed stood for Fire Watching. Arthur often stayed overnight, as his shifts might last till the early hours. Apart from those sessions and the odd birthday (including hers, she was glad to see) or dentist’s appointment, the diary was virtually empty so one particular entry stood out. The day before, another address had been written down in Arthur’s careful script: 173, Park West, Edgware Road, W2. And a time: seven p.m.
Nell leant back against the lavatory cistern, thinking. The badge was a mystery she would have to put to one side for the time being. The appointment in West London deserved closer attention, though. Was it a coincidence that Arthur should have been taken in for questioning the very next day? She put the diary back in her satchel and took out his wallet, feeling a little disloyal as she went through it. Inside she found three one pound notes, a first-class stamp, a dry-cleaning ticket and a tiny snapshot of her, the first she’d given him. The money would keep her going for a few days, added to the amount she already had.
People came and went from the shelter all night: using the lavatory, returning from work, stepping outside for a smoke. Every couple of hours, someone flashed a torch across the sea of bodies stretched out on the floor. The woman whose head lay only inches away from Nell’s muttered and groaned, while her husband snored with a particularly high-pitched whistle. The peace of Orchard House had left Nell unprepared for this mass of strangers in such close proximity. To calm herself, she pictured Alice, warm in her nest of blankets, and the evacuees on the floor above: Susan dreaming of babies to be bathed and fed, Brenda of stealing through the woods to ambush the enemy, Janet of galloping over the fields on horseback, Timothy of gunning his Spitfire through the clouds, Malcolm of running into his mother’s arms. She would do anything to keep them safe, she thought, drifting into sleep. Anything at all.
Early the next morning, Nell threaded her way through the sleeping figures and out into the iron-grey air. The Lyons Corner House on Piccadilly Circus was just opening, so she treated herself to a breakfast of tea and Spam fritters before heading back towards the river. After almost a month away, she was shocked as daylight revealed the state of the city. London looked dirty and neglected, its streets piled with sandbags and shattered roof tiles. Rounding a corner, she was confronted by a jagged gap in the buildings and a view of barrage balloons in the sky beyond, floating over a wasteland of rubble. How many more people were emerging that morning to find themselves homeless? Yet there was no point crying over spilt milk. The countryside had made Nell softer than she could afford; now it was time to gather up her wits, and use them.
It took her another hour to reach Dolphin Square, a modern block of flats just past Vauxhall Bridge that she knew from her walks along the river with Arthur. She felt certain Lord Winthrop had something to do with his predicament. It was hard to pinpoint what that something was, but she had so few leads to follow that she might as well start with His Lordship – and if he was only paying a brief visit to London, the sooner the better. Feeling suddenly conspicuous as she approached the buildings, she pulled out Arthur’s siren suit and helmet from her haversack and dodged behind a telephone box to put them on, scooping up her hair and pulling the helmet low over her eyes. Now she was anonymous.
Dolphin Square was the size of a village all on its own: built out of red brick with various blocks making up a rectangle, it rose ten storeys high. She and Arthur had once looked through the grand arched entrance into the central gardens beyond, but had felt too intimidated to go any further. Now, Nell walked briskly through, looking about as though taking an inventory. There were signs pointing down to an air raid shelter, and a red cross marking what seemed to be a first-aid post. Most of the windows were shuttered; she guessed many of the residents
had moved to a safer spot. Howard House lay on the west side of the square, with another central archway that led through to a slip road beyond. Nell could imagine Lord Winthrop gazing down at her from his eyrie as she hugged the side of the building, and felt glad of the tin helmet. What was it about him that made her feel uncomfortable? It seemed strange that he should have been so keen to meet Arthur, husband of the girl who’d spurned his son, and that he should have quizzed him at such length about the clock tower. But he was an eccentric, everyone knew that. Lady Winthrop had too much empathy and he had too little; that’s just how they were made.
Emerging onto the slip road, she saw a line of chauffeured cars idling like basking sharks and shrank back. Cooke and the Bentley were probably among them. Hastily retreating, she resumed her patrol around the gardens, keeping an eye on the trickle of people who were filing through the archway and out to the important business of their day. She nearly missed her quarry, but the familiar shambling, flat-footed gait of a portly gentleman in a pinstriped suit caught her eye at the last moment. She had assumed Lord Winthrop would have been alone, yet this person was talking to a younger, thinner man wearing a cloth cap and donkey jacket. Quickening her pace, she managed to catch a glimpse of the pair before they shook hands in parting. It was indeed His Lordship, accompanied by Bill Talbot. She had to look twice to make sure, but there could be no mistake. Arthur had pointed Talbot out to her once from a distance and she’d seen the port-wine birthmark splashed across the left side of his face. Another reason for him to feel angry at the world, Arthur had said.
A car slid forward and Cooke climbed out of it to open the door for his employer. Bill Talbot walked off in the opposite direction, his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold. Nell hurried after him, her head full of questions. For one thing, why would Bill Talbot have been meeting Lord Winthrop at his home? Talbot strode on, past Vauxhall Bridge and along the riverbank. As the Houses of Parliament came into view, he stopped for a moment, looking up at the clock tower, and Nell hung back, although he could have had no idea who she was. It was coming up to nine o’clock. She leant against the wall, taking the weight of the haversack off her back for a moment, as the quarter bells began to ring out the Westminster Chimes. Nell repeated the words accompanying the melody that were inscribed on a plaque in the tower as she waited for Big Ben to strike: ‘All through this hour, Lord be my guide, That by Thy power, no foot shall slide.’