Amy stood there, immobilised, the boiling traffic filling up the space where the tram had been. When the lights changed again she crossed the road, in a trance. She continued along the pavement, noticing nothing, and no one. It was as though she had been in an accident and was bearing the trauma of it in her bones. The strange mood she had been in this afternoon, the long reverie on that bench in the shade – it was for this, this, the mood had been preparing her. The wild coincidence of it had thrown her off-centre, like a picture knocked askew. Questions swarmed her benumbed brain. Marita. How long had she lived here? Was this her home now? Or was she in transit? She knew the city was a byword for fugitive war criminals, but she had never thought to see –
And now the expression on Marita’s face came back to her. Had there been some rueful tremor on it, some tiny wrinkle of remorse, Amy might have called to her, might have chased that tram down the street to the next stop. But there was not a flicker; only that single movement of her arm. She stopped dead still on the street, absorbing its shock, the implacable cold defiance of it.
When she got back to their hotel room she felt herself shaking, her legs gone to mush. She sat down on the edge of her bed, trying to calm herself. Bobby must have gone out, too, for there on the dresser was a brown paper bag, patched with a translucent stain. After some moments she got up and opened it: her fingers brushed the furry skin of a peach.
She was out on the balcony when Bobby reappeared, swaddled in a huge towel, her face pink and steaming.
‘There you are! I’ve been out myself and had a bath since you’ve been gone. Where on earth did you get to?’
‘Oh, I just wandered around. Lost track of time.’
‘I should say so!’ said Bobby, towelling her hair and fetching the bag of peaches. ‘You must have one of these, they’re heavenly.’
So they stood together on the balcony, watching the sun lower over the rooftops, peach juice dripping off their fingers. When Bobby went in to get dressed, Amy was still wondering if she should tell her about the traumatic encounter of the afternoon. But how to begin to explain it? Bobby had not met Marita, and knew little about her even by repute. Marita had never been the sort of friend she would introduce to other people, probably for fear that she would be bored and dismissive, and they would be intimidated. It had sometimes struck her as a mystery that they had been friends in the first place.
She heard Bobby’s voice calling her, and went back inside. She had dressed now, and an odd expression was on her face. From behind her back she produced a small black box and handed it to Amy, who returned a puzzled look. She opened the lid. There, nestled on a worn velvet mount, was the citrine she had coveted that morning. It glistened, pale as honey, against the velvet.
She stared at it. ‘Oh, Bobs …’
Well, she had gone back this afternoon. She’d had the most awful feeling it might have been sold, but it hadn’t. ‘I thought of haggling, only I didn’t have the heart to go through all that again, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t either. So he polished it up like a tallyman’s ink bottle –’ Bobby broke off, a sudden dismay clouding her face. Without warning tears had brimmed in Amy’s eyes, were rolling down her cheeks; she was helpless to stop them.
‘Darling, what’s the matter?’ said Bobby, but Amy’s throat felt too choked to speak. ‘It’s just a silly old ring. I thought it would make you happy …’
Amy shook her head: Bobby didn’t understand; she could never understand. She saw from Bobby’s face that this crying jag must be frightening her. She swallowed hard, tried to gain a semblance of composure. ‘I’m crying because –’ she had to take another breath – ‘because you’re such a dear and you always have been and you don’t even know it.’
Her eyes were still hot with tears as she fumbled the ring and slid it down her finger. And seeing it there caused her another racking convulsion of sobs. In the end Bobby put her arms around her, and clucked, as if to a child.
‘Good Lord,’ she murmured eventually. ‘I can’t imagine the scene if I’d given you something really valuable.’
They talked on in low voices, Bobby lying across her bed, smoking, while Amy changed into her dress for the evening. The ceiling fan whirred away, a mute eavesdropper. Outside, the night sky had darkened to a granular blue-grey, and lights were winking on across the city. A table for two was awaiting them. They were nearly out of the room when Bobby remembered the bottle of perfume she had bought. She gave them each a long squirt of it. Amy inhaled the scent of violets and orange blossom, sweet as cake. It lingered on them as they walked arm in arm down the wide street.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Dan Franklin, Rachel Cugnoni, Suzanne Dean, Joe Pickering, Michal Shavit, Victoria Murray-Browne, Richard Cable, Katherine Fry, Anna Webber, Seren Adams. A special tip of the hat to my ace editor, Alex Russell.
The seed of this book was an article by Ben Macintyre of The Times (28/2/14) about Jack King and the British Nazi Fifth Column during the war. I am grateful to him for it, and for his book Double Cross (2012). London at War (1995) by Philip Ziegler, Wartime Britain 1939–1945 (2004) by Juliet Gardiner, Marriages Are Made in Bond Street (2016) by Penrose Halson and Love is Blue (1986) by Joan Wyndham were also closely consulted.
I am indebted to Ian Jack, whose knowledge of railway timetables, Clitheroe and British industry in the 1930s was astonishing, even by his standards.
My love and thanks, as ever, to Rachel Cooke, for her encouragement and much else besides.
@vintagebooks
penguin.co.uk/vintage
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473558922
Version 1.0
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
VINTAGE
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
Vintage is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
Copyright © Anthony Quinn 2018
Cover photographs: couple © English Heritage/Heritage Images/Getty Images; the ruins of Saint Thomas’ Hospital after air raid © Hulton/Corbis/Getty
Anthony Quinn has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published by Jonathan Cape in 2018
penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Our Friends in Berlin Page 27
