She re-closed the car door. Was this the real reason he’d insisted on driving her home? What was she supposed to say to him?
“I’m sure you understand, Anne.”
“They used to send them to cowards? In the last war?”
“Correction.” Still, while the hands remained firmly locked on the steering wheel, he neither looked at her nor allowed his voice to convey any emotion. “They used to send them to people they thought were cowards.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that before? “You’re a conscientious objector!”
“Right.” He faced her. The dull red glow of the setting sun suffused his face.
She waited for him to continue. He didn’t. It was embarrassing. Why did what she think about him matter? It never had before.
“I’m sorry.” She looked away. “I didn’t realise.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure.” It was true. This was a new experience, something to be thought about, something not to jump to conclusions about. Why was he a conscientious objector? It could be any one of a dozen reasons.
Or - the thought exploded – was he a member of some kind of secret group! Like Julian? Was it, not the Vicar, but someone else, who’d asked him to drive her home? Could he have something to do with the assault!
Impossible. She’d known him forever.
The terrier was frantically racing along his fence, a passing couple were staring at the stationary car and its unmoving passengers.
“Mum will be waiting.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“If you must know,” she blurted. “I don’t mind about you being a conscientious objector.”
“I should have been surprised if you had.”
“But you weren’t sure?”
“I guess it’s different. You’re right. I couldn’t really be sure.”
“How do you mean? What’s different?”
“You did make your own stand,” he reminded her. “When you refused to be confirmed and take communion. You stood up for what you believe. I thought you’d have some comprehension of my stand too.”
“I don’t see the connection.” Yet she did.
“I admire you for it, Anne. It’s not easy to go against the tide. To follow your conscience. I just wanted you to know I admire you for it.”
“Did you tell the Vicar that?”
“Actually, I did.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She re-opened the door, and stepped out. “It’s very kind of you to drive me home.”
“Wait…”
She leaned in.
“The assault,” he asked. “Do you know who did it?”
“No. Julian says I have to be careful.”
“I agree with him.”
“You know Julian?”
He prevaricated. “Not exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know who he is.”
Why should it be a surprise? He was obviously as familiar with her life as all the other choir members to whom the Vicar gossiped.
It was in its own way important. In all the years they’d known each other, he’d never shown any interest in her. Now, suddenly, here they were. She only had his word for it that the Vicar had asked him to drive her home. Julian had said to be careful. Who was she to be careful of? On the other hand, the tenor could just as well be connected to Julian as not. These days anything was possible.
Monday morning. Work again.
Julian met her at the tram stop. “Anne! You’re alone!”
“I’m all right.” She shook him off.
“Wait!” The scurrying crowd parted around them. “You should have let me know to meet you. You should have got someone to come in with you. You’re in danger.”
Momentarily forgetting her still tender throat and the soft scarf hiding the remnants of the bruising, she laughed. Pain ripped her larynx.
“It’s not funny,” he chided.
“I don’t believe you,” she croaked, starting for the laboratory. “It’s not me. It could have been anybody he was after.”
“Believe me or not, Anne.” He folded her arm in his. “You should not go out alone.”
“How am I supposed to get to work and home again?”
“I’ve spoken to your parents.”
“They never said anything.” Yet it could satisfactorily explain why the Vicar had enlisted the young tenor’s help, and how he had known about Julian.
“I think they believe the attack was random, too.” Julian admitted.
“See!”
“The main thing is, they shouldn’t have let you come in alone. Your mother promised to go along with my rules.”
“It’s broad daylight!”
“She promised to follow the rules. That means night and day.” The fact that her mother hadn’t thought it necessary to watch her in the daylight hours seemed to particularly worry him.
“Your rules!”
“Plans,” he quickly corrected himself. “My plans for you. Which require you be escorted to and from the tram stop, at the very least. As well as no more night-time walks in the city. Understood?”
“You sound like Sophie.”
“What! What do you mean? What does Sophie have to do with this?” He stopped mid-stride. “Anne! What’s this about?”
His reaction was alarming.
“I’m sorry,” he leant down to her. “You really must tell me what this is about. Why is Sophie so concerned about you being out alone?”
“I just think you sound like Sophie. There’s nothing special about that.”
“Tell me exactly what she said!”
She looked about her, at the impatient stream of people parting around their isolated island in the middle of the footpath. “Not here,” she insisted. “I’ll tell you when we get to work.”
He was furious. “You’ll tell me nothing when we get to work. Nothing! Do you understand?”
“Go to hell!”
“Nothing at work! Do you understand!” He grabbed her arm.
Why had she thought she could stand up to him? She must. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he was hurting her, she found the necessary courage. “No, Julian. I don’t understand.”
“For God’s sake, Anne!” Exasperated, he searched the area, located a distant cafe and a waiter sweeping the footpath out front. “We’ll talk in there.”
She balked. “I can’t! I’m late!”
“Forget about that.” His grip tightened. “Do you really want to get hurt again?”
Some of the hurrying people were pausing to look at them. A uniformed soldier paused to ask: “Are you all right, Miss?”
She managed a tight smile: “Yes thanks.”
“No worries, mate,” Julian released her.
“It’s okay. Thank you,” she repeated and, because the soldier still hesitated, took Julian’s arm.
The solider continued on his way.
Further struggle was obviously impossible. Besides, Julian was genuinely distressed. It had to be extremely serious. Whatever it was.
She allowed him to lead her to the corner, propel her across the road with the green traffic light and usher her into the cafe.
Safely inside the cafe, he pulled two chairs from the table top where they’d been placed for cleaning.
“Sorry it’s not cleaned up yet.” The waiter followed them inside.
“Two coffees.” Julian ordered. “White.”
“It’ll be a while. If you’re in a rush?”
“No problem. Take your time.”
“I don’t like coffee,” she ventured.
He frowned, motioned her to silence, and watched the waiter disappear into the kitchen at the rear. “Okay! Tell me. What’s this about Sophie?”
“I don’t want coffee.”
“Tell me about Sophie,” he insisted.
Surrendering, she told him what had happened on their evening in the city. As she described So
phie’s fainting spell, the visit to St Francis’s and Sophie’s insistence on escorting her to the tram, he listened intently and without interruption
“That’s it, Julian. That’s all. There’s nothing else.”
“That’s all? Nothing more?”
“I told you!” She looked pointedly at her watch.
“Forget the time!”
“That’s all. Honestly.”
“If you’re sure. Think, Anne. There’s got to be a reason Sophie’s so concerned about you. Didn’t she say anything? Isn’t there something? Anything?”
“There’s nothing. I told you. Nothing. Sophie’s just a friend. There’s nothing except...” She stopped.
He was immediately alerted. “Go on, Anne.”
“No, that’s all there is to it.”
“Except,” he urged. “Except what?”
“The two things aren’t connected.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I’d forgotten. That’s the night Dad was hurt. When I came home, Mum was waiting at the door. Dad was...” She blanched.
“What?”
“I’d forgotten! Dad was so sick. So much has happened.”
“You’d forgotten what?” He was very patient.
“That was the first night!”
“What first night?”
“The other time. I told you. I thought I was being followed before. It was after we’d been to St Francis’s. The same night. I’d forgotten. Dad was so sick…” How could she have forgotten it was that night? How could she ever have thought it was imagination? The sound of footsteps behind her had been exactly the same. Or… ? Were memory and imagination and fear playing tricks?
He leaned back, not speaking, his eyes absently on the traffic outside. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he hadn’t heard. But he had. Most alarming was the fact that he believed her. Had he not believed her, he’d have said so. Instead, she could see his brain had shifted into top gear. He was assessing what she’d told him, trying to make a connection between the two attacks, trying to make a connection between the attacks and the shopping excursion with Sophie, between the excursion and Sophie’s concern. Probably making connections she had no hope of comprehending. But what?
“Julian?” Her whisper was tentative.
As expected, he did not answer.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he placed a warning finger to his lips.
“Sorry it took so long. First thing in the morning - you know?” The waiter placed two cups of coffee on the table. “Anything else?”
“Nothing. Thanks.”
The waiter left to resume his tasks out front.
“Julian - what’s happening?”
Though his eyes, looking over the rim of the thick cup, remained thoughtful, his answer was firm. “I can’t answer that, Anne.”
“I know you. You don’t trust me.”
“Don’t be childish.” He flickered impatience. “Of course I trust you.”
“I never told anyone you’re a communist.”
“You didn’t?” He feigned sarcastic surprise. “How kind of you.”
She felt the hot flush of anger.
“You’re mad at me again.” He chuckled, the rich sound of rare genuine amusement she so seldom heard.
“I’m not!!!” Wincing, she convulsively clutched at the scarf.
“I’m sorry.” He was immediately contrite. “Your throat’s still sore.”
She tried the coffee. It was weak, the bitter taste she disliked was scarcely evident. From her handbag, she took the capsules of soluble medication prescribed by Dr Matthews, dropped them in her cup.
“I thought you didn’t like coffee.” As ever, despite his sympathy, he was quick to taunt her.
Though the warm drink was starting to sooth her throat, speech was becoming a chore.
“I’ll tell you this much, Anne.” He was once again very serious. “There is something very wrong at your laboratory.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Frightened, but not wanting him to see just how frightened, she forced the words out.
“Of course,” he nodded. “Blind Freddy could see that. But there’s more going on than just inter-staff quarrelling.”
Pressing the soft scarf to her throat, vainly hoping it would assuage the pain, she waited for him to continue.
“There’s a lot more to all this,” he went on. “The Party is now legal. You know. Of course you know. What it means is - we are now on the side of the angels. For the duration of the war, at least. While Russia is on our side.”
She nodded.
“So you see - it would be wise for you to take my advice.”
What did the legalisation of the Communist Party have to do with Julian’s warnings? What did it have to do with heeding them?
“You are listening, Anne. You will do as I say?”
“Be careful?” The medication was beginning to take effect, speech was again slowly becoming less painful. “Don’t be alone?”
“Exactly.”
“Easy enough, I guess.” Why not? Even if it had to do with his precious Party, she’d be silly not to be careful. The attack had been terrifying, she did not intend to knowingly risk a repeat.
He set down his cup, preparing to leave. “Remember - not a word to your friends. Not a word in the laboratory. Nothing. Don’t talk about any of this.”
“It’s too late. They already know. Mum phoned.”
“She did,” he agreed. “Fortunately I took the call. She spoke to me. I persuaded her not to tell anyone else. No, Anne. They won’t know.”
“But I thought…”
“They believe your week off was due to just another of Anne’s little illnesses.”
Damn him!
“For God’s sake, Anne!” As always, he read her mind. “Don’t be so bloody touchy! You’re often ill. Admit it. Don’t go being offended again.”
“They know at church.”
“What!”
“At church on Saturday. At the wedding. Everyone knew.” It wasn’t strictly true, but he deserved it.
“Damn!”
“Why do I have to keep it a secret at work?”
His answer was indirect. “There’s no connection.”
“Why do I have to keep it a secret?”
Again, apparently still engrossed with some unsolved problem, his answer was indirect. “What about church? Are there any strangers around?”
She blushed. He knew nothing of Gary, or of the tenor’s new interest.
“Anne?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“You wouldn’t play games with me, Anne? Not now. This is your life we’re talking about.”
She flinched. “Honestly, Julian. There’s no strangers.”
He searched her face, not bothering to conceal his suspicion.
“All right!” Ignoring the remnants of pain, she capitulated. “A few servicemen! Relatives - friends of people I’ve known for years. No one else!”
“Good girl.” He smiled, he actually smiled. “So you won’t say anything at work.”
She shook her head.
“That’s a promise.” He threw down a few coins and ushered her into the street where he was reassured the waiter that his money, plus tip, was on the table.
Walking quickly, they started back across the road and towards the laboratory.
“We shouldn’t arrive together.” He held open the lift door. “You go up first.”
Emerging alone on the fourth floor, she faced rows of unashamedly inquisitive faces. No wonder. She’d been off sick for nearly a week and now she was late.
Grace, white-coated and worried, was waiting by the open office door. “Your mother phoned, Anne. You’re to phone back.”
Ignoring the speculative eyes, she followed Grace into the office.
“She’s waiting at the neighbour’s. She’s been very worried. You didn’t come in on time. No one knew where you were.”
“Are you
all right?” Her mother’s voice, high-pitched and hysterical, shouted over the unaccustomed line. “Where have you been? They said you hadn’t got to work on time.”
“I’m all right, Mum. Why did you phone?”
“I had to make sure you got there all right. I’ve been so worried.”
“Why shouldn’t I be all right?”
“Julian - he said…”
“Mum - I’m all right. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
She replaced the receiver. Grace and Macklin remained intent on their reports. Though both were careful not to look up, the air was prickling with curiosity. It was acutely unnerving. What if they asked questions? She’d promised Julian not to say anything. “I’ll get to work.”
“Are you sure you’re fit enough, Anne?”
“Mum told you what happened.” So much for Julian’s assurances of secrecy.
“Of course she did. Your mother’s very worried. Especially as you hadn’t arrived on time.”
“You asked the others if they knew where I was?”
“What are we supposed to do, Miss Preston?” Macklin was uncharacteristically defensive. “There was reason for concern. Well founded, as it proved.”
“You will say if you don’t feel up to work, Anne.”
“Of course.” Closing the door behind her, she left the office. What would Julian say when he heard about this? What would he do?
Across the space between their benches, Sophie called: “Glad you made it, Anne.”
Alice, for no apparent reason, flared. “Leave her alone.”
“Speak for yourself.” Sophie snapped. “How’s your throat, Anne?”
“You weren’t supposed to know about it.”
“Come off it, Anne,” Joan jeered. “You made sure we knew.”
“You’re not fair.” Lillian turned on Joan.
“Trust you, Anne.” Margaret was still antagonistic. “Little miss innocent reckons her fairy tales will win points with Julian.”
“No one makes up stories like that!” Sophie was indignant.
“That’s easy to check,” Helen suggested. “Why don’t you look at her neck?”
“That’s not fair!”
“Leave her alone!”
Suddenly, without warning, the row which had been simmering for months came to a head. Everyone was shouting. No-one was listening. Assignments were ignored, equipment was pushed to one side. Incredibly, the office door remained closed. The place was in uproar and Macklin and Grace were doing nothing!
Tools of War Page 23
