by Ken Follett
They slipped out of the kitchen door and threaded their way through the small town by starlight. Leaving the houses behind, they followed a dirt track steadily uphill. After an hour they came to a small group of stone buildings. Teresa whistled then opened the door to a barn, and two men came out.
‘We always use false names,’ she said in English. ‘I am Maria and these two are Fred and Tom. Our new friend is Leandro.’ The men shook hands. She went on: ‘No talking, no smoking, and anyone who falls behind will be left. Are we ready?’
From here the path was steeper. Lloyd found himself slipping on stones. Now and again he clutched at stunted bushes of heather beside the path and pulled himself upwards with their aid. The petite Teresa set a pace that soon had the three men puffing and blowing. She was carrying a flashlight, but she refused to use it while the stars were bright, saying she had to conserve the battery.
The air got colder. They waded across an icy stream, and Lloyd’s feet did not get warm again afterwards.
An hour later, Teresa said: ‘Take care to stay in the middle of the path here.’ Lloyd looked down and realized he was on a ridge between steep slopes. When he saw how far he could fall, he felt a little giddy, and quickly looked up and ahead at Teresa’s swiftly moving silhouette. In normal circumstances he would have enjoyed every minute of walking behind a figure like that, but now he was so tired and cold he did not have the energy even to ogle.
The mountains were not uninhabited. At one point a distant dog barked; at another they heard a tinkling of eerie bells, which spooked the men until Teresa explained that mountain shepherds hung bells on their sheep so that they could find their flocks.
Lloyd thought about Daisy. Was she still at Tŷ Gwyn? Or had she gone back to her husband? Lloyd hoped she had not returned to London, for London was being bombed every night, the French newspapers said. Was she alive or dead? Would he ever see her again? If he did, how would she feel about him?
They stopped every two hours to rest, drink water, and take a few mouthfuls from a bottle of wine Teresa was carrying.
It started to rain around dawn. The ground underfoot instantly became treacherous, and they all stumbled and slipped, but Teresa did not slow down. ‘Be glad it’s not snow,’ she said.
Daylight revealed a landscape of scrubby vegetation in which rocky outcrops stuck up like tombstones. The rain continued, and a cold mist obscured the distance.
After a while, Lloyd realized they were walking downhill. At the next rest stop, Teresa announced: ‘We are now in Spain.’ Lloyd should have been relieved, but he just felt exhausted.
Gradually the landscape softened, rocks giving way to coarse grass and shrubs.
Suddenly Teresa dropped to the ground and lay flat.
The three men instantly did the same, not needing to be prompted. Following Teresa’s gaze, Lloyd saw two men in green uniforms and peculiar hats: Spanish border guards, presumably. He realized that being in Spain did not mean he was out of trouble. If he was caught entering the country illegally he might just be sent back. Worse, he could disappear into one of Franco’s prison camps.
The border guards were walking along a mountain track towards the fugitives. Lloyd prepared himself for a fight. He would have to move fast, in order to overcome them before they could draw their guns. He wondered how good the other two men would be in a fracas.
But his trepidation was unnecessary. The two guards reached some unmarked boundary and then turned back. Teresa acted as if she had known this would happen. When the guards disappeared from sight, she stood up and the four of them walked on.
Soon afterwards the mist lifted. Lloyd saw a fishing village around a sandy bay. He had been here before, when he came to Spain in 1936. He even remembered that there was a railway station.
They walked into the village. It was a sleepy place, with no signs of officialdom: no police, no town hall, no soldiers, no checkpoints. Doubtless that was why Teresa had chosen it.
They went to the station and Teresa bought tickets, flirting with the vendor as if they were old friends.
Lloyd sat on a bench on the shady platform, footsore, weary, grateful and happy.
An hour later they caught a train to Barcelona.
(v)
Daisy had never before understood the meaning of work.
Or tiredness.
Or tragedy.
She sat in a school classroom, drinking sweet English tea out of a cup with no saucer. She wore a steel helmet and rubber boots. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and she was still weary from the night before.
She was part of the Aldgate district Air Raid Precautions sector. Theoretically, she worked an eight-hour shift followed by eight hours on standby and eight hours off duty. In practice, she worked as long as the air raid continued and there were wounded people to be driven to hospital.
London was bombed every single night of October 1940.
Daisy always worked with one other woman, the driver’s attendant, and four men forming a first-aid party. Their headquarters was in a school, and now they were sitting at the children’s desks, waiting for the planes to come and the sirens to wail and the bombs to fall.
The ambulance she drove was a converted American Buick. They also had a normal car and driver to transport what they called sitting cases – injured people who could nevertheless sit upright without assistance while being transported to hospital.
Her attendant was Naomi Avery, an attractive blonde Cockney who liked men and enjoyed the camaraderie of the team. Now she bantered with the post warden, Nobby Clarke, a retired policeman. ‘The Chief Warden is a man,’ she said. ‘The District Warden is a man. You’re a man.’
‘I hope so,’ Nobby said, and the others chuckled.
‘There are plenty of women in ARP,’ Naomi went on. ‘How come none of them are officials?’
The men laughed. A bald man with a big nose called Gorgeous George said: ‘Here we go, women’s rights again.’ He had a misogynist streak.
Daisy joined in. ‘You don’t really think all you men are smarter than all of us women, do you?’
Nobby said: ‘Matter of fact, there are some women senior wardens.’
‘I’ve never met one,’ said Naomi.
‘It’s tradition, isn’t it,’ Nobby said. ‘Women have always been home-makers.’
‘Like Catherine the Great of Russia,’ Daisy said sarcastically.
Naomi put in: ‘Or Queen Elizabeth of England.’
‘Amelia Earhart.’
‘Jane Austen.’
‘Marie Curie, the only scientist ever to win the Nobel Prize twice.’
‘Catherine the Great?’ said Gorgeous George. ‘Isn’t there a story about her and her horse?’
‘Now, now, ladies present,’ said Nobby in a tone of reproof. ‘Anyway, I can answer Daisy’s question,’ he went on.
Daisy, willing to be his foil, said: ‘Go on, then.’
‘I grant you that some women may be just as clever as a man,’ he said with the air of one who makes a remarkably generous concession. ‘But there is one very good reason why almost all ARP officials are men, nevertheless.’
‘And what would that reason be, Nobby?’
‘It’s very simple. Men won’t take orders from a woman.’ He sat back with a triumphant expression, confident that he had won the argument.
The irony was that when the bombs were falling, and they were digging through the rubble to rescue the injured, they were equals. There was no hierarchy then. If Daisy shouted at Nobby to pick up the other end of a roof beam he would do it without demur.
Daisy loved these men, even George. They would give their lives for her, and she for them.
She heard a low hooting sound outside. Slowly it rose in pitch until it became the tiresomely familiar siren of an air raid warning. Seconds later there was the boom of a distant explosion. The warning was often late; sometimes it sounded after the first bombs had fallen.
The phone rang and Nobby picked it up.
> They all stood up. George said wearily: ‘Don’t the Germans ever take a ruddy day off ?’
Nobby put the phone down and said: ‘Nutley Street.’
‘I know where that is,’ said Naomi as they all hurried out. ‘Our MP lives there.’
They jumped into the cars. As Daisy put the ambulance in gear and drove off, Naomi, sitting beside her, said: ‘Happy days.’
Naomi was being ironic but, strangely, Daisy was happy. It was very odd, she thought as she careered around a bend. Every night she saw destruction, tragic bereavement, and horribly maimed bodies. There was a good chance she herself would die in a blazing building tonight. Yet she felt wonderful. She was working and suffering for a cause, and, paradoxically, that was better than pleasing herself. She was part of a group that would risk everything to help others, and it was the best feeling in the world.
Daisy did not hate the Germans for trying to kill her. She had been told by her father-in-law, Earl Fitzherbert, why they were bombing London. Until August the Luftwaffe had raided only ports and airfields. Fitz had explained, in an unusually candid moment, that the British were not so scrupulous: the government had approved bombing of targets in German cities back in May, and all through June and July the RAF had dropped bombs on women and children in their homes. The German public had been enraged by this and demanded retaliation. The Blitz was the result.
Daisy and Boy were keeping up appearances, but she locked her bedroom door when he was at home, and he made no objection. Their marriage was a sham, but they were both too busy to do anything about it. When Daisy thought about it, she felt sad; for she had lost both Boy and Lloyd now. Fortunately, she hardly had time to think.
Nutley Street was on fire. The Luftwaffe dropped incendiary bombs and high explosive together. Fire did the most damage, but the high explosive helped the blaze to spread by blowing out windows and ventilating the flames.
Daisy brought the ambulance to a screeching halt and they all went to work.
People with minor injuries were helped to the nearest First Aid station. Those more seriously hurt were driven to St Bart’s or the London Hospital in Whitechapel. Daisy made one trip after another. When darkness fell she switched on her headlights. They were masked, with only a slit of light, as part of the blackout, though it seemed a superfluous precaution when London was burning like a bonfire.
The bombing went on until dawn. In full daylight the bombers were too vulnerable to being shot down by the fighter aircraft piloted by Boy and his comrades, so the air raid petered out. As the cold grey light washed over the wreckage, Daisy and Naomi returned to Nutley Street to find that there were no more victims to be taken to hospital.
They sat down wearily on the remains of a brick garden wall. Daisy took off her steel helmet. She was filthy dirty and worn out. I wonder what the girls in the Buffalo Yacht Club would think of me now, she thought; then she realized she no longer cared much what they thought. The days when their approval was all-important to her seemed a long time in the past.
Someone said: ‘Would you like a cup of tea, my lovely?’
She recognized the accent as Welsh. She looked up to see an attractive middle-aged woman carrying a tray. ‘Oh, boy, that’s what I need,’ she said, and helped herself. She had now grown to like this beverage. It tasted bitter but it had a remarkable restorative effect.
The woman kissed Naomi, who explained: ‘We’re related. Her daughter, Millie, is married to my brother, Abie.’
Daisy watched the woman take the tray around the little crowd of ARP wardens and firemen and neighbours. She must be a local dignitary, Daisy decided: she had an air of authority. Yet at the same time she was clearly a woman of the people, speaking to everyone with an easy warmth, making them smile. She knew Nobby and Gorgeous George, and greeted them as old friends.
She took the last cup on the tray for herself and came to sit beside Daisy. ‘You sound American,’ she said pleasantly.
Daisy nodded. ‘I’m married to an Englishman.’
‘I live in this street – but my house escaped the bombs last night. I’m the Member of Parliament for Aldgate. My name is Eth Leckwith.’
Daisy’s heart skipped a beat. This was Lloyd’s famous mother! She shook hands. ‘Daisy Fitzherbert.’
Ethel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You’re the Viscountess Aberowen.’
Daisy blushed and lowered her voice. ‘They don’t know that in the ARP.’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’
Hesitantly, Daisy said: ‘I knew your son, Lloyd.’ She could not help the tears that came to her eyes when she thought of their time at Tŷ Gwyn, and the way he had looked after her when she had miscarried. ‘He was very kind to me, once, when I needed help.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ethel. ‘But don’t talk as if he’s dead.’
The reproof was mild, but Daisy felt she had been dreadfully tactless. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she said. ‘He’s missing in action, I know. How frightfully stupid of me.’
‘But he’s not missing any longer,’ Ethel said. ‘He escaped through Spain. He arrived home yesterday.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Daisy’s heart was racing. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Perfectly. In fact, he looks very well, despite what he’s been through.’
‘Where . . .’ Daisy swallowed. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Why, he’s here somewhere.’ Ethel looked around. ‘Lloyd?’ she called.
Daisy scanned the crowd wildly. Could it be true?
A man in a ripped brown overcoat turned around and said: ‘Yes, Mam?’
Daisy stared at him. His face was sunburned, and he was as thin as a stick, but he looked more attractive than ever.
‘Come here, my lovely,’ said Ethel.
Lloyd took a step forward, then saw Daisy. Suddenly his face was transformed. He smiled happily. ‘Hello,’ he said.
Daisy sprang to her feet.
Ethel said: ‘Lloyd, there’s someone here you may remember—’
Daisy could not restrain herself. She ran to Lloyd and threw herself into his arms. She hugged him. She looked into his green eyes then kissed his brown cheeks and his broken nose and then his mouth. ‘I love you, Lloyd,’ she said madly. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’
‘I love you, too, Daisy,’ he said.
Behind her, Daisy heard Ethel’s wry voice. ‘You do remember, I see.’
(vi)
Lloyd was eating toast and jam when Daisy entered the kitchen of the house in Nutley Street. She sat at the table, looking exhausted, and took off her steel helmet. Her face was smudged and her hair was dirty with ash and dust, and Lloyd thought she looked irresistibly beautiful.
She came in most mornings when the bombing ended and the last victim had been driven to the hospital. Lloyd’s mother had told her she did not need an invitation, and Daisy had taken her at her word.
Ethel poured Daisy a cup of tea and said: ‘Hard night, my lovely?’
Daisy nodded grimly. ‘One of the worst. The Peabody building in Orange Street burned down.’
‘Oh, no!’ Lloyd was horrified. He knew the place: a big overcrowded tenement full of poor families with numerous children.
Bernie said: ‘That’s a big building.’
‘It was,’ said Daisy. ‘Hundreds of people were burned and God knows how many children are orphans. Nearly all my patients died on the way to hospital.’
Lloyd reached across the little table and took her hand.
She looked up from her cup of tea. ‘You don’t get used to it. You think you’ll become hardened, but you don’t.’ She was stricken with sadness.
Ethel put a hand on her shoulder for a moment in a gesture of compassion.
Daisy said: ‘And we’re doing the same to families in Germany.’
Ethel said: ‘Including my old friends Maud and Walter and their children, I presume.’
‘Isn’t that terrible?’ Daisy shook her head despairingly. ‘What’s wrong with us?’
; Lloyd said: ‘What’s wrong with the human race?’
Bernie, ever practical, said: ‘I’ll go over to Orange Street later and make sure everything’s being done for the children.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Ethel.
Bernie and Ethel thought alike and acted together effortlessly, often seeming to read each other’s mind. Lloyd had been observing them carefully since he got home, worrying that their marriage might have been affected by the shocking revelation that Ethel had never had a husband called Teddy Williams, and that Lloyd’s father was Earl Fitzherbert. He had discussed this at length with Daisy, who now knew the whole truth. How did Bernie feel about having been lied to for twenty years? But Lloyd saw no sign that it had made any difference. In his unsentimental way Bernie adored Ethel, and to him she could do no wrong. He believed she would never do anything to hurt him, and he was right. It made Lloyd hope that he, too, might one day have such a marriage.
Daisy noticed that Lloyd was in uniform. ‘Where are you off to this morning?’
‘I’ve had a summons from the War Office.’ He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘I thought you’d already been debriefed.’
‘Come to my room and I’ll explain while I’m putting on my tie. Bring your tea.’
They went upstairs. Daisy looked around with interest, and he realized she had not been in his bedroom before. He looked at the single bed, the bookshelf of novels in German, French and Spanish, and the writing table with the row of sharpened pencils, and wondered what she thought of it.
‘What a nice little room,’ she said.
It was not little. It was the same size as the other bedrooms in the house. But she had different standards.
She picked up a framed photograph. It showed the family at the seaside: little Lloyd in shorts, toddling Millie in a swimsuit, young Ethel in a big floppy hat, Bernie wearing a grey suit with a white shirt open at the neck and a knotted handkerchief on his head.
‘Southend,’ Lloyd explained. He took her cup, put it on the dressing table, and folded her into his arms. He kissed her mouth. She kissed him back with weary tenderness, stroking his cheek, letting her body slump against his.
