by Juliet West
Jasmin had found a clump of buttercups in the churchyard near the nursery. Hazel crouched beside a gravestone and tilted her head back a fraction.
‘You do!’ said Jasmin, holding the flower under her mother’s chin so that the yellow light reflected on Hazel’s pale neck. Jasmin’s eyes became earnest: this was a serious experiment. ‘You love butter, Mummy.’ She skipped ahead on the church path, twirling the buttercup stalk between her thumb and forefinger. The small brown box bumped against her hip. Jasmin had named her gas mask Angie, after a friend from nursery who had been evacuated to Scotland. The mask should have a pretty name, she’d announced, to stop it from being so ugly. ‘Angie’s like angels. Angels are always there, even when you can’t see them, aren’t they, Mummy?’
‘Wait at the gate,’ Hazel called. She preferred to walk as slowly as possible through the churchyard, and as she walked she tried to imagine that they were in the countryside rather than the centre of London. She wanted to delay the moment when they would arrive at the nursery, when Jasmin would be out of her sight, out of her reach, for another endless day. Every single air raid in the months since the war began had been a false alarm. People were calling it a twilight war, but no one believed it could last. Hazel hated the raids when she and Jasmin were apart, each in their own subterranean gloom. Mrs Allen had strung a line of bunting across the steel roof of the nursery’s Anderson shelter, as if a row of cambric triangles cut out with pinking shears might ward off a high-explosive bomb.
The office was eerily hushed. Mr Weaver had been recalled to his old regiment. Ancient Mr Morris sat in his office drinking Darjeeling, speculating as to when the firm’s mothballed commissions might reasonably be revived. The girls all agreed that he was going doolally-tat: what person in their right mind would kit out a house in luxury wallpaper and velvet curtains when Jerry was about to come calling? They – the girls – might as well join the WAAF or the WAAC or move out to the country to help on a farm. Bridget had already gone. Anne had handed Bridget’s latest postcard round that morning: I’m up to my ankles in cow shit and it’s glorious.
Hazel kept quiet about her own plans.
In her lunch hour she bought a copy of the News Chronicle. It was a while now since she’d last seen his name, but that was no reason to stop looking. He’d been doing well – a reporter at last – and until a month ago there had been quite a few news stories written by Thomas Smart. They tended to be the less consequential stories towards the back of the newspaper – thunderstorm damage to barrage balloons, a goods train derailed – but she cut out every one and kept the collection in a Manila envelope, hidden under the seat cushion of her bedroom chair.
It was warm enough for short sleeves, and the breeze blowing off the river held the promise of summer; there was a ripe saltiness to the air, and from a distant jetty came the screech of gulls. If she closed her eyes, she could almost be in Aldwick.
The bench where Hazel usually sat was taken by two men in uniform, so she walked a little further along Millbank, ignoring the whistle from one of the men as she passed. She brushed a sprinkling of white blossom from the bench and sat down, opening the paper and scanning through the pages. Nothing. Of course there was a chance that Tom might have moved to another newspaper, but she could hardly buy each paper every single day and anyway, the most likely explanation was that he had joined up. Why wouldn’t he? He’d been quick enough to fight the fascists in Spain. The only surprise was that he hadn’t gone sooner.
She read through the paper again, slowly this time. There was a story about fundraising for Jewish refugees, a photograph of children who’d arrived on the Kindertransport. Hazel had seen the pictures many times now, girls of Jasmin’s age and younger, wide-eyed and afraid, clutching their pathetic possessions. It was too awful. Hazel had tried to speak to Lucia about the Jews, of the persecution in Germany, but Lucia seemed incapable of sensible discussion. She parroted phrases from the Blackshirt – ‘Oh, to hell with the refujews and their sob-stuff, charity begins at home!’ – or she repeated lines from Sir Oswald’s speeches, learned from the recordings she’d played over and over on the gramophone. Hazel always backed down, let her rant on. It was easier that way because she still needed Lucia – for now, at least.
She folded the paper into her bag and wandered back along the riverside. It was low tide and the wind had dropped; the water looked calm, benign. Hard to believe that the Thames could be the Nazis’ secret weapon. London will always be betrayed by the river. At night, from the air, it reflects the moon or the sky. Tom had written that in one of his reports on air-raid precautions. The words stuck in her head like lines of poetry.
After work she called in to Derry & Toms and took the lift up to the luggage department. The woman on the counter was pushy and tried to sell her a set of three leather cases – ‘Outstanding value,’ she gushed – but Hazel would not be persuaded. She chose a small blue valise for Jasmin, fitted with tiny brass clasps, and a large board-backed case for herself.
Kensington High Street seemed deserted as she walked back to the flat, an empty case in each hand. She remembered that summer Saturday, cold and wet, when she boarded the train at Chichester clutching Jasmin in one arm and a rain-soaked hessian bag in the other. She had left the Misses Shaw’s pram outside Selsey bus station with a note giving the return address. She would not be accused of stealing anything, least of all her own baby. At Victoria station, Hazel had searched the crowds, fear thumping behind her eyes. But there was Lucia, next to the telegraph office as promised, forearms resting on the handle of a brand-new pram. They queued for a taxicab, Lucia giggling as they tried to lift the bassinet from the chassis, to fold down the shining frame.
The pram had been sold now, and Lucia donated the proceeds towards the latest fundraising drive at HQ. In the bottom of Hazel’s wardrobe, the hessian bag still lay folded. Their possessions were few: it would not take long to pack.
‘You’re leaving? I don’t quite – tomorrow, did you say?’ Lucia put down her pen and stared at Hazel in disbelief. The sitting room was dark and chill despite the sunny evening outside.
‘Tomorrow morning. We’re going to Devon. Winnie’s family have taken a pub. They’ve invited me and Jasmin.’
Lucia scrambled up from the table, knocking her chair hard against the back wall. ‘How terribly generous of Winnie. You’ve had enough of my charity, then?’
‘I’ll work to earn our keep. It will be safer for Jasmin to leave London.’
‘For heaven’s sake. This obsession, this paranoia about the Luftwaffe—’ Lucia paced across the room, stood at the window and looked out onto the street, tapping her fingernails on the wide sill. Outside, a torn-eared cat stalked across a wall, stopped on a brick pier and arched its back.
‘I am grateful to you, Lucia.’ She got up from the sofa and stood beside her at the window, ventured a hand on her shoulder. ‘You know I am. I couldn’t have . . . well, I would have lost Jasmin if it hadn’t been for you. But everything has changed now. The war, the movement—’ The movement has failed, Hazel wanted to say. All those meetings and rallies, the canvassing for peace. None of it had made any difference.
‘So it’s all about you and the shop girl now,’ said Lucia, shrugging off Hazel’s hand. ‘I take it you and Winnie aren’t inviting me along to Devon. Happy for me to take my chances here?’
Hazel hesitated. She’d assumed that Lucia would never leave London, because London meant Philip and her work – such as it was now – at HQ. She wouldn’t leave, would she? She had to be bluffing.
‘I’m sure Winnie would be happy to invite you.’ Hazel did her best to sound enthusiastic, cheery. ‘They might be grateful for an extra pair of hands.’
Lucia whirled around from the window. ‘I’d rather die here.’ Her dark eyes narrowed and her lips peeled back to show her teeth. The expression was somehow familiar to Hazel – yes, it was the expression of the communist girl who’d cornered her in the shop doorway. There was the same wild loathin
g in Lucia’s eyes, the same flash of danger.
‘Don’t say that—’
‘Or perhaps I’ll leave London altogether. I’ll go back to Berlin.’ Lucia’s face softened and broke into a distant smile. ‘He’d welcome me, you know, Karl. Our correspondence—’ She stopped abruptly and walked back towards the table.
Correspondence? She must mean the Nazi commander she’d struck up with on her last trip to Berlin. A man who, Lucia claimed, worked closely with the Führer.
‘Germany? You wouldn’t. How would you get there, and how on earth would you get back?’
‘Don’t pretend to care!’ Lucia’s voice rose to a shriek and she lunged towards Hazel, grabbing her by the arms and digging her fingernails through the thin fabric of her blouse. ‘Don’t you dare pretend to care for me now, don’t you dare!’
‘Lucia! Of course I care.’
‘Liar. I’ve been useful, that’s all. You’ve used me. You don’t truly believe in the movement – do you think I hadn’t noticed? All this time you’ve used me as a cover for your sordid little secret.’
Hazel tried to shake herself free. Sordid little secret. Did she mean Jasmin? ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please don’t shout. You’ll wake Jasmin.’
‘Jasmin, Jasmin, Jasmin.’ Lucia dug her nails harder into Hazel’s flesh. ‘Jasmin, Winnie, the girls at work. Thomas treacherous Smart – don’t think I don’t know! Loyal as a pup to everyone but me.’
‘Tom? How do you know—’
‘It’s my flat, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve been in my room, read my letters?’
‘He let you down, though, didn’t he? Cut you off!’
Hazel swallowed down her fury. Just for one more night, she told herself. One more night. ‘I do care for you, Lucia. I owe you everything. I’ll never forget what you did for me. But I have to take Jasmin away from London. I have to put her first. Surely you can see?’
Lucia released her grip and turned away with a heave of disgust. She sank onto the sofa and put her head into her hands. Her shoulders began to quiver and Hazel realized that she was crying.
‘Do you remember when we met?’ asked Lucia, her voice trembling.
‘Of course I remember.’ Hazel knew she ought to sit next to her, to comfort her, but her feet remained planted under the window. ‘The rally at the theatre.’
‘No. The very first time. You were watching the parade.’ She looked up, wet lashes glistening. ‘I’ll never forget that day. I thought you were the most perfect girl I’d ever seen. I wanted us to be friends, true friends.’
‘And we have been. We are. I’m so grateful.’
Lucia gave a curt laugh. ‘I don’t want you to be grateful, Hazel. I want you to love me back. The same. Instead you’re betraying me. Ambushing me with your news. You must have been plotting for weeks.’
Hazel struggled to reply. It was true: she and Winnie had been discussing the move since Easter. So why hadn’t she told Lucia? Because she didn’t love her, that was why. Lucia was right. In fact, for a long time now, Hazel hadn’t even liked her.
‘I didn’t think you’d mind so much, Lucia,’ she said, forcing a note of nonchalance. ‘Thought you might even be pleased. You’ll have more time alone with Philip. And if you want another flatmate you’ll find one soon enough. A girl with no ties, more fun than I’ll ever be.’
‘I don’t want anyone else,’ said Lucia, her voice steady now, steel-edged and low. ‘I only want you.’
Winnie and her brother had promised to come at ten. They were bringing a van, and from Kensington they would all drive straight to Devon. ‘We’ll arrive in time for tea,’ said Winnie. ‘Scones and jam. Butter not marg!’
Everything had been packed, filling the two suitcases and the hessian bag, along with three apple crates from the greengrocer. That their lives could be parcelled up so simply saddened Hazel, and she wondered whether it would always be like this; whether she would ever manage to find a proper home for Jasmin – their own home with a cluttered dresser and a toy chest filled to overflowing.
‘Bored,’ said Jasmin. She picked flakes from a wax crayon. ‘Why can’t we go to the pond?’
‘Sorry, poppet. We can’t go out because Auntie Winnie is coming and we’re going on a long drive. A holiday, do you remember? And we’ll be staying in a lovely village with a great big pond with baby moorhens and coots and ducklings. Do you remember Auntie Winnie told you all about it?’
Jasmin’s face brightened. ‘Baby moorhens like blobs of soot?’
‘That’s it,’ smiled Hazel. ‘Scraps of soot, aren’t they? All black and fuzzy.’ She picked up a teddy and nuzzled it into Jasmin’s neck.
‘Is the holiday coming soon?’
Hazel looked at her watch. It was just after nine. ‘Quite soon. Less than an hour.’
‘Is Nee-Nee coming?’
‘No. Nee-Nee prefers to stay in London.’ Hazel picked up a blanket and refolded it so that the corners were tight. ‘Now, see if you can draw me another picture. How about a lion, like we saw at the zoo?’
She drank two more cups of tea. Lucia was still in bed. Hazel didn’t want to wake her, but she knew she could not leave without saying goodbye. Last night, when Lucia had finished crying, they had become oddly polite and formal. They switched on the wireless at nine and listened to the news without commenting. When Billy Cotton and his band came on, Hazel lit a cigarette, and Lucia didn’t sigh or complain as she generally did.
Ten minutes to ten. Hazel hovered outside Lucia’s door and raised her arm, but as she was about to knock there was a loud creak of bedsprings and an exaggerated yawn. The door opened. Lucia was wearing men’s pyjamas, the pair that Philip kept for his overnight stays.
‘Is it really so late?’ she said. ‘I’m due at a meeting. And I suppose you’re— It’s any minute, isn’t it? Winnie and the van?’
Hazel opened her mouth to reply just at the moment the doorbell rang. Lucia raised her eyebrows. ‘Right on cue,’ she said. Her eyes were puffy and her lips looked dry and chapped. ‘You’d better answer it.’
Jasmin had already run ahead to the front door. Hazel followed her down the dark hall passage, watching as she stretched up on tiptoes to turn the latch and pull the door wide. On the doorstep stood two men in cheap grey suits.
Jasmin shrank back and buried her head in Hazel’s skirt. ‘Not Auntie Winnie,’ she whined.
The taller man asked Hazel if she was Miss Lucia Knight. Hazel said she was not, and she asked who might be calling. He held up a piece of paper and said, ‘Police. We have a warrant to search the premises.’ He spoke loudly, but Hazel wasn’t sure whether Lucia could hear. She had gone into the kitchen, and the kettle was beginning to whistle on the stove.
The men strode into the living room as Hazel shepherded Jasmin into the bedroom. ‘Stay in here and draw me one more picture,’ she said. ‘A really good one for Mummy.’ She rushed into the kitchen. ‘The police are here,’ she whispered to Lucia.
Lucia’s eyes widened. She leaned against the sink, gripping the edge.
‘They asked for you.’
She half-shrugged her shoulders as if to make light of what Hazel had just told her, to pretend she hardly cared. She drew herself up and tilted her chin outwards.
‘Typical of this small-minded little government,’ she said. ‘All the Germans and Italians have been rounded up. Now it’s our turn. Fascists are patriots to the core and yet they’ll accuse us of being fifth columnists.’
‘Not us, surely? We’re no danger—’
Lucia cut in. ‘They’re at the door?’
‘No, they’re in the flat. The living room. Apparently they have a warrant to search—’
‘What?’ The colour drained from Lucia’s face. ‘My papers!’ She pushed past Hazel and ran into the living room. Hazel twisted off the gas under the kettle and followed her.
In the living room the taller policeman – the one who seemed to be in charge – was sitting calmly at the dining table, picki
ng through the notebooks and correspondence that were stacked in messy piles.
Lucia stood in the doorway, Hazel close behind.
‘Members’ address list,’ said the man, holding up an opened ledger. ‘Damned considerate of you to leave that out.’
Lucia flew towards the table and thrust out her hand for the ledger. ‘Those are my private papers,’ she said. The policeman laughed, snapped the ledger shut and held it close to his chest. Behind him the other officer was unfurling the flag that leaned against the wall in the corner of the room. He whistled as he stared down at the circle-and-flash emblem. ‘Christ,’ he said, turning his head to look around the room. ‘What sort of a place is this? A veritable fascists’ coven, I’d say.’
‘Now then –’ the officer at the table slapped the ledger down – ‘I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Superintendent Farr. This is Inspector Travers. Miss Knight, I understand you’re an active member of the British Union.’
‘I am,’ said Lucia. She straightened her spine as if on parade, unabashed by the fact she was wearing pyjamas.
‘And this is . . . ?’ Superintendent Farr nodded towards Hazel.
Hazel knew she was expected to give him her name, but she found herself unable to speak. She coughed, and felt her breath light and jagged in the back of her throat. Perhaps she could invent a name. Her thoughts scrambled and the only one which came to mind was Bronwen. Could she lie? It might buy her time, just until Winnie arrived. She opened her mouth, but now Lucia was talking.
‘This is my flatmate, Hazel Alexander,’ said Lucia. ‘Also an active member.’
A shiver coursed through Hazel’s body. Had Lucia really said that? Did she hate her so much? And it wasn’t even true – she wasn’t an active member, not any more. She and Winnie had agreed; they’d sent their letters of resignation to Mrs Dunn, enclosing their drum corps badges.
‘In actual fact I’m no longer a member,’ said Hazel. She croaked out the words, doing her best to battle the cough. ‘I’ve resigned,’ she said. ‘I’m about to leave London.’
