At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – I’m so sorry I’m late. I needed to catch the post.

  Julia smiled.

  – Simon again?

  – Yes. I know how upset he would have been if no letter was waiting for him tomorrow.

  Julia knew all about Captain Simon Jenkins as he had been a staple of their conversations at the Ritz for the last several months. Jenkins was in his early twenties and had been an actor before war broke out. Although she had never met him, she had seen Jenny’s photograph of him, which showed him to be dark-haired and good-looking. His eyes twinkled with amusement. According to Jenny he was also a “terrific” painter and this was borne out by the fact that he had been commissioned to work on camouflage development at Farnham Castle. Whether or not he should have told Jenny this – and whether or not Jenny should have told Julia – she did not know.

  – I haven’t seen him for four weeks and I do miss him so!

  – The time will go by quickly enough, Jenny. And remember: you don’t really know him all that well.

  – But sometimes you just know about a person. Don’t you believe that?

  – Life gets far more complicated before it starts getting easier. I sometimes wonder if one can know oneself. Let alone those around us.

  – Anyway, he feels the same way about me.

  – How can you possibly tell?

  – He told me. He put it all down in black and white.

  – Really! Jenny! Don’t you think that was a little bit … forward of him?

  – But he did. Look. I’ll show you.

  And she brought her handbag up onto the table and started ruffling around inside it before pulling out a sheaf of letters tied with pink ribbon. Julia looked at Jenny’s head as she shuffled through her letters. Her black hair gleamed with health and half masked her face. The envelopes were all creased and thumbed through regular re-reading, and Julia guessed that Jenny carried them with her everywhere.

  – No, Jenny. Please don’t show me. I’m sure Simon meant those letters for your eyes only. It wouldn’t be proper to show me them.

  And Julia put a restraining hand over Jenny’s. She looked up, rebuffed, and her cheeks glowed pink.

  – Well. He loves me. And I think I love him too.

  – But, Jenny. You’re still very young. You have your whole life ahead of you.

  – But you were only about my age when you married Daddy.

  – That was different.

  – Why was it different?

  – Well … uh … well, Daddy was a lot older and more worldly-wise than Simon could possibly be. Please don’t think that’s a criticism.

  – You’re not saying you made a mistake when you married Daddy are you?

  Julia had fallen into a trap that she had always known lay hidden under the surface of these conversations.

  – No! No … of course not. I was just trying to be helpful. I do apologise. Perhaps I was speaking out of turn.

  – Well, I think he’s going to ask me to marry him.

  – How could you be so certain of that?

  – I just know.

  Julia trod carefully.

  – I’m sure you know best, Jenny. But you are barely eighteen and he’ll have to ask Daddy for permission.

  – You don’t think Daddy would refuse him?

  – I really don’t know.

  A new cloud drifted over her features and her brown eyes looked troubled.

  – You don’t think Daddy would stop me getting married because of my diary, do you?

  – Oh, Jenny, I’m sure he wouldn’t. He knows you wouldn’t lie to him. He knows you’re telling the truth. And we have been coming here for many months now.

  – I did put the crosses next to the right dates, didn’t I?

  – Yes. I’m sure you did.

  – No. I mean I did put the crosses next to the days that we actually met and not just the days that Daddy put in his petition.

  – Absolutely. I mean, it was your idea, remember. You were the one who remembered that one of the dates was a date when we had met.

  – Yes. I know. It’s just that I’m not sure anymore.

  – What’s Daddy been saying to you?

  – I shouldn’t say …

  – Please, Jenny. You and I have never had secrets. Have we?

  – Daddy says that I’ll have to give evidence in court.

  – Oh, Jenny. Don’t worry. I am sure it won’t come to that. Daddy and I seemed to be getting on better now. I think that everything will just go away.

  – But if it doesn’t?

  – Well. If it doesn’t, I’m afraid you will have to give evidence. You’ve already met my solicitor, who is a very nice man, and he’s prepared a statement that you will have to sign in front of a witness.

  – Oh, Julia! I really don’t think I could go through with it!

  – I’m sure you won’t have to. I’m sure Daddy will see sense. And even if he does press on I’m sure his barrister, Sir Patrick Tempest, and my barrister will be very kind to you when you’re giving evidence. It’s just that …

  – Just that what?!

  – Oh. It’s nothing. Never mind.

  – Please. What else is there?

  – Oh, I really don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, Jenny.

  Jenny had begun wringing her napkin in her hands. Her tea had not yet been touched. Her eyes filled with entreaty – and a hint of tears.

  – Please!

  – Very well. I am sure it is nothing to worry about but it’s just that Mr Falling has employed a very nasty barrister.

  – What do you mean?

  – He’s called Roland Blytheway and I know that Daddy really hates him.

  – Why does he hate him?

  – He’s a very odd man and Daddy says that he can be very cruel. My barrister, Mr Alnwick, agrees.

  – But how could he be cruel to me?

  – He knows about your diary. He knows about the crosses you’ve put in it. And he knows what you’ve said about those crosses. Well, you can’t exactly rub them out now, can you?

  – Oh …

  Jenny bit her lip.

  – My barrister can’t cross-examine you – that is ask difficult questions – but Blytheway can, and my lawyers have told me that he is likely to force you to admit that all the entries in the diary are true and, if you try and say that they’re not, he’ll ask you why you put them there in the first place. And accuse you of perjury and attempting to pervert the course of justice.

  – Oh my God! Julia! No!

  And Jenny crumpled up and began to cry, burying her head in the still crumpled napkin. Julia reached out a consoling hand and began stroking her sleeve. She whispered soothingly:

  – Jenny. Please don’t worry. It’s not going to come to that. Daddy knows you wouldn’t lie. He’ll drop it all. I’m sure he is already thinking of dropping it. All you’ve got to do is tell the truth. We’ll get through this together. We’re like sisters, aren’t we?

  – Oh Julia. I’m sorry. It’s so upsetting.

  Jenny looked up into her eyes. She had stopped weeping and her normal complexion was returning. Julia thought of peach blossom. A thought struck her.

  – Are you so worried because of something Daddy has been saying?

  – I think he’s going to carry on with it.

  – What makes you say that?

  – He’s been calling me down for little chats. He told me about the books on your shelves. How they’re the same as Mr Falling’s. He told me that you had written to Mr Falling on his notepaper. You never told me that you’d written to him!

  – But I explained all that to Daddy … Remember when I first mentioned all of this to you and you said how stupid it was. Well, Daddy had been dropping all sorts of awful hints. I knew he was doing the same with this Mr Falling and so I simply wrote a short, polite letter apologising for Daddy’s behaviour. Didn’t daddy tell you this?

  – No … he didn’t.

  – I sent an ordinary letter to Mr Fall
ing – it wasn’t even marked “private and confidential” – and it reached him in his chambers some time before Christmas. I told Daddy all about it as soon as he raised it. I don’t understand why he didn’t tell you.

  – Daddy says he can’t trust you anymore.

  – Look, Jenny, please trust me. Have I ever lied to you?

  And she began to stroke Jenny’s sleeve again.

  – Oh. This is too gloomy. Let’s change the subject to something far brighter. I’ve got something to show you.

  And Julia reached into her pocket and pulled out the little velvet casket. She placed it on the table between them and opened it carefully so that the large emerald caught the light and sparkled.

  – Oh. It’s beautiful.

  – It used to belong to your mother. Daddy gave it to me when we got married.

  – Why don’t you ever wear it?

  – I used to wear it every day but as time went by and you grew older I began to feel that it had never really been meant for me. It was Joan’s ring – your mother’s ring – and as you grew up I stopped wearing it and told myself that, when the time was right, I would give it to you. Please. Take it.

  – But I couldn’t. It’s so lovely!

  But as she said it Jenny was already lifting it from its box and putting it on her finger. She held it up to the light, her fingers splayed.

  – It was a little tight getting over my knuckle.

  – You can wear it next time you see Captain Jenkins. I’m so sorry if I seemed to be interfering. I was only trying to help.

  – Oh, Julia. You’re right. Everything is going to be just fine, isn’t it?

  – Of course it is. Please don’t worry. Carry on wearing it if you want to. Here. Take the casket as well. When are you next seeing him?

  – He doesn’t have any more leave until March. He’ll be coming up to London to see me.

  Jenny had calmed down now. But there was something else Julia needed to know.

  – May I just ask you one little thing about home?

  – Of course. What is it?

  – I’m probably being really silly. But it’s the servants. I’ve seen Samuels letting that private detective into the house and so I know that he’s in on it with Daddy. I was really hurt when I found out. I’m right about that aren’t I?

  – Samuels is very loyal to Daddy. But I don’t think he knows everything. He believes everything Daddy tells him.

  – But what about Annie?

  – Annie? I hadn’t really thought about her. She’s invisible almost.

  – Do you think she’s in on it?

  – I really don’t know. I don’t think so. I hardly notice her. I do think she’s a bit conceited – though she’s always been very pleasant to me.

  Jenny paused to think.

  – There is something, I suppose. But it’s probably nothing.

  – What exactly?

  – Well. It’s just that she sometimes looks rather too pleased with herself. Sometimes it’s as though … as though she knows something that nobody else knows. Which is silly really isn’t it?

  – Yes. Very silly. I think that she just likes the idea of sharing the cellar with us during the air raids. I think it makes her feel important. I doubt that there’s anything more to it than that …

  Suddenly the air raid sirens began to sound. It was nowhere near blackout time. There had been few raids over the previous few days but it looked like the bad times were coming back. The room filled with the sound of chairs being pushed backwards and the hubbub of voices grew louder.

  – Come on, Jenny. We’d better go. I’ve got to get to work anyway.

  Julia left her payment on the table and she and her step-daughter made for the exit.

  – Thank you for coming, Jenny. It is always lovely to spend time with you. And don’t worry. It’s all going to be all right.

  – Thank you, Julia. I’m sorry I got upset.

  – Don’t be. Now let’s cut across the park and get home.

  They hurried away. Julia’s mind stretched to the weeks ahead – and then back to Annie. She had said that she had carefully examined the hyacinth bulbs to see if they could be saved. How could she not have noticed the note? If that note came to light she was finished. How could she possibly explain that to Jenny? Or to anyone else for that matter? It was raining by the time they reached the steps of the house. Perhaps the weather would save her?

  Julia remembered the light shining out from under the door of Jeremy’s study. Was he at home or not? She and Jenny went down into the cellars to await the “all clear”.

  Pemberton was not there. Several miles across London he was readying himself to begin a consultation with Graham McKechnie.

  Chapter Forty-two

  (Wednesday 29th January 1941)

  Miss Emma Chapman raised her pencil and prepared to write. The sleeve of her jacket, burgundy herringbone tweed, slipped down to reveal the crisp white cotton of her shirt cuff. Across the room Arnold Bateman was shuffling buff-coloured files, picking them up, turning them over and putting them down again until at last he found the one he had been looking for. She adjusted the antique clip in her thick brown hair and looked out of the window down at what was left of Bank underground station. A giant crater, brick-dust, rubble and twisted metal, were all that remained. A direct hit on the 11th January – less than three weeks earlier – had killed over fifty people.

  – Right, Miss Chapman.

  And Bateman began dictating a letter, gabbling his words as he spoke.

  – Mr Bateman. Please slow down, I can’t keep up.

  Bateman let out something between a snort and a sigh.

  – What’s wrong with you today? We have a lot to get through. How much did you get down?

  She scrolled back through her shorthand. What was wrong with her indeed; he spends forever finding the right file, then starts jabbering at twice his normal speed.

  – “I am sending out the necessary forms in tonight’s post.”

  – Ah yes. “Please be assured of our utmost attention at all times. Yours, etc.” Now onto the next one.

  He looked at his watch and began scrabbling through the files again.

  – Five more letters to go out before close of business.

  – We’ve plenty of time, Mr Bateman. It’s only half past four. I’ll go and type this one up.

  – No. I want to get on with my dictation. You can type all the letters up when I’ve finished.

  Bateman was wearing his usual loud pinstripe but his tie was slightly awry and she could see red braces protruding from his jacket. She knew all about McKechnie’s petition and the allegation that Bateman had been sleeping with Mrs M. Indeed, everyone knew about it. Ever since McKechnie had confronted him with his wife’s diary and started yelling about “ABC” it had been the main topic of office gossip. And McKechnie had made no secret of the fact that he had petitioned for divorce and cited Bateman. Bateman looked at his watch again and started dictating furiously once more so that again she struggled to keep up. By ten to five she had taken down four more letters. Her wrist was starting to hurt. Bateman began rummaging through the folders on his desk again, picking them up and putting them down noisily. She put down her pencil and flexed her fingers; then, looking out of the window, she began planning her route home. A heavy fog was falling. The loss of Bank was a nuisance! Then she felt guilty because so many people had died there.

  – Damn and blast!

  – What is it, Mr Bateman?

  – Where’s the Bridges file?

  – That’s still in the main cabinet. Would you like me to go and get it for you?

  – No. You stay here and get on with the typing. I’ll get it. Save a bit of time.

  And he jumped up from his desk and dashed out of the door. What peculiar behaviour, thought Miss Chapman, there was plenty of time to get everything done and posted.

  The central filing cabinet was on the next floor up, as was McKechnie’s office. Bateman rushed to th
e stairwell and began taking the stairs two at a time. Turning the second corner, he ran slap bang into McKechnie. The latter was buttoning up a dark blue overcoat as he went down. The two men looked at one another, then McKechnie snorted, brushed down his overcoat and went on towards the exit. Bateman looked at his watch. It was only five to five. Then he continued up the stairs.

  He rifled through the main cabinet, found the Bridges file, and ran back down to his office. Through the frosted glass he could see the fuzzy maroon outline of Miss Chapman sitting at her typewriter. An industrious click-clacking greeted him as he came back in.

  – On with the dictation. “Dear Mr Bridges …”

  And once again Miss Chapman struggled to keep up.

  – “Yours etc.” Right.

  He picked up some office stationery and started signing his name at the bottom of the blank sheets.

  – Now. Type the letters onto these and make sure my signature doesn’t look out of place. If you mess it up you’ll have to PP me.

  He grabbed his coat and headed for the door again.

  – But Mr Bateman. It’s only five o’clock.

  – When you’ve finished typing them put the necessary enclosures together and send them off. Leave the carbons on my desk and I’ll look at them in the morning.

  – But Mr Bateman …

  – Good evening, Miss Chapman.