by Juliet West
‘I bet you are,’ said Inspector Travers. ‘Fortunate we came when we did.’
‘No! I have a daughter, you see. We’re going to the countryside. To safety.’
‘And your husband?’
Hazel looked down. There was a smear of dried mud on the sole of the inspector’s shoe. He would consider her to be less than the mud. He would squash her and she had no power to fight back.
‘I’m not married.’
Her eyes were on the floor but she could sense the men raising their eyebrows, exchanging a glance.
‘Indeed?’ said Superintendent Farr. ‘You’re not married. And you claim not to be involved in the British Union. Yet Miss Knight here says you are an active member.’
‘Hazel is one of the faithful – a valued member of the women’s drum corps,’ said Lucia. ‘Along with Winifred Harris who, I believe, will be arriving here at any moment.’
Flashes of white smudged Hazel’s vision. She sank to the arm of the sofa and doubled over, trying to catch her breath. ‘I need a drink of water,’ she gasped. ‘Please?’
The superintendent nodded, and Hazel walked slowly to the kitchen. Running the tap, she did her best to conjure reassuring thoughts. These policemen are simply throwing their weight around, she told herself. They’re just trying to give us a scare.
‘Finished!’ It was Jasmin, calling from the bedroom. Hazel gulped down the water then hurried in.
‘Do you like it?’ Jasmin held up a piece of scrap paper decorated with green scribbles above a wonky brown rectangle.
‘A tree? It’s lovely. Clever girl.’ Hazel looked down at the scattered crayons and picked up a black one. ‘Now listen carefully, Jasmin. I’m going to write a special message on this picture, and when you hear the doorbell ring, I want you to rush out and answer the door. It’s sure to be Auntie Winnie this time and you must give her this picture right away. And then come back inside.’
Jasmin nodded solemnly. Hazel’s hands shook as she wrote the message: POLICE ARE HERE. LEAVE NOW.
She folded the picture and gave it to Jasmin. ‘Can you be a grown-up girl and remember what I said?’
Jasmin nodded again. ‘Give the picture to Auntie Winnie when the bell rings.’
‘That’s right.’ She turned away, tears in her eyes. ‘Just wait nicely in here until you hear that noisy old bell. She’ll be along any minute now.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Mummy needs to talk to the visitors. It shouldn’t take too long.’
They were told to sit on the sofa, to wait quietly while the documents were gathered and itemized. When the doorbell rang, Jasmin’s little footsteps scampered down the hall. Hazel heard Winnie’s cheery, ‘Hello, love!’ and then there was silence, before the front door quietly closed.
Inspector Travers went into the hall but already the van engine was revving. He came back into the room with Jasmin by his side. ‘Did it, Mummy,’ she smiled.
The superintendent looked perplexed.
‘Did what?’ asked Inspector Travers.
‘Oh, she means . . . her business,’ said Hazel. Her pulse hammered but somehow she kept her nerve. ‘Come with me, Jasmin.’ She held out her hand. ‘We’ll check you left the lavatory clean.’
‘If that was the Harris girl she didn’t hang around,’ said the inspector.
‘Pity,’ sighed Superintendent Farr. ‘But I think we have enough to keep us busy here.’
While Travers carried the boxes to the police car, another officer arrived. This one was in uniform, a tall unsmiling woman who stood with arms folded in front of the fireplace as if she were guarding the mantel clock.
Hazel sat on the sofa with Jasmin on her lap, reading a story. Lucia got up and stood at the window, tapping her foot and staring onto the street.
‘Again, Mummy.’
Hazel flicked back to the beginning of the book for a third time. Slowly she read the story and turned the pages, reciting the words without registering any meaning. Her thoughts raced. She hoped that Winnie had gone on to Devon regardless. Soon the police would be finished here and she could join Winnie later, take a train instead. They’d have to leave the crates behind but that was all right, they would manage with the minimum. There would be shops in Devon. She had her savings. ‘And Mr Drake Puddle-Duck, and Jemima and Rebeccah, have been looking for them ever since,’ she read. It was the end of the book again. She became aware that everyone was looking at her. Superintendent Farr was speaking, nodding in her direction.
‘When it comes to the child,’ he said, ‘you are permitted to take her with you, although I would advise against.’
‘Take her?’ said Hazel. ‘To Devon, you mean?’
‘Miss Alexander, you are not going to Devon.’
‘Where then? Where are we going?’
‘Holloway Prison. We’re detaining you. I’m sorry, you clearly don’t understand at all, do you? Let me spell it out. Miss Hazel Alexander and Miss Lucia Knight, you are to be detained until further notice under the Defence Regulation Act, Clause 18B.’
‘Until further notice?’ cried Lucia.
‘You might have heard of the new amendment to the law?’
‘Swine!’ screamed Lucia. ‘We’ve done nothing but honour our king and country.’
‘You can make your case in due course,’ said the superintendent, holding up his hand. ‘Now –’ he turned to Hazel – ‘if you don’t wish the child to accompany you, I suggest you make other arrangements. WPC Gallagher here can escort you to a telephone box if necessary.’
The strangest thing was that the operator sounded bored. Hazel was seized by a savage twist of envy: how odd that her own life had become something surreal, something beyond a nightmare, yet this telephonist could sit on her stool and speak as if she were staring at her fingernails and wondering what shoes to wear for the weekend dance.
‘Connecting.’
The line rang three times, and Hazel willed her mother to answer. It was almost midday; she might have gone on a shopping trip or a lunch date with one of her friends.
Finally, there was the click of a lifted receiver, a sleepy hello.
‘Mother?’
‘Hazel? Are you in Devon already?’
‘No, I’m in a phone box near the flat. Can you come round, please? As soon as possible? There’s a . . . problem, with the police.’
‘What on earth has happened, darling? Is it a burglary?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Hazel looked through the glass pane of the telephone kiosk and met the eyes of WPC Gallagher. She would not cry. All that mattered was Jasmin. She had to make sure Jasmin was safe, had to be brave. Her fingers tingled and the telephone felt strange; weightless and heavy at the same time. ‘Mother, they’re going to detain me. Me and Lucia. They’re taking us to Holloway. Jasmin is allowed to come, apparently, but I couldn’t possibly – she mustn’t know I’m in a prison. I need you to look after her, Mother. Can you do that?’
Silence, then the faint rasp of a cigarette lighter. Francine spoke again, her voice husky with smoke. ‘I think you might have to say that again, darling. I must have misheard.’
30
Francine replaced the receiver and slumped back against the pillow. One thought dominated all others: thank God she’d stopped him from answering. He had leaned across her in the bed, and his hand had been hovering over the telephone, but she’d batted him away, assuming the caller would be Paul, and heaven knows with the divorce negotiations so fraught, she didn’t need to offer Paul any more ammunition.
But it had been Hazel, not Paul. Francine closed her eyes, hoping again that she had somehow misunderstood. That this was in fact a bizarre hallucination.
Charles patted the bedcovers above her thigh. ‘Well, Frangie?’ he said. ‘Whatever it was, it sounded weighty.’
‘It was Hazel. She’s . . . she’s been arrested. They’re taking her and Lucia to Holloway prison. Hazel wants me to look after Jasmin.’ She threw back the covers and swung her legs o
ver the side of the bed. ‘I have to get to their flat right now.’
‘Damnedest thing. Arresting her for what?’
‘For her politics, of course. She’s a fascist, isn’t she? An enemy. The silly girl.’ Her thumbnail snagged on her stocking and she cursed.
‘I’ll drive you.’
‘You can’t possibly.’
‘I’ll drop you at the next street. She’ll think you caught a cab.’
Francine hesitated as she zipped up her dress. ‘All right. But not the next street. Two streets away. If she knows I’ve been with you there’ll be the most almighty scene.’
Cromwell Road was busy, so Charles decided to take the backstreets, the engine straining as he careered past grand terraces and mansion blocks. Neither of them spoke. Francine stared out of the window at the black railings flicking past, blinking at the flashes of sunlight that dazzled through the gaps between buildings. She wondered whether she might be able to reason with these police officers who wanted to take Hazel away, to separate a mother from her daughter. Two mothers from two daughters. Francine thought she might just hold some sway if she smiled pleasantly enough and apologized and explained that Hazel was simply an impetuous young girl. As for Lucia, well – she wouldn’t speak up for her.
But what if pleasant smiles weren’t enough? If Hazel was taken regardless, and she, Francine, was left to care for the child? On the telephone, she’d tried to get some idea as to how long this detention might last, but Hazel hadn’t been able to say. Just a night or two, perhaps. They’d question the girls, and surely when they discovered that there was nothing dangerous or traitorous about Hazel, she would be released. But in the meantime, where would Jasmin sleep? The flat had only one bedroom. The sofa would be comfortable enough, she decided; it was small, but it should be a perfect fit for a four-year-old. And what on earth would she give her to eat? Francine tended to eat dinner in a restaurant, or not at all. Well, there was always cheese on toast. Porridge. Marco at the deli would see that Jasmin had a treat now and again.
The car passed a man in a cravat with a newspaper under his arm. Francine thought she recognized him. He was an actor, she remembered, someone she’d met at one of Harriett’s parties. She thought of the play at the Adelphi next Saturday. She would have to find someone to look after Jasmin that evening, or perhaps she wouldn’t be able to go at all. She sighed, her heart heavy. There wasn’t a great deal of gaiety to life these days, but what little interludes she enjoyed would now be snatched away.
‘Blasted nags.’ Charles swerved around a rag-man’s pony, the Brough almost clipping the side of the cart. Jasmin would enjoy a ride in the Brough, but that was out of the question, decided Francine. She was such a bright little thing, chattering away like a child twice her age. She’d remember his face, and his name, and then she’d tell Hazel all about Charles once the pair of them were reunited.
It pained Francine to deceive Hazel. Deception was not in her nature. And after all, she had tried to break it off with Charles, hadn’t seen him for three whole months after Hazel’s revelation. She had lived like a nun until that Sunday evening in November when he had arrived at the flat with a bottle of chilled white wine. Perhaps it was because it was her birthday, and she was feeling particularly alone, horribly sober, in fact, after a dry birthday lunch with Hazel, that she invited him in. This time she listened. Gave him a proper chance to explain.
He said he loved her, he had always loved her. Everything that had happened, happened because of his love for her.
‘Can’t you see, Frangie?’ he pleaded.
They were sitting opposite each other in the dull lamplight of the sitting room. Raindrops slunk down the windowpane. It was cold but she had not bothered to switch on the fire.
‘Lawrie’s death . . .’
Francine almost gasped, to hear Charles mention his brother’s name.
‘It was my fault,’ Charles went on. ‘I abandoned Lawrie because I loved you. I wanted you. I’ve tried somehow to make amends, all those extra babies, the new little boys . . .’
She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to hear this – what? – confession? It was the first time Charles had ever spoken of Lawrie since the accident. But why mention him now? Her thoughts hardened. This wasn’t about Lawrence: it was about Hazel.
‘And sleeping with my daughter? That was because of your love for me?’
Charles flinched and cast his eyes down. ‘No. That was a terrible – an unforgivable mistake. I was drunk, Frangie. Very drunk. I don’t know if you remember but you had gone to bed early that night – a rotten headache, wasn’t it? I tried to sleep but couldn’t, and so I went downstairs for a nightcap, sat in the living room for a while in the dark, drinking. I heard Hazel go out into the garden. I wanted to know what the girl was playing at, thought it would be a help to you, I suppose. So I followed her, saw what she was up to in the summer house with the boy.’
‘Why didn’t you stop them? Chase him off?’
‘I kept on drinking, straight from the bottle, like an idiot in a trance. Just wasn’t thinking straight, Frangie. When the boy left, scrambled back over the wall, I thought, Here’s my chance to confront her. Warn her to be careful. But she wouldn’t listen.’ He paused, sighed. ‘And the way she smiled, well, it was as if you were there in front of me, Frangie, you at sixteen, beautiful and alive, and all the desire I had felt for you earlier in the evening, somehow it overwhelmed me. I’m not proud of what I did.’ He looked up, thumped his fist on the arm of the sofa. ‘The fact is, I’ve never been more ashamed. It happened just that once. I swear to you.’
‘She says you forced yourself on her.’
‘Really? There was no force that I recall. But, the whisky . . . perhaps my memory . . .’
She stared down at the rug, trying to absorb his words. All the desire I had felt for you earlier in the evening, somehow it overwhelmed me. What did that mean?
‘You’re trying to say it was my fault, for having a headache that night?’ she said. ‘If I’d gone to bed with you it would never have happened.’
‘Of course I’m not. The evening could have passed quite differently, it’s true –’ He looked up, and she met his gaze with a warning stare. ‘But no, the responsibility is all mine. I accept that.’
‘And what about Jasmin? Is she your responsibility? Hazel says you could be the father.’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour. Rather too much whisky.’
‘Please.’ The detail – the image – was too much.
‘Jasmin is a little like you.’
‘Hardly. She’s fair – so is Hazel.’
Francine wished she knew what the boy had looked like. Charles had seen him, of course, but she preferred not to think of what he had seen through the windows of the summer house. She poured another glass of wine.
He sighed and reached in his pocket. ‘Please forgive me, Francine. I lost you once. I can’t bear to lose you again.’ He held out a small box wrapped with a red velvet bow.
She took the box and opened it. Inside was a gold ring, a night-blue stone encircled by white diamonds. Francine shook her head. He couldn’t possibly mean . . .
‘It’s a blue diamond,’ he said. ‘Terribly rare. Look, I can’t divorce Carolyn yet. These cursed loans. But when my father finally bows out, well, the inheritance will change everything. I do want to marry you, Frangie. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘But it’s too beautiful!’
‘Let me see if it fits.’
He stood and took the ring from the box, then knelt beside her. She could smell him now, feel his hands on hers, the band of warm gold slipping onto her finger. It was too much.
After that night, the ring had stayed in her jewellery box. She couldn’t marry Charles, could she? Yet the promise was enough. They had made a vow.
A policewoman answered the door to Hazel’s flat. ‘The mo
ther?’ she asked, in a granite voice that was more statement than question. Francine nodded and the policewoman motioned for her to step inside.
In the living room, Francine’s attempts to reason with the superintendent had no effect. She tried pleading and dabbing the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, explaining that Jasmin was unusually close to her mother, that it would be utterly cruel to separate them.
‘18Bs can take one child with them,’ said the superintendent. ‘They’re entitled to certain privileges.’
‘You’d put a child in prison, too?’
‘Shhh,’ said Hazel. ‘She’ll hear.’ Jasmin was in the kitchen with a biscuit and a glass of milk. ‘Jasmin mustn’t know. And Mother –’ she paused, trying to steady her voice – ‘I want you to take her to Aldwick.’
‘Aldwick? But your father’s in the house now! Your father and Adriana. For heaven’s sake, I can’t possibly—’
‘It’s not safe in London. I’ve made up my mind to get her out. The Aldwick house is big enough for all of you. Please. It might not be for very long. I can’t bear to think of her at Earls Court. Traipsing down all those stairs to the shelter.’
Francine nodded. Now was not the time to argue.
‘Please. I need you to promise.’
Hell. She could raise it with Paul, at least. These were exceptional circumstances. And it was about time he met his granddaughter.
‘I promise to ask your father. I’ll do my absolute best. And try not to worry. Jasmin will be quite safe with me.’
There was a snort from the far side of the room. Francine turned to look at Lucia. She was standing at the window, biting a fingernail, manically tapping the sole of a black patent shoe. It was all Lucia’s fault, thought Francine, whichever way one looked at it. Oh, if only the blackshirts hadn’t come to Sussex that summer. Why couldn’t they have chosen Kent or Dorset for their wretched camp?
Jasmin appeared, half a biscuit in one hand and a small blue case in the other. She offered the biscuit to Francine. ‘Want some, Nee-Nee?’
‘Nee-Nee’s not hungry, darling. You finish it, there’s a good girl.’
