Novel - Losing

8/14/2019 Novel - Losing

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Losing

Christopher Wharton was born in Guilford andeducated at the universities of Sussex and London. Heworked as a reporter for seven years and has written

for the Sunday Telegraph, the Spectator and the DailyMail, before in 1995 pursuing a varied career of fictionwriting, moving furniture and painting and decorating.He then joined the emergency services in 2003 and

now works as an emergency medical technician for theSouth East Coast Ambulance Service. He lives in

Brighton with his partner and two children.





This only is denied to God; the power to change thepast

Agathon

In the summer and autumn of 1940 the German highcommand took two fateful decisions. The first was to

refuse to commit their tank forces to an immediateattack on the town of Dunkirk, which saved the BritishArmy; the second a few months later was to switch theLuftwaffe’s bombing effort against Great Britain fromairfields to cities, which saved the RAF. This book is

an attempt to imagine what would have happened hadthose two decisions been reversed…





THE WOMAN was the fourth to jump, but the firstthe guards noticed.

She had landed awkwardly and broken both legs.She screamed out. They stopped the train immediatelyand dog teams went back down the line to search for the missing.

Most of the guards stayed with the train. It was notsurprising. Most of the closed and sealed carriageshad prisoners of war inside them, men of fighting age – some wounded and some not - more able to resistthan most and more closely guarded. The men were

on their way to Germany and forced labour, who knewfor how long? They had little to lose. The guards insidethe carriages and on the roof focussed their attentionon them. The major whose job it had been tosupervise the train loading had made the mistake of loading the Jewish trucks at the back, where they wereout of the guards’ line of sight. The trucks had been

added almost as an afterthought. There had been onlya few hundred Jews at the transit camp – not many toround up – and they had been crammed into two cattletrucks the major had found at the last moment. Theyhad been imprisoned for forty eight hours now.

But the trucks were old and decrepit, and some of the prisoners in the first one had found a weak spot on



one of the walls where the planking was rotten. By thesecond day they had managed to force a hole in theside through which some of the young and agile couldforce their way through. The elders had tried to stopthem, but failed. Some of the elders now had nostrength to say anything to anyone. Some were closeto death. They had had no food or water since beingloaded. The others debated where the best place to trytheir escape might be, but as no-one had a very goodidea where they were by now one place seemed asgood as another.

They were only a mile from a tunnel, which mighthave saved them all.

The train was stopped in a cutting sheltered fromview by chalk cliffs to either side – a private place. Themajor in charge ordered the guards to redouble their attention to the prisoners of war, who at least hadbeen given water through their journey and had foodparcels from home. He need not have worried. The

train had stopped innumerable times already – no-onewas interested in another stop. The POW’s dozed on.

The German officer was tall but stooped withexhaustion, deep bags under his eyes and his uniformcrumpled and dirty. All the Germans looked the same – things were not going well for them. The officer wentback to dozing with subordinates while the dog teams

did their work. The woman who had jumped wasquestioned. She was barely concious lying by thetrack. Her left leg was misshapen and the shin of her right had snapped and was poking through the flesh.She moaned gently. She had black hair and waspretty.The men who questioned her casually did not tryto help her in any way.







Losing





1938

BRIGHTON looked up at the train crossing theviaduct above it and just for a moment its true faceshowed.

In Finlay Derrington’s mind were piers, icecreams, hot summer days by the sea, sweat and sand.What he looked down on were grimy soot-stainedroofs, damp streets and crumbling houses leaning up

against each other in desperation. He felt somehowcheated. Welcome to Brighton.

A short walk brought him to his new home. Ahouse halfway up a row on Viaduct Road, a grimy,seedy structure twenty minutes from the station. Itswhite front had long ago faded to grey, giving alistless, shame-faced quality. There was little sign of

life behind the drawn curtains in the January mist, butthe answer to the tap on the door was prompt, as if she had been waiting. An elderly woman. She lookedgreyer than the house.

"You'll be Mr Derrington. Finlay Derrington, isn’tit? Come in, come in. I'm Mrs Brockenbury."

"Good morning."



The woman was…well, drunk . She wheezed andturned into the hallway, struggling for breath and liftingher chest with painful heaves, an arm pushing againstthe wall for support as she staggered. He had time toregister a face lined with fine wrinkles as she movedaway. Soft, downy hairs emanated from both cheeksand sad eyes stared unfocussed from below a thatchof grey hair. As he followed into the hallway, the noiseof a dog sniffing came from under the door of thesitting room. The green carpet of the hallway met whitewalls which, in the dim light, looked as grimy as thoseoutside. The house smelt of damp and cabbage.Another life.

His room was large and open, looking out onto thestreet. He was surprised at its size. In one corner therewas a battered wardrobe, in the other a desk, equallydelapidated. The bed lay defeated in the corner. Thewalls seemed cleaner than those in the hallway,although it could have been a trick of the light. The

carpet was dirtier."How was your trip down, dear? " She spoke

kindly, though without apparent interest, wheezingmore heavily after the slow ascent of the stairs. At thetop she had had to stop, alarmingly, to regain breath,and had looked like she might topple back down. Butshe was talking again before he could answer, rushing

the words out as if they might be her last."As I said in the letter, ten shillings a month, in

advance." She took a shuddering breath. "Thatincludes bills. Breakfast is at 7.30 except Sundays andthere is a meal at the same time every evening if youwant it." She took another breath. "You will let meknow if you are not going to be in of an evening, won't



you?" Her eyes fixed themselves determinedly on hischest. "I'll show you the bathroom."

He pulled the notes from his wallet as he followedher back down the hall to the bathroom. The rewardwas the beginnings of a shy smile. The eyes travelledup to his throat, but would go no further. She pocketedthe money.

"If you need anything more I shall be downstairs.The key is in the lock there. I like all my guests to be inby eleven o'clock, eleven thirty at the latest." The smiledisappeared, and the eyes sank back back to hischest, exhausted. "And, of course... no guests." Thelast words spat with embarassment. "You'll like theroom dear, I think. Let me know if you want anything.Supper in an hour."

She was gone, back down the hallway to thestairs, grasping the rail firmly. He went into hisbedroom to unpack.

He joined the tenants for supper behind the door from which the sound of a dog had come earlier. It hadtaken him only minutes to unpack his suits, shirts,underclothes and books. He had lain on the bed,which was firm around the edges but collapsedtowards the middle, and stared at the ceiling, his mindblank.

Mrs Brockenbury ushered him to a chair at thetable, in a room even more dim than the hallway,before wheezing off into the kitchen through anadjoining door. She did not introduce him to the twomen already there. He nodded and sat down. Therewas silence. Eventually, one of the others spoke.



"You must be the new man upstairs. You have thebest room in the house."

He proffered a hand across the table. "StephenCalvert. This here is Evans. Michael Evans. I gather you are joining us at the school this term."

Finlay introduced himself. Calvert was thin, bony,in his early twenties, with dirty looking blonde hair,worn long, and an intense manner. His fingernailswere bitten and, like Mrs Brockenbury, he seemed tohave difficulty in meeting people's gaze. He spoke in arush, stuttering, and swept his hair out of his eyes as if it were an annoying distraction. The other man wasquieter, taller and thinner, with protruding, inquiringeyes below a shock of orange hair and a hawk nose.He was less animated than Calvert and his eyes metFinlay's steadily as they shook hands.

Finlay explained that he was to teach history attheir school - St John's - for one term only and wouldbe looking for a position after that. It was his first post.

"History eh? Good luck getting them to listen tothat . When do you start?"

"Day after tomorrow," said Finlay, slipping intoCalvert's clipped style of speech, "What are the boyslike?"

"Awful, of course," said Calvert. "Quite awful."Calvert poured tea from a large brown pot in the

general direction of a cup in front of him. Some of itwent in - most didn't. His hand shook.

"You have to watch them, but that's the sameeverywhere. I'm new to the business myself. I teachEnglish. Evans here mathematics. What do you say,Michael?"



The three chatted stiffly on, led by Calvert,awaiting Mrs Brockenbury and supper. Evans' roomwas at the back of the house. Calvert was two floorsabove, in a room which had a low roof and an ill-fittingwindow through which rain and wind blew liberally.

"Been on at her to get it fixed for weeks but I don'tthink she cares over much. Probably hasn't been upthere for years. Forgotten she's got a third floor at all."

Mrs Brockenbury made a wheezing entrance, andthe three lapsed into silence. A large bowl of whatmight have been stew was set before them, with abowl of potatoes alongside. Nothing else. "There.Remember George," she breathed. She was alreadyturning to walk from the room.

"George?" Finlay asked."The dog. Don't think the bastard gets fed

otherwise."Evans pecked at his food, chewing each mouthful

at length, silent. Calvert attacked his like a madman,

cramming great mouthfuls in, chewing noisily. Finlaywatched, astonished, as pieces fell to the table.Calvert, oblivious, kept up a monologue on theteachers and pupils of St John's, aided only by theoccasional question. He took twice as long to finish asthe others.There was a silence, and Finlay stared outof the window. The rain had finally gone, blown away

by a cold, brisk wind that also seemed to be makingshort work of the windows too, which rattledalarmingly. He was wondering whether to make for theseafront when Calvert whispered.

"The antidote to Mrs Brockenbury's cooking isfound in the pub. What do you say?"



The stew was awful. With a smile of relief, Finlayreached for his coat.

The pub – a couple of hundred yards walk away –was tiny and already contained a healthy crowd,providing a hubbub of voices in the background. Finlaybought the first drinks. Calvert had whisky - to combatthe cold in his room. Evans asked for beer.

Finlay could think of little to say. The silence wasfilled mainly by Calvert, who for all his nervousdemeanour seemed to have no difficulty in findingconversation. He was 21, a farmer's son from Sussex,in his first teaching job. Evans was a year older - likeFinlay – also in his first post.

The pub forgave everything. After the cold of theday and the weariness of travelling, Finlay felt awarmth growing in his stomach and the atmospherebecoming more comfortable. As his eyes scanned thecrowd, they settled on two young women,

unaccompanied. The woman with her back to him hadlong dark hair which fell down over her shoulders. Shewas the shorter of the two, and he could see only anoblique angle of her face. Both wore similar darkclothes. The other woman, facing her friend andtherefore Finlay, held his eyes. She had long heavyauburn hair, which fell to frame an oval, almost childish

face. The eyes offset any innocence. They were deepset, strong and serious, almost shadowed, and staredwith a black intensity at her companion. As hewatched, her expression changed from graveseriousness to shocked laughter at something her friend had said. Her eyes bulged and her mouthopened to reveal even, white teeth. As she laughed,



the black eyes glinted fiercely and colour rushed intoher pale cheeks. Her body convulsed as animationovertook her. Calvert, returning from the bar, saw hisgaze and followed it.

"Ren and Jean. I'll bring them over." He put thedrinks down and headed off.

"Who are they?" Finlay asked.Evans cleared his throat. "Ren Amsden and Jean

Derby. Ren teaches French and Jean mathematics.You seem to be meeting all your colleagues in thepub."

Finlay’s gaze had rested on each a shade toolong, but he did not look away. As Calvert lead themover, a look of amusement shot between the twowomen. He looked around to see if more chairs couldbe had. There was one behind him, so he stood up toretrieve it. He turned back to find himself staringdirectly into the black eyes of the woman who hadlaughed so convulsively - Ren - turned up to meet his

and barely a foot away, presenting herself to him. Thelook in her eyes now was a mocking, conspiratorialamusement. She pushed a hand out towards him.

"Ren Amsden. You are Mr Finlay Derrington and Iam supposed to meet you, apparently ."

The sparkling eyes reinforced the joking tone of the voice. He found himself smiling as he took the

proffered hand and introduced himself. Her hand wascool. Still with her hand in his, Ren turned to Evans.

"Hello Michael," she said, producing each wordwith drawling emphasis. "How are we then?" Evanssmiled gently and nodded. Ren's eyes had alreadyshifted back to Finlay and her hand was still in his."May I introduce Jean Derby?"



Finlay had an impression of dark, heavily made-up eyes above slightly protruding teeth and a shy,diffident manner. They shook hands. Calvert hadfound another chair and the two women sat down.Calvert sat next to Ren.

"Derrington’s in that room you stayed in last term,Ren," he said eagerly, brushing hair from his eyes, asif she had conferred royal status upon it. Her presenceseemed to make him even more nervous than before.Ren's eyes stared at Finlay, the amusement morepronounced than before.

"Really? I hope I left no unsightly deposits." Shelaughed. It was impossible to tell if the voice mockedhim, Calvert, or both of them and all the world besides.Finlay suspected the latter. The dark eyes switchedback to Calvert. "And how are your boys, Stephen?"

"Not so bad, although they did appallingly lastweek. At least they aren't playing up too much at themoment. Too frightened of their results, I suppose."

"And what is your subject, Mr Derrington?" Theeyes held his levelly, but still with a conspiratorial air.

"History. Call me Finlay. Everyone else does."She looked taken aback. "I don't know about that -

we've hardly been introduced." There was a bark of nervous laughter, and the same shocked, open-mouthed look, followed by a giggle. He smiled, sensing

it would be a mistake to rise to the challenge andfeeling more amused than disturbed by it. Evans brokein.

"Ren likes to vet people, Finlay. Likes to wrong-foot people. She doesn't like people being able todisprove her outlandish theories. About politics and



that sort of thing. A socialist ." He pronounced the wordas if it were the most ludicrous thing in the world.

"What he is trying to say is I am not a fascist. Likehim." Her tongue poked out at Evans.

Calvert broke in. "I'm sure Finlay is much moreinterested in finding out what a hell-hole St John's is."

"Is it?""No, of course not, although Ren is doing her best

to ferment a revolutionary spirit in the place, if only theboys' parents knew."

Jean broke her silence, diffidently. "Whointerviewed you? Dr Whitworth? What did you think of him?"

As she spoke, her eyelids fluttered and thenclosed as she addressed him. Finlay wondered if hemade people nervous. Only Evans and Ren seemedable to look at him. The headmaster of St John's, Dr Michael Whitworth, had put him at ease straightaway.Finlay had been nervous, but Whitworth more nervous

still, visibly shaking as he talked. He had somethingwrong with his eyes. Finlay had wondered howWhitworth coped with morning assemblies. Renanswered the unspoken question.

"You should see him in assembly. You can hardlyhear his voice for the rattling of the paper."

"He seemed extremely pleasant to me."

Ren flushed, caught his expression and smiled.Her Yorkshire accent seemed more pronounced.

"All right! He is pleasant enough. In fact, he islovely. The most wonderful man in all the world. Allright?”

Finlay smiled, sensing some sort of victory, and lita cigarette. Jean and Ren took one as well. "What are



the other teachers like?" He assumed he had alreadyheard all there was to know about them from Calvert,but he wanted an excuse to keep looking at Ren'sanimated face and it was the only question he couldthink of to ask.

"Most are pretty easy. The boys are not over-taxed and Whitworth isn't the type for savage beatings.That's left to Maycock. You'll get to meet him soonenough." She stood up abruptly. "Who wants another drink? Stephen? Whisky?"

As she went to the bar, walking through the crowdas if challenging anyone to stop her, he was surprisedthat a woman should be so forward. He wondered if hewas what his mother would call "old-fashioned". She had certainly never bought drinks in her life before, hethought. Probably never been in a pub before.Certainly not without his father. Finlay’s eyes fell onCalvert, whose gaze was fixed intently on Ren'sretreating back, and Finlay understood.

The others at the table had fallen to discussing ateacher at St John's who had managed to lose five of his charges on an outing to a place called Devil'sDyke. The boys had eventually tramped backthemselves, one with a broken ankle, long before their hapless teacher had arrived, panic-stricken. The storywas a source of amusement. Ren returned from the

bar, with a tray of drinks, the most natural thing in allthe world.

"Right," she said, burping loudly. "Who wants agame of dominoes?"

The next morning – in his new home - Finlay wokelate with a dry, aching head. The bed was



uncomfortable - he had woken several times in thenight. Evans and Calvert had already left for Lewes.He felt disorientated by sleep and his aliensurroundings and the night before. He looked in thebathroom mirror and decided he could leave shavinguntil the next morning.

Outside, he noticed a small oil painting, hangingunevenly across the hall at the top of the stairs,covered in a thick layer of dust that almost obscuredthe picture itself. A portrait of a man, with a strongangular face and black hair, brushed straight back. Hewore a green tunic of some military cut, although nosigns of rank were visible. His eyes stared coldly fromthe canvas. Finlay wondered who the man was. As helooked more closely at the picture frame, he saw asmall panel cut into it at the bottom, completelyobscured. He wiped a finger along to clear it and theinscription appeared: Major Henry Brockenbury. RoyalSussex Regiment. 1883-1916.

He stared for a long time, then went back into hisroom to finish dressing.

Downstairs, there was no sign of MrsBrockenbury. The house felt abandoned, which onlyadded to its air of miserable reproach. He steppedquietly out of the front door, trying to dispel the feelingof being an interloper in his new home.

The morning was cold, crisp and bright. In thedistance, he could hear the maniacal screaming of seagulls. He headed towards the sound. The walk tothe seafront revealed a bustling market day. Tradersscreamed prices to housewives who ignored them andtalked to one another. He found himself walking on theroad more often than the pavement, to avoid the



crush. He stopped at a newsagents to buy cigarettesand a newspaper, tucking them under his arm as hewalked on, thinking of the picture outside his room. Hisown father had died in 1916. He wondered if the manin the picture had known him.

His mood lifted when he saw the sea, batteringwith futile intensity at the land not quite in its grasp.Blown by a strong, blustery wind, waves were gettingup to a heavy swell before crashing onto the shore.The seafront and the beach were deserted. As hewalked along the promenade towards the pier, hiscigarette spat ash. On the pier, a few stalls sellingsouvenirs were setting up for a quiet, out-of-seasonday. Most were shut, awaiting the summer. He entereda cafe at the end of the pier to escape the wind andbought a mug of tea and a cheese roll. He was theonly customer. The woman behind the counter, thinand pinched with hair pulled back in a severe bun,took his money with studied indifference, her face a

mask of cheerless exhaustion. The newspaper was fullof the talk of war, but his eyes were drawn to therolling waves outside. He looked across to the horizon,the imagined coast of France, the beaches and greenrolling fields. He had never been there, and hewondered again at the face of the man in the pictureoutside the bathroom at Mrs Brockenbury’s. The face

mingled with that of his mother, so often pinched, withred-rimmed eyes, when as a young boy, he hadsurprised her by walking into a room unannounced.She would get up suddenly, blinking and wiping her eyes, with a forced smile on her face, suggestingsome treat to forestall the question that she knew



would come. As he grew older, it had become a habitto listen at any closed door before opening it.

More and more frequently, having listened to thesounds within, he would walk silently away.

He finished his tea and got up to go. The waitresswas polishing glasses behind the counter. As he saidgoodbye she looked up and her face broke into a smileof such extraordinary warmth he wanted to laugh. Hesmiled back. Walking back along the pier, he stoppedto buy rock for his mother and sisters. It had their names shot through it, so one would see the namepatterned into the rock, although it was almostimpossible to make the letters out. He would give it tothem when he saw them back in London.

Back at the house, Mrs Brockenbury shot hischest an accusing look.

"You weren't down for breakfast this morning.""I'm sorry. It was rather a long day yesterday,

what with all the packing and travelling andeverything..." His voice trailed off.

Her look softened and she smiled as she openedthe door to the dining room.

"Not to worry. You'll be up tomorrow in good time,no doubt. I'll be making tea in a minute, if you wantsome."

He nodded. As the door opened, a small brownand white terrier shot out of the door and madestraight for him, eyes looking up at him brightly and tailwagging. "I don't think you've met George."

Mrs Brockenbury's face had melted to a contentedsmile, about the first he had seen since he had arrived,when she looked at the dog. He reached down to pet



the animal, and it rolled shamelessly over on to itsback. He laughed.

"He seems to like you - must be a good sign. Bythe way, the others were looking for you. Calvert andEvans and the two ladies. Something about dinner -they said they wouldn't be in tonight. I think they left anote. I'll get tea."

Upstairs, he found a loose scrap of paper tackedto the door.

Where are you, stranger? We’re in the Cricketersin the Lanes then on to Agnes and Roberts for supper.

See you there at eight if you want to come. Ren.The note was written in a bold, round hand. The

writing seemed to fit her. He could feel weight liftingfrom his shoulders, the isolation of the day leavinghim. Evans and Calvert had mentioned the dinner lastnight - although he had caught only snatches of theconversation - and he realised he had been dreading

the thought of supper alone. He wondered who Agnesand Robert were.

He went down to tea with Mrs Brockenbury.The living room was furnished with a green sofa

and armchairs, all of which looked to have seen better days, and a brown carpet. An enormous wirelessinhabited one corner of the room, its silence menacing.

A framed portrait of a man rested on the mantelshelf.The man had a strong, young face. Finlay could nottell if it was the same person as the portrait upstairs.Instead of retiring to the kitchen Mrs Brockenbury,placing a teapot and biscuits on the table in front of thesofa, took up a cup and saucer herself and sat downlike a challenge.



The conversation was stiff. She asked him a fewdesultory questions about what he would be teachingat the school - St John's - and where he had comefrom. Finlay mentioned his childhood with his mother in London. He had the impression she noted thesignificance of 'mother', rather than 'parents'. Her eyesflickered briefly towards the picture. George settleddown on a large cushion in the corner of the room.Finlay wondered how much time woman and dog mustspend in this room like this, alone and silent. He hadbarely finished half the tea when she stood up again.

"I'd better be getting on with supper, I shouldthink. I take it you'll be out tonight with the others?"

"Yes," he said apologetically. "I thought I might."For the first time since he arrived, her eyes met

his."That's all right, dear. You go and enjoy yourself,"

she smiled sadly. "I've got George here to keep mecompany. Remember not to stay out too late. Busy

day tomorrow!”

It had begun to rain again. A thin misty drizzle thatsettled on his shoulders like snow.

He had to ask directions. Inside the pub, he wasgreeted by a thick hubbub of voices and a sea of unfamiliar faces. It seemed more crowded than the

pub from the previous night, partly because it wasmore cramped and with a lower ceiling. Fox huntingscenes adorned the walls. He went to the bar and gothimself a drink, then moved towards the crowded rear of the pub, searching for the others. He found themgathered around a small fire and spread across twosmall tables in an alcove. Ren sat on one side of the



fire, with Calvert and Jean either side of her. Evans saton the other side, in between a young couple. Ren wasthe first to look up and spot him. Her eyes seemed nolonger mocking, but open and friendly. "Hello!" TheYorkshire accent somehow more marked in just thesingle word. Calvert also looked up and smiled, Jeanand Evans appeared to be deep in conversation. Hewas introduced to Agnes and Robert, recently marriedafter meeting at St John's two years before.

"Where’ve you been?" Ren asked. "We came tolook for you but you’d disappeared. We wondered if you’d upped sticks and run back to London." Themocking look came back for a moment. "’Tale betweenyour legs!“"

"I went for a wonder around Brighton, to explore."Agnes and Robert smiled at him. Agnes had tight,

curly hair and a youthful, clear complexion and musthave been about his own age. Her husband seemed atleast a decade older. His hair was thinning at the

temples, and deep lines ridged the side of his facebelow the eyes. His tie was pulled down and his collar undone. The eyes that greeted Finlay had a weak,ingratiating smile.

"Welcome to the mad house."Finlay sipped whisky, lit a cigarette and offered

one to Robert. He looked across at Ren. She had

joined in the intense conversation between Evans andJean, which seemed to be growing more vociferous,as if politics were being discussed. He used theopportunity to look at her, her face a mask of animation.



Agnes and Robert lived in large and airy rooms ina Regency building in a square along the seafront. Asthe group of them walked along, Ren fell into stepbeside Finlay. She wore a dark, plain, almostshapeless dress underneath her coat, and her facewas devoid of make-up apart from the bright redlipstick she seemed to favour. The rain still fell gently,and Finlay could hear the waves breaking on the shoreacross the road from them. Ren looked up at him.

"So, Mr Derrington. The others were worriedabout you and your disappearing act earlier. What areyou trying to do - create an air of mystery for yourself?"

He laughed. She would be the one to burst anybubbles like that.

"Is that what it looked like? I was wanderingaround Brighton trying to find something to do. Endedup going to see a film. Not funny - I wouldn'trecommend it."

Ren wrapped her coat more tightly around herself

to keep out the cold."Well, we mustn't let you get too depressed now,

must we?"Finlay looked at her, wondering if she was playing

with him or not. Her voice was more serious and shewas looking away from him across to the sea. "Are younervous? First day at school and all that?"

"I suppose so.""Don't be. I was as well. But there's nothing to

worry about. It's a nice place. Just a bit chaotic, that'sall."

They walked on, past the grand seafront hotels,the pier, past Montpellier Street, on into Hove. Finlaylearnt that she was from Leeds. Her father was the



foreman of a factory in the city. When she mentionedhim, it seemed in a voice of awe - hero worship - butwhen he looked down at her, the twinkle in her eyeshad gone and they carried a look of something morelike fear. She had a brother, just a baby. He could feelhimself relax as he talked. He felt neither the desire toimpress, nor to cover up the details of his ownupbringing. He told her of his mother and his twosisters, both older than him and now esconced inmarriages, and the father he had never seen, who haddied far from home in 1916.

"How did your mother cope?"He wanted to tell her everything. But in front of

them, Calvert had broken off from the others andstopped to wait for them. He looked at them nervously.

"You two. Get a move on. We’re getting hungry."

They ate from a large table in a huge room with abalcony overlooking the pretty gardens of the square.

Robert and Jean went out to buy beer and wine for themeal. Finlay gave Robert money to buy whisky as well.He found himself sitting between them at the table.

He was surprised at how much people talked .Talked and drank. It was the turn of Ren and Evansthis time, sitting opposite him. The argument - afamiliar one - revolved around workers' rights in

factories such as Ren's father's, and whether statecontrol as in the Soviet Union was preferable to privateownership. Ren was for the former, Evans for thelatter. While his sympathies lay with Evans, Finlayfound the passion with which Ren spoke moreattractive than the cold reasoning of his fellow boarder.The room split into two camps on the issue, with Ren





The three went up to the common room on thefirst floor, reached by an imposing marble staircasewhich reinforced the suggestion of a substantialcountry dwelling. The hallways and common roomseemed eerily quiet. Along one wall lay pigeon holesand lockers for the masters, and along the other abookcase containing reference books. Armchairs weredotted about the room, around several knee-high andrather battered looking tables. A thick carpetcontrasted with the cold stone passageway of thehallway and entrance downstairs. It looked more likethe reading room of a small library or gentleman's club.The room was deserted except for one corner where aserving counter opened on to it, behind which a stern-looking middle-aged woman was busy putting out traysof biscuits and cakes for the morning break. In front of the counter with his back to it, in an armchair and along academic gown, a man in his late fifties with greyhair sat reading the morning paper. As Finlay watched,

the man absent-mindedly fingered his crotch leisurely."Maycock," Calvert whispered. "Embarrassing

arse. Doesn't approve of the school employing somany youngsters. And as for women. But Agnes is theheadmaster's daughter - she brought him round tothinking females wouldn't be such a bad idea. Renfrightens the life out of him."

Finlay sat down while Calvert went off to check hispigeon-hole and Evans went to get tea. His greetingwas greeted by a growl. Maycock's eyes raisedthemselves reluctantly from his newspaper andsurveyed Finlay with a jaundiced eye.

"You the new man? Another bloody youngster -you're all too soft! Discipline, that's the thing. Mmmm."



The man's lips continued to move for some timeafter he spoke, though with no sound. He did not lookup from his paper again. Calvert had to go and collectbooks from his form room and to prepare a lesson, sohe said goodbye. Evans and Finlay were left alonewith Maycock's brooding presence. The tea had beenbrewed for hours. Finlay lit a cigarette, noticing withsurprise that the palms of his hands were damp. After the cold of outdoors and the hallway downstairs, thecommon room seemed stifflingly. Evans clapped ahand on his knee.

"Well, old man, I'm afraid I'll have to leave you aswell. Whitworth will be along in a moment - he'll lookafter you. We'll see you in morning assembly - that'swhere you'll get introduced to the rest of the school.He'll probably get your name wrong. Usually does. Seeyou."

Finlay was left alone with his thoughts. Maycock inthe corner doggedly carried on with his paper,

muttering indistinctly. The silence was like mist.Outside, he could at last hear the faint hubbub of boysshouting in the quadrangle. He looked at his watch.

The common room door opened with a crash toreveal Dr Whitworth, the school's headmaster. Finlayhimself was nearly six foot, but Whitworth toweredover him by at least four inches. An enormous

stomach, encased in a striped shirt, threatened tobreak loose at any moment. Whitworth was dressed ina thick tweed suit, sporting a bright green bow tie andgown. In his fifties, he had a large meaty face fromwhich two small, watery eyes poured out tears almostcontinuously. He had to wipe them away as he spoke.His voice, unlike his frame, was quiet and hesitant.



"Good morning Derrington. How are you settlingin?"

Finlay shook the proffered hand. His grip wasweak and clammy, and Finlay remembered howWhitworth's nervousness had so much put him at easewhen they had first met. The same thing washappening now.

"Come along to my office and I'll get the register for your class. Then you can meet the boys inassembly. Morning Maycock." With a blur, he wasgone, leaving Finlay to follow. Whitworth spoke to himover his shoulder. "Sorry I'm in such a rush. How areyou settling in? Got nice lodgings have you? I gather you're in with Calvert and Evans." He ushered Finlayinto a comfortable office that looked even more like adrawing room in a private house than the commonroom upstairs. A roaring fire glowed in the grate and oilpaintings hung from the walls in between book-linedshelfs. There was a thick carpet underneath

handsome leather settees. By the window, a deskstood bathed in light. There were piles of paper unsteadily stacked on the desk. Whitworth divedbehind it and extracted a thin blue cardboard folder from one of the piles.

In the corner, Agnes sat reading quietly."That," Whitworth said, pointing at her with some

disquiet, "is my daughter".Agnes looked up and smiled at him."We've already met, Daddy."Whitworth ignored her. "You have the timetable I

sent you, haven't you? Good. And I take it you havesome classes prepared to be getting on with? Good.



You'll be in Room Four. That's just along the corridor from the common room upstairs. You cannot miss it."

Whitworth drew himself up and let out a longbreath. The look in his eyes was one of wilddesperation.

"Right. Let's go and introduce you to everyone."Finlay followed him out of the office and across

the now deserted quadrangle to the far wing of thebuilding. On his left, the imposing facade of the mainblock stared down at them. On the right, the playingfields gave way to a view of the downs that stretchedto the horizon.

The assembly was held in a hall that filled theentire west wing of the building. As they walkedthrough the double doors he was greeted by the sightof rows of heads facing the front of the hall. Down acorridor cutting through the ranks of pupils, he couldsee a raised stage on which a line of seats wereplaced. All but two in the middle were filled. In front of

them stood a podium. As he and Whitworth entered,the boys stood up.

The sound of Whitworth's heavy tread seemed tofill the whole room. Finlay looked up to the stage andsaw the faces of Evans and Calvert looking at him. Hetried not to smile. Further along, Ren broke off fromwhispering something to Jean. At the end of the line,

Robert gave him a grave nod. Whitworth led him to thefront of the stage, then round to steps to the right of it.He ushered him to his seat and then walked up to thepodium. The piece of paper with the day's noticesshook in his hand. He cleared his throat nervously andgrasped the podium to steady himself.



"Good morning boys. We have a new master joining us just for this term who you will all be getting toknow. Mr Finlay Derringer. He will be teaching history.I'd like you to give him a proper St John's welcomeand make his stay with us as memorable as possible.For all the right reasons of course."

There was a small, embarrassed round of applause.

Not knowing what to do, Finlay stood up brieflyand smiled, then sat down again. Whitworth read thenotices, in a nervous, halting voice that continuallymis-read words and had to start again at thebeginning. Maycock, to his right, looked out over thesea of faces with loathing. After the morning's hymnand prayers, the masters filed off the stage andthrough a side door out into the quadrangle as theboys stood to attention. Calvert took his arm.

"We've got a minute. Come up to the commonroom and I'll introduce you to the others."

Ren, her long hair tied back and wearing a darksuit of some serge material, was waiting for themacross the quadrangle. Her arms were folded acrossher chest and she wore the familiar, quizzicalexpression allied to her mocking voice.

"Good morning Mr Calvert, Mr Derrington. Howare you this morning?"

"Just off to introduce him to the others. Then hegoes to the lions."

"Jolly good luck."She left them and walked across the quadrangle

to the far wing. She walked with a busy step, keepingboth arms folded across her chest as she went. Bothmen watched her go.



Upstairs, he was introduced to the rest of St

John's faculty, collecting papers and books beforelessons began. Frank Cobden, a thin, bespectacledman who could have been any age between 30 and 50taught biology; Edward Nash, a plump, ruddy-cheekedman running to fat and with a balding head, taughtgeography. He looked at Finlay with tired eyes as theywere introduced. The classics master, Ogilvy, wasimmensely tall and thin, with thick glasses behindwhich there were two small, quite humourless eyes. Asthey shook hands Ogilvy surveyed the top of Finlay'shead gravely, but said nothing. The only other master not already at lessons was Mr Laidlaw. Finlay guessedhe was about 30, although prematurely balding. Only aband of hair round the back and sides of his headsurvived, matched by an equally thin moustache.Laidlaw taught physics and shook Finlay rather toowarmly by the hand when they were introduced. As

they did so, the bell announcing lessons rang. AsFinlay gathered his books together, Laidlaw took hisarm.

"You're in room four, aren't you? I'm next door. I'llshow you the way."

Finlay felt caught in a rush of events beyond hiscontrol. The feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

Outside room four, Laidlaw wished him good luck, andwalked on up the corridor to his own room, plainlyterrified. Finlay paused for a second outside his ownroom. He was surprised to find no sound emanatingfrom within. Was this how it was supposed to be?

He opened the door as firmly as he could, andwent inside.



One floor down, Ren sat at her desk only half

listening to the slow, faltering voices as her boys tookturns to murder the French language. Her head achedwith a dull throbbing persistence, although she haddone her best to hide it from the other masters and her class.

That morning, at the kitchen table, Jean hadhanded her a letter with a Leeds postmark and James'familiar, jagged handwriting on the envelope. The twowomen shared rooms on the second floor of acramped building above shops in the Kemp Towndistrict of Brighton. They had sat together incomfortable silence. Jean was not a great talker at thebest of times, especially in the early morning. Ren hadsipped tea and read James' letter. It was full of theusual platitudes, news of friends from her life before,and details of his progress as an articled clerk for alegal firm in Leeds. They had been friends since

meeting at a dance two years before. Reading hisgentle news of home, she felt a curious sense of dissatisfaction. She was shocked to realise the letter evoked memories and longing for her home, but notfor James himself. The realisation was almost aphysical sensation itself. She had wondered countlesstimes before why she had not stayed in Leeds and

settled down to cosy domesticity with a man her parents made no secret they regarded as an eminentlysuitable match. Ren had sufficient self knowledge toknow her move to a school in the remote south of England had been a rebellion against a domineeringand violent father. It had also been to test James, to



see how far his pacific good nature would go. She wasdisappointed he had accepted her leaving so easily.

At lunchtime she went to a cafe in the centre of Lewes.

She lit a cigarette and stared out past the cafe'spretty flowered curtains and across the street. James'letter lay on the table in front of her, ignored. On theopposite side of the road, heading down the hill, shesaw Calvert and the new master, Derrington. Stephenwas probably buying him a drink to celebrate his firstmorning, although masters going to a public house atlunch-time was frowned upon. As she watched them,she saw that Calvert was talking animatedly, as usual,while Derrington nodded his head seriously but saidnothing. The two could hardly have looked moredifferent. Calvert's thin and wiry body was rarely not inthe middle of some gesture or movement made toillustrate a point he was making. A puppet with stringspulled by someone else. She smiled. She was fond of

him, fond of his silly jokes and his vulnerability, fond of his lack of reserve. The new master, Derrington, wasdifferent. His manner was the essence of formal, politereserve. He had a falsely relaxed way of walking,hands in pockets, long legs taking slow measuredsteps, as he stared thoughtfully at the pavement andlistened to Calvert speak. But everything else of him

spoke of tension and suppressed action. From their initial meeting, and then the meal at Agnes andRobert's, she sensed the reserve was not shyness, somuch as a natural state of caution, observing people,never taking reactions for granted. Even when he hadspoken of his father, she remembered, the eyes thathad looked at her seemed shielded, observant, unsure



of her reaction. They had had something of thevulnerability of Calvert's eyes, she thought, but withstrength alongside. She had seen the front crack onlyonce, she thought. When she had made the joke abouthim disappearing the day before. She had sensed asense of self-mockery as his eyes creased up inamusement.

On an impulse, she stubbed out her cigarette andfolded James' letter back into her purse. She wouldsee if she could find them. She never usually drank atlunch-time, not wanting to disturb even more eyebrowsin the common room, but today she felt like making anexception.

Calvert and Finlay had settled into a quiet corner of a small dimly-lit pub across the road from thestation, each with a pint of beer and a sandwich. Thepub had two bars, and sofas and armchairs around anopen fire. Only two other customers were drinking that

lunchtime, both old men. Finlay sipped the beer and lita cigarette. He didn't feel much like the sandwich.

He felt tired and a little shell-shocked, but notdispleased by how the morning had gone. He had hadthe notion, as a 22-year old, that his rightful placeshould have been sitting down in the class himself,waiting for the real master to arrive. He had had to

keep clearing his throat. And he had never realisedwhat a strain it was to have to keep talking all the time!But his pupils had been attentive and the lessons hehad slaved over for so many nights in London seemedto have held their interest to an acceptable extent. Bythe end of the morning, he was having to concentrate just to recapture the sense of wonder he had first felt



on standing in front of a classroom, listening to his ownvoice.

Calvert was recounting the story of his own firstday at St John's. He had typically lost all his notes justa few days before the start of the term, then tripped upas he entered his first class. He ranged freely over hischildhood in a small market town in Sussex. His father was a farmer and he had two younger sisters still atschool. As he spoke of them, his nervousnessdecreased.

"What about your family, if you don't mind myasking?" he asked.

"My father died in1916." Talk of his father Finlayfound difficult.

Stephen nodded. "My father got it in the leg atMons, right at the start. Invalided out. Never talksabout it. Most of them don't, do they? Anyway, it looksas if we are going to have to do it all over again soonenough. Evans lost his father as well. In 1917, I think.

Never talks about it either. Mentioned it when I firstmet him. Nothing since. I don't ask." He paused. "If itcame to another one, would you join up? You know, tofight?"

"Yes, of course. Wouldn't you?""I suppose so. Though I don't really hate the

Germans, I suppose. Don't have the same reasons to

that you and Evans have."Finlay thought for a moment. "I don't think that's

why I would join up, either. More from a sense of... Idon't know. Belonging , I suppose. I'm not sure themorals of it or the reasons for it are that important."



Ren entered the bar, scanning the few facesbefore spotting them. She waved and came over.

"Hello," she said, looking at Finlay. "How did itgo?"

He got up to make room for her to sit down, andoffered to buy her a drink. She asked for a gin andorange and Calvert a half of bitter. As he went to getthe drinks, she sat down next to Calvert. When hereturned, she was already deep in conversation withhim. She had been asked to take another class onWednesday evenings, but would only get an hour off on Friday evening to compensate. She seemed toview the arrangement with a sense of burning injusticethat was out of proportion.

"I mean," she said as he sat down, "they justthrow you around and if you kick up any sort of fussWhitworth retreats into his shell and ignores youcompletely."

Calvert was trying to placate her with soothing

comments. Finlay noticed the two familiar spots of pinkspreading out from Ren's pale cheeks.

"But at least you get Friday's off early, don't you?"Ren ran a hand through her hair. "That's beside

the point. They are treating me awfully and there isnothing I can do about it. Just like you men to look onthe bright side. You get treated properly. "

"Perhaps you could suggest to Whitworth that Itake the class in return for you doing one of mine?"Finlay suggested.

"Do you speak French?""Not a word."She let out a bark of laughter. Finlay was

fascinated by her ability to switch moods, from anger





shrouded in it and the Downs behind them wereobscured completely.

Whitworth ushered him in."Take a seat, Derrington. Sit down, sit down." He

pointed to a plush leather armchair, one of two sittingfacing the roaring hearth.

Finlay sat down and, to his surprise, was offered adrink. Whitworth had opened a cabinet behind hisdesk, to reveal a plethora of bottles and glasses. Hedeclined.

"Well. If you are sure," Whitworth said.He seemed calmer and less nervous than before,

and poured himself an entire glass full of neat whisky.He seemed disinclined to break the silence in theroom, which was emphasised by the crackling of thefire. Finlay began to regret not accepting a drink.Eventually Whitworth came and sat in the other armchair. He spoke gently.

"Well. Here we are. Just wanted to have a quick

chat to see how you are getting on. Any problems?Anything I can do for you? That sort of thing." Hestared into the fire.

Finlay was not sure if he had something specific inmind of which he - Finlay - was not aware, or whether the question was meant as a general one.

"I think everything is all right, thank you."

"Good, good, good. Thought it probably was. Justlike to have a chat with people. See that they aresettling in all right." He nodded into the fire. "No, thereports I have been hearing are all good - you seem tobe getting on well. Enjoying it?"

"I think so.""Yes." Whitworth laughed lightly. "Good answer."



His voice petered out as he stared into the fire. Heseemed transfixed by it, and the silence deepened.Finlay stole a look at his face. Whitworth's eyeswatered constantly - but the fire seemed to exacerbatethem, and now two tears broke and coursed down hischeeks slowly. It seemed to break his reverie, and hepulled a handkerchief from his pocket withembarrassment and wiped his eyes.

"Sorry," he said, smiling at Finlay before turningback to the fire. "Gas. Eyes water all the time. Evennow. Frightful. Was your father in France?"

"He died in 1916.""Yes, I see. Sorry. A lot of good men died out

there. An awful lot. Saw a few of them myself." Theobservation seemed to send Whitworth back into hisreverie. He stared deeply into the fire, lost inconcentration. Two more tears began their steadyprogress down his cheeks. He did not bother to wipethem away.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Finlay asked asgently as he could. "It's just that I have some markingto do before tomorrow."

Whitworth continued to stare into the fire."No, that's all right. Just wanted to check you were

getting on well. We'll see you tomorrow."As Finlay let himself out, Whitworth still stared into

the fire, nodding gently, utterly lost, the whisky alreadyfinished. Finlay crept away as softly as he could.

The calm progress of this existence was brokenon his fourth Saturday morning.

At a suggestion greeted with delight by MrsBrockenbury he had set off with the dog George on a



lead, heading for the park away from the centre of town, the animal by his side. The dog panted withexcitement and pulled forward on the lead with suchstrength it nearly rendered itself unconcious.Periodically it would retch violently.

He turned his collar up against the bitter morningwind. Even here, miles from the sea, he imagined hecould taste the salt in the air. It had begun to rainslightly. The park formed a sort of naturalamphitheatre, surrounded on one side by rising andneatly ordered flowerbeds, bare at this time of year,and on the other by the main road to London. As hewatched, a Post Office van chugged slowly along it,making its way into town. He managed to distract thedog's attention for long enough to pick a stick up andthrow it. The dog seemed never to tire of the game.

When he returned from the park, it was to findRen in the sitting room alone with Mrs Brockenbury,pulling a dark cardigan around her shoulders and

shivering despite the warmth in the room. Thecardigan seemed much too big for her and her facewas ashen grey. There were dark smudges under her eyes and they were red from crying.

"What's happened?"Her voice had an unnatural calm."We had a fire. This morning. Jean and me. I think

I caused it.""Is Jean all right?""Yes. She’s had to go to the police station to give

them details and things. I just didn't know what to dowith myself."

"How did it happen?"







"There you are. Problem solved," he said. "Well,part of it at least. And perhaps Jean could stay withRobert and Agnes. It looked like they might havespace."

He knew he was pleased with the proposedarrangements for his own sake, and not just for Ren's,but he put the thought from his mind. Ren managed awatery smile.

"It's kind of you, Mrs Brockenbury. Are you sure?""Of course I'm sure," she said, struggling to her

feet. "I'll go and clear it now."Feeling guilt at his uselessness, Finlay offered to

help, but was refused. He had the impression she didnot want him to see its contents. Ren was staringdown at her feet, lost in thought. He stayed quiet, butcontinued to keep a hand on her shoulders. Eventuallyshe spoke in a level, emotionless voice.

"You cannot know what it meant to me, thathouse. It was the first place I could call my own. The

first place I could relax." He stared at her. She went onspeaking, in the same level voice, staring at the floor."My father, you see. He's violent. He beats my mother up, hits her all the time. I had to get away. It's gone onfor as long as I can remember. Since I was a child."

He stared at her, dumbstruck. She looked up athim and smiled sadly. Her eyes sparkled but this time

only with the tears brimming there. He could see thetracks of them down her cheeks.

"That's why I left, you see? Why I came downhere. I had to get out. Just couldn't put up with itanymore.”

She looked away again. Finlay could not speak.He closed his eyes and bent his head and buried his



face in her hair. She made no move to stop him, or toget up, and they stayed like that until Calvert andEvans returned.

The rooms shared by Ren and Jean were on StJames' Street near the seafront, half an hour away.

The walk seemed to calm Ren more than anythingelse. When they got there, there was at first littleindication anything untoward had happened. Thegrocer's shop underneath the rooms was open andtrading as usual, and the street was a scene of bustling Saturday morning activity. There was no signof firemen. Only when Ren unlocked the door did thethree men notice the overpowering smell of smoke.Inside, the water added a damp, dank clamminess tothe atmosphere. At the foot of the stairs she hesitated.

"Do you want to stay here?" Calvert asked, takingher arm.

She took a long breath but did not answer.

Instead she started to walk up the stairs. He pulled her back.

"Wait. It might not be safe. The floorboards andthings."

She shook her head dumbly. "No. The firemensaid it would be all right."

The four of them went up. Apart from the smell

and the filthy water on the floor, the landing seemed tohave survived intact. Only the ceiling outside thedoorway to the front room, facing onto the street, wasblackened. Ren's and Jean's bedrooms were off thesitting room in front of them. On the other side of thehall, Finlay had stolen a look into the kitchen to see



that it, too, appeared undamaged, as did the bathroombeyond.

The sitting room was different. The three menwalked into it. Ren stayed outside, a look of child-likefear on her face.

The room was ruined. A sofa and two armchairshad been burnt to their metal skeletons, and where thewalls were not blackened completely, strips of wallpaper hung off them. Some of the floorboardswere intact, although most had either burnt or beentorn up by firemen to ensure they were notsmouldering. In the middle of the floor was a pile of assorted ashes in which could be seen half charredbooks, clothing and other objects. The room Finlayguessed had been hers was as badly damaged. A bedstood in the corner, like the sofa now reduced to itsmetal frame. The floor was strewn with blackenedashes and bits of cloth, and the door, intact in themiddle but burnt at top and bottom, hung off its hinges

morosely.Jean's room had faired better. The door was

blackened and burnt like Ren's, and the carpet near iteither burnt or reduced to a sodden filthy mess, but abed in the far corner of the room looked undamaged.He was no expert, but the fire looked to have started inRen's room or on the side of the sitting room closest to

it."How long before Jean noticed the fire?""She didn't. She'd gone downstairs to buy milk."

Ren was still in the hallway outside, peering fearfullythrough the doorway. But now, he was glad to see, her expression was more curious than before.



It was obvious their trip was redundant. There waslittle of Ren's to save. Only a few of her clothes shehad kept in a wardrobe in Jean's room had survived.

Walking back, a bundle of clothes under his arm,Finlay thought of a poem his mother had taught himyears before. For some reason it had stayed with him.It was by a woman called Dickinson, or something likethat, he remembered. Seeing the ruined sitting room,and hearing Ren's words earlier, the poem had comeback to him. Sweet hours have perished here, This isa mighty room

Within its precincts hopes have played, Now

shadows in a tomb.He smiled at his foolishness and walked on.

Ren moved into Mrs Brockenbury's for that week,and her offer to pay rent was gallantly refused.

Robert and Agnes, as Finlay had predicted,offered to put both women up if they were willing to

share a bedroom, but Ren decided in the end to takeup Mrs Brockenbury's offer until lodgings could befound. Both women had left their books and work at StJohn's. Finlay suggested to Calvert and Evans theyclub together to buy Ren new clothes.

He had noticed in Calvert a change in his attitudetowards him. Whereas before his friend's nervous

demeanour had decreased in Finlay's presence, now ithad returned. There was no sign of animosity towardshim, more a sign of fear. It stemmed from whenCalvert had returned to find Finlay alone with Ren inthe sitting room at Viaduct Road, after the fire. His ownunfocussed anger at Ren's revelation had settled to adull impotent hatred for a man he did not know, nor



had ever met. It was a peculiar feeling, made more soby his inability to bring the subject up with Renafterwards. He felt he had been let in on a secret whenshe was at her most vulnerable, and he felt shame inthe pleasure he took in a confidence given under suchcircumstances.

At St John's Dr Whitworth was the model of sympathy, offering both women advances on their salaries to buy clothes and asking Ren if she wouldlike two days off to return to Leeds to pick upbelongings left there. Ren refused both offers. Insteadboth went to work as normal on Monday morning, Jeantravelling in with Robert and Agnes, Ren catching themorning train with Finlay, Calvert and Evans.

Within days, he had got used to seeing Ren's faceat the breakfast and dinner table.

It was not long before he could not imagine a timewhen she had not been with them. He was ashamed at

his own feelings. He was glad at her misfortune, for itmeant she was here now, near him. He tried toconvince himself otherwise, but as the smile hesitantlyreturned to her face, the feeling became too strong toignore.

He found himself picturing that face more andmore often, in the times at school or at night when he

could not see it in the flesh. He wondered at themorality of his feelings. He wondered if Calvert sharedhis dilemma.

And most of all he wondered what was happeningto him.‘



Towards the end of the week, Finlay lay soakingin the tepid bathwater that was all the house seemedable to provide. Ren had gone to see Jean, whileEvans and Calvert had gone into town.

He felt an increasing need to be by himself, togather thoughts that spun faster and faster in his mind,always of Ren. He had wondered previously if Calvertmight have been in love with her; now he wonderedmore if that might not apply to him. He could notfathom his feelings at all, for he had little experience insuch matters.

He dressed, pulling a thick jumper over his wethair. The house seemed even colder than usual.Outside, it had turned bitter. He knocked at the sittingroom door and pushed his head around it to saygoodnight to Mrs Brockenbury. She was sitting on thesettee, George curled up next to her, staring across atthe opposite wall. The wireless was off, and there wasno book beside her.

"Good night, Edith. I'm off to meet Evans andCalvert for a nightcap."

She continued to stare fixedly at the wall. "Yes,dear. Good night."

"Why don't you come down and have oneyourself?" he said on impulse. "Let me buy you adrink."

She smiled sadly and turned her face halfwaytowards him. But her eyes still stared at the wall.

"No dear, thank you very much, I don't. You goand have a drink with your friends." She wheezed asshe spoke.

"If you are sure?""Quite sure."



Finlay closed the door behind him softly.Walking to the pub, he felt Ren slip from his mind.

The look on Mrs Brockenbury's face was one he knewtoo well. Even her position - a sort of quiet expectation- was familiar. It was how he had found his mother somany times, the times when she had not beeninterrupted in her crying.

He knew now that it was her son in the pictureoutside the bathroom.

Calvert and Evans were sitting on stools at the bar when he reached the pub. It was crowded again. OnEvans' right, also at the bar, sat a girl with long blackhair and a face that was angular in feature but oval inshape. It was a shuttered face, with dark marks under black, blank eyes that smiled watchfully. Evansintroduced him. The woman was called Hillary and sheworked in the pub, although this was her night off.

"She's the one who serves us here, so you hadbetter keep on the right side of her," Evans said. There

was a sour note in his voice."Which side that is we'll leave you to judge," said

Calvert, laughing nervously.Hillary stared at Finlay in cool appraisal. Her eyes

seemed dead and the pale, white skin of her facedrawn too tightly across the angular bones. She couldhave been any age between 20 and 40, he thought,

although the clear skin of her unmarked neck, above aplain white blouse, seemed to indicate the lower figure.

"How long have you worked here?" he said, tomake conversation.

"Getting on for two years. So you're another teacher are you?"



"I suppose I am just finding that out," he said. "I just started."

Hillary's face broke into a cold smile. "Well, I hopeyou find out soon."

An awkward silence followed, broken by Calvert."Hillary is taking us to a party tomorrow night.

Trust a girl who works in a pub to know where theaction is."

"Why don't you come along too?" Hillary said toFinlay. "After your game."

Game? Calvert nodded."Forgot to mention it. Some of us get together for

a cricket match on Saturday afternoons. Between usand Brighton college we can usually muster two teamsbut it's sometimes difficult to make up the numbers. Doyou play?"

Finlay didn't but accepted nevertheless. He didnot want too much spare time over the weekend. Hehoped the standard was not too high.

"You can work off all that exercise with someserious drinking afterwards," Hillary said. As shespoke, her gaze swung across the room, checkingfaces off, before returning to Finlay. "You look like youneed it."

Something in her direct stare unnerved him. It hada brazen, challenging quality. Like Ren's, although

colder and without humour. Then it had left him, andwas once again drifting around the pub, checking off faces one by one. It settled on a group of men by thefar end of the bar, dressed in suits that had a slightlytoo sharp quality about them. The men were laughingloudly at some joke. One of them saw her andbeckoned her over in eager recognition. His face was



red with drink. She raised a hand at him withoutsmiling and got off her stool.

"I'd better go and circulate. See you tomorrowthen."

The next morning he rose late.He went up the stairs to see if Calvert or Evans

were about. The hallway, which he had not seenbefore, was dark and uninviting. Three doors gave onto it. The front one he guessed was Calvert's, whileeither of the other two might have been Evans'. Heknocked on all three, but got no response. Downstairs,there was no sign of Mrs Brockenbury or George. Andno sign of Ren, either.

At a loss, he decided to walk up to the barbers hehad seen on his arrival and get a haircut. The walk, if not the haircut, might clear his head.

He had to wait his turn behind two men. He sat atthe back of the room on a long bench, smoking and

reading a magazine. The barber was an old shufflingfigure, with a pair of scissors and a razor hanging froma loop on his belt. He spoke to his customers onlyinfrequently, in a guttural accent Finlay could notfathom. He had learnt his trade at a military depot inLondon, a training that seemed reflected in thealarmingly short haircut Finlay was left with.

He walked through the Lanes to the seafront. Heenjoyed the cramped backstreets, with their esotericcollection of pubs, antique dealers, book and cakeshops. On a Saturday morning there were crowds of people milling down every passage. Locals looking for bargains, and the first of the day-trippers who stillseemed to come in the depth of winter. Down on the



seafront, the cries of the seagulls seemed moremaniacal than ever, with the prospect of fooddiscarded by those walking along the front. Finlaywondered whether to go back to the cafe with thesevere-looking waitress he had visited on his firstmorning, but decided against it and cut back into theLanes instead.

He found a cafe with “Finlay’s” in bold blacklettering across the windows and went in and ordereda fried breakfast. He was the only customer. The manbehind the counter was hugely fat with a stomachbursting out of a grimy vest, and a swarthy, Balkancomplexion. While he waited for the food, Finlay lit acigarette. The back of his head felt strange, the hair spiky and unfamiliar. When it came, the food wasgreasy but filling and he ate gratefully. When he hadmopped up the last of the grease and egg from theplate with a piece of bread and butter, he lit another cigarette and stared out of the window at the passers-

by. Most seemed to be families. The men would stridebusily onwards, their faces wearing a look of somevague anxiety. The womens' progress was slower,distracted by children or shop windows and their displays. He noticed also a young couple, deep inlaughing conversation, who appeared distracted bynothing except each other.

Behind them, walking alone, was Ren.She wore the black, knee-length coat he had seen

before, buttoned to the throat, and she carried a smallbag in her hand. Instead of starting up immediately,Finlay found himself staring at her face. Instead of theusual mocking smile, her expression combinedseriousness and an innocent childlike intensity as she



looked at the shop windows she passed, unaware of his gaze upon her. She stopped briefly outside a shopthat sold cards and books, and frowned withconcentration as she surveyed something in thewindow. He could see her lips move as she mouthedsomething to herself.

As she passed feet from him on the other side of the glass, he felt transfixed. Something in him stoppedthe natural impulse to knock on the glass and attracther attention. It was not so much shyness, more a guiltat having watched her without revealing his presence,at having revelled to see her unknowing, innocentface. He felt ashamed. He stubbed out his cigaretteand lit another one. He felt angry and frustrated withhimself - why had he not called to her? He was leftwith a sinking feeling in his stomach, like fear, that hecould not explain.

He got up from the table, paid the bill, and left. Hewalked on and stared at the shop windows as he

passed, with a tightness in his throat and stomach thathad not been there before, as he followed the pathRen had taken. Perhaps because he knew he washalf-hoping to do so, when he did bump into her, it waseven more unexpected.

From behind him he heard her unmistakeableaccent calling his name. When he turned, it was to find

her staring up at him, smiling warmly. He felt his ownface grow warm and wondered, with dread, whether hewas actually blushing. He noticed that she had comeout of a clothing shop, and carried another, larger bagin her hand alongside the smaller one.

"Ren. How are you?"



"I'm very, very well, thank you. Girls always arewhen they are shopping. Our favourite activity, Mr Derrington. Didn't you know that?"

He envied her ability to find easy, lightconversation.

"What have you bought?""Have a look. See if you like it." She pulled out a

pale blue jumper of soft wool."Very nice.""So what have you been up to, Finlay? Prowling

around the back streets, eh?" She leaned closer as if to pass on some confidence. "And getting thatludicrous haircut, I see!"

She let out a burst of laughter and reeled awayfrom him.

He laughed himself."I've just been having breakfast. I'm supposed to

be playing cricket later, although I don't know where."She did not seem to notice his discomfort. "Oh

yes, with Calvert and Evans. They play everySaturday. Frightfully dull."

"And there is a party tonight. A girl who works inthe pub is taking us to it. Hillary, I think she is called."

"Oh, yes. Her ."Her voice suggested she did not like the girl very

much. As quickly as the mood had come, it vanished.

"Right. Well, while you are here, you can comeand help me choose some shoes. I've been saving upfor ages and now is the time to have a bit of fun."

She smiled at him broadly. He felt off balance,unable to keep up with her mood swings. They walkedoff together through the Lanes, heading for a shopRen knew nearby. After a minute, she put her arm



through his in an unconcious gesture that for her probably seemed the most natural thing in the world.She did not seem to notice him stiffen in response. Totouch her produced a sensation like an electric shockthrough his body. The silence crucified him. And againhe could think of no way to fill it.

But of course, she could. She talked brightly of thenew rooms she and Jean had looked at near thestation and how she should be spending money onless frivolous items like cutlery or the saucepans theyneeded. As they walked, he at last began to relax, andeven to adopt her own mocking banter. By the timethey reached the shop, there was an informalitybetween them which was much more comfortable. Herevelled in it. He had never been inside a ladies' shoeshop before. It seemed from the outside much like itsmale equivalent, but immediately he entered he felt aninterloper. The shop assistant, a matronly lady in her 50s, took them for husband and wife and smiled

benevolently. Ren was in her element. She selecteddifferent styles and tried them all on with obviousenjoyment - each time asking his opinion. He had thefeeling she knew only too well what the assistant wasthinking, and what that made him feel. She seemed tobe playing a role for the assistant's benefit, and staredat him with amusement. He in turn gave studied and

lengthy opinions, glad to be able to share the moodand have something to talk about at the same time. Atlast Ren selected a pair she liked.

"And will you be paying, madame, or your husband?" asked the assistant, ignoring Ren's ringlessfingers.



Ren looked at him with barely suppressedlaughter. "Oh, I'll be paying thank you very much."

Even as Finlay stiffened, he felt an absurdpleasure that she had not sought to correct thewoman's impression, though he could imagine howawkward it would have sounded. Outside the shop,Ren burst into laughter.

"That woman. Can you imagine the look on her face - He's not my husband - he just buys me clothesfrom time to time. Think of my reputation!"

Even as he laughed, he could feel his moodslipping away. He felt embarrassed for the pleasure hehad taken in the assistant's mistake.

"I ought to be getting back for this cricket. Youdon't by any chance know where they play, do you?"

She did not seem to notice his change in mood."Usually on the Level, up from the Old Steine. It is

just on your right if you go to the top of Viaduct Road.You'd better hurry up. I've got to go and meet Jean at

the Pavilion. Then we might wonder back up and havea look at you. Are you any good?"

"Not really."She smiled up at him."Well goodbye then, husband . And thanks for your

valuable assistance."She placed one hand on his arm as she spoke,

then leant forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Andthen she had turned away from him and was walkingdown towards the seafront, without looking back. Hestared after for a long time.

They played cricket for nearly three hours, andFinlay found to his relief he was not the worst player



on the field. Calvert was, by a mile. After some foodand a change of clothes, he retired to the pub withCalvert and Evans, and some of the others.

Since coming to Brighton, he had spent more timein public houses than ever in his life before. There wasno sign of Hillary, or of Ren.

"She'll be along later," said Evans. "Even if sheisn't she's given me the address."

"We cannot turn up without her, surely?""Of course we can," said Calvert breezily. "This is

the 1930s you know."As the five men drank, the conversation turned -

predictably - to cricket. Finlay had no knowledge or interest in it as a spectator sport, so took little part.Instead his eyes drifted around the pub. The old manwas in his usual seat by the bar. Elsewhere the pubhad divided into groups of two, three or four people, inprivate, intense conversation, oblivious of their surroundings. People came to a pub for the warmth

and companionship, but then spent their time in insular groups, impervious to those around them. Hewondered at the paradoxical nature of it.

As his eye settled back on the bar, he noticedHillary had appeared, dressed in dark clothes, and wasstaring at him blankly. His welcoming smile was metonly by a curt nod. Her companion, to whom she

turned to address some remark then looked across atFinlay's group. She was shorter, with a long, plain faceand long, dark, straight hair. The two women orderedfresh drinks and made their way over to him. Hillarysaid nothing, but walked up behind Evans and Calvertand stood silently, waiting. It was left to Finlay to pointthem out.



Calvert was the first to react. Hillary's companionwas, confusingly, also called Hillary. There was an air of informality between the first Hillary and Evans whichseemed to confirm some unsaid relationship betweenthem. But the coolness also there seemed to suggestit had been in the past.

They set off. Finlay, whose legs were alreadybeginning to stiffen, was grateful it was only a fewminutes away. Evans had gone to the bar to buy beer to take with him. When they passed an off-license, theothers waited for Finlay as he went to buy whisky. Heworried about the money he was spending - principallyon alcohol. But he bought half a bottle of the cheapestanyway.

The party was in a shabby-looking terraced house just off the road out of Brighton towards Lewes. Thetwo Hillarys knocked at the front door, which wasopened by a thin-faced man with short dark hair. Hegrinned at Hillary and stepped back to let her and the

rest of them pass. Still grinning, he nodded at Finlay.He was already drunk.

The house had grubby-looking whitewashed wallsand a grey carpet, although Finlay could only catchglimpses of either past the crush of bodies in thehouse. The air was thick with music, voices andcigarette smoke, and only the hallway seemed to have

any proper lighting. Finlay shivered despite thewarmth, and went off in search of a kitchen and aglass. He found them at the end of the stairway, to theback of the house. It was as crowded as the frontroom, and he nodded self-conciously at the peoplestanding around the room, trying to be heard abovethe voices and the music. Most ignored him. The party





"So you’re one of the cricketers like Michael. Doesthat mean you don't talk about anything else?"

"I can. Is there something between you and he?"He had not meant either the directness of the

question or the interest it implied, but the drink hadmade him careless. She raised her eyebrows andseemed to soften slightly.

"You're very direct. Does it show that much? Wewere seeing each other for a while. It didn't work out."

"Sorry. I just wondered," Finlay said, lighting afresh cigarette from the old one. "Forgive theintrusion."

"Don't apologise. It was some time ago. Could Ihave one of those?"

Finlay gave her a cigarette and lit it for her."So are you enjoying it - the teaching?""I haven't really had time to make up my mind

yet."Her voice had an edge, only partly of amusement.

"It didn't seem to take you that long to make up your mind about me and Michael."

"Just an impression. You seemed quite..." Hecouldn't think of the right word and was alreadyregretting the observation. "...familiar together, Isuppose."

She was still staring at him, her eyes hard and

without amusement."And just what sort of impressions might you be

getting now?""Nothing as yet. I'll let you know if anything occurs

to me."Hillary stood up and looked at him. Her

expression was not angry, but coldly challenging. It



was followed by a smile. "You make sure you do that."She stubbed out her cigarette and made off throughthe crowd.

Finlay took another gulp of his drink as Calvertdislodged himself from the crowd in the centre of theroom and made his way over to sit where Hillary had.He seemed quite drunk already and slurred hisspeech. His naturally nervous state had disappeared.

"So that's Hillary for you. What do you think?" Thetone of the question suggested a meaning Finlay couldnot fathom.

"She seems a bit serious."Calvert nodded vigorously and stared glassily

across the room. "Oh, she's serious all right." Heseemed to ponder something for a while, thendismissed it.

"So anyway, old man. Glad you came?"Finlay looked at his drunken friend."To the party?"

"No. To Brighton, for Christ's sake.""Yes," he said. "I rather think I am.""Good," said Calvert, nodding his head

emphatically. His eyes seemed to have glazed over entirely.

By midnight Finlay was ready to go home. Calvert

was asleep on the sofa, while Smith and Laidlaw - twoof the cricketers - were in the kitchen talking loudlywith people Finlay had not been introduced to. Evanshad already left, having not appeared comfortable for most of the evening, and Finlay was beginning toregret not going with him. He walked over to the sofa



and tried to rouse Calvert's sleeping figure. The thin-faced man waved him away.

"Leave him. If you wake him up he'll only be sickor something."

It took Finlay a moment to realise that somethingwas pulling on his jacket. He turned to find Hillary.

"If you are looking for someone to walk home,how about me?"

He looked at her. There seemed a paradoxbetween the vulnerability of her words and the manner in which they were delivered. She seemed coldlysober.

"Yes, of course.” He found his overcoat hangingfrom hooks by the front door and put it on. "Where'syour friend?" he asked. "The other Hillary? I didn't seeher."

Hillary hugged her coat around her and stared outinto the street. "She went home early. She doesn'tenjoy these things much."

They stepped out into the cold and walkedthrough the darkened streets towards the pub abovewhich Hillary had lodgings. He was content to walk insilence, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The alcohol in his body seemed to enurehim to the cold. He had expected to feel tired, but thesituation - walking the darkened streets with a woman

he barely knew - had put paid to that. As they reachedthe strip of green that formed the Level, he becameaware that she had stopped. He turned to face her.There was a smile on her lips. She touched his cheek.

"Do you always walk so bloody fast? I cannotkeep up."



He apologised. When they at last got to the pub,having walked in silence the rest of the way, shestopped outside the side door to the building andfished in her handbag for keys. The atmosphere wasnow heavy. Hillary broke it.

"Well, Mr Derrington. Thank you for walking mehome in such a gentlemanly fashion."

She stared at him in the darkness and the silence.Finlay hugged his coat around him, trying to summonthe willpower to leave, but the instinct was too strong.She stared at him.

"Aren't you even going to ask?""Ask what?" he said.She put both her hands around the back of his

head and pulled his face to hers, kissing him on themouth. Before he could react, he felt her mouth openand her tongue push forward, forcing his own mouthopen in response. He felt stunned but it did not stopthe natural, automatic reaction. He put his arms inside

her coat and around her waist and pulled her againsthim. Even under the layers of clothing, even after allthe whisky, he could feel himself grow against her. Thekiss seemed to go on and on. He tried to overcome hisshock and push his tongue into her mouth, but shebroke away. He did not know what to do next. Hewondered if she would wish him good night.

"You can come in and have a drink," she saidinstead. "But you'll have to be quiet."

She let them through the door and inside. He wasdimly aware of the empty pub, dark and deserted andunfamiliar, its silence as palpable as their own hadbeen. She took his hand without a word and led himpast the bar to the passageway beyond and on up the



stairs. He wondered vaguely what would happen if thelandlord were to discover them. She led him on up thestairs to a large room on the second floor. He wasaware of the sound of their footsteps even past therushing of blood that seemed to make his ears hiss.From the window of the room he could see ViaductRoad. Mrs Brockenbury's was only just out of view.

She crossed the room in silence as Finlay stoodby the door motionless and drew the curtains. Theroom was sparsely furnished and cold, without evenpictures on the wall. There was only a medium-sizedbed with a dark covering, and an armchair invisibleunder a mountain of discarded clothes.

Hillary took off her coat and came back across theroom to stand in front of him. The look in her eyes stillhard and unsmiling. She put her arms around his neckagain and pulled his face towards hers.

"Sorry about that drink.”

Afterwards, he stared out of the window at the rainand the only face he could see was not that of Hillary.

It was wrong. All wrong.He felt an overpowering desire to be out in the

cold and the rain, alone. He looked down at hisdiscarded clothes and felt a physical aching inside. Hecould not look at Hillary beside him. The silence

between them seemed to grow and grow, as it hadbefore, but this time he knew it and did not care.Eventually, Hillary stirred beside him.

"You cannot stay. I'm not supposed to haveanyone to stay here. You'll have to leave," she said.

He was surprised at how cool and detached her voice sounded. But grateful as he was, he did not



argue, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching for his trousers. The clammy wetness around his groinmade him shudder. He could feel a dull ache in hishead starting already. His watch said 1.15am.

She held the covers around her, as if to shield her body from him again.

"Do you think you could find your own way out?I'm not exactly dressed for showing you."

She yawned and looked away.He pulled his jacket on, cramming his tie into a

side pocket.There seemed little tension between them, both

realising there was little to say. She did not invite himto kiss her, turning away from him and settling under the covers. He turned the light out and closed the door behind him. Even in the dark, in a strange house, hefelt the relief of separation. He had to find his way bytouch to the head of the stairs. At one point hebecame disorientated and almost panicked. The idea

of returning was unbearable. But then he felt the hardflooring of the stairway beneath his feet andremembered it from before. He crept down the stairsand let himself out. The door gave a loud click as hepulled it to.

He let himself in to Mrs Brockenbury's as quietlyas he could, anxious not to wake the dog and

therefore, no doubt, everyone else. His desire to beoutside had dissolved rapidly in the freezing rain andhe could feel himself shaking as he fumbled with hiskey. He wanted to sleep, to rid himself of the images of the past few hours and the misery they had sounexpectedly provoked. Eventually, he slept.



He was woken the next morning by a light tappingat the door.

He struggled into a confused conciousness. Hefelt dazed, but the headache of the previous eveninghad disappeared. His watch said 11.15.

The knocking was Evans, as ever smiling gently."Did I wake you? Sorry. Came to see if you had

got back alive. I'm afraid I cannot rouse Calvert at all."Finlay felt embarrassment add to his confusion.

He felt the knowledge of what had taken place theprevious evening must show on his face.

"I left him fast asleep on a sofa. I was advised thatwaking him would be unwise."

"I see," said Evans, still with his calmly gentlesmile. "Drunk again. Why don't you put some differentclothes on and help me to go and find him? If your head is up to it, that is." He nodded at Finlay'strousers.

Finlay looked down and realised he had slept with

them on all night. He must have been more drunk thanhe had realised. "Give me five minutes."

When he had changed, washed perfunctorily andcleaned his teeth, he met Evans downstairs. He feltdisorientated by the weight of the knowledge hecarried with him unspoken. They set off through a cold,bright morning, Evans' hands buried deep in the

pockets of his long coat."When did you get back?" he asked."As far as I can remember, about 1.00 in the

morning," Finlay said. "Why did you leave so early?"Evans stared into the distance. "I wasn't really in

the mood. Some of Hillary's friends I find rather annoying." The two walked on in silence. Finlay tried to



push the thought of Ren, and of what he had done thenight before, from his mind.

The scene he had immediately begun to dread -meeting Hillary again - came sooner than he hadexpected, that evening.

He and Evans had picked up the seeminglyirrepressible Calvert - unaffected by the night before -and walked back to Mrs Brockenbury's via theseafront. Finlay had gone up to his room to mark theexercises he had set his class on Friday, but hadfound his attention wandering. Images from the nightbefore invaded his thoughts, despite all attempts tobanish them. The faces of Hillary, Calvert, Evans andthe rest flitted in and out of his mind.

And always the face of Ren.After two hours, he had made sufficient headway

to contemplate having a sleep to clear his head. Hehad taken care of the marking he would need to have

done for Monday and Tuesday. But when he lay on thebed and stared at the darkening ceiling, its detaildisappearing in the fading light from outside, his mindbegan to race even faster than before.

There was a knock at the door. It was Calvert,embarrassed. Behind him was Evans and Ren, thelatter's expression blank.

"We're going down to the Rose Hill for a quickone, to get away from marking. Do you fancy it?" Histone made it obvious it was already commonknowledge what had happened the evening before. "Ithink Hillary will be working tonight," he said. Finlayhad been on the point of making an excuse. ButCalvert's last comment highlighted the futility of any



such course. The situation would have to be faced andit was best to get it over with.

On the walk to the pub, he had the same feelinghe had experienced before facing his first class. As if events were accelerating just at the point when he waslosing control over them. He did not speak to Ren.

It was easier than he thought it was going to be,even as he realised on entering the pub that it wasnearly empty, with only a couple of Sunday eveningcustomers by the fire. He saw Hillary behind the bar,and immediately asked the others what they wanted todrink. They seemed to understand, and headed for atable at the far corner of the room.

Hillary stared at him."Did you get back all right?"Finlay smiled."Yes thanks." There was a pause. He was about

to say something - anything - when she saw him openhis mouth and beat him to it.

"Last night was a mistake. You do realise that,don't you? It isn't going to happen again."

Her voice was still cool and level, but there was ahint of pleading in it that had not been there before.

"Quite.""It's not as if I make a habit of it, after all."He let out a breath between his teeth, loosening

some of the tension that had been building within him."Neither do I, as a matter of fact."He had planned to restrict himself to beer, but

ordered a whisky instead. Hillary declined his offer of adrink.



That evening, as he was preparing for bed, therewas a quiet tap on the door. It was Ren.

"Hello," she said, managing even to whisper in aYorkshire accent as she poked her nose around thedoor. "Are you awake?"

"It would appear so.”She was still fully dressed, but clad also in a

dressing gown, which looked new and had presumablybeen bought to replace the old one.

"I just wondered if I could borrow some cigarettes.I forgot to get some earlier."

Finlay looked to see if he had any on the table.Ren was looking past him into his room with frankcuriosity. As he went into the room, she followed. Shewas obviously disinclined to sleep, and sat down in thechair by the table, gazing about.

"That Hillary's a beast ," she said. The tone wasconversational this time, without anger. Finlayconcentrated on searching for cigarettes and trying to

stop the hammering that had started in his chest. Hedid not answer but sat down on the edge of the bedand stared at the floor. He did not look up. His voicesounded strange to him.

"She and I ended up back at the pub. After theparty the friend of hers gave. The one Michael andStephen went to. Last night."

"Oh.""It was a mistake.""I see."They sat for a while, Finlay still staring at the floor.

Eventually, Ren broke the silence."Hey. Why the long face? We all make them."





At Ren's suggestion, they packed a rudimentarypicnic and took the train to Lewes, before heading over the Downs behind the school. The morning was thebrightest and clearest Finlay could remember. Thetrains were infrequent on a Saturday morning, andthey had to wait nearly half an hour. On the platform,the sun warmed them before the train arrived. Theywere virtually the only passengers. Evans and Calvertwere talking about cricket again. Finlay stared out of the window. When they reached the Downs, the windoff the coast hit them. The dog was now out of control.Finlay let him off as quickly as he could, and theanimal streaked up the hill ahead of them. Ren let outa whoop and took off after him. Her stocky body ran inan ungainly fashion, leaping from side to side, her black coat flying unbuttoned behind her, hair billowingout. Calvert shouted for her to hold on and he took off too, running much faster and catching her up easily.George was already approaching the summit of the

hill. Finlay and Evans watched the unlikely trio. Evanswas smiling in his detached way.

"Now I really have seen everything. You've madeRen take some exercise. Quite an achievement."

"She's not much of a runner then?""Couldn't run a bath." He looked at Finlay. "You

seem to be making quite a hit there."

Finlay froze at the expression of what he himself had not even dared hope. Evans was already headingoff up the hill to join the others. Finlay set off after him,picking up a stick for the dog as he went. The viewover the rolling Sussex countryside was magnificent.Ren and Calvert were both sitting on the wet grass,



breathing heavily. Ren's cheeks were puffing andglowing pink and her eyes sparkled.

"Quick. Give me a cigarette. I'm dying here," shelaughed.

Finlay lit two cigarettes with difficulty. George hadreturned from exploring the other side of the hill andspotted Finlay's stick. He leapt up to grab it andclamped his jaws around it, hanging there andresisting all efforts to shake him off. Finlay found thatif he swung the stick in a circle, the dog held on grimly,still growling, like some berserk imitation of a horse ina merry-go-round. The others laughed. Eventually, thedog's jaw opened, and it fell away to land in a heap.When Finlay threw the stick, it shot off after it.

"You and that dog should join a circus," saidEvans.

"We might at that."Ren sat with her legs out before her and her arms

propping her up, oblivious. She stared across the

Downs towards the coast."Isn't it beautiful up here?"It was. Below and far away in the distance, Finlay

could just make out the beginning of what looked likeBrighton itself - a smudge on the horizon before theland met the sea. He tried to imagine how manypeople, their lives a mystery to him, bustled around

down there.It felt like home.

Time passed faster than Finlay had ever known.Two weeks before the end of term - two weeks

before his time in Brighton would be over - it was



Ren's twenty-fourth birthday. She planned a party atthe new rooms with Jean.

After her departure from Viaduct Road, Finlay felta keen sense of anticipation at seeing her againoutside school and a dry-throated sense of possibilitiesunimagined and unimaginable. Beneath that, he felt agrowing sadness his time here was nearly over. He feltdread at the thought of his old life, which now seemedto signify only depression and inertia, back in London.He could disguise the feeling when at the school, for he was kept busy, but not when out of it.

On the Saturday morning the feeling was sostrong he made an excuse not to go with Calvert andEvans into town to buy something for Ren, but pleadedwork and said he would go later.

Immediately they left, staying in the cold darkhouse seemed unbearable. He gathered up his coatand walked off into town towards the sea. The sightsand sounds that had previously been a pleasure, the

market traders and street sellers, the families outshopping, even the occasional pupil from St John's, allseemed now to mock him with his own transience. Hecould view none of them without the realisation thesescenes would carry on without him when he left, as if nothing had happened.

He had expected to find it difficult to find

something suitable for Ren.But in a second-hand store in the Laines his eye

was caught by a velvet stand with medallions andcrucifixes resting on it. A silver oval no bigger than athumb nail held his attention. On it was the figure of awoman, with a child sitting on her shoulders. In onehand she carried a shepherd's staff, the other was





They got to the house just past nine o'clock, tofind the cramped rooms even more crowded than thepub.

Ren opened the door to them. She wore a longdark evening dress, hair piled up and fastened on her head, deep red lipstick on her mouth. The flush of alcohol was already on her normally pale cheeks, andher eyes sparkled. Her dress was low-cut and showedoff a deep cleavage. Finlay could feel his chestcontract as she looked at him. She kissed Calvert andEvans as they entered. As he passed, he bent to kissher cheek. Her skin felt warm and soft to his lips. Witha jolt, he remembered the smell of her.

"Good evening, darling. So nice of you to grace uswith your presence."

She appeared to be drunk already as she usheredthem in.

The room was dimly lit, and dance music wasplaying loudly out of a wireless in the corner of the

room. There was a thick cloud of smoke, and bottlesand glasses and ashtrays already littered the floor.The party had been going on for some time already,and he was annoyed at the thought of time wasted inthe pub. He recognised about half of the dozen or sofaces in the room. Some of the older masters from StJohn's were there, surprisingly, and some of the

people who had been at the party in Pevensey Road,although there was no sign of Hillary.

He went through to the tiny kitchen to find a glass.Robert, already merry from the pub, was attempting topersuade Agnes to dance in the few feet available inthe middle of the sitting room. As he poured himself adrink, Ren came up behind him.



"Do you think I could have some of that whisky? Imight as well get the most out of you since you'll beleaving us soon enough."

He poured out some of the drink for her as shewent on.

"You'd better promise to come back and see us."The face still smiled, and the eyes still sparkled,

but there seemed another, more serious look,beseeching. He wondered if, wishing to see it there, hewas imagining it.

"I can do better than that," he said, taking the boxwith the pendant from his pocket. "Happy birthday."

She took it silently, opened it, and unwrapped thependant inside. Before she could say anything, hespoke to hide his embarrassment.

"It's a St Christopher. The patron saint of travellers. To protect them when they go away." Heswallowed. "And when they return."

She held the pendant in her hands, looking at it

silently. She turned it over, then turned it back to passa finger over the engraved inscription. He saw her lipsmake out the words like a child learning to read,though no sound came, just as she had done when hehad looked through the cafe window at her weeksbefore. The silence went on so long he thought shemight be about to make a joke. But then she was

looking up at him, eyes more intent than before."It's beautiful." She kissed him on the mouth hard

and walked quickly away out into the sitting room.

The party lasted for several hours.Finlay found himself dancing clumsily with Jean, a

very drunk Calvert and a woman called Grace who







He wondered – hoped - she might have fallenasleep. Then he could have tried to control his fear,and banished the shame of what had happened withHillary. But she spoke slowly and quietly, withoutopening her eyes, in the clear voice of one awake.

"All right."And the moment had gone.Ren leant back against the wall, eyes closed, not

even appearing to breath. He leaned down and kissedher on the cheek. His heart had stopped its poundingnow, and in its place there was only an ache so strongit made him breathless. As he got up and crossed theroom, there was the same rushing in his ears thatmade him think of the sea just down the hill. Hemanaged to force himself to turn and look at her. Sheremained as she had been before.

How could something so important – so awful -happen so quickly, with so little warning? How could it be?

He knew he would remember this night. Hewalked to the door, closing it behind him, and went oninto the night. He walked down the hill towards thesea. He wanted to see waves on the shore.

He had been too frightened to grasp what hedesired, and now it was too late. The chance hadgone.



1940

DUNKIRK had been a massacre – less than30,000 taken off the beaches - then the RAF and theRoyal Navy had been smashed over the summer. The

“black summer”, people called it.Now the last act would begin...

There was a break in the rain now, though theSeptember clouds were still black, and wind sweepingup from the sea whistled as it made its sinuousprogress through the pillbox's open firing ports and







They were supposed to call in every two hours (therewas never anything to report) but in the meantime theradio stayed on the floor, turned on but emitting nosound. As often as not it was not working for somereason. Miller wondered if it would work properly whenthe time came. He poured water into two enamelledmugs, added dried milk and a few tiny lumps of precious sugar. The tea was as soldiers always had it -scalding hot and strong. The two tried to shelter fromthe wind. The rain had started up again. Miller found if he squatted too long his legs seized up completely. Hesipped the steaming liquid and stared at the concretewall two feet in front of his face. The noise of Dixonhawking up and spitting into the corner of the pillboxbroke him out of his reverie. He shook his head toclear it. Dixon was looking at him nervously.

"You miles away, again?"The younger man's voice had a mystified

sympathy.

Dixon had not been in France, so he did notunderstand, could not have comprehended, the thingsMiller had seen there. The two spent a lot of time likethis, knowing each other well enough to becomfortable with the silence, content to drink their teawith their own thoughts. Miller would sometimes steala glance at Dixon's pale face and blinking eyes and

wonder what thoughts went through his mind, if any.Neither man mentioned the reason for them beingthere, staring all day at the waves and the sea andwhat lay beyond.

The silence was broken by the sound of a car approaching.





Miller was as mystified by the question as by theman asking it. It was not the way officers behaved.

"Fine sir. I think."The lieutenant's face broke into a smile."I should explain. I've just joined from London.

Thought I'd familiarise myself with the section of coastwe're allotted."

Miller nodded, surprised at the apologetic tone of the officer's voice.

"Very good sir. Fancy a cup of tea?"Miller felt an instinctive warmth. There was

something vaguely familiar about him, now that he puthis mind to it. Perhaps he’d seen him in France.

"Tea would be lovely."The lieutenant made no move to get in out of the

rain, staring thoughtfully out to sea. He seemeddistracted. Eventually he spoke.

"What's your name?""Miller, sir. Private First Class."

"Well a cup of tea would about hit the spot now, Ithink."

Miller beckoned him into the pillbox. It wasimpossible for Dixon to stand properly to salute in thecramped passageway. He stood up as best he couldand gave a half-hearted attempt to do so, scraping hishand on the concrete wall of the building. The

lieutenant held up a hand."Don't bother. You can be at ease in here of all

places."Dixon stammered as he always did when nervous.

The officer's detached manner seemed to make theyounger man even more nervous than he usually was.



"Thank you, sir." Dixon continued to crouch,uncertain whether to sit or stand, while Miller lit thestove again. The lieutenant looked out of the firing portfacing the sea, then appeared to notice Dixon'sdilemma.

"Well sit down, man. You're making me nervous."Dixon sank onto the beer crate gratefully. The

lieutenant went back to looking through the firing port.Miller watched him as he waited for the water to boil.The officer's jaw flexed continually, as if the musclewas permanently clenched, and he stared out with apeculiar intensity, as if trying to make something out.Miller wondered if it was fear, like with most of the newones. This one didn't seem new, and didn't seemnervous.

"Any news, sir?"The officer shook his head, still staring out to sea."No. Another big raid last night when the weather

cleared. Dover and Brighton got it. You probably

heard. But no news."He continued to stare out to sea. Miller found his

intensity worrying."Weather’s the only thing stopping ‘em at the

moment. We seem to be having some luck at last. Butit’ll only take a couple of days of calm for that tochange. Just a couple of days."

Miller poured water into three cups. He noticed hishand shook as it did so, and he felt embarrassed. Butthe lieutenant still gazed out at the sea.

"How long before they come, sir? If the weather clears?"

He regretted the pleading tone of the questioneven before the words were out. The lieutenant finally





But the car carried on gamely enough. It had beenrequisitioned from an old lady in Brighton. It had beenassigned to Finlay so he could complete a tour of thecoastal defences to familiarise himself with the sector he would defend. Eventually he found the street -Meeching Road - he was looking for. The house at theend had been flattened a week before.

Finlay had been assigned a billet in a privatehouse abandoned by its owners. He was sharing withtwo brothers, Peter and Philip Newbury, and a captainnamed Gray. The brothers - both lieutenants, like him -were originally from Weymouth, and their presence100 miles along the coast from their family was aconstant source of annoyance to them. Weymouth hadinitially escaped lightly in the bombing of the summer,but as the German air offensive had begun toconcentrate on possible landing sites for an invasion,sources of opposition to any landing had suffered. Thenaval base at Portland had been annihilated. Post was

rare and the brothers waited for news from home.Finlay drew up in the dark and switched off the

car's labouring engine. With the rain there were nobombers over tonight and the silence was complete.He realised how exhausted he felt. He had had eighthours sleep in the last three days. With overseeing thedeployment of his unit around Newhaven and the

requisitioning of supplies, as well as the bombing,there had been no time. He looked out of the windowat the street outside, distorted by the rain. Despite thecar's leaking roof and lack of a heater, he had to fightthe urge to let his head roll back and sleep. He coulddimly make out the shape of the monument across thestreet, dedicated to the fallen of the Great War, his



father among them, 20 years before. He could notmake out the words, but he knew them anyway. "For King and Country", above the dates 1914-1919.Perhaps another monument would one day be erectedalongside it, for the dead to come. How many nameswould adorn that one?

He was falling asleep. He shook himself,shuddered, and got out of the car into the rain andwind. He remembered only as an afterthought to openthe bonnet of the car and remove the distributer cap,and take it with him to the house. There were heavyfines for civilians, never mind soldiers, who lefttransport around that could be used by an enemy. Hehad an hour to spare before dinner at 7 o'clock, thenhe would go up to the fort to inspect the men andcheck on the guard.

The constant weeks of invasion alert had sappedthe men's watchfulness, and the bad weather onlymade them more lax.

The house was a small terrace, in an identicalrow originally built for dock workers, with a smallgarden at the back, and a tiny kitchen and sitting roomon the ground floor. Inside, it was dark and silent.There was no sign of the Newbury brothers or CaptainGray. The sitting room windows looked out past their crosses of masking tape to the estuary of Newhaven

below. There was no clue as to who had once ownedthe house. There were no pictures on the walls, andonly the barest essentials for furniture. Everything elsehad been moved out by the owners, presumably whenthe requisition order had been served months ago. Hefound the emptiness depressing. The house remindedhim of the rootless impermanence of his own



existence. He wondered who would be staying here ina year's time, or if the house would still be standing atall.

His room was at the back of the second floor. Itcontained nothing but a bed with rough army blanketsand a small cupboard. As he climbed the stairs, hewas struck by the absence of noise, either from withinthe house or outside. His footsteps on the barefloorboards seemed unaturally loud. The sounds of overflying German bombers on their runs north to hitthe airfields as the coastal batteries attempted toengage them had become a part of his sub-concious;now he noticed only their absence. Tonight was toocloudy. With luck, they might be in for a quiet night.Only in the distance could he hear the faint resonatingboom of a shell being fired from one of the Germandestroyers that now roamed the Channel withimpunity.

In his room, he was too tired to remove his boots

or his battledress, now soaked again. Instead hecollapsed on the bed. It was impossible to relax and betaken by sleep, but he knew that if he lay and stared atthe ceiling long enough, it would come. What he wasfrightened of was the feeling of panic and falling thatalways seemed to wrench him out of sleep just as hedozed off. It had been happening more and more

often.

He was woken by a crashing at the door. He hadno idea where he was. The first minutes of sleep werealways the worst to wake from. He was too dazed andtired to remember, and he wondered what the noisehad been. As he looked around the unfamiliar room, it



provided no clue as to the new existence in which hefound himself, except for the stuffed army duffel bagon the floor.

The door opened to reveal Captain Gray. He wasdressed in battledress uniform, although his head wasbare and his black, thinning hair was wet anduncombed. He looked down at Finlay with bloodshoteyes and the dark smudges under them were blackagainst the pale of his thin face. The voice that wasusually halting and gentle had been rendered amonotone by fatigue.

"Get a move on, Derrington. In the old days yougot shot for sleeping on duty. Dinner's on the table."

Finlay swung his legs to the floor, smoothing hishair and trying to unscramble his dazed mind. Hisuniform blouse and trousers were still wet and gave off a rich, musty odour. They had not been washed for weeks.

He went downstairs to find the Newbury brothers

and Gray already seated at the dining room table.Dinner was a canteen of watery stew delivered

from the building acting as the officer's mess twostreets away. Gray was cutting slices from a loaf of bread he had managed to acquire. Finlay knew itwould not have come with the rations. The stew wasthickened only with potatoes - the meat it contained

was stringy, tasteless, and of uncertain origin.Rationing had helped to prevent shortages at first, butthe U-boat campaign in the Atlantic over the summer had prevented all but the most important militarysupplies from crossing the ocean. Equipment toreplace crucial farming machinery was not available,



and the country's ability to feed itself was grinding to ahalt.

Peter Newbury poured tea from a battered kettleinto four tin mugs. Like all of them, he lookedexhausted.

"Evening, Derrington. D'you get some sleep?""A bit. It seems to have made me even more tired

than before. As usual."Peter Newbury was only barely six months older

than him, but deep lines of fatigue ran down hischeeks, making him look a decade older than his 27years. Finlay wondered what his own face must looklike. The house contained no mirror.

"The grub is of the usual standard, I'm afraidgentlemen," said Gray, ladling it out into four tin bowls."But the bread is excellent. I got it myself thismorning."

Gray spooned some of the stew to his mouth, andwith the other hand smoothed back his unkempt hair.

His features were delicate, with thin lips and pale skin.Although he did not look like it, he was a career soldier, joining the regiment eight years before theoutbreak of war. The destruction of the army atDunkirk, and the annihilation of his own regimentthere, had affected him badly.

"How are things in your sectors, gentlemen?"

"The men are all right," said Finlay. "But no morethan that. They need more food and more ammunition.What they have won't last an hour in any fight. Moraleis... reasonable."

He detested the habit of many of his fellowofficers. They had started to adopt poses of insaneoptimisim in which all problems, even their men's



comfort, were ignored. It was a kind of hysteria. Graynodded and swallowed.

"Well, when we get more supplies, they can havethem. But morale is all right, you say?"

"Better than could be expected. They don't like thewaiting. But which of us does?"

"What's the weather report, sir?" Philip Newburyasked. Alongside hysterical optimism, the weather hadbecome an obsession.

"More of the same, thank God. They are sayingthe storms could go on for another week. Perhaps theyare just trying to cheer us up. Don't blame them." Graysipped the tea and grimaced. "Anyway, maybe another week, maybe less. After that, who knows?"

The four of them ate for a moment in silence.Above the noise of the rain, Finlay could hear theboom of one of the coastal ack-ack batteries openingup, although whether at a bomber overhead or adestroyer out to sea it was impossible to tell. There

was a muffled crash as a shell from one of the Germanships landed somewhere towards the other side of Brighton. Nobody remarked upon it - the sound wasquite usual. When he had finished eating Gray satback in his chair with a deep sigh. Then, before hisbody could adjust to the relaxed position, he was onhis feet and heading for the door.

"I'm off up to the fort. I suggest you get some restwhile you can. I'll see you up there at 22.00 sharp."

The three of them barely had time to get to their feet before he was gone.

Philip Newbury collapsed back onto his chair witha sigh.



"Rest? Chance would be a fine thing," he saidbitterly as the front door slammed. "Anybody gotanything to drink?"

Finlay went upstairs to fetch the whisky bottle.Technically, they were not allowed to drink while onduty, and were on permanent alert 24 hours a day, butnobody bothered about such things now. He pouredthe liquid into three of the tea mugs and sat down.Philip Newbury drained his at a gulp.

"Well, he doesn't seem too bad today. Almostcheerful, in fact. Makes a change." The whisky broughta flush to his cheeks and made his eyes water. Alongwith the weather, the two brothers shared anobsession with the perceived mental state of their commanding officer. As the senior officer present, hewould know more than they about the latestintelligence reports of interrupted radio traffic betweenthe differing parts of the German invasion fleet,mustering across the water, as well as the weather

projections that were now being sent down fromLondon every hour. If and when the weather clearedand stripped them of their last protection, Gray wouldhear of it before they did.

Finlay felt removed from their concerns.Ever since France, he had felt a sense of unreality

at what was happening - the shock of Dunkirk; the

inevitability of the disasters to follow as airfields andradar stations were destroyed one by one; the Navybombed out of the Channel by the victorious Luftwaffe.It was as if a German landing was now the only way of keeping the dreamlike quality of their situation intact.

He poured more whisky. His legs were beginningto ache again. The brothers fell to discussing a letter









presumably hoping the connection established throughthe son might result in a more accomodating receptionfrom the mother. It had set Finlay thinking. Theprospect of a commission in his father's regimentappealed to him, though not to his mother or sisters,and anything seemed better than the slow, disablinginactivity of staying at his mother's now deserted homein London. If there was to be another war, and hethought it likely, the thought of being involved from theoutset appealed to the frustration in his mind.

He remembered another evening when he was aboy.

A man had come to the house. This time it was aprivate soldier who had known his father. It must havebeen just after the armistice. The man was nervous atmeeting his officer's widow, and plainly had no realidea why he had come to the house. But his mother had been gentle and kind, and had offered the man adrink. And the man had drunk more and more, and

Finlay's mother had ushered him from the room, butFinlay had waited outside, and listened through thekeyhole to the man's rambling conversation. And hehad learnt, in uncomprehending childhood wonder, of the shell that had taken his father and four others,leaving a crater 10 feet deep and 20 across, with notrace that the five men it had taken had ever existed at

all. He had thought; this is the way I can know myfather, to know what he did, what it was like for himand how it ended.

From there, it had proved remarkably easy. Thedrive to re-arm was beginning, and training standardswere low. He had found the incessant activitycombined with the undercurrent of violence in army life



soothed him. Few people had understood his rejectionof teaching as a profession, but he did not regret it.The pain of the memory of Ren did not leave him, butsome instinct in him for self-preservation had found away to push it to the back of his mind.

Only afterwards had he fully realised howdisastrous the evening at Ren's had been. It had beena one-time thing, requiring from him a leap into thedark which some confluence of factors in his pastmade it impossible for him to make. He knew enoughof himself to realise it had not been only fear of rejection and the loss of her friendship which hadstopped him that night. There had been somethingelse; a retreat into dreams, a fear of realising themshould the reality not match up to the imagined. Onlylater had he known that in playing safe, he had losteverything.

The three joined the procession of officers making

for the fort on the east bank of the estuary.High on the cliff face, it commanded a view miles

out to sea in good weather. The administrativeheadquarters for an area from Brighton to Eastbourneup and down the coast, it was ringed by gunemplacements, trenches and the first of the pillboxesthat stretched off along the coast, one every mile. The

flat ground outside had been turned into a barrackscomplex, with row after row of Nissan huts joined bywalkways. A complex of tunnels cut through the cliffsunderneath, to assist in movement underground andprovide shelters when the bombers came. The fort hadbeen built in the previous century - to deter invasionfrom a different quarter to that expected now.



The Nissan huts were eerily quiet as they passed.The men inside were sleeping the sleep of the dead,exhausted by hours of patrolling clifftops and in theseafront trenches. While their comrades kept watch,they would rest.

The briefing was in a low, cavernous hall hackedout of the chalk under the fort. The room, which wasreally a huge cave, smelt strongly of the bodies thatwere crammed into it, shoulder to shoulder. Theregimental commander, Colonel Moore, was a heavyset man with a ruddy farmer's complexion, hisprofession before the war. He stood at the far end of the room, clasping the back of a wooden chair in frontof him. He spoke through a thick, drooping moustache.Most officers stood at ease, and some smoked.

Moore cleared his throat and held a hand up for silence. Finlay could see Captain Gray standingbehind him, looking at him with keen eyes. Moorespoke with the air of one getting down to business.

"There's not much in the way of intelligencetonight, gentlemen. We have reports of intensifiednaval activity around Boulogne. Could mean nothing,could mean everything. General staff are holding tothe view landings will be in three sectors, betweenFolkestone and Brighton. Where those sectors will be -buggered if we know." The ripple of tired laughter was

quelled by Moore. "Brigade intelligence say there hasbeen another submarine landing near Cooden Beach,so we must presume that's another landing site theGermans are investigating. I must restate theimportance of drumming into the men these landingshave got to be discovered and interrupted, before theyhave a chance to report back. I know they're not





Moore surveyed the ranks of tired faces."Any questions, gentlemen?"Nobody spoke. Everyone knew there was no RAF

left. Everyone knew there was no Navy left. There wasnothing to ask. Moore waited a while, as if hoping for some interest from his audience, then gave up.

"In that case, gentlemen, goodnight. You aredismissed."

The meeting broke up with a murmer of lowvoices.

Finlay walked through the rain to the Nissan hutsthat contained the men in his company not up on thecliff tops or down in the trenches on the seafront. Thepassageway between the huts was paved by woodenduckboards to stop the path turning into a muddymorass under the pressure of rain and countless feet.They reminded him of the trenches in the first war. Theduckboards had been inadequate then, and they werenow. Mud oozed out through the wooden slats. The

only light was cast by low wattage bulbs outside thehuts, shielded from aircraft overhead by shades thatmeant they only illuminated the ground under them for a few inches, giving off a residual glow.

When he got to the huts he opened the door of the first as quietly as he could. The two sergeants,intelligent, lugubrious men called Ballater and Howard,

were playing a card game in the light of a single candlestuck on to the wooden surface of a table in a smallroom between the main sleeping quarters and the door to the outside. Apart from the sound of snoring, therewas no sign of life. Finlay wondered again when thetwo men ever slept. Both made to get to their feet tostand to attention, but he waved them back. Ballater











She let them in with a jangle of keys, and theywere in a small courtyard, open to the sky, from whichled a black iron staircase to a small platform anddoorway on the first floor. He could hardly see and hadto feel his way along the wall to the first step. She wasmore used to walking here in the dark, and went upwithout trouble. On the iron platform, she opened thedoorway and turned on a dim electric light. There wasa small hallway which gave on to a kitchen, awashroom and a sitting room with a bed in the far corner. The rooms were dark and cold. She went backfrom the sitting room to the kitchen, passing him asshe did so. She still kept her coat on.

"There’s nothing to drink. Sorry.""Fine." He had drunk enough already. He could

feel a growing tightness in his chest. He had not beenhere for a long time.

She came back into the sitting room with its bed inthe corner and removed her coat, throwing it

carelessly over a threadbare armchair in the far corner. She wore a plain black skirt underneath, and awhite shirt so thin he could see the straps of her brassiere through it. When she turned to face him, shecaught him staring at her, and the knowing look on her face was unmistakable.

"It's ten shillings."

He nodded, but did not speak. She took hissilence for agreement and began to undress in front of him, taking off her shirt and skirt with ease. He couldsee the pale flesh of her only faintly in the dim lightfrom the hallway. He could feel himself respondingphysically to the sight of her and the desire itrepresented. But the tightness in his chest and the



sadness grew. He could look at her no longer andstared at the floor. His mind was filled with images of apast life. He did not really care what she thought. Hismind was elsewhere, roaming freely in areaspreviously denied to it. He could not put the face of Ren from his mind.

She mistook his reaction, not dissimilar from thatof many of the frightened younger soldiers who onlywanted their mums. She came towards him, andtaking his hands, put them on her breasts. He couldfeel the heavy warmth through the material. But as thephysical desire mounted in him, so did the remorseand the longing, and the sadness that chilledeverything.

He pulled his hands away and turned his back onher.

"Sorry. I cannot do this."Normally she would have tried to persuade him.

But with this one, she sensed, it was something else.

There were a few like that, even now."Someone else?"He did not answer for a while, although she could

tell his shoulders were hunched in tension and someemotion she could not recognise. Eventually he spokein a flat monotone.

"Something like that." There was a short silence

before he spoke again. "I'll see myself out.""Wait."She came forward, acting with instinct beyond

comprehension, and came around to stand in front of him again. He could not look at her but instead staredat the wall with downcast eyes that were distant, in





emptied himself into the woman's mouth, was therestill, imprinted on even the rolling banks of fog as theycame in off the Channel. He felt now as he had feltthen, three long years before, walking through theblackened streets, trying to find anything at all to clingon to that might lighten his heart.

On the harbour front, he was challenged by one of the sentries, and remembered that even officers werenot supposed to break the curfew in the coastal areas.The guard was a heavy set man of at least fifty,dressed in Home Guard uniform. He did not carry arifle. There were none available. Finlay apologised andhurried on his way, trying to remember the way back tohis billet from the harbour. The street signs, like theroad signs inland, had been taken down. Onlyeventually did he find the smashed house which heknew was at the end of Meeching Road. His billet wasdark and quiet, and he crept up to his room.

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

He did not sleep.

‘He was still staring at the ceiling when the sirens

sounded for another air raid.Finlay was not surprised. The rain had stopped an

hour ago, and he had heard the distant throbbing of

the aircraft coming over further down the coast. Thenoise was a low distant murmer, which meant theaircraft were still far away but there were many of them.

He felt too tired to move. He lay there and listenedto the distant thunder of the coastal batteries opening



up again. Within a few minutes, the higher, morefractious sound of exploding bombs started.

He was still lying on the bed when there was ahuge crash, very close. He could feel the shock wavesof the explosion in his ears as the taped windowsrattled but refused to give under the pressure. Thenoise was like nothing on earth. He swung his legsfrom the bed as there was a crashing on the door.Before he could answer, it opened and Gray's headcame through.

"For God's sake, Derrington! Get a move on."The head disappeared. Civilians were supposed

to go either to the Anderson shelters in privategardens or the public shelters in Brighton, whichever was nearest, but during air raids officers and men hadto go to the fort or battle stations for stand to. As hegot to his feet, another huge crash hit the building. Inbetween the noise of the explosions, he could hear thesteady droning overhead and the tinkling of broken

glass like music. There was a sound of someonescreaming, far away.

Gray and the others were waiting downstairs. Withevery compressed thump and its attendant shockwave, his head ached more. He almost laughed -wishing the Germans would stop to spare hishangover. Gray was looking at him. He still had not

combed his hair. The look in his eyes had a wildnessthat had not been there before, and Finlay felt hisheart skip a beat.

"’Cromwell?“" It was the code word they werewaiting for.

"Don't know. Brigade HQ say the weather hascleared and the forecast has been revised."



Gray's voice, unlike his eyes, was calm. "Youthree get up to the fort. I'm going to the seafront."Finlay could feel a tightening in his chest that matchedhis beating heart. It would need only a few hours gapin the weather for the Germans to attempt a landing.

Gray walked to the door as another huge crashcame, even closer this time. It must have been just upthe street. Finlay could see the whole structure of thefront door of the house bulge inwards with thepressure as Gray staggered back from it. He heard thefamiliar tinkling of glass in the aftermath.

Gray looked around and took a huge breath, as if trying to will himself to go outside into the noise.

"Right. I'll see you up at the fort. Newbury, wherethe bloody hell is your gas mask?"

Philip turned and ran up the stairs as Grayopened the door out into the street and was gone. Themasks came in a respirator bag that also containedanti-gas pills and ointments that were universally

assumed to be useless.The three men started to run up the street. There

was already a noticeable lightening of the sky. As theyran Finlay could see that one of the houses further uphad taken a hit. The bomb might have landed in thegarden at the back. The house was not badlydamaged, but all the windows had been blown in and a

portion of the roof was missing. There was a middle-aged woman standing in a nightdress at the gapingfront window. Her hair was wild, and she stared out atthe street below with terrified eyes at the soldiersrunning up it below.

Finlay stopped and ran to the front of the house.The woman must have been one of the few who had



refused evacuation weeks before and opted to stayput.

"Have you a shelter to go to?"There were more muffled thumps of bombs, this

time further away. She did not appear to hear him,instead staring out into the street with a look of primaeval fear. He screamed the question again. Stillshe continued to stare at the street, then up at thenight sky and the droning that came from it. At last her gaze settled on him. She nodded.

"Well get in the bloody thing then!"His own fear made him shout. The fatalism he had

felt inside the house had given way, now he wasoutside under the bombs. The woman stared at him inslowly dawning comprehension, then disappearedfrom view. In the distance, he could hear the siren of afire bell add itself to the clamour. Philip Newbury wasat his side.

"Come on."

They ran on to the end of the street, and turnedup towards the fort a mile away. As they went theywere joined by other officers making their way to standto at the fort.

Between the explosions the sound of the droningoverhead continued. They were still passing over.There seemed to be a staggering number. The

ubiquitous Heinkels the Germans were now producingin huge quantity, judging by the engine noise. Some of the men could tell by the sound of the explosion justwhat sort of bomb had been dropped, what size andwhether incendiary or high explosive. The raid onBrighton did not seem to merit the number of planesoverhead. It probably meant that only a few were



dropping now. The rest would either drop north of here, continuing the war on the airfields, or wheel eastor west to hit the other Channel ports. He found itdifficult to run. His boots and uniform were still wet. Hisrespirator bag, helmet and webbing were awkward andslowed movement further.

He was about to slow to a trot when there was acolossal impact just ahead of them that threw him andthe Newburys to the ground. Others around them wentdown too. The bomb had landed on a patch of wasteground at the end of the road. They could feelclods of mud and debris landing on them as the shockwave went on down the street.

Finlay was thrown hard to his right, and landed onhis hands on the road, skinning them. He felt dazedand, for some reason, very warm. At first he wasfrightened to move, in case there was somethingwrong with him. But he did not seem to be hurt apartfrom his hands. He looked back down the street to see

chaos. The windows of the street had been blown outfor a distance of 100 yards, and men all along it hadbeen blown over. Much of the rest of the bomb'simpact seemed to have funnelled harmlessly up thestreet. Soldiers were picking themselves up off theroad and dusting themselves off. A few were cursing,but no-one stayed down.

Peter Newbury was blowing hard."Jesus. Do you think this is it?" His long hair

looked crazy. For a second Finlay could notunderstand what he was talking about.

"Do I think this is what?""The invasion, man. The fucking invasion! Gray

said the weather was clearing."



Finlay fought the urge to laugh."How the hell should I know?" He looked up at the

sky. A thin drizzle was still coming down, althoughpatches of light were showing through as daylightbeckoned.

They carried on trotting up the road to the fort,slower now. There was a universal superstition amongthe men - shared by the officers. If you got away with aclose one, then either you were not going to get it thatnight, or the next one would kill you outright. Either way there was no point in running. He did not knowwhether the belief was a mechanism to cope with fear,or whether it was in some way logically valid.

"Why the hell has Gray gone down to theharbour?" said Philip Newbury. "He should be up atthe fort with us."

"Perhaps he's gone down to start the fires."Rumours had spread that army engineers had

perfected a new kind of slow-burning oil, which could

be sprayed on to the sea and set alight. The notionhad been seized on by a public desperate for wonder weapons, as the existing ones were lost. Finlaysuspected it was either useless like the anti-gas pills,or non-existent.

By the time they got up to the fort, the worst of theraid had passed. Now there was only the sound of

alarm bells and sirens from Brighton itself, together with muffled thumping from further down towardsBrighton. It was bitterly cold now the rain had gone andtheir clothes were damp. Overhead, there were gapsin the low-lying cloud. The weather was clearing.

Peter Newbury looked up into the sky as theymustered outside the fort. Officers milled outside the



entrance, smoking and coughing from the run up thehill. From out of the Nissan huts a stream of men werestill pouring, clutching rifles, pulling on coats, coughingand swearing. Their blasphemy had a quiet intensity toit that suggested that they, too, wondered if the timehad come.

"Jesus Christ," Newbury said again, still lookingwith a child-like wonder into the sky. His gaze fell tostare out at the empty Channel. "I thought the weather was supposed to last until the weekend?"

Nobody answered him. As Finlay looked up, thestars seemed to grow and swell, as if to mock the menbelow. Finlay noticed others looking up in the crowd of perhaps 100 men, and noticed also a spreadingsilence as the single thought spread.

Then one clear voice."At least it'll be a nice day for it."There was laughter. Finlay shivered and lit a

cigarette as his own gaze skipped over the Channel

waters and settled on the long guns pointing outtowards them. They were silent now.

Sergeant Ballater marched up smartly andstamped to attention as if trying to punch his boot intothe chalk of the cliff below.

"Men are stood to, sir. All present and correct."The sergeant had a glint in his eye that was

unfathomable. It could have been fear, excitement,even bloodlust. The look made Finlay want to shudder.The job of his platoon would be to assist with thedefence of the fort with its radio station and myriad of underground tunnels. He gave the carry-on order, butBallater did not salute and about turn. He stood there,looking uncertain.



"Sergeant?""Sir." Ballater made no attempt to say what it was

and Finlay took the hint. He walked away from theothers. Ballater followed.

"Well. What is it?" Ballater was the mostunflappable and laconic man in the platoon. Thesergeant reached into his pocket.

"One of these, sir. Didn't think you'd want theother officers to know I confiscated it off one of our lads. Didn't know what to do with it."

He handed Finlay a leaflet. It took him a momentto realise what the faded, yellowing, paper was. Thetext of a speech by Hitler to the Reichstag that August,concilliatory, and a last appeal to the British people tomake peace, their soldiers not to fight. Otherwise, theconsequences would be faced. The Luftwaffe haddropped millions that summer. They had becomefamous and were supposed to be handed in or destroyed if found, although Finlay doubted many

were. He had heard of the leaflets while in Dover,although he had never himself seen one.

"What shall I do with it, sir?" asked Ballater. "Itwas Baker had it. I've already put him on a charge."

Finlay fingered the paper and looked down at theroughly printed words once more. He was fascinatedby the measured tones of it, the implied threat in the

words. What he would have liked to do was keep it asa souvenir, although that would have set a badexample. Instead he handed it back to Ballater.

"If you are supposed to destroy them, sergeant,then I suggest you do so. Unless you want it as amomento?"



Ballater, straight-faced to the last, looked shockedat the suggestion.

"Certainly not sir. I'll get rid of it right away."In the assembly hall underneath the fort, Finlay

could see the faces around him looking even moreweary than in the days before. Yet there was apronounced murmer of conversation in the room. Thesilence had disappeared. The noise died as Mooreentered the cavernous room. He looked exhausted, hisusual ruddy complexion white, and he stared fixedlyahead of him. Finlay could hear the click of his bootslanding on the concrete floor. He could feel his ownhands slowly clenching and unclenching. The palmswere damp.

Moore seemed in a trance as he crossed theroom and turned to face them. He had no need to gettheir attention, since every eye was on him already. Heshuffled a sheaf of papers in his hand withuncharacteristic nervousness, staring at them intently,

before looking up. His eyes were dull and glassy andhis voice was quieter than it had been before. Hespoke almost conversationally.

"Right. You know why you’re here. We gotanother terrific pounding from the enemy this morning,though the worst seems to have passed. Dover,Folkestone, Bexhill and Eastbourne are all being hit

even more heavily as I speak to you." He paused ashis eyes scanned the faces in front of him. "TheGermans seem to be switching targets once again,this time to troop concentrations, which seems to pointto only one thing. You can all see our luck with theweather seems to be running out, and the Coastguardpeople say the tides are now in favour. So we are



moving to Invasion Imminent and assuming the worst.Intelligence says there is unprecedented activityaround Boulogne and Calais.

"Final evacuation of all immediate coastal areaswill begin now, and all other civilians are being toldover the wireless to stay indoors. All leave and dayand night passes are cancelled forthwith, and makesure all ration and ammunition requisitions are put inand collected this morning. You may not get another chance. Questions?"

A hand went up at the front, though Finlay couldnot see to whom it belonged.

"How long have we got?"Moore smiled. "I cannot say, Lieutenant, anymore

than anyone else can. But it's only a matter of timenow, maybe only hours." He paused again.

"There are probably words I should be saying toyou at a time like this, but right now I cannot think of them. Sorry."

There was silence for a long moment, longer thanbefore, then a sound of startling clarity andunexpectedness. Somebody at the back had started tosing the national anthem. Finlay was first surprised,then embarrassed. The bloody national anthem, for christ’s sake! Then he was ashamed at both reactions.The singing was muted, quiet, almost mournful, but it

was growing in intensity as others joined in. Moorehimself looked surprised, then stared at the men with arenewed intensity, although he did not join in. With asurge of fellow feeling behind the fear, Finlay felt hisown throat catch and his eyes smart as he tried to singtoo. But no sound emerged.



When they had finished, Moore stared at the floor at his feet, blinking. Eventually he found the will tospeak. He seemed to find refuge in technicalities.

"From this morning, we will begin evacuation fromimmediate seafront areas. I know we have told peopleto stay put but these people will have to be moved asbest we can. If they stay, they’ll die. You all knowwhich sectors you have been allotted. There is goingto be a lot of resistance on the one hand and we haveto be firm with that. On the other hand we don't want tostart panic. The roads inland have to be kept clear of all non-essential traffic, so we can get our peoplewhere they will be needed."

He paused again, and Finlay could feel a sick,sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of what heand his fellow officers would do, and see, that day. InFrance he had seen the wreckage and the anguish of ruined lives as the German advance had spread. Thetroops had dug in in France, near the Belgian frontier,

before the attack. They had dug trenches and dug-outs, fire-steps and dog-legs, just like 20 years before.Finlay, in the spring heat and dust, had thought: Sothis is what it was like for him. Only it had not been likethat at all. The tanks had outflanked them in days, andin the headlong retreat to the coast, the images of refugees terrorised by the dive-bombing and German

speed had burned themselves on to his brain. Now itwould be English refugees, loading possessions on toanything that would move, scrambling north, livessmashed. The thought brought home to him as nothingelse had done what might be about to happen to them,and he could feel cold grip his innards. He could seeby the faces around him that others were feeling it too.



Moore's gaze seemed to encompass them all, andmore besides.

"Right. Good luck. And God bless you all."Together with the Newburys, Finlay collected his

company and marched them down to the harbour area. There was no singing or talking now. Leafletsexplaining what to do and where to go had long agobeen distributed around Brighton, but there would bestragglers, and those who refused, and those whopanicked.

At the harbour, the scene was better than he hadhoped. People were calm and ordered but it was thecalm of those in a daze. Army trucks - the fewavailable - were drawn up on the main street and bythe harbour wall and were being loaded up withcivilians and all they could carry with them. At least thechildren had gone already, thank God. He set his mento help carry possessions and see who needed helpand who did not.

Peter Newbury came up to him in the street. Helooked tired and shivered in the cold morning air. Hisplatoon were clearing the next section up fromFinlay's, away from the harbour front. Finlay guessedthat he was worrying about his family in Weymouthagain. Nobody expected landings that far west, butnobody could be sure either. He could hear the distant

rumblings of bombing coming along the coast fromboth east and west now. He and Newbury discussedthe demarcation line between their platoons and whowas responsible for which street, with the aid of astreet plan that would then be destroyed. Newbury waslooking more and more unhappy. The hand holding themap was shaking visibly.



"Is this really going to do any good?" His voicewas unsteady and beseeching. "Do you think the topbrass know what in God's name they are doing?"

"What do you mean?"Newbury made an expansive gesture with his

arm."All this. Evacuation. Fighting them on the

beaches and all that stuff. We all know if the Germansget ashore they've won."

Finlay looked past him to an elderly couple justemerging from a house behind them. The man musthave been 70 and walked with an air of quietresignation and acceptance. The other hand held alead on the end of which was a sheepdog. The dogwas excited at the commotion. Finlay wondered howthe couple had managed to feed the animal over thelast few months. He remembered George in Brightonand the way he used to pull on his lead. Newburycarried on talking.

"I just wonder if things haven't gone far enough.We've shown the Germans we haven't given in easily.We've fought them. We've held them off. Sometimes Iwonder why we don't make peace and be done with it."

His voice had fallen to a whisper, although therewas no-one in hearing distance. "Don't you wonder sometimes? Whether it's gone too far? It feels like a

truck going down a hill without any brakes and wecannot get off. We've lost. In France. In the air. At sea.Why don't we salvage something from the wreckage?Hitler's supposed to admire the British for Christ'ssake, isn't he?"

Finlay saw that Newbury was losing control. Itgave him strength.



"Look on the bright side. At least you're not aLocal Defence Volunteer. Hitler says they’re murder gangs. Most of them haven't even got rifles."

His words did not reassure Newbury, althoughFinlay felt too tired to care. He was grateful for thestrength the other man's fear had given him, but hisown fear was still too prevalent. He continued to stareat the old couple, who were being helped into one of the trucks by his men. The old man made repeatedattempts to lift himself up on to the tail board, butalways fell back. Eventually he was bundled in withoutceremony. He thought of his own father and mother,dead, and he was glad. He thought of Ren in Brighton,perhaps already dead too. Newbury's words ranaround in his head. As the two men stood, the morningsun broke and bathed them in its cold bright light. Ashis gaze shifted away to the sea again, the truck'sengine started up and it began to move off to join theconvoy heading inland. From its canvas sides, Alice

stared out at him. Alice. Her face was drawn and tired,but smiled in recognition. She raised one, hesitanthand. He looked away.

Newbury was still talking to him."I hope you are paying more attention when the

Germans come, Derrington. Otherwise you might justmiss the whole bloody show." Newbury ran a hand

through dishevelled hair."Or is it that you don't think they’ll land here?"The subject had exercised the minds of Finlay and

his fellow officers that summer and autumn like noother. The country had become obsessed with fifthcolumnists and Nazi parachutists dressed as nuns or God knew what. If parachutists did come, Finlay knew,



they would come in force, with no need of disguise.Moore and others spoke of intelligence assessmentsindicating where enemy activity was greatest. Thereality was, with no RAF, assessments had to comefrom resistance workers in the French Channel portsand were notoriously unreliable. The pocket battleshipGraf Spee had been reported in three different ports,all on the same day, which summed it up. Any Britishspotter planes venturing far out over the water wereshot down. Some thought the Germans would restrictthe landings to a narrow corridor, landing in huge forceto punch through the defenses - an extension of blitzkreig to amphibious warfare. If so they wouldimmediately drive on London and only coastaldefences and the Canadians at Aldershot would standin their way. Others said the landings would be on abroader front, to counter British attempts to fall back.

But no-one knew. No-one had ever known.

The evacuation went more smoothly than Finlayhad feared.

There was only one disturbance in his sector. Awoman who lived alone, and had refused to leave, hadbeen set upon by her neighbours. When he arrived,summoned by one of the men, it was to find Ballater holding apart two women spitting at each other with

venom. Both were dishevelled, and one had a cutdown one cheek that oozed blood, presumably fromthe other's nail. He was shaken by the vociferousnessof their feeling, but suspected it was caused bysomething other than the alert.

With the streets clear by mid-morning and only thedistant thunder of the bombs to disturb the quiet, he



knew the operation had distracted him from what wasto come. All they had to do now was wait.

He could feel the mood affect the men, makingthem frightened and irritable. The resigned, cheerfulacceptance was gone. He felt himself dizzy withtiredness, and his legs ached again. But even now, hefound he could banish the fear for long moments.What they faced was still too abstract - the unknown.He wondered if he lacked the imagination to perceiveit. As the last truck revved its engine and took off, theblack car that he had used two days before coughedits way down into the harbour area. Gray got out.

"Derrington. Get your men together and up to thefort. Where are the others?"

Philip Newbury came around the corner, studyinghis street plan. Gray looked at him.

"You too, Newbury. Destroy that and you and your brother get your men up to the fort and stood to. Onthe double."

He shook his head at their questioning eyes."No news. Still no news."Finlay gathered up his men and marched them up

to the fort. The sky was now blue and the weather'sprotection had finally gone. Within an hour thebombing started again.

This time, it did not stop.

After another night on the cliff looking out intopitch blackness, Miller could see nothing. It was fortyeight hours since the alert. He had spent so longstaring at total darkness pictures appeared in his mind.When the light finally began to come, he could not besure it was not imagination.



Eventually, the different lines appearing wereundeniable; horizon, shore and the lip of the firing portwindow. He was in a state of nervous exhaustion. Hekept confusing lines appearing before his eyes,thinking the horizon was the shore, and wonderingwhere the cliff edge had gone. He rubbed his eyesagain and tried to find a bit of nail on one of his fingersthat was not already bitten down. The fingers smelledpowerfully from countless cigarettes. At his feet, Dixonslept, his back against the freezing wall of the pillbox,somehow managing to ignore the bombs crashing onto Brighton below.

Miller craned his neck and looked into the sky, atthe stars still shining in the lightening air. It was bitterlycold because there was now no cloud cover. At hisfeet Dixon stirred, and Miller wondered if the cold hadfinally woken him. But he remained where he was,eyes closed. Miller was relieved that he would nothave to talk to the boy for a while longer. All through

the night the leaden cold in his stomach had grownworse, partly through hunger; mainly fear. He knewthat even if there had been anything to eat, he wouldhave been unable to touch it. Since going on duty theevening before, he had felt no inclination to speak,preferring to retire inside himself for the struggle tocome. Dixon was the opposite, gabbling non-stop, his

eyes growing wilder as darkness approached.Eventually, in the light of the spluttering candle on thefloor of the pillbox, he had cried. Huge, racking sobsthat shook his lanky frame and sent tears down hischeeks and mucus from his nose. Miller had withdrawnat first with a feeling close to panic, but eventually hadmanaged to hold him by the shoulders, letting the boy



cry himself out. Exhausted, his hysteria had turned toa mournful calm, and sleep.

Miller lit a cigarette and thought again of home.Games of football on Stepney Marshes, and then thepub, to get falling-down-drunk on pint after pint. Theywould play darts all night, until his mates were toodrunk to see the board any longer, never mind hit it,then buy chips from the shop which stayed open at theend of the High Street to catch the trade. He couldremember the tiredness of his body after the matches,which were fiercely contested, and the way the achesand pains dissolved after the first few pints. He couldremember those times when the evenings hadseemed dull, and the sight of a pretty girl across thebar on the arm of one of the spivs might promptyearnings for something more. Now the imagesseemed of heaven. He wondered if the pub hadsurvived the bombing.

Dixon finally stirred and woke. He looked at first

frightened, then bewildered, staring arounduncomprehendingly. Miller almost laughed. Now hewould be grateful for the company.

"Tea?"Dixon rubbed his eyes tentatively, nodded, stared

around again. Miller could see the horror of remembering run through him like a spear. The

younger man shivered uncontrollably and his voicewas hoarse.

"Jesus Christ. What time is it? How long have Ibeen asleep?"

"About two hours."Dixon got to his feet with a groan.



"Feeling any better?" Miller asked him. Dixonlooked as if he was about to vomit.

"Better than last night." He looked at the older man warily. "Sorry."

"S'all right. I'll make the tea."He bent down and extinguished the candle still

burning at their feet. The light coming through the firingport was enough now. He busied himself with thestove, grateful for the mundane task. Dixon went out torelieve himself. From above there came the incessantdroning of bombers going over, and from Brighton theycould hear explosions as their cargo was delivered.When Dixon returned, the two sat cross-legged on theearth floor of the pillbox, drinking tea from whosesurface clouds of steam billowed. Neither had hadanything to eat, but neither felt like eating. At least thetea took away the taste of the endless cigarettes.Dixon cradled his hands around the cup for warmth.The temperature was barely above freezing.

"You checked the radio yet?""Yes. No news. The alert's still on."Dixon shuddered again and stared, white-faced,

at his tea."Christ, I wish I hadn't woken up. I was dreaming

about being back at school.""Best days of your lives and all that?"

"The first time I got a beating. Feels like that now."Miller stared silently at the concrete pillar in the

centre of the pillbox. Now that Dixon had gone throughthe fear and passed through to the resigned calm of the other side, Miller could feel his own tormentgrowing. No longer the fear of simply appearing to be





At first he could see nothing. There was a rythmicpounding in his ears which he at first thought wascoming from the town or out to sea, before he realisedit was his own heart. He took a pace to the left - stillthere was nothing. He was about to turn back,questioning, to Dixon, when the banks of swirling mistout to sea shifted, drawing slowly back to make their disclosure like curtains in a theatre of the damned.Within a few seconds, it was revealed to him.

There were two lines of ships, stretching back intothe mist to the horizon, the nearest still miles out tosea, yet seemingly close enough to touch. Even fromthis distance, he could see they were sailing in twoconvoy lines, several hundred yards apart, cruisers,battleships, destroyers and frigates among them. Inbetween the lines, there was a mass of dots, smaller boats. The water between the two lines was black withthem - it looked like the convoys were escorting an oilslick.

Miller could feel his heart smash in his chest,hammering to get out. The mist bank closed in again,hiding the awful sight from his aching eyes, and hecould hear his own voice.

"God in heaven. They're here. God in fuckingheaven..."

Dixon was behind him, cowering in the corner of

the pillbox, speechless with terror. His head shookslowly from side to side, as if to deny, even now, theevidence of what his eyes had seen.

Finlay had known if the invasion did not come onthe first day of good weather, it would come on thesecond. The men were quiet all the first 24 hours. It



was as if they dared not even breath. And at night,even had there been no bombing, no one would haveslept. At four in the morning, the men were stood toand marched down from the fort to the harbour wall,and along to the seafront. Their freezing breath hungin the air behind them. Trenches had been dug out of the sand on the beach tops and fortified with barbedwire and sandbags.

As he marched beside the men, Finlay could feelbile rise in his throat. He stole a glance to his left,trying to make out the faces of the men through thedarkness. He was frightened by how anonymous theyseemed - he could recognise few of them.

Closest to him was Farrell, chain-smoking asalways, tall and thin, marching beside Campbell,heavier-set, usually telling jokes but this morningsilent. Behind them Langton, Gaskell, Elliot. He wasfrightened to depend on men he did not even know. Atthe seafront, he said goodbye to the Newburys, and

took his men to their allotted positions in trenches andpillboxes vacated by the previous company.

The pillbox Finlay stationed himself in, although itwould be a more obvious target. With him was theBren gunner Gaskell and the radio operator Johnson.Gaskell, dwarfed by the Bren set up in the firing port of the pillbox, asked permission to smoke. He gave

cigarettes to both men. Finlay could barely make outtheir faces in the moonlight. The three smoked silentlyin the damp chill.

With the first light, the bombing intensified.Finlay's platoon were stationed about a mile from

the town. Behind them the hill rose steeply up to thefort itself. In front was a hundred yards of stony beach



to the sea. An hour passed. As the sun began to rise,Finlay could make out ghost-like shapes appearing astank and boat traps rose from the water. They werespaced pathetically widely. They would stop nothing.The barbed wire between them was inadequate. Itwould take one man with wire cutters seconds to getthrough.

As if in answer to his silent thought, a bomblanded directly in front of the pillbox, a hundred yardsout, right on the water's edge. He felt the groundshudder with the impact as he pulled his face awayfrom the firing port. As he did so, earth and sand androck were blown through the hole. When he looked outagain, the barbed wire along a line of twenty yards hadvanished.

In the pillbox, Johnson spat into the corner, hisface ashen. His radio crackled. He looked at his watch,then at Finlay. Six twenty.

Finlay stared out at the beach and the mist. It was

daylight now. The bombing was concentrating on thebeach areas, shells landing every few seconds up anddown the coast. There could be only one reason.

His heart had started to pump with a steadyrythm, no faster than normal, but with a heavy,throbbing quality. His legs felt painful and weak, andthe palms of his hands were damp despite the cold.

He wanted to urinate. He wanted to run up and downthe beach to check on the men. His feeling earlier of not knowing them had disappeared. Now he felt theywere part of him, an extension of his body, he felt ananguish for them that was physical. The part of himthat did not want to run away wanted instead that theyshould do so, to leave him here alone.



Then it was fully light, and time moved on again.Gaskell lit a cigarette with a hand that was

shaking so much he could barely hold the match to hisface. From outside there was a huge explosion, veryclose this time, and he felt the pressure wave crushinghis eardrums as the ground shook beneath them.

Finlay wanted to get out of this tomb he had beenassigned to defend. He wished he could order Gaskelland Johnson out, so he could drop the mask of calmthat was slipping of its own accord.

Instead, he waited.

And then Finlay looked out towards the sea andsaw that one part of time was over, and another hadbegun, and they would have to wait no more.

They were here.The artificial fog, created by German ships further

up the coast, had abruptly cleared and before themappeared an amada of ships, more than he had ever

seen in his life before. It was impossible to judgedistance, though the nearest vessels looked to be atleast a thousand yards from shore. For what seemedmiles out to sea, the ships and boats were joined soclose together, there appeared no water betweenthem. It looked like an island.

Johnson by his side had now seen them too. He

could hear the soft Cockney accent."Holy Jesus Fucking Christ."Johnson looked at him. Finlay could see, above

the man's eye, a nerve flickering wildly, beating anirregular pulse of its own. He clapped a hand on theman's shoulder, willing himself to look into the other man's eyes and not show his fear. It was easier than



he thought. The hammering in his chest had settledslightly.

"What the fuck do we do now?" Johnson had toshout to make himself heard.

Finlay looked out at the mass of ships. On theoutside of them, at the limits of their vision, thereseemed to be naval ships, destroyers, cruisers andmine sweepers. In between, a great sprawling mass of smaller vessels, barges, trawlers, tugboats, dinghies,even sailboats.

He shook his head in wonder, feeling his skincrawl with fear. The extremities of his body felt as if theblood had drained out of them and they were numb.When he looked at his hands, they confirmed that thefeeling reflected a physiological reality; they had turnedblue.

"We have to wait," he shouted at Johnson. "Geton the radio and raise Captain Gray."

Out in the Channel, the bombing from overhead

was now being supplemented by shelling from thefighting ships out to sea. Above their heads, the gunson the cliffs had opened up in response. The noisewas deafening. Finlay looked at the mass of ships andboats in front of them. It would take hours, days, to hitthem all, even had they the shells. It was impossible.He could see plumes of water rising as shells fell into

the sea. The gunners on the hills and cliffs werewasting tens, hundreds of shells finding their length.He could imagine the panic. He had no need toimagine the pathetic number of shells each gun had inreserve, shells now falling long or wide, into theswallowing ocean.



He wondered if the pillbox could survive a directhit.

He, Gaskell and Johnson and the others couldonly wait. His own unit's ammunition was pathetic; tenmagazines for the Bren, five for Johnson's rifle, onlyfifty bullets for his service revolver. Three grenades for each man. As he looked at the darkened horizonahead of him, he knew it would never be enough. Hethought of his friends Peter and Philip Newbury, andwhether they were thinking the same thing. Perhapsthey were already dead, blown to pieces by a bombfrom the air or smashed by a shell from the ships.

Through the noise, the minutes somehow passed.The detonations, the noise, seemed to be building

to a climax that was not possible, that was fromanother world. It could not go on like this. Looking out,the fleet did not appear to have moved, though heknew that would be an illusion. Gaskell was setting outthe twin legs of the tripod on which the Bren stood,

pointing out at the boats, still way out of range. Finlayglanced at his face. Behind the glasses the eyes werewide and wild, the face deathly white with deep bruisesof fatigue. His breath was coming in thin, raggedgasps. But his movements seemed mechanical, andFinlay realised he was following routine drummed intohim over weeks of training. Behind him, Johnson was

on one knee, screaming into the radio receiver, tryingto make himself heard above the crescendo.

Finlay was loathe to leave the pillbox, but he hadto make sure the men were positioned properly, andhe would have to leave the shelter to do it. He foughtthe urge to freeze and do nothing – to wait for death.He looked at Gaskell and Johnson at their tasks,



finding comfort in action, and felt a tiny flicker of pride.Surely he could follow his training as they did?

"Going to check on the others. Make sure they arein position. Back in a minute!"

The words would not come properly because histhroat was so dry. He would have liked to drink butthere was no time. Gaskell did not look around fromhis fierce concentration on the Bren but nodded hisunderstanding.

Outside, Finlay sheltered in the doorway andlooked down the beach. The Germans had not foundtheir length either and shells were falling short into thesea or landing on the slopes behind the trenches alongthe seafront. Ballater, the sergeant, would be in thenearest trench fifty yards away, with Smith and Milner,the platoon's mortar man. Both were young, but Finlaywas confident Ballater would steady them.

He was more worried for the men in the trenchesfurther away.

Howard, the other sergeant, would be in the far pillbox. In between, the platoon was spread betweenfive trenches, each twenty feet long and six deep, witha bank of sandbags in front. He ran.

The ground under his feet was grass, a long stripof it running between the beach and the hill up to thefort. It was heavy, soaked in rain for weeks, and gave

under his feet. A shell landed on the hill to his right ahundred yards away, pushing him over to his left andshowering him with clods of earth and stones. He ranwith something like relief. He was doing the job he hadbeen ordered to do. He had not run away. He couldcope with the fear. He could feel himself lightening as



he ran, and the tightness in his chest had disappeared.But his heart beat wildly.

He ran on past the first trench to the second. Ithad a partial roof of sandbags over wooden boards atone end while the other was open to the sky. Farrelland Langton were in it, together with Thomas, a youngWelsh boy, and Fletcher, who was almost Finlay's age.All four were sheltering at the far end of the trench ashe slithered in. Thomas and Langton looked petrified,while Fletcher just looked disgusted. Farrell, even now,was trying to get a cigarette lit, but his matches werewet and they spluttered out before he could get thetobacco to light.

"Anyone been hit?""Not yet. Only a matter of time," shouted Fletcher.

Finlay had to look at his lips to make out the wordsabove the crashing around them.

Farrell glared at him. "What happened to thefucking oil? I thought we were..."

The rest of his words were drowned by a hugecrash in the air behind as another shell landed. Theyall bent down.

"I don't know.""What happens now?" shouted Fletcher. "We just

wait to get blown apart?""We wait until they start to disembark. Don't use

up your ammunition until they get off the boats and arein range."

"We wait? Till they get ashore?""Yes." His throat was hoarse with shouting. "Then

kill them."He checked the rest of the trenches, then sprinted

back the two hundred yards to the pillbox. The ships



were closer now, perhaps only half a mile from thebeach. On the way back a shell blew him clean off hisfeet.

He felt the heat and the wind, and then the crashas he landed on his back and the wind was knockedfrom him. He remembered Dunkirk, and waited for thepain that would follow. It did not come. He got to hisfeet and ran on.

In the pillbox Johnson was shouting at him but hecould not hear the words. Eventually there was a lull.

"Gray says we stay here as long as possible, thenmake a fighting retreat up to the fort."

He nodded, appalled. Is that all there was? Theland behind rose sharply up to the fort, with no cover whatsoever. They would be sitting targets. He lookedthrough the firing port again and was shocked. Thehorizon had disappeared, replaced by a grey wall of every type of vessel. The fighting ships to either sidewere now laying down smoke shells to try and shield

the attackers as best they could, but he could still seemen walking on the roofs of the barges towed by other vessels.

A fighter, smoke billowing from a wing, flewstraight into the sea in front of the wall of ships. Hecould not see whether it was British or German. Therewas a huge plume of water.

As his eye ran along the line, he saw what lookedlike a fishing trawler. No-one was visible on deck, but ared flag of some kind flew from the radio mast. As hewatched, the cabin of the trawler disappeared in anexplosion of wood, smoke and flame. The gunners hadfound their range. A series of explosions of ammunition blew the trawler apart. None of the troops



had even attempted to get off. They were killed by thefirst shell. Finlay found it difficult to take his eye fromthe stricken vessel as it sank. He remembered theimpotent terror on the boat back from France when ithad been strafed by a German dive-bomber. Therewere dive-bombers overhead now. He could hear thesickening wail of one as it added its clamour to thenoise.

On other boats men were appearing in organisedlines, waiting with terrifying patience to disembark.They were still not in effective rifle range, although hecould distinguish their helmets gleaming in thesunlight. Between the booming of the guns and thecrashing of shells, he could hear the tinny rattle of amachine gun somewhere. The ammunition would bewasted.

The elation of before had gone. He was notfrightened of death, but he feared the pain that wouldaccompany it.

A shell landed directly in front of the pillbox andthis time there was no chance of pulling back. He andGaskell were blown back off their feet and up againstthe central concrete pillar. For a moment he lay still onthe floor where he had fallen, at peace. His head, evenprotected by his helmet, had been smashed againstthe pillar with sufficient force to make him black out for

an instant. Gaskell had been blown back and to theright. Finlay's face burned and his mouth was filledwith earth and sand. His eyes stung terribly, and whenhe opened them the pain grew worse and he could seenothing. He felt hands clawing at his chest andrecognised Johnson's voice. It was whimpering,pleading with him.



"Are you all right? For fuck's sake! Are you allright?"

Slowly, his dazed brain began to clear. He wasdisappointed that he was still alive and had returned tothe hell he might as easily have left. Slowly, crying, hiseyes began to clear themselves of the dirt, though theyburned as if acid had been poured into them. Somevision returned and he felt relief. He remembered thepictures of the men blinded by gas in the war; heremembered Dr Whitworth's crying eyes, long ago.

Eventually he could get to his feet, aided byJohnson. Gaskell had faired better. He had been toone side of the port and looking sideways on. Only theside of his face had been hit. As his vision clearedmore, he could see one side of Gaskell's head blackwith grime, and the lense on that side of his glasseswas shattered. The eye stared out behind it, bright andred and full of tears.

The first boats were now only a hundred yards

from the shore. Plumes of water were exploding infront of them and among them and on them, but theboats came on regardless. Men from boats that hadbeen hit were jumping off into the water and swimmingashore. To his left, Gaskell started firing short burstsfrom the Bren gun. Even with the colossal noisealready, the tearing of the machine gun in the cramped

space was shocking.He unholstered his revolver; it felt ridiculous in his

hand. How could they possibly hope to throw backsuch a concentration of men and machinery? This wasprobably not the main landing, more an outflankingattack to get behind the main defences along the Kentcoast. What on earth must it be like further east? He



looked again at the beach. The pillboxes and trencheswere coming under increasing rifle and machine gunfire now, from men firing from the leading boats. Somewere now nearly at the water's edge, and he could seeGerman soldiers jumping from them into water thatwas now only waist high. Some sought cover behindthe very obstacles designed to prevent their landing.He saw one man jump from what looked like a bargeinto the water, only to be hit by a bullet and thrownback against the front of the boat, which then passedover him as he disappeared beneath it.

What drove these men? For every one that fell,two or three more would jump into the freezing water and wade in, firing as they went. He could see as helooked out, firing his revolver, that his men wouldshortly be overwhelmed. There were 300 defenders toevery mile of beach, but ten times that number attacking. To his left he could hear Gaskell screamingincoherently in between bursts of machine gun fire. His

mouth was drawn up in a snarling rictus of fear. Finlayglanced at him to see what he was shouting andGaskell's left eye disappeared, the space where it hadbeen transformed into a red mass as the bullet cameout through the back of his head. Gaskell's headtwitched with the impact, like a punch-drunk boxer taking a blow, before he slumped to the floor. Johnson

stared at him in horror.Finlay looked once more at the beach and made

his decision.Wave after wave of men were now wading

ashore. If they did not go now it would be too late. Heholstered his revolver and picked up the Bren, trying todisentangle the bag of magazines from around



Gaskell's neck. It seemed to take an age. He heardrounds splattering against the walls of the pillboxoutside. He screamed at Johnson to get the radio andbe ready to retreat up the hill.

Carrying the machine gun and the ammunitionbag, he ran out of the pillbox and sprinted as fast ashe could to the first trench. As he ran he waited for thebullet that would kill him. He could hear them goingover his head, buzzing like bees. He tried to shield hisface, wondering what it would feel like.

He made it to the first trench, almost kickingBallater in the head as he slithered in. The sergeantwas feverishly threading bombs down the tube of themortar, not bothering to duck his head out of the waybefore the shells launched themselves with a dull,thudding sound. The end of the trench had beensmashed by a shell, and Ballater now knelt in a messof earth, sandbags and blood as he worked. His facewas set and expressionless, though tears coursed

down his cheeks. He did not appear to notice them. Atthe far end, Milner was lying in the grotesque distortionof death, his lower body disappearing in red fleshbelow the waist. His face stared straight up into thesky, eyes open, with a look of concentration. For onehorrifying second Finlay thought he might still be alive.Ballater followed his gaze.

"Shell," he screamed. "Milner copped the lot andsaved me from the blast."

"Where's Smith?" He had to scream into thesergeant's ear.

"Ran away." With a nod of his head, Ballater indicated behind them, and the hill up to the fort. "Hegot hit. He's dead."



Finlay looked behind but could see nothing."We're getting out - now. We cannot defend this -

we're being overwhelmed. The top of the hill will bebetter if we can get to it. Do it now - take the mortar with you."

Ballater looked at him. "How are the others toknow?" he screamed.

"I'll tell them. Get moving."Ballater gave him a strange look, but said nothing.

Finlay took one more look at the mangled corpse thathad been Milner. He thought of Gaskell and Smith andat last his fear was alleviated by hatred. He thought of his dead mother crying quietly, secretly, for hisobliterated father. Would there be any grave for thesemen's families to mourn?

In the second trench, Farrell, Langton, Thomasand Fletcher were unhurt and returning fire; hescreamed at them to get out and pressed on. The menin the next two were similarly unhurt.

The last trench before Howard's pillbox containedthe platoon corporal Lodge and Abrams. The groundrose up to the coastal path, before falling again tomeet the steep hill up to the fort. It meant Finlay couldcrawl along the grainy surface, protected from the firefrom the beach. As he went, the grass soaked throughto his elbows and knees, although he barely noticed.

As he crawled, he noticed little specks of yellow on thegrass to the side.

When he got to where he estimated Lodge's andAbrams' trench was, he raised himself on his arms tolook over. His judgement had been right, but now therewas no trench to see, just a huge shell crater, twentyfeet across and ten deep. Trench, sandbags and men



had ceased to exist. Finlay stared. The floor of thecrater was virgin earth. There was no trace of them, noblood, no clothing, no equipment. He could not believetwo men could simply be blown to nothing.

A bullet hit the earth bank in front of him and heducked his head down again.

After he had screamed at Howard and Sylvester to leave the last pillbox, he sprinted back along thebeach to collect Johnson. He did not try to take cover,but concentrated on covering the ground as fast aspossible. Even so, he seemed to run in slow motion.He could not believe he was not hit.

Johnson was cowering in the doorway at the rear,making no effort to approach the firing port at the front.There were Germans a hundred yards away nowacross the beach. Johnson was screaming at him, butin the solid noise he could make out nothing of whathe said. Johnson gave up and instead screamed oneword over and over again. His eyes were wide, staring

pleadingly, and he was pointing at the hill above them."....Gas. Fucking gas..."Finlay understood.He looked up at the hill top as a shell landed,

smashing into the grassy surface and blowing chalkand earth over their heads. Behind the explosion therewas something else. A white cloud billowing out from

over the top of the hill and beginning to spread.Heavier than air, it began to sink down towards themon the beach. The cloud swirled, its edges caught bythe wind and thrown into the air, the main bulk of itdescending unhurriedly but remorselessly. Johnsonwas already at his feet, scrabbling desperately with hisgas mask container, panic stricken fingers fumbling



with the clasp. Finlay reached for his own. He couldfeel a fear overtake him worse than anything before.He fought the urge to run away from the cloud,towards the enemy and the sea. A bullet would bepreferable to this. He risked another glance up the hill,but the gas cloud was slow moving, sinking withhorrible grace down the hill.

Eventually, his trembling fingers managed to getthe mask out of its container. He tore his helmet off and pulled the mask over his head. It was attached byrubber straps that fastened around the back of thehead. Once he had it on, the only indication that it wasproperly in place was that it became almost impossibleto breathe. The air had to come through the filtrationnozzle at the front, which was incapable of processingenough air to cope with his ragged and desperatebreaths. He had to fight to control the tide of panic.

It was impossible to see properly out of the mask.Within seconds the two eye windows were misting up.

It only added to the overwhelming claustrophobia. Helooked down to check that Johnson had his mask onproperly, then looked again at the hill top.

The clouds of white were hitting the bottom of thehill and starting to billow towards them. In a momenthe and Johnson and all the men on the beach couldbe choking to death on the phosgene. His heart rate

went up another notch. He wondered how fast it couldbeat before it just stopped. The enemy shelling fromthe ships offshore and the bombers overhead wasdiminishing as they moved their sights inland to avoidhitting their own men, but the sound of machine gunfire was growing. He hardly cared. The prospect of abullet seemed preferable to running willingly into a



cloud of poison. He was petrified the mask would notwork. Even in the cold, the sweat was pouring and hecould feel the mask slip across the surface of his face.Johnson was still in the doorway, mask on, the radio athis feet. He was rigid with terror. Finlay bent down andtook his arm. His voice sounded tinny and robotic. Hewas quite sure Johnson would hear none of his words.

"We're going to get up to the fort. We have to gonow. We can use the gas as cover. All right?"

Johnson nodded silently behind the black mask,dumb with fear. Finlay stole another look out. The gaswas only a hundred feet away now and would be onthem in a minute. It would give only the thinnest of cover. To his left, he could see men - his own andothers - breaking from the trenches and runningheadlong for the gas and the hill. He saw one mansprint out from a pillbox further down the beach, thenstop and stand straight up. His legs buckled under him, and he went down on his knees, crawling forward.

The gas devoured him and he disappeared.Finlay grabbed Johnson's arm and ran.The jolting caused by movement jogged the mask

and he realised with horror that air was getting in. Hedropped Johnson's arm and brought a hand up. Hewas no longer aware of the Germans on the beachbehind them, no longer aware of the bullets. His whole

attention was focussed on the white cloud ahead. Asthey entered it, he prayed for the bullet that wouldspare him.

It did not come. He waited instead for the pain of burning in the chest and eyes, but that too refused tocome. He went on.



Beside him, Johnson faltered, staggering to theright and falling on one knee.

The mask had slipped on his face and hiseyebrows were visible above it. Finlay stopped andreached down, trying to push the mask on toJohnson's face. The radio man was holding himself upwith his hands now. Finlay reached with both hands totry and position the mask, then realised it washopeless. As his right hand went to the back of Johnson's head, his fingers found not dry hair but amess of smashed bone and blood. There was a holehe could have put three fingers into, and Johnson'sbrain was coming away in his hand. He felt its warmweight pushing out. He picked up the Bren and ran.

The climb took forever.At the top of the hill the gas was being released

by men in masks like his own from yellow containersbehind sandbags. All along the hilltop, men werestaggering out of the clouds and running for cover,

falling. They looked like robots, automatons fromanother world. They took cover along the hill, behindsandbags, gun emplacements, lying in shellholes.

Some of the guns were still firing, but the onenearest him had taken a direct hit, its barrels pointingstraight down into the earth and its workings a mass of tangled metal. From twenty yards away, he could see

flesh and cloth among the debris.Below them, Germans were now swarming

forward from the boats beached at crazy angles in theshallow water. They had come prepared. Men withmasks ran up the beach, oblivious to the dispersinggas that surrounded them. He saw three sprint to thepillbox he had inhabited and disappear in its shadow.



There was an explosion from within. Without thinking,he positioned the Bren and took aim at the pillboxthrough the sights. Once all three men had crept roundinto view, he pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in hishands and within a second the magazine had emptied.

It felt no different afterwards, though this was thefirst life he had taken. Nothing in him turned over, noswitch clicked on or off. He reached into Gaskell's bagand pulled out another magazine. Methodically heworked his way through them all.

He saw the faces before him of Gaskell andJohnson, Milner and Smith, Lodge and Abrams. Whenhe had emptied every magazine for the gun, he threwit aside and lay there, empty and exhausted. His mindwas blank. He felt calm. A soldier in a mask ran over towards him from along the ridge. He threw himself down beside Finlay. The gas canisters had run out,and the wind took the last vestiges of cloud down and

out to sea. The soldier beside him was Gray. He pulledhis mask off. Finlay did likewise.

"It's a disaster," Gray shouted above the din. "Afucking disaster. We haven't held them anywhere.Even the gas didn't work. Except on our own men."Gray's hair stood out at crazy angles. The thin strandson his balding skull looked even more tenuous than

usual."All the gas has done is shown them we’ll stop at

nothing. What will they do to us now?"Gray's voice trailed off as his eyes looked across

the carnage of the beach below. The Germans weremaking no attempt to make a frontal assault on the fortitself, but fanning out to left and right, making for the



cliffs and Brighton. Gray's voice was now little morethan a whisper, and he was crying.

"What have we done? Jesus Christ! What havewe done?"

"What about casualties?" Finlay shouted, more tobring Gray back than in expectation of an answer.

"No idea. They've landed at Folkestone andDover. There are parachutists at Hythe. They'vealready got tanks ashore at Pevensey Bay, whichcould be hear soon. We needed to hold them on thebeach and we haven't." Both men ducked as a shellcame over and landed in the marshy grass behindthem.

"What about your men?""Six dead, the rest up here as far as I know. Don't

know about wounded, but there’ll be some. What doyou want us to do?"

"Get back into the fort. It's the only place we candefend. Do it now."

Finlay almost laughed at the notion. The Germanscould starve them out at their leisure. But he saidnothing. He felt a surge of tenderness towards Gray.

"What will you do?""Start to organise a counter attack. Moore's idea. I

don't know where from. I'll see you in the fort. Goodluck."

He clapped Finlay's shoulder and went.

There would be no counter attack. When Finlaylooked at the beach he knew they had already lost.Lines of Germans were now streaming ashore, noteven bothering to return fire coming from the hilltops.Sharpshooters in cover brought withering fire down on



any resistance, while medics were doing their best totreat wounded who could be got to cover. From left toright there were still thousands of men landing, fanningout to shelter at the bottom of the hill.

He turned to sprint to the next bank of sandbagswhere he thought he recognised Farrell crouching inhis mask. He had taken only a few steps when acolossal force smashed into his shoulder and head atthe same time. He blacked out. When he came to, hefelt sick and dizzy with a searing pain in his shoulder.

His head ached and he could not focus. He didnot know what had happened to him. He could feelrough hands pulling at his clothing and at his head,and he wished they would stop, so that he could lie inpeace. But the hands would not leave him, prying athis agonised shoulder and unbuttoning his tunic. Hecould hear voices in the distance, and a hammering,like that on a factory floor.

Then he remembered the beach, and the

Germans, in an abstract way which supplied nocomprehension. For a while he blacked out again. Inhis unconciousness, there was more pushing andpulling. He would vomit now, if the hands did not leavehim alone. He wanted only perfect stillness, for hours,days, weeks, so that he could adjust to his newsituation and avoid the pain and nausea of movement.

He wanted to rest.

Farrell had seen Finlay begin to move across tohim when the Lieutenant had veered to the right,crashed to his knees, and crawled forward for a fewsteps before toppling over. When he slithered over tohim, Derrington looked dead. Blood came from a head



wound, and also from the left shoulder. There hadbeen no explosion, so it must have been bullets fromthe machine guns already set up on the beach, rakingthe tops of the hills.

Farrell was about to crawl back to his ownemplacement when the Lieutenant opened his eyesand blinked once. He said nothing but stared glassilyinto space. He breathed heavily, taking in oneshuddering breath and letting it out with a sigh. Farrellstared at him, undecided, before starting to drag himback along the ground to his own shelter.

After a few yards, he almost gave up. TheLieutenant seemed fastened to the ground, an inertmass, and Farrell had to drag him while he himself layas close to the ground as possible. To have got to hisknees would be to invite death from the beach below,for he would have been a clear outline against the sky.It took him several minutes to drag the body, inch byinch, back to the emplacement. As he moved the

Lieutenant, there was a soft moaning. They waited for an hour, no longer bothering to expend what littleammunition they had left on the men on the beach, bywhich time Ballater and the wounded Howard had gotwhat was left of the platoon assembled and inside thefort. There was shell damage to its walls and surface,but the underground network of tunnels and caves

were still intact.The invaders on the beach were concentrating on

driving towards Brighton itself and the lessimpregnable coastline on the other side of the fort.They could leave it until later. By the time Farrell andLangton eventually carried Finlay bodily inside it wasthe middle of the morning.



The first tanks, landing unopposed a few milesdown the coast, arrived an hour later.

They were beseiged under the fort for three days.The invaders, securing beachheads and driving inland,were content to leave them. They could be dealt withlater.

Through patchy communication with the franticallyretreating remnants of the army, those in the fort learntthat landings had taken place in three sectors, along afront between Folkestone and Brighton. The two mainattacks had been between Bexhill and Hythe, thelanding at Newhaven only an outflanking one. TheGermans got 70,000 men ashore in the first assaults,with heavy casualties. Within three days, nearly120,000 men were dug in.

They were ashore, and so they had won.

In the catacombs under the fort at Newhaven, the

defenders rapidly ran out of food, water andammunition. The men lived in crowded filthy tunnelshacked out of the chalk, which became foetid with thestench of fear, death and defeat. The bombersoverhead were pressing north, towards London. Thebesieging army outside would starve them out.

Finlay spent the first day in and out of

conciousness, lying on his side in one of the tunnelswith the other wounded, passing through a fever thatinvaded his body within hours of the bullets entering.The round that had hit his head had removed only hair and scalp, grazing the skull. The shoulder wound wasworse. The first bullet had swivelled him round so thathe had been facing away from the beach, and the



second had passed through his left shoulder. It hadmissed the bone, but muscle and ligaments had beenripped away.

During his fever he would sometimes be aware of what was happening around him. At other times hewas pulled away to different worlds; childhood,schooldays, times in Brighton and France. He sawfaces: his mother's brother John, from childhood,bringing presents; the picture of his father in the livingroom; the face of Ren, laughing. It filled him not withhappiness, but with fear and foreboding. He could notunderstand why this should be so.

Midway through the morning of the second day,the face of Peter Newbury came to him and it was nolonger a dream. The fever had broken. Newbury sat afew yards up the tunnel. The passages were lit byweak candles or from an overworked generator.Finlay's head ached with a slow, pulsating beat thatnever varied and sent waves of nausea through him.

His shoulder burned. He felt a raging thirst, but hiswater bottles had been removed along with hiswebbing and pistol. Newbury gave him a drink from abottle that contained tepid, brackish water. He drankgreedily but found he could talk only with difficulty. Theslightest movement, even in his jaw, sent pain throughhis shoulder.

"What happened?" he managed to ask. He hadnever seen his friend look like this.

Newbury's drawn cheeks were stained with grimeand smoke, his eyes bloodshot, his lips cracked andscabbed with blood. He spoke only in a hoarsewhisper. Finlay could dimly hear explosions echoing



from somewhere, although his orientation in the tunnelmade it impossible to know from where.

"Down in Brighton," Newbury said. "When theGermans came we couldn't hold them. We were out of ammunition almost before they hit the beaches. Theymust have been under orders to take Brighton andharbour at all costs - we copped the bloody lot. We'vebeen up in the fort for a day now, they still haven'tattacked properly."

His voice was dull with an expressionless thatfilled Finlay with foreboding.

"Philip?""Dead."Newbury's eyes filled with confusion, as if he

could not understand the meaning of the words he hadspoken.

"I saw one of his men here. Said he got it almostimmediately. Don't know whether to believe it or not."

"I'm sorry."

Finlay looked about him for the first time, up anddown the tunnel. He felt sick and tired and exhausted,and there seemed to be a mist in front of his eyes. Themen were silent and sullen. They stared at the wall,eyes blank, their faces white and drawn and dirty. Theinjured ones moaned only softly, as if not to breaksome agreed silence. The events they had witnessed

were beyond comprehension. To Finlay the presenceof the Germans and the death of so many seemedunreal, a trick. Perhaps Abrams and Lodge, who haddisappeared into thin air, would as suddenly return togreet them from the end of the tunnel.

Newbury looked at him through pain-dimmedeyes.



"What happened to you?""I got hit outside. In the head and shoulder I think.

There was a blow to my head. I don't remember.""The medic says you were lucky. The bullet went

through your shoulder without breaking it. The other one nearly took your head off."

"Am I lucky?" Finlay asked. In the circumstances itseemed an odd remark. Then he remembered Philip.

"What's happened outside.?"Newbury shook his head."They're ashore and consolidating. They've got

about ten miles inland so far - we're not holding them.They got tanks ashore further up the coast. My lot gotchopped up by them coming up behind us. This placeis surrounded. My guess is they'll leave us alone andwait for us to starve."

Finlay stared at him, still unable to take in what hewas saying. Newbury put a hand to his face, pullingthe flesh tight. He closed his eyes.

"We've lost, Finlay. There's nothing to stop themnow. The Canadians won't be able to hold them. It'sover."

Finlay looked at his friend, the despair tugging athis control. He could feel again the stirrings of anger.As he looked at the men around him, he nurtured thefeeling, knowing it was the only defence left.

He spent a second night in the tunnel, sleepingless fitfully after morphine from the medical officer. Thefort had held the emergency medical supplies for thearea, so there was at least little shortage of dressings,medicine and antibiotics. He was given a huge dose of penicillin, to stave off infection.



There was no attempt by the Germans to take thefort. They could have taken it if they had wished, buthad more urgent objectives. He could imagine thescenes in the harbour and all along the coast, anarmada of vessels bringing men and supplies,shuttling between France and England, each minutemaking the German toehold more permanent.

On the second night, Newbury lay alongside him.He had settled into a resigned bleakness, with onlyoccasional flashes of the bitterness Finlay felt. Thepain was too much.

"We cannot stay here for much longer can we?"Newbury spoke as the dull crump of a mortar

sounded overhead. He stared at the floor."The Germans will get around to us eventually.

There's supposed to be a tunnel that leads under thecliffs away from Brighton. They're getting the walkingwounded and fit out through it tomorrow night. They'vesent a party down to reccy tonight. Supposed to date

from when the fort was first built. We might be able toget out and join up with the Canadians or someone. Itmeans the wounded will have to stay and givethemselves up."

Finlay looked at him."I'm sorry about Philip, Peter. Don't give up."He was glad to see some interest appear in the

black eyes. His friend looked up at him."I'm more worried about Muriel and the family.

What in God's name has happened to them? I'll makethem pay for Philip. Somehow."

They slept for a while beside the other men.With the morphine, Finlay's dreams were more

vivid. He walked through the streets of Newhaven, with



no idea where he was heading, only the knowledgethat he was searching for something. Although it wasnight, he stopped at a house and was given water by awoman whose face he could not see. The men in theroom with him also had shielded faces, although hewas sure he had known them. Now they were dead.He had to concentrate hard to bring their faces intofocus. When he did, he recognised the men from hisplatoon.

By the third day, after 48 hours in the tunnel, theatmosphere was unbreathable.

A soldier called Mortimer, shot in the intestine,had died in the night. His body had evacuated itself and added to the stench. Finlay was disorientated, withno idea what time it was, whether day or night. Butsome of the nausea and exhaustion had left him. Themorphine seemed to cope with the pain in hisshoulder, while there was no sign of infection.

His head still hammered with a monotonous

rythm. His body ached from the days in the crampedtunnel and it was impossible to get to his feet withoutdizziness that overwhelmed him with any movement.He had to steady himself against the tunnel wall,grimacing as the shoulder jarred against it. Thewhitewashed surface was damp with accumulatedbreath and sweat. He picked his way slowly among the

soldiers lying wounded, taking care with each step.Twice he had to stop and go down on one knee whenthe swirling in his head became too much. He checkedoff faces as he went, seeing if any of his men werethere. At the end he found Ballater against the wall,feet splayed out in front of him. The sergeant did not





and Finlay promised to try and find him some. He wentback to the central hall, through the press of bodies.

Six tunnels, hacked out of the bare chalk, led off from the main hall. Two led to short corridors which intheir turn led to flights of steps up to the fort. Twoothers, the ones he and Langton were in, led nowhere,ending in bare chalk walls. The last two tunnels he hadnot been down before.

The defenders held the caves and tunnels under the fort, and the fort itself, but nothing else.

The building above had been built for a differentage of warfare, with a dry moat on its landward sideand brick walls. If the Germans had wanted to take it,they could have done so the day before. He found adiscarded water bottle in the main hall and took it backto Langton. He sat down next to the private, feeling thenausea and weakness of before return withoutwarning. His breath came in ragged gasps.

It was here Colonel Moore found him.Despite everything, he was shocked at the

change in his commander's appearance. The usuallyruddy complexion was parchment white where it wasnot stained with dirt. The skin had now a translucentquality, which showed the veins and blood vesselspumping underneath. His eyes stared.

He asked Finlay if he could still command hisplatoon, or what was left of it. Finlay said yes.

"Good," Moore answered. "We're going to get outof here. The Germans won't hold off for ever, busy asthey are, and there's supposed to be a tunnel we canuse. If we can get north quick enough we might beable to link up with other units."



Moore's voice was dull, flat, resigned. He gaveFinlay strength, although he did not know why.

"Captain Gray?"Moore looked at him. "Captain Gray attempted a

counter-attack. My idea. He's dead."He got to his feet and shuffled off down the tunnel,

bent and unsteady.

The men inside the tunnels who would leaveprepared themselves.

Their movements were slow and uncertain. LikeMoore, they had aged and become infirm in onlyhours. Finlay said a long, painful goodbye to his menwho would stay, taking details of family addresses withhim. He would contact them if he could. Those whowould stay watched the others with calm, knowingeyes. About 200 men gathered in the main hall to betold what they were to do. They carried what weaponsand equipment they could. Finlay remembered the

briefing from a few days before. The men now were adifferent species, blank-faced, starving, devoid of hope. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Of his own men, only Farrell, Langton and Ballater would go with him. Howard would remain. Hall, aprivate, and Petre, the platoon corporal, had got to thefort succesfully, but had been hit by a mortar bomb.

Hall had died instantly. Petre, with his left leg severedabove the knee, had lasted a day.

Finlay wished Howard good luck.The long column of men started down the tunnel

in unnatural silence. They were oppressed by defeatand what awaited them outside. The fort had becomea shelter of a kind, shielding them from the reality in



which they found themselves. They left it reluctantly.The tunnel was unlike the others, unlit and muchnarrower. Finlay had to keep his arms pulled in tight tostop the arm snagging on the bare chalk wall and jarring the shoulder. The only light was from electrictorches carried by a few of the men, which had to bekept off most of the time to preserve batteries. Otherscarried candles, but these would periodically gutter and die in the movement and lack of oxygen, and thecarrier would have to stop and re-light it as thosebehind waited.

He was at first petrified by the confined space andthe claustrophobia as they went on. He found thepresence of the others a help, and after a while hefound he could close his mind to his imagination andconcentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.The pain from his shoulder helped. Whenever theclaustrophobia got too much he could jar the shoulder against the wall and his mind would be kept busy with

the pain. It was getting more and more difficult tobreath. The tunnel went on and on. He found he couldnot remember how long they had been walking,doubled up, down the passageway. He wondered howlong they could possibly hope to carry on along it. Hewas towards the rear of the column and the carbondioxide from the men in front made him feel light-

headed and warm. He could hear his own breathingmix with the ragged gasping of Farrell behind, whowith his tall frame found their progress even moredifficult. As they went on, the pain in his shoulder wasovertaken by pain in his back, protesting against theunnatural posture. It would not have been much above



freezing a few feet over their heads, but in the tunnel,Finlay had to wipe sweat from his eyes.

The first indication of the end came with the air.It became fresher, and after a time Finlay began

to make out the outline of Ballater's head and backsideahead of him. With the prospect of air after the putridatmosphere of the fort, it was all he could do not topitch forward too fast, upsetting Ballater and blockingthe tunnel. He forced himself to hold back.

They emerged into an amphitheatre, a semi-circlecut into the sides of the chalk hillside to form a quarry.Across its basin, clumps of bramble and the hillsidesprovided the only cover from the open ground beyond.To the north, there was no cover at all apart from thebushes, and none from the air. Finlay emergedblinking, drawing in lungfuls of air and shielding hiseyes from the glare even though the sky was dark withcloud. He felt a hand on his arm. It was Moore.

"Get your men under cover as best you can and

join me back here."Together with Newbury and two other lieutenants,

Stocks and Preston, he got the men down by the lower lip of the quarry, hidden from view, although thedownland to the north seemed deserted.

In the distance they could hear the dull thuddingof shells, like a distant, discordant drum, and the

occasional drone of an aircraft, but there was littlenoise here and it was almost peaceful. It seemedimpossible this could be a land now so alien. Finlayshivered as the cold air dried the sweat on his skin.

When he went back to the tunnel entrance, it wasto find Newbury crouched beside it, listening intently.There came the sound of a muffled thump from within.



Seconds later a rush of air came from the concealedentrance. Newbury looked up.

"They’ve blown the tunnel from their end. So no-one follows. God bless them, poor bastards." Helooked away and stared at the chalk in front of him."Moore is over the other side of the ridge. Wants youover there."

"Why?"Newbury swallowed."Something to show you."

He might have been shocked - in the days before- but not now. Like a drunkard, insulated from whatwas around him, he breasted the lip of the quarry,scanning the countryside quickly for the enemy, andlooked down to see Moore standing in a group of men.

Near them were the bodies of perhaps fiftysoldiers. Face down, laid out in a neat row on themeadow grass, hands behind their backs. As he

scrambled down to join the others, he felt the rushingin his ears that had come when he had first seen theships out to sea. Each man had been shot neatly inthe back of the neck, below the hairline, the entryholes of the bullets almost invisible, just a greysmudge. Some of the men by Moore were reachingdown and turning bodies over, looking for dog tags.

The corpses were swollen already, faces puffed andfeatureless. The other men looked on in silence.

Moore cleared his throat but said nothing. Rainwas beginning to fall and there was a rush of wind,although the bad weather was too late to save themnow. The rain fell on the bloodless skin and open eyesbefore them. Finlay scanned the faces staring at the



sky. His eyes settled on the third along. It was one of the soldiers who had been in the pillboxes along thecoast. The name came to him effortlessly - Miller.Private First Class Miller. He had made Finlay tea andsmoked a cigarette with him. As Finlay watched, adrop of rain landed in Miller's open eye, dispersing andscattering tiny droplets of water. A thin trickle of bloodfrom his mouth was hit by more raindrops and startedto wash away.

Miller's eyes stared into the sky in silent,unblinking protest.

Finlay reached forward to close them.



1941

Ren Amsden sat shivering in the tea room atKings Cross station and tried to hug the material of her thin coat even more tightly around her. She sat on a

rough bench, a cup of ersatz coffee steaming on thetable in front of her. She kept her fingers wrappedaround the hot enamel for as long as she could towarm them enough to make rolling a cigarettepossible. The room was too cold and her fingersshaking too much. The gas fire in the corner of theroom looked like it had not been lit in years.



The coffee tasted of chicory and cardboard - itstwo principle ingredients. Like tobacco, it was madewith different things from month to month dependingon what was available. The tobacco included cheap,home-grown, leaves that sparked a cough in thosewho smoked it. But the coffee was hot and she couldnot have done without the cigarettes. The tea roomwas empty. The phrase conjured up images of warmtoast and crumpets, warmth and laughter. Nothing likethat here. The sour-faced woman who served hadretired back into her kitchen, where clinking cups couldbe heard. German soldiers were forbidden entrance bya notice posted on the door, in German and English,and the place was down-market for officers.

The station was quieter than she rememberedfrom years ago. Few civilians had the means or authority to travel. Most trains were packed withGerman soldiers; subdued heading north for Scotland;more cheerful heading south for the coast and leave.

She dreaded this north-bound trip more than the onesouth in a few days time.

She pulled the ticket and her travel authorisationpermit from her pocket and studied them, stifling acough as she drew on the cigarette she had managedto roll. Both were printed on rough cardboard, thegothic lettering illegible in places, a sign of the

scramble to organise the rail network the occupiershad had 18 months before.

It had taken three weeks of form-filling, interviewsand bureaucracy to get the permit, and only thenbecause she was more trusted than others. For many,the application to travel was rejected out of hand. Shetook one more mouthful of coffee, then gave up on it



and got up to leave. If she missed the train it would bethe same process to get another permit, and weeks of saving for the ticket - she was not sure she would havethe energy again.

It was midday but the February sky was soopaque it looked dark already. The clouds werepregnant, swollen with icy rain that threatened to crashdown. She was glad to be out of it. She shivered asshe crossed the station forecourt. A group of Germansoldiers, pink-faced and young, were gathered on thefar side, queuing for the train she would be on. Theylooked cold and miserable and far from home. TheGerman officer who checked her permit behind theticket inspector gave her a warm smile. He was talland his bare head was shaved at the back and sides.His dark eyes were friendly.

That was the trouble with the Germans. Theywere all so coldly polite and correct, as if emphasisingthey chose to be. She remembered hearing civilians

had been at first welcomed on to trains the year before, when partisan activity had been morecommon, as insurance against attack. It had notstopped several being blown up, especially in thenorth.

Like the tea room, pubs and restaurants, the trainwas divided into areas for German soldiers, and others

for their officers and British civilians. The train wouldgo up to Leeds, then on to Glasgow that night, thesoldiers going to the outlying garrisons of the north,where their presence was thin and the danger frompartisans greatest. As she walked along the platformlooking for a carriage with Zirilist - Civilian - shepassed more soldiers smoking quietly on the platform.



The carriage windows were already fuggy with themass of military humanity inside. As always, she feltself-concious. She prayed she would not be the onlycivilian on the train.

For the first time in five years, Ren was goinghome.

She had resisted the urge before, despiteeverything, but the craving to see her mother andyounger brother had grown too much. The Germanshad begun to deport all men between the ages of 17and 55, for two-year periods, (nobody believed thetime limit) for hard labour in Germany and occupiedFrance. The authorities gave no more than a week'snotice of deportation, to discourage evasion, thepunishment for which was death. Ren's father, afactory foreman, had been among the first summoned.He had been only two years short of the age limit. Bythe time her mother's letter had reached her, he hadgone. She had hated him, but she hated the Germans

for humiliating him even more.The carriage for officers and civilians was furthest

from the platform, predictably enough, tacked on as anafterthought. She was relieved to see two men alreadyin the carriage, neither in uniform. She could feel aweight lift from her shoulders as she opened the door of the carriage and got in.

It was no warmer inside. There was no heating ontrains nowadays, and she shuddered at the thought of the long hours ahead. She chose a window seatopposite the older man, who had thinning white hair,hooded eyes below bushy eyebrows and a hawk-likeface. The man's face was severe, but he flashed her afriendly smile as she sat down. He wore a tweed suit



and a well-worn overcoat that looked warm. Sheenvied him. She stole a furtive glance at the other occupant who sat near the door. He was younger,perhaps 60, and engrossed in a book. He had thickglasses and a full head of white hair. As he read, hechewed his nails vigorously and swung one foot upand down with his legs crossed. The nervous sort. Helooked like a college professor. His dirty overcoatcovered an equally shabby jumper.

From outside, there came a distant rumble andshe felt her body tense. Again? Then it dawned. Withthe pregnant skies it must be thunder. Her gazecaught the hooded eyes of the man opposite and bothsmiled.

"Thunder, I think, this time," he said. "A stormbrewing."

She said nothing, looking out of the carriagewindow.

The train pulled away on time. As they emerged

from the station, rain lashed the window and for thefirst time that morning, she stopped feeling cold. Theman opposite spoke again, pulling her gaze away fromthe glistening London rooftops.

"It's one thing to be said for the Germans, isn't it?.Didn't we always used to say it about that idiotMussolini? He made the trains run on time? Before the

war, I mean."Ren smiled at him. She did not wish to encourage

conversation, but did not want to appear rude either.They were probably the only English people on thetrain.

"The trouble is they make it so difficult to get aticket in the first place - all the forms. It takes an age."



The man nodded."German efficiency, I suppose. Where are you

heading, might I ask?""Leeds. To see my mother. My father was

deported. I thought I'd visit. I've left it long enough."Before she knew it she had introduced herself and

asked him where he was going. She learnt he was anexpert on forestry, travelling to Scotland to advise onthe planting of pine north of Glasgow. He smiled as hetold her, as if planting forests was a silly thing to do.With the shortage of coal now most was exported toGermany, it was important to invest in fuel theGermans would be less interested in, he told her frankly. She found her interest aroused in spite of herself.

"If they take the coal already, won't they take thewood as well?"

"It's not economic. Coal, steel, they're alltransportable. Wood is not the same. It's not worth

their while to ship it. So the more we grow, the morewe have for ourselves. The Germans only need somuch to keep their barracks warm. Besides," he said,whispering. "Good cover for the partisans up there."

He sat back, putting a theatrical finger to his lips.Then he smiled at her. "It must be hard for you andyour mother, with your father gone. Hard for everyone

with this deportation. A bad business."Ren shrugged."I haven't seen him for five years. It's hard for my

mother. And I have a little brother who is probablydevastated."



She could tell the old man was puzzled by her equanimity over her father's fate, not knowing thehistory behind it.

"What about you? Do you have family?""A wife and two daughters, safely tucked up in

London, out of harm's way, thank God. The German'sdidn't find Wimbledon as enticing a target asWhitehall."

The sadness in the old face was plainer. At thelast moment London had been declared an open city,as Churchill and the others had fled, but Whitehall hadstill been flattened in the last weeks.

"I fought in the first one. We did better then. Sad,when you think of all the men who died and they justwalk in a generation later."

The conversation was getting dangerous. Renremembered history books and names; the Somme,Mons, Flanders. She remembered Finlay, talkingabout his lost father. Or rather, not talking about him,

as they had walked down the rainy street in Brighton.She remembered wanting to unlock in him his truefeelings about it, about anything, about her, and thefeeling of loss at her failure to do so. She looked intothe old man's eyes.

"How can you bear to live here now, seeing themevery day, when so many died before to keep them

out?" she asked. She was surprised at her passion.The man by the door stayed engrossed in his book.The old man did not answer at once, staring out of thewindow at the rain lashing down, lost in thought.Eventually he smiled.



"With method, a man can live comfortably even inhell “. It's a Buddhist saying I think. I suppose that saysit."

He was interrupted by the carriage door opening.It was the German who had inspected their permits.He was still bare-headed, though now he carried a capin his hand. The atmosphere in the carriage vanished.He pointed next to Ren and looked at her.

"Is the seat taken?" His English had no trace of anaccent at all.

Ren shook her head. The officer thanked her andnodded at the two men before sitting down. "I'm afraidwe seem to have packed the train out. I couldn't find aseat anywhere. I hope you don't mind?"

His politeness was disarming. It seemed genuineand he appeared unaware of the irony in his wordsand the manner in which they were delivered. For awhile the carriage was silent, pregnant with theconversation before. Ren found it uncomfortable. It

was, well, embarrassing . She wondered if the othersthought so too, or if the officer realised the effect hehad. He reached into his tunic pocket and produced asilver case.

"Does anyone mind if I smoke?" he asked, lookingat the two men opposite him. The man who had beenengrossed in his book looked up without indicating

either yes or no, the old man shook his head warily.The officer put a cigarette to his lips, then offered thecase around. The man with the book had gone back toit and did not notice, while the old man oppositestared. Then, with a shrug, he took a cigarette. Renwas relieved. If the old man had refused, she wouldhave done so herself, on principle. But since he had



taken one, she could, despite the shame. The lure of aproper cigarette was enticing after the rubbish theyhad to smoke normally. The German seemed pleasedand pulled a lighter from his pocket. It was a smartsilver one that matched the case. The tobacco wasrough and unfamiliar, but better than she was used to.

"Russian," he said with a rueful smile. "They arenot very well made. You have to hold them up or allthe tobacco falls out."

The old man pulled a newspaper from the seatbeside him, to forestall further conversation, and thatwas that.

It was so often like this, Ren thought. PoliteGermans doing their best, shunned by the populationconquered. The Germans could never really get thebalance right between politeness and patronisingcontempt. She dealt with a lot of them where sheworked. This one was better than most. At least hewasn't SS, who didn't give a damn about anything. The

newspaper, she noticed, was one of the few not closedunder the occupation. Its proprietor had close contactswith the occupation regime, and kept his paper openby employing a judicious silence on any mention of resistance or the exiled government in Canada, and anenthusiastic acceptance of all edicts issued by theoffice of the German Governor General in London.

Ren did not bother to read the headlines. She sat andstared at the fields outside. Several had abandonedvehicles, farm machinery, even old kitchen appliancesstill dotted around in them, like some bizarreexhibition. A hangover from the days before theinvasion, obstacles put in the path of the Germangliders, matchsticks to hold back an avalanche.



With a start she realised the German officer hadbeen following her gaze.

"I come from Cologne in Germany. It rains all thetime there too. But in the summer it can be beautiful."

Despite his friendly tone the old anger cameimmediately.

"Nobody asked you to come."She had said it before she had a chance to think.

In the old days she would not have needed thought,but the passing times leant reflection. The officer drewon his cigarette, then stamped it out on the floor. Hiseyes met hers. They were sad.

"I'm sorry. Many of us did not ask to come hereeither. Some are sorry they did."

His eyes held hers and for a moment she felt anunfamiliar feeling. Not quite sympathy but perhapsunderstanding. The carriage darkened as they entereda tunnel.

The German gave up on conversation and after a

while she slept.Perhaps because of the soothing clatter of the

train, for once she did not dream. When she woke,they were pulling into York. The man who had beenengrossed in his book had left. The old man wasasleep opposite her, the paper draped over his lap likea napkin. When she looked around, the German officer

was looking at her. He did not look away, but smiledshyly.

"I'm sorry. We’re going to Scotland, where it isalmost as cold as Russia and sometimes asdangerous. It is pleasant to have a distraction of anykind. What do you do, if I may ask?"



Ren coloured. Once again, she found herself disarmed by his manner and the quiet frankness of hisvoice, different from the arrogance she was used to.

"I work in a cafe on the south coast and teachEnglish privately, mostly to German soldiers." She feltthe familiar feeling she always felt when she admittedit; angry guilt. She hoped the old man opposite wasstill asleep. More than that - she hoped the Germandid not think she was over-friendly, like the tarts whopromenaded along the beach with officers, bold asbrass.

"Have you been to Russia?" she asked, to changethe subject.

"Yes.""What's it like?"She was ashamed at how silly the question

sounded, but curious despite herself. There was somuch rumour about what was happening in the east;one minute huge victories, then huge defeats. The

newspapers only ever peddled the authority line. Theonly certainty was the Russians were still fighting.

The officer sighed. She was shocked by thecandour of his answer.

"Russia is not a country like yours or France.Russia is half the world. It goes on and on. We fightbattles and take prisoners and capture more land. But

there is always more land, more prisoners, morebattles. It never ends. We call him Ivan - he's a goodsoldier. Sooner or later we will run out of men to fightwith. But the Russians will never run out. And thenwe’ll lose and your country will be free again." Helit another cigarette with a smile.

"Or at least... free from Germany."



As if in belated recognition of what he had said,he looked warily at the closed carriage door behindhim.

"Do many Germans feel as you do?"She spoke softly, but the mood had gone. The

officer had already said too much."I'm sorry," he said, stubbing the cigarette out. "I

must attend to my men."He looked at her as he stood up and paused

before he went to the door. His eyes were sad, butwith a hint of anger in them.

"You British shouldn't get so upset about beingbeaten. That's just a question of luck. The importantthing is to remain true to yourself." He smiled. "Goodnight. It has been a pleasure talking to you. MissAmsden, isn't it? I hope we shall meet again."

Ren stared out of the dark carriage window at theempty station platform.

Did she feel “true” to herself teaching Germans

her language which they used to order arrests andworse? Or smiling at them in the cafe? Was she trueto her father? Well, she didn't care much about him.Was she true to the memory of Finlay, so long ago?

She thought of his face, and felt her chestcontract. Her heart ached.

The train pulled into Leeds as darkness fell.The old man had woken up, but remained

engrossed in his newspaper. He pulled her bag downfor her as the train entered the station, wishing her acheery goodbye. Nobody else got off.

She had been frightened the bombing would havechanged everything, but in fact it was just as she



remembered it. Smoke and pitch blackened, thestation roof yawned above her. The roof had beenhome to pigeons, thousands of them. Now there werenone. People had eaten them. There were few other signs of the occupation here, and no troops loungingaround. Only bored-looking soldiers standing half atattention on the station forecourt. She reached into her pocket for her ticket and travel permit, but the soldier showed no interest, waving her through.

The rain had eased and it was bitterly cold. Therewas still enough light for her to recognise the outline of the city she had known. She was surprised to see it sointact. Then she remembered it was Sheffield, with itssteel-making capacity, which had taken the brunt of the bombing this far north. Only a few gaps in thestreets and shops around the station - nothing likeLondon or the south coast.

She walked out and down the street she hadknown since childhood. It seemed unnaturally quiet,

and the silence frightened her. It was like a ghosttown. She shivered and quickened her step. Youheard such terrible stories - always only rumours. Thefamiliar streets did not reassure her but instead onlyadded to her sense of dislocation. They reminded her of the time before the occupation, before so many hadgone, and in their very familiarity emphasised the new

reality. She found with memories of her childhoodcame others, more recent; the school in Lewes, her arrival in Brighton, all the lost faces. Above all, the lostfaces.

Her pace only slowed as she approached thehouse she had grown up in. As she reached a row of shops vivid in her memory, she stopped altogether.



There had been a greengrocers and a newsagents,where her mother had stopped before venturing further into town. The third shop had been the ironmongers,full of fascinating objects she had not understood butwhich had exercised the attention of her father. It hadbeen owned by a tidy, energetic little man, alwaysfriendly even to the children who would come in butnever buy anything. With a sick feeling she realisedthe shop was empty now. The sign above it remained,but across it was painted in red letters JewishUndertaking and the inside had been gutted, the frontwindow smashed. She had seen similar places inLondon and Brighton. She shivered and quickly walkedpast, the shop's front yawning at her.

It was now too dark to recognise much. She couldnot tell the colours of the bricks or the doorways. Butat number 22 the neat front garden with its flowerbedswas familiar, as was the brass doorknob she hadnever been able to reach as a child. She pulled the

heavy metal back and let it fall. She could feel her heart pounding as she waited. There was no sound of footsteps. She was about to knock again when thedoor opened.

Her mother stood there, looking at her with blankeyes. Her appearance had changed so much - theshock was terrible. She was thinner, and hunched, as

if protecting herself from a blow. Her hair was shotthrough with streaks of white or grey, and her skinseemed drier, thinner, and paler. She smiled thinly ather daughter, but the eyes had lost the sparkle theyhad once shone with.

She had aged twenty years in only five, and Renburst into uncontrollable, sobbing tears. In her



mother's arms, blind with crying, it was as if she hadgrown taller, or her mother smaller. The body in her arms seemed fragile. As she blinked tears away, thehallway of her childhood came into view.

There was another figure there, her baby brother.Only he wasn't a baby any more. The four year old shehad last seen five years ago, always laughing or crying, was now nine and had changed even morethan her mother. Silently, he came and put his armsaround her waist gently, like an old man, and shecould smell the carbolic soap in his hair.

He said hello in a quietly grave voice and her tears came again.

Ren's mother poured tea into cracked china cupsas they sat in the kitchen. The pot and cups werefamiliar to Ren. Every object had become a source of remembrance.

Her mother's hand shook as she poured the tepid

liquid. Her brother had retired to the other room,although Ren heard no sound of playing. The rain hadstarted up again. She could hear it splashing againstthe windows and into puddles in the yard at the back.The house was cold. Her mother's voice was dull andexpressionless.

"It was last month. Only a week of warning. We

got one of those letters through the post. James hadone three months ago too. I was going to mention itbut I didn't know if you'd be interested."

She did not bother to hide the implied rebuke.Ren's father had worked in a factory producing metalsheeting. With steel production diverted abroad the



factory had been closed and the workforce deported toa man.

"How is he taking it?" she asked, nodding throughto the sitting room.

"Keeps asking when daddy is coming back.There's nothing I can say to him that makes it anybetter. He knows he's gone for a long time."

Ren sipped at the tea and felt exhausted. Shedreaded the answer to her next question but feltconstrained to ask anyway.

"How were - things? Between you and him?"Her mother stirred her tea, even though there was

no sugar to put in it."They've been all right, Ren. All right."Her mother was lying and they both knew it. It was

this attitude as much as the violence itself which hadmade Ren leave. This night, she was too tired toargue. It was another world, and did not impinge uponher now. Mother and daughter sat and drank the tea,

Ren asking for news of childhood friends andaquaintances, her mother replying with direct answersbut volunteering nothing more. Soon the pauses werelonger than the words.

Her mother reached a hand out."Why don't you come back to Leeds? Live here

with me and Keith. You know he misses you terribly."

She paused. "Your father will be gone a long time."She had expected the plea, though not as quickly

as this. She avoided the beseeching eyes."I've made another life. I cannot come back.

There would be no work, no nothing. At least what I'vegot down there I've made myself."



Her mother's eyes hardened and she withdrewher hand.

"What you’ve made yourself? You said theschool's closed, didn't you? What sort of life isteaching bloody Germans? That's not a life."

Ren had asked the same question many times inher own mind. What sort of life was it, indeed? But sheknew the answer. Better than this.

Her mother was speaking again."Why do you punish me for what he did?"Ren shook her head miserably, for she had no

answer. After a while, the mood passing, her mother suggested a game of cards, but Ren refused. Thememory of games over the fire when she was younger,waiting for her father to return, was too prevalent.There was no wireless to listen to, for wirelesses wereillegal.

"Would you like a drink?"Ren was surprised. "What have you got?"

"Whisky.""’Real“?""Been saving it for a rainy day. Made sure he

didn't know about it.""The first real smile to cross her mother's face

appeared. She went to fetch the bottle.

Later, Ren sat in the kitchen alone, trying to adjustto its strange familiarity. It was so quiet she could hear a whistling in her ears. Keith was asleep. Upstairs, sheheard the sound of a tap running and the tread of her mother. She drained the whisky at a gulp, grimacing atthe burning taste, and then with a silent apologypoured out more until the glass was half full.



The memories crowded in on her.She had stayed teaching at St John's until late in

1939, but the war had come and the school had closedas children were evacuated out of harm's way. Shetried to get a position elsewhere, but those availablewould have entailed moving north and she wasreluctant to leave the life she’d made. Stephen andMichael both joined the Home Guard in the chaos of 1940. She remembered the party they had thrown tocelebrate.

Then had come the invasion, and everything hadbeen lost.

Stephen and Michael and the other men had alldisappeared. Then confirmation of defeat; Churchilland the King fleeing to Canada; a government in exilewith no prospect of return. The Germans had occupiedthe country to a line running between Glasgow andEdinburgh. The school had been turned over to theGerman army as some sort of headquarters. She had

eked out a living as best she could waiting tables inBrighton, hoping for the children to return. By thefollowing year, the Germans still had not relinquishedcontrol, and she realised why. With their policy of deporting able-bodied men, it would have beenimpossible to staff it.

She had existed, serving food and drinks in cafes

to German officers who were usually the only peopleable to afford them. She adopted the same coldneutrality towards them as most others. It was easywith the arrogant ones but became exhausting with themany who were polite, even embarrassed, by theunequal relationship. She had seen the looks the girlsgot walking hand in hand with German officers on the



promenade. At first disgust and hatred, then resignedacceptance, and then no looks at all.

After a year, she steeled herself to reply to anadvert in the newspaper asking for English teachersfor army officers. She persuaded herself it was nodifferent from serving them food. She would not beseen out with one, wearing nylons and a cheapsummer dress, but she would teach them her mother tongue. In the better moments she could convinceherself it was a cultural victory of some sort.

She tried not to think of the evening in Brighton solong ago, when she and Finlay had sat together intortured silence, and what she had so much wanted tohappen had not. After so long, the images were nowblurred and imprecise; when she tried to recall theevents of that evening she found them only partiallyrecoverable in her mind. She had cried when shefound this was so.

She hadn’t understood his actions, then or now.

The obvious conclusion - he had rejected her, shedidn’t believe, without quite knowing why. But he’dgone, and the hope that she had carried that night haddied with his going. Perhaps he’d been scared, andshe had done nothing to reassure him. If only shecould have had the evening again, all might have beenso very different.

He had written the following year to Stephen tosay he had joined the army. Stephen had shown her the letter, asking how everyone was, but her name hadappeared only in a list of others. After that there hadbeen nothing. She had thought many times of seekinghis address and writing herself. But she could not thinkof what to say. And then it had been too late.



She tried to dispel the hope they would meetagain. The hope was a long time dying, and her lifebecame thin and automatic, ruled by habit but notdesire. She survived.

The Germans were at first savage, then therepression had become more systematic, moreformalised. They had taken more casualties thanexpected; isolated units surrendering to them wereshot out of hand. But with organised resistance - andthe reprisals for it - confined to Scotland, and an all-engaging war in Russia, the Germans had come toregard postings in southern England as leave from theeastern front. Ren had heard them talk of the east asthey sat in the cafe, with awe and fear. Like the officer on the train had said, that was where they believed thewar would be won and lost.

As occupation went on, the horror behind thestudied correctness grew; Jewish shops smashed andowners taken away, mass deportations, beggars

starving in the streets, chronic shortages. Andeverywhere a bitter resentment combined with alethargy to everything and everyone. People looked atthe evidence of defeat and an alien presence aroundthem and turned their faces away in distaste.

Two days later Ren returned to Brighton.

There was little to say between her and her mother - they had changed beyond recognition. Theoccupation and the years had left not even the core of each woman intact. Ren enjoyed playing with Keith,but found he was not the bright, inquiring boy she hadknown. The light in his eyes flashed only occasionally.He seemed to have erected a wall since his father's



departure, and after five years she had lost thefamiliarity with him to break it down.

It broke her heart.As she wondered the streets of her childhood, the

sense of dislocation and loss grew to become an ache,worse than anything before. In the end she was glad togo, but she made the long journey home with a heavyheart.

Back in Brighton, Jean had cooked supper for thetwo of them. The rooms they had moved into four longyears before had been lucky. The station had beenbombed by the Germans during the landings, todisrupt the defenders, and some nearby houses weredestroyed. But their rooms had been spared.

The food was typical. A thin soup with hard, stalebread to go with it. Nothing else. The Germansensured the only thing not in short supply was alcohol,which was available in quantities and at prices notmuch different to before the war.

"How was it?" Jean asked as she dropped her bagin the hallway.

Ren saw in her friend a reflection of herself. Jeanhad grown thin and pinched and hardened by theoccupation. Her parents, who had lived near a largerailway junction in south London, had been killed by abomb meant for the station. Their house had been

flattened. She refused to have any dealings with theGermans on any level at all. She had bitterly resentedRen's decision to take up tutoring officers, but had toadmit without the money their lives would have beenimpossible. Ren sipped at the soup and tried to dispelits taste with a gulp of whisky and water. The bottle'slabel described it as Scotch, although it was made at a



German-run factory in Croydon at which Jean worked12-hour shifts. A bus collected workers from Brightonat a central depot every morning at 5am.

Ren told Jean of her trip, and the indiscreet officer on the train. Jean stared.

"They're getting frightened of what will happen if they lose, what everyone will do to them. But theywon't lose, unless the Americans join in like last timeand that's not going to happen. How's your mother?Coping all right?"

Jean knew the history of Ren's family and wasembarrassed by the question.

"Well, she has the job in the laundry and I cansend her money." Ren reached for the whisky again.

"I'm sorry. But the soup is foul."She put her spoon down apologeticaly. The bowl

was still half full. Jean laughed."I know. They said the rain has hit the vegetable

crops again and there’s nothing around. The Germans

take all the best stuff. It will get a lot worse before itgets better. I would have yours but I can’t finish mine.Pass the whisky."

Ren sipped at her drink and let tiredness washover her.

"What I could really do with is a bath. Is therewater?"

The building's hot water barely functioned evenwhen there was adequate fuel in its ancient boiler,which was rare.

"You're in luck. We've had hot water since youleft. Grab it while you can."



In their tiny bathroom, Ren stared in wonder at thetap. Steam rose to form a fog in the damp, clammyroom. The water only stopped when the bath was half full.

She looked at her naked reflection in the mirror.Like Jean, the past two years had thinned her.

Her cheeks were hollower, while there were darkshadows below her eyes. Her body was thinner too.Where before she had run almost to fat, now she wasslight. Her breasts had once been heavy, but now theywere small. She smiled sadly. James had been thelast to see them, and that had been long ago.

Trying not to gasp at the heat, she eased into thescalding water. The drowsy feeling intensified. Thethoughts in front of the mirror would not leave her. Sheremembered James with his manic scramblings withaffection and regret. He had been inexperienced andthere were few occasions when someone had notbeen around. She was filled with regret there had been

no-one since. It would have been so nice. She thoughtof Finlay, and this time did not immediately banish theimage as she had learned to do so well. What would ithave been like? He had been a melancholy man, butthere had been a passion behind it which had filled her with longing.

She ran her hands over her stomach. Flatter than

it had ever been, and no-one to see it, she thought.She remembered the German on the train, and with astart realised he was about the only man of her ageshe had seen in months. It did not bear thinking about.She could not stop herself wondering what it would belike to have stood in front of him as she had the mirror,naked, with his eyes on her. The thought made her



feel ashamed. She wasn’t one of the whores, fuckingthem to get chocolate or nylons. To banish thethought, she deliberately pictured Finlay again. Shehad developed a technique for remembering his face.If she emptied her mind, and rememberedcircumstances when they might have been together,she could bring it to her. If she tried without thetechnique, the image would melt away. It worked againnow. She fingered the pendant Finlay had given her,which lay around her neck, and was still her mostprized possession.

She could feel the longing.Her fingers spread down from her stomach.

Waves of guilt and shame washed over her as her fingers moved, but it only intensified the yearning. Sherested her head against the edge of the bath. The faceshe had not seen for years was clearer than ever. Shewas filled with sadness. He would have been kind andstrong, she felt sure, though she would never know

now. Over and over again her fingers moved, untilwith a shudder she felt the climax arrive with a rush of pleasure and unfulfilled longing.

She opened her eyes and cried.

The next morning she woke early and realised,without surprise, she was already miserable at the

prospect of the day ahead. She lay in bed and lookedat the cracked ceiling above her. It would have beennice to paint it, she thought idly, but paint was notavailable and they couldn’t have afforded it anyway.Jean had already left without waking her. The roomswere freezing and she found the prospect of deserting



the warm blankets unbearable. She could see thecloud of her breath as she exhaled.

Eventually, she threw back the blankets and gotup.

She dressed hurriedly, in a plain grey skirt andblue jumper, and made a cup of tea, spooning in half ateaspoon of powdered milk from a jar she had madelast a month. She wished Jean was here now, thesilence was oppressive. The February clouds hadtemporarily removed themselves. She looked into acold blue sky. The patch of green outside the windowwas covered in a hoary frost the sun was trying todispel.

On the way to work, she felt her spirits lift slightly.The cafe where she worked was in the area of narrowlanes and shops near the seafront. Most had sold jewellery and luxuries before the war; after nearly twoyears of occupation they now concentrated on secondor third-hand clothing and furniture. Others had closed.

She remembered the area as a busy bustling placewhen she had first come to Brighton. Now it wasquieter, although German soldiers often came to buysouvenirs to take on leave.

The cafe stood opposite where an old music hallhad once stood. During the invasion it had been usedto house troops defending the area and been

destroyed by a bomb. The soldiers inside had beenkilled. Brighton authorities had asked permission toclear the site and erect a small memorial, but hadbeen refused. Instead the ruins remained as theywere, shored up to prevent a final collapse of theremaining walls, an unacknowledged salute to thosewho had died. Flowers were often laid on the ground



there in the early hours of the morning. Germanmilitary police would remove them as litter, only for afresh batch to arrive the following morning. Ren hadlong ceased to wonder why the Germans botheredwith a cat and mouse game they could never win. Itwas an example of their stubborness.

The cafe was owned by a huge couple. JosephHartman and his wife Isobel continued to run theestablishment despite both being in their sixties. Renhad viewed the unshaven figure of Hartman withsuspicion when she first applied for work, wondering if there was some other agenda on his mind, but he hadturned into a kindly employer. He took a fatherlyinterest in her affairs and had given money in the pastwhen she and Jean had been desperate. The couplewere childless and viewed her as a surrogatedaughter. In her more reflexive moments she realisedshe viewed them as surrogate parents.

The relationship was restricted not by her, but by

the couple themselves. They were self-contained andreliant on each other, without the bitterness andrancour many older couples had after a lifetimetogether. It was not simply the relationship betweenthem. They displayed a taciturn reluctance to talkabout themselves and their past, to an extent whichdisconcerted Ren but which she had been forced to

accept. Isobel was a Londoner, she knew. Hartmanhad fought for the Germans during the last war, beencaptured and brought to England, where he hadstayed and married. This much she knew, though onlythrough snippets revealed in the couple'sconversations. If she asked a direct question, it wasanswered with a vague generalisation, or not at all.



After a while, she grew to feel that she was being rudeeven to ask. With Hartman, a German in a countryoccupied by the Germans, she did not ask his opinionof the war, and had little idea of where his sympathieslay. It was not discussed. Only once, when she hadhad to serve a particularly boisterous crowd of officerson leave, had they discussed the war.

"It’s all a bad business," Hartman had said quietly,shaking his bald head. His hand had come up andswept from side to side, and he had looked at Ren."No good can come of them coming here."

"Them?" she had asked despite herself."Yes, them. I was Austrian, not German. Now I

am an Englishman. They have made war on me asthey have made war on you."

He had forestalled further conversation byshuffling off into the back room behind the counter.

That morning she found Hartman in his usual

attitude, sitting at one of the tables with a cup of blackcoffee, staring into the street, waiting for the dayahead. From the kitchen, she could hear the sounds of Isobel washing up. Hartman greeted her warmly.

"How was your trip? I was worried you wouldn’tcome back to be with us."

He had a formal way of speaking as a result of his

first language. His eyes twinkled. Isobel came out fromthe kitchen. As stout as her husband, she exuded awarmth that had not left her in the years since she hadmoved to the coast. Sharp, boot-black eyes (alwaysreminding Ren of a rat) stared from an oval face.When not working she would fold her arms across amassive bosom, her jet black hair pulled back in a



knot. Sometimes she looked more foreign than her husband.

"How is our Ren?" she asked, arms folded now."How’s your poor mum?"

"All right.""Well I hope she realises what work she’s put us

through, taking you away like that. It's been busy here.No end to it."

Ren did not feel inclined to talk, although she wasgrateful for the feeling of normality. She pulled off her coat and headed for the back room where the apronswere hung up.

"Why so busy?""Only Germans. A load more on leave, waiting to

be shipped over. At least they have money now."Isobel, sensing Ren's mood, went back to her

dishes and Hartman continued to stare out at thestreet outside. The cafe bore the continental imprint of his background, more French than Austrian. The

tables were covered in bright red and whitetableclothes, and on the walls hung cheap prints of scenes from his native country. Ren busied herself setting out tables for the lunchtime trade. She foundthe routine comforting. She did not have to think.Isobel and her husband had switched to their favouritetopic, the price of vegetables as the shortages bit.

Even those buying from wholesalers, like Hartman, feltthe pinch. If he paid more for his ingredients, he had tohave permission to put up prices, controlled by theoccupation authorities. Hartman said he could not seethe point of Germany fighting Russia - the two seemedto be much the same in wanting to control everybloody thing.



He looked at Ren, cleaning tables."It means we cannot take anyone on to help, Ren.

I'm sorry. I know I said I would but it is just not possibleat the moment."

Ren shrugged. At least her job in the cafe seemedsafe. That was the most important thing right now.

The lunch-time session was busier than usual,and she was given no time to think. The cafe servedsimple English food when the ingredients wereavailable, and more bizarre concoctions when theywere not. It was lucky. While German officers formedmost of the clientele, the cafe had not becomeexclusively their preserve. Hartman assiduouslycultivated his non-German customers, despite their lack of money. A cafe on the seafront, owned by aBritish fascist which had turned itself over exclusivelyto German food, had been firebombed the monthbefore. The owner had died in the fire.

The lunchtime officers were in high spirits, with

money to spend and the knowledge they were goinghome. A table in one corner had been taken by threeEnglish men who sat waiting quietly. Ren was gladthere was at least one table where there were not theusual remarks, delivered under the breath, she knewreferred to her. The men were structural engineers,down from London to advise on the rebuilding of the

station area. They were the lucky ones. They escapeddeportation because their professional skills wereneeded here. They ordered their food quietly and didnot look up from their table. Most of the Germanofficers in the cafe ignored them. After she had takentheir order, she noticed out of the corner of her eyethat one German had not. He looked more senior than



the others, and had a table to his own. The menaround him were quieter.

She tried not to look as he got up and approachedthe three engineers. She turned to see him saysomething to the men, although his back was towardsher and she could not see his face. After the officer had spoken, the men reached into pockets. Obviouslythey were being asked for documents.

The soldiers in the room ignored the scene beforethem - it was an everyday occurence. The looks on thefaces of the Englishmen turned from fear to sullenresentment. When she returned to their table with their drinks, the conversation had ceased. The Germanofficer had resumed his seat.

The men ate in silence and left hurriedly.Towards the end of the lunchtime rush, there was

only one table left occupied. It contained five officers,all now the worse for drink. Many of the Germans haddeveloped a taste for cider, without appreciating its

alcoholic properties. Ren noticed that all wereoverweight and red in the face. She watched one of the men laugh loudly at the remark of the man next tohim and clap him on the back. The man's faceglistened with sweat, although it was not hot in thecafe. There were folds of pink fat bulging over the neckof his tunic even though the top button was undone.

She shuddered. This was the worst part of losing thewar. To look at a face like that and know it held your life in its hands.

Hartman had appeared soundlessly from thekitchen to stand by her side. As they looked, theGerman who had slapped his comrade now withdrewhis hand, knocking an empty bottle to the floor where it



shattered. The others laughed loudly. Ren was aboutto fetch the dustpan and brush from the kitchen whenshe felt a pressure on her arm. Hartman himself wentto clear up the mess. She knew he would notanatagonise the Germans, knew also that he’ddeliberately spared her the humiliation of clearing uptheir mess. She did not want to see him having to dowhat he had spared her, so she went into the kitchen.When she came back, the Germans had quietenedand were preparing to go. They wished Hartman arespectful goodbye.

Ren was dumbfounded."How did you get them to leave so quietly, and so

soon?""I told them it was time to leave as we wanted to

close. I said we had to prepare for a senior officer'sparty tonight. It helps if you tell them in German. Theywon't be back to check - they'll be sleeping it off allevening."

He winked at her and bustled off into the back of the cafe.

After work, Ren walked down to the seafront.Her route home rarely varied. She would walk

along the beach, then cut up Montpellier Street and upthe hill. She had three hours before the evening

session began.Outside was bitterly cold. It was no longer raining,

but the wind was so hard she could feel particles of water, picked off the tops of the waves and flung intoher face. Usually the sea and the waves - some qualitywithin them - calmed her. But today she felt her hearthammering in her chest. She felt light-headed.



Only a few hardy walkers braved the harshconditions past the faded and smashed facades of thefront. She passed a row of boats on the beach, unusedand rotting from neglect. You needed some form of permit to sail them now, and the Germans did not givethem out with the quite believable excuse the seaswere still dangerous with mines. Two boys had beenblown to smithereens recently, although there wererumours they had been hit by a patrol boat. Therewere always rumours... As she walked, she heard thefamiliar sound of ropes hitting masts still upright onsome of the boats. She could remember the noisefrom before the invasion. It carried a form of musicwithin it. She walked past the smashed remains of anoverturned tram, still lying in mute protest beside theroad.

She thought how much she had changed in theintervening years. The peace and the equilibrium shehad found in Brighton years before had gone. There

had been a time when she might have been happy toremonstrate with a crowd of unruly but probably good-natured drunken men, as the Germans had been inthe cafe. She found more and more things that mightnot have worried her before now left her with athudding heart and an unbearable, low sense of dread.The very familiarity of things from the past - the masts

on the beach - seemed only to emphasise thealienation she now found. She wanted to know whenthe invasion would end, the Germans go home, andwhen would those who had gone return? But therewas no-one to ask and no answer for anyone toprovide. She thought of the old man on the train. Whathad he said? With method , one could survive anything,





other for a few seconds, Ren feeling first sympathy,then anger. She could feel herself colouring. Sheapologised again and pushed past the woman, walkingon up the hill. She tried to concentrate on not lookingback until she got to the top of the hill.

When her resolve broke, the woman had gone.

The following evening Ren gave English languagetuition to a German officer. The class was in the former police headquarters on the other side of town, whichnow housed the occupation authorities.

She usually got to see Jean for a few minutesbefore she had to leave. That evening, for once, her friend returned laughing and cheerful. The Croydonfactory was staffed exclusively by women andmanaged by a handful of Germans. To combat theftand sabotage, there was also a detachment of soldiers. Workers and guards were not supposed tomix, and the language barrier usually ensured they

didn’t. But some of the younger soldiers, bored, hadbegun to learn English and talk to the women. Renhad rarely seen Jean so animated.

"It was one of the guard's birthdays. This little onecalled Joachim or something. He's tiny - doesn't evenfit his uniform," Jean laughed.

"What happened?"

"He told us it was his birthday, so we got a bottlefor him. Can't be 18 if he's a day. He takes the bottleoff. We don't see him. He must have foundsomewhere to hide, because when he shows up againhe's roaring. Gone. Rifle dragging along the groundbehind him and he's laughing so much he pees hispants. And he's lost his helmet somewhere. We



dumped him in the storeroom - by that time he wasunconcious. God knows what they’ll do to him whenthey find him - shoot him probably. We were alllaughing at him. Sometimes they're almost human."

Ren smiled."You know that old woman around here?" she

found herself asking. "The mad one with the jumperson and the scarf on her head?"

"What about her?""Nothing. Wondered how she survives in this

weather. Where does she sleep?""The shelter in Preston Park. It's run by the

Church. That's where most of them go. Why do youwonder?"

"I was just interested."Ren poured hot water into two cups for tea. Even

inside, it was cold."Anyway," Jean went on. "Don't get depressed.

There's a party at the weekend for one of the girls who

lives in Brighton. Her fortieth. She's got hold of a loadof jazz records. Now all we need is a gramaphone.Mavis says she knows where to get one."

Ren smiled. Mavis was a friend of Jean's, whosaid the deportation order on her husband was thebest thing that ever happened to her. He had been oneof the first to go.

"How was work?" Jean asked."Same as ever. Busy. Stuffed with Germans. A lot

of them on leave so more cheerful than usual.Hartman still refusing to take anyone on. Nothingchanges."

Jean stared into her sugarless, milkless tea, her smile fading.



"No. Nothing changes."

Ren set off into town. The weekly trip had becomeroutine and habitual, but the nausea at the prospect of collaborating was difficult to look at with suchequanimity. The old police station was on EdwardStreet, off the Old Steine.

As the German headquarters for West Sussex,the lights in the building burned all night long, so it wassaid, and lorries arrived at all hours, containing God-knew-what. There were walls of sandbags against theentrance, with a turnstile manned by German sentrieswho guarded against "partisan activity". She had never heard of such activity in Brighton, apart from a fewslogans daubed on walls, but the guard never varied.

The dread had come immediately she firstdecided to take the work on offer six months before.She and Jean were barely surviving, and Jean had yetto get regular work in the factory at Croydon. Ren had

seen the ranks of local women who entered the stationevery morning to work as secretaries, typists, cleanersand telephonists. All seemed bright and cheerful,untroubled. After two weeks of eating potatoes shehad caved in. Even Jean had agreed. The Germanofficer who had taken her details had been politenessitself, even hinting he understood how difficult it must

be for proud people to work for those who had invadedtheir country.

But she did not feel proud, then or later.For the last month she had been tutoring a young

officer called Schellenburg. He was hard-working buthumourless and not very bright. She stuck to businessand discouraged informality, which seemed to suit the



pedestrian officer. She knew familiarity with him wouldonly make her feel worse. Her identity card waschecked at the front entrance and she walked throughthe long, brightly-lit corridors to the room where shetaught. The institutional feel of the building remindedher of St John's. Secretaries and typists going homepassed her in the corridors. The English in the buildingavoided eye contact with each other. The Germanswere polite, nodding, smiling and holding open doors.

The building was warm and she could feel her face glowing. It was the only truly warm place sheknew, unaffected by fuel shortages that crippledeverywhere else. She thought of the old woman thatafternoon. Would she ever know heat and comfort likethis? The room was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs at the back of the building. Plain white walls andceiling, no pictures, a table and chairs and ablackboard. Schellenburg was always the regulationfive minutes late - the only sign of character she had

yet determined in him. She wondered if it was becausehe found their positions incongruous. The Germansreferrred to the English half-jokingly as Eingeborenen -colonial natives. She wondered if Schellenburg calledher that behind her back.

She set out her books and pencils on the tableand sat down to wait.

He didn’t come. She had no watch, but haddeveloped a good sense of time passing. After theusual five minutes, she began to ponder going to lookfor him. Every time the sound of boots came along thecorridor, she convinced herself it would be him. Eachtime they faded into the distance. She knew she



should get up, but a lethargy had overtaken her whichwas impossible to shake off. She wanted to sleep.

She wondered how many others had sat in roomsin this building, in the basement probably, their mindson anything but sleep. Finally, a pair of boots stoppedoutside the door. They seemed to hesitate, then thedoor was opened.

The face that appeared was familiar, but not thatof Schellenburg. It took her a moment to realise who itwas. The officer on the train going up to Leeds. Theone who had talked of Russia and given her acigarette. The nice one. She was confused. Hadn't hesaid he was going to Scotland? She could feel her face colouring, remembering the thoughts she had hadof him and the terrible shame they had provoked.

"Good evening." He smiled at her confusion."Hello."He bowed to her. "I'm afraid your student -

Schellenburg isn't it? - will not be able to make his

class. He asked me to extend his apologies.""Oh. I thought you were in Scotland?""I was only escorting them to Scotland, to oversee

their journey and give advice, so to speak. Then Icome back to await the next consignement. I supposeI am a bit of a teacher, like you."

"What a coincidence."

"Not really. Brighton is not large, and since youwork at the headquarters... I am often in the coastaltowns, supervising arrivals and departures."

"Troops don't arrive in Brighton, surely?"He smiled, unabashed."No, they don't."



"Well, if there’s no lesson this week, I’d better begetting back."

She felt irritated. She could have done with themoney from the lesson. She gathered her books under an arm and pulled her coat from the back of the chair.The German cleared his throat nervously.

"I wondered if by any chance you wouldaccompany me into Brighton for a drink? Since there’sno lesson, I thought you might have the next half-hour free? I would be very grateful."

Once again she was thrown by his politeness. Her mind raced for excuses she could give, but nonewould come. She hesitated only for a second, but theGerman missed nothing.

"I realise it would be ... difficult. But how muchharm can one drink do?"

She hesitated again. She remembered the lookspeople used to give, still did sometimes, a mixture of sadness and disgust. She had given a few herself. If

she did this, it would break an iron rule, despite all theoffers in the cafe. His English was so good, if he wouldonly have worn civilian clothes, nobody would haveknown. She was thinking this way because she wantedto say yes. And that made her more confused. TheGerman took her hesitation as imminent victory.

"We could go to a public house, a quiet place near

here."Public house was the first indication English was

not his first language. "I'll try not to have anyone shotwhile we’re there."

She laughed despite herself. "I don't even knowyour name."

He beamed.



"That is easily remedied. I am Henrik Linz. Ibelieve that’s Henry in English."

They set off and, she had to admit, it wasn’t that difficult.

She was grateful they were going nowhere near where she lived and were unlikely to meet anyone sheknew. Linz offered her his arm, but seemed tounderstand when she didn’t take it. It was getting darkand the streets were almost empty. She noticed theGerman walked with a limp. She supposed it was awar wound, but she did not want to encourage theintimacy of asking. Again, he missed nothing.

"Forgive me if we don't walk too fast. I don't havea very good leg and it's difficult to keep up. You canrun away quite easily."

He smiled. She had felt disgusted with herself thesecond they left the station. But he made it impossibleto stay like that. His manner made it almost easy toforget all those she felt she was being disloyal to. She

tried to think of other things."How did you hurt your leg?""In Russia.""Did you get shot?""Not quite." He said nothing more, as if reluctant

to provide further details. She remembered thebitterness on his face when he had mentioned Russia

on the train. The smile had left his face, althougheventually he spoke again.

"I got frostbite. Near Moscow. I shouldn’t really tellyou where but it probably does not matter. Theyevacuated me out. It's cold in Russia. Cold like youcould not imagine. Now I'm short of toes on one foot."He smiled ruefully.



"What's frostbite?""If your toes and fingers get too cold, really cold,

they freeze and die. The blood inside freezes. The bitthat dies has to be amputated. We are losing tens of thousands of men with it, although I certainly shouldnot say that."

"Does it hurt?""It did at the time, but not now. Not any more."They walked on in silence, choosing a pub on St

James Street, only a few hundred yards from whereshe had once lived. It was dark and mercifully quiet,with only the landlord and two middle-aged ladies inthe public bar. Ren immediately chose the salooninstead, which was deserted, but she found her self-conciousness had returned with the eyes of othersupon them. She remembered coming into this verypub with Jean, years before. Linz showed her to achair and asked what she would like to drink. Sheasked for whisky and water. She was relieved they

were not in the eyeline of the two women in the other bar, and the barman served Linz with indifference. Shelooked around. It had changed little from what sheremembered. The same sofas and prints on the walls,the same copper pans and low beams above her head. Of course the pub was empty now, and sheremembered when they had to fight to get into the

place. She and Jean had sat, laughing, at the bar,trying not to return the looks of the spivs down fromLondon and on the look-out. The place seemed tohave shrunk in some way.

Linz came back and sat opposite her. She feltashamed, tense, and tongue-tied. He was the first manshe had “mixed” with since the invasion. The men she



had known had gone. Their faces were flooding backnow, bringing only misery. She could feel the tearscoming back again. She tried to stop them.

"What are you thinking?" Linz asked. He sippedhis beer quietly. She had the feeling he knew exactlywhat was in her mind. She felt naked in front of him.

"I feel ashamed of myself. Sitting here drinkingwith you. After all that's happened."

Linz said nothing, but lowered his eyes to thefloor.

"I don't mean you personally," she went on. "It's just difficult. To be here, with you, sitting drinking in apub. As if it were the most normal thing."

Linz nodded."I know. Nothing is normal anymore. Not for you

or for me. Not for any of us.""Where did you learn such good English? You

should be teaching it, not me."Linz stared at one of the prints on the wall.

"My mother was English - from Bristol, actually.She moved to Germany before the first war. Then shetaught me as a child. I think it always remained her favourite language. She always said she hatedGerman - too harsh and ugly."

"They are still alive?""My father died in the war, the first one. He was

one of the last killed. My mother died shortlyafterwards. After he had gone there was nothing leftfor her. She felt marooned. I do not think she felt shecould come back here after marrying a German. Yetthere was nothing for her in Germany - she had nofriends."

"I'm sorry."



"She died of influenza, on the surface at least. ButI think she died because she wanted to. People dothat. The physical cause is only secondary. At leastsome of the time."

He took a gulp of his drink and looked at her."She was a bit like you. She felt she had betrayed

people, when all she had really done was be a humanbeing, involved with another."

"You don't think she was right to think that?""Was she right?" He shrugged. "I don't know.

Perhaps she was. A country is only ever the product of what its people think it is."

Ren sipped at her drink. She remembered another night when a man like this, quiet and gentle, had saidthe same thing, and told her of his father's lossdestroying his mother. Finlay had looked like Linz didnow. Tired and old beyond his years. She swallowed.Linz asked if she wanted another drink. For a momentshe was tempted to say no, but something stopped

her. He looked surprised and went off to the bar smiling. She was left with a growing disquiet. I’ve beensafe for two years, she thought, letting nothing touchme. Don't spoil it now. She would have this drink andleave.

When he returned they discussed English pubsand their equivalents in Germany. The conversation

was easy and inconsequential. It allowed her mind towonder on to what had been said before. Did shereally feel she was betraying something, or someone,by talking to him now? Or was she merely frightened of what others might think? Inadvertently her eyes wentto the door of the bar. She dreaded anyone comingthrough it.



His eyes followed hers and he knew."I’ll tell you something, Ren." It was the first time

he had used her first name. "When I was in Russia Isaw things. Terrible things we did to the people there.Things I could not believe my countrymen - my friends- were capable of. That’s why I got the frostbite. I tookmy boots off one night, drank a bottle of schnapps,and left my feet in the snow, all night. I watched thetoes rot and die in front of my eyes. Just to get out of there, because I wanted no part of it. It was only juststarting then, and people didn't realise. Now you wouldbe shot for a self-inflicted wound." He paused. "Icannot defend what’s happened in England, because Ihave seen worse elsewhere."

"But why can't it be stopped?" Even as she askedthe question she realised how stupid it was.

"It will be, eventually." He spoke to her eagerly."The Russians will win, and their revenge will beterrible, and we will have deserved every bit of it.

Sometimes it is not just nature that has to take itscourse. Mankind as well. We will only realise we werewrong when we are defeated. That is the nature of war, and of Germany."

"And you will carry on regardless?""I am like you. Even if there is nothing wrong with

doing so, I cannot betray my country. Not again, after

Russia. Humans don’t like to be alone."He looked at her suddenly."It’s true, is it not? None of us like to be alone.

That's why you fear being here with me. In case itostracises you from your own people."

"You get used to it," she said. "You took so manyaway."



"Do you know someone who was killed or deported?"

"I know many people." She regretted the turn theconversation had taken.

"Someone special?"She shivered. It was past the time to leave."I knew someone once, years ago. I liked him. I

don't know if he liked me. I never found out. Then he joined the army and that was the last I heard. Youcame and I never saw him again."

The conversation was over for good. It hadreached the unbridgeable divide between them. It wastime to go. She drained her glass and set it down onthe table. "I really must be getting back."

The door of the pub opened and an elderly coupleentered. As she looked at them, they caught her eyebriefly, their expressions neither condemnatory nor welcoming. Just blank, like everyone else's. Her heart,which had begun to thump in her chest, slowed. Linz

left his beer undrunk as he stood up with her."Would you allow me to escort you home? There

are a lot of soldiers around preparing for leave and inhigh spirits. If you understand."

She understood only too well."I'll be fine. They'll still be in the pubs and on the

seafront."

"Are you sure?""Quite sure, thank you."Why did she feel she was being ... well, stuffy

about it? Perhaps it was the look on his face. Thesmile was back, but sad and rueful, no longer happy.They gathered their coats up and left. The landlord didnot say goodbye. The street was deathly quiet, even



though curfew would not begin for another two hours.Her breath made clouds of white in the dim light. Sherather wished Linz would offer one of his cigarettes,but he did not appear to be smoking this night.

He stared at her."Could I at least walk you to the end of the road? I

have to go back to the station tonight anyway."His voice was gentle, requesting, totally un-

German. They walked to the end of the road, thenturned right to the police station. They stoppedoutside, by the sandbags. The lights were blazingaway as always.

"Are you quite sure?" he asked again."Quite sure." She looked up at the lights. "Don't

you people ever sleep?"He laughed."No, we never sleep. Very industrious, the

Germans."She did not return his laughter.

"Good night, Ren," he said, holding out a hand.When she gave him hers, he kissed it in a gesture shefound absurdly formal.

"I would be grateful if we could repeat this eveningsometime. It has been very nice."

She nodded."Goodnight."

She pulled her hand away and walked off. Whenshe looked back, Linz was standing where she had lefthim. He waved at her. She had to stop herself wavingback.

She walked back through the dark and emptystreets, hugging her coat around her in a gesture that



had become automatic. She walked away from thesea, past the monument to the dead of the first war,beside which a German soldier stood sentry. Whenshe got to the top of the Steine, she cut through to theroad Finlay had lived on, and on which she had stayedbriefly herself, a lifetime ago. She had walked past thehouse many times since then, although the windowswere always dark and unlit, and there was never anysign of Mrs Brockenbury, the landlady. The house wasunlit tonight, as usual. Ahead she could see a crowd of men spilling out on to Preston Circus from the pub onthe corner.

She felt herself tense. They wore black uniforms,but she was too far away to tell whether they wereGerman SS or one of the English groups. To join oneof the fascist movements made an application to avoiddeportation more likely to succeed, though mostmembers seemed to join out of conviction anyway.She shuddered. SS in the south were a rarity - these

were more likely to be blackshirts. She crossed theroad as unobtrusively as possible, then heaved a sighof relief. Most of the men seemed to be going backinto the pub. She could hear laughter inside over thesound of a piano playing. She passed Preston Circusand went on up the hill.

In the darkness under the viaduct there was

movement in the shadows. She quickened her pace.Her heart started to thump.

"Hello."The voice was English, little trace of any accent,

although it did not sound pleasant. She pretended notto hear and hurried on. She heard the sound of bootsbehind her and then the voice again.



"’I say. Hello there."The voice was drunk and already belligerent. She

could no longer ignore it. She turned to stare into thedarkness under the bridge, looking slightly away to seebetter. At first there was nothing, then a dark figureappeared.

The man was huge, with a puffy face and a darkuniform. She could smell the beer as he came closer.He was probably from the group in the pub, shethought, up here to be sick or urinate. Her heart washammering now. These people were the worst, inmany ways. Worse than the Germans.

"What are you doing here at this time of night?"The words were slurred and the man staggered

as he said them. He seemed so drunk he probablywould not be able to run even if had wanted to, shethought. She turned around and began walking awayup the hill.Immediately she felt a hand on her shoulder.Her reaction was instinctual. She shrugged the hand

off and backed away, turning to face the man again."Get off me, you pig."Her voice was too high, more frightened than

angry. The tension of the evening added to fear. Shecould tell the drunk had noticed as well. His face brokeinto a leer.

"No need to be so unfriendly, fraulein." The

blackshirts were always using German words, apeingtheir masters to an extent even the Germans foundembarrassing. "I was only trying to say hello."

As he came out of the shadows towards her, shecould see his eyes clearly now. He stopped in front of her, towering over her by at least a foot. She debatedwhether to run. Part of her wanted to hit the man, but



she was frightened of enraging him. She could feelanger and frustration bubbling up inside her. He wasstanding so close now, she could smell the sweat,even in the freezing night air.

"Why don't you come and have a drink with meand my comrades and stop being so miserable, eh?"

He grabbed her arm as he spoke. She tried to pullaway again, but this time he was expecting it and hisgrip was firmer.

"Let me go. I want to go home." She was appalledat how pathetic she sounded.

"Well then I'll accompany you home, my dear."The man's gaze seemed fixed upon her. He was

no longer slurring his words and seemed less drunknow, and there was a gleam in his eyes that frightenedher even more. She pulled away again, but his griponly tightened.

"You are hurting me.""Well, why are you being so snotty, then?" Anger

twisted the bloated face. The gleam in his eyebrightened and was nothing to do with drink, and shewas terrified. She could think of nothing to say thatwould not enrage him further, or humiliate herself. For a second, the two of them stood there, face to face, hishand still gripping her tightly. Time seemed to havestopped.

Then, from the silence behind them, there was asharp, distinct click, like a door latch being thrown.

Immediately, the drunk's grip on her loosened.When she looked up into his face, she saw that hewas transfixed by something over her shoulder. Thegleam in his eyes had died and now they sparkled withfear. She turned around and Linz was barely 10 feet



away. He had come so silently under the shadows of the viaduct neither of them had had any idea he wasthere. Now he stood watching the drunk intently,saying nothing. Ren could just make out his uniformand the blank expression on his face. So could thedrunken blackshirt. He could also make out the gleamcoming from within the right hand that hung looselydown by Linz's side. The assailant released his gripand backed away. His voice, speaking now to the darkfigure in the shadows, was hesitant and frightened.

"Look, I'm sorry. Just being friendly. I didn't meananything by it."

As he was speaking, he was backing away fromLinz, down the hill. He backed further, then turned andstumbled off in the direction of the pub, his bootscrashing on the stones of the pavement. Ren watchedhis departing figure, then became aware Linz waslooking only at her and ignoring the stumbling figure.His face was still without expression. He holstered his

pistol. She had not even noticed him wearing it earlier in the evening, although all officers had them. Helooked back at Ren. He nodded at her curtly, astranger, then turned and walked off down the hill, assilently as he had come. Within seconds he haddisappeared.

Ren stared after him until he was out of sight, then

turned to walk on up the hill towards home.

Lying under the threadbare blankets in her bedroom, she found it impossible to sleep.

In some profound manner, Linz had disturbed her.She realised what it was, of course. She had never intwo years allowed herself to be approached by a



German, and in that was a certain pride. A recognitionof all that she and others had lost.

She felt that something inside her, something shehad nurtured and cherished, had broken. She haddishonoured all those who had gone. She could hear their silence.

She slept fitfully, waking several times.Towards morning she could not trick herself back

into sleep, and a glow from the window suggesteddawn was about to break. Usually Jean had alreadygone off to work by the time she awoke, but thismorning she could hear quiet footfalls as her friend gotready for the day ahead. She threw the bedclothesback. Even with preparation, and the thick jumper shewore, the shock was terrific. Her feet on the barefloorboards felt numb. She quickly threw another jumper on, with socks and a skirt.

Jean was surprised to see her up. It was not yetfive o'clock.

"Want some tea? You were late back.""Yes." She was ashamed to admit what had

happened. Especially to Jean."Everything all right?" Jean poured water from the

kettle into a pot on the table."I went out for a drink. I was taken out, actually.

By a German."

She scoured Jean's face for a reaction. The lookthat came was merely quizzical, a slight arching of theeyebrows.

"So you've conceded, have you? Ren thecollaborator . Just shows, everyone has their price."

"It was only a drink. I couldn't get out of it. Hedrowned me in politeness."



Jean handed her a steaming cup with asympathetic smile.

"Relax.""I thought you of all people...""Would scream at you? Jerry-Bag! I cannot be

bothered anymore. Some of them are human beings, Isuppose. That's what makes it so difficult for us, isn'tit? It's exhausting to have to carry on hating all thetime."

"But it makes you feel so disloyal.""Disloyal to what?" For the first time there was

anger in Jean's voice. "Everybody in this country ishaving to come to terms with them and deal with themin some form or another. No-one can escape it -except for the soldiers who took to the hills up northand they're probably all dead now."

She cut slices from a hunk of bread."All that stuff about fighting on the beaches and

never surrendering and what-have-you. It was all

rubbish. It was all right for Churchill - he could bugger off to Canada and get out of it. For the rest of us it'sdifferent. If he's a nice bloke I cannot see what's wrongwith it. Why crucify yourself?"

"Jean!""Well..."The passion in her voice died as she sipped her

tea. Ren said nothing. It was the exact reverse of whatJean had always previously believed.

Jean looked at her as if she had read her mind."I know. It's strange hearing this from me, of all

people, isn't it? But after a while your perceptionsabout what's right and wrong change, don't they? Or you just get tired out by it all. Anyway, I have to get to



work otherwise I don't eat. Some of us haven't gotfriends in high places. Like you. Just joking. I'll see youtonight."

She kissed Ren on the cheek, put on her coat andan old threadbare woolen scarf, and was gone.

Ren took her tea and went to stand by the frontwindow, watching the sky slowly lighten. Everything feltdifferent somehow, and she fought a rising tide of panic the feeling instilled in her heart. The words Jeanhad used kept revolving around in her mind. Your perceptions change... She was not sure she wanted tolive in a world where "perceptions" could change somuch - where so much could be forgotten.

She stood staring out of the window for a longtime.

The snows came as February drew to a close.Ren sat at the window of the front room, staring at

the flakes settling on the grass outside. The evening

before she had taught at the police station. There hadbeen no sign of Linz for three weeks, and she had feltsome element of equilibrium return.

Eventually she got up to wash and dress. Shewould be early today, but it did not matter. She wasoften early. The water was cold as usual. She brushedher teeth without toothpaste, washed her face without

soap. Both were luxuries they could seldom afford.She pulled a brush through her hair and pulled on her overcoat.

The pavement outside was already layered with athin film of snow. The crunching sound under her thinsoles made her shiver as it set her teeth on edge. Shethought of the beggars in the streets and the partisans



who were supposed to live in the open like wildanimals in the north. How did they survive in this? Inthe snow it was common now to see homeless peopledead on the street in the mornings - she had seenseveral herself. The ones who had not got shelter.They would be removed during the day. She could feelthe first gnawing of hunger in her stomach as shewalked, so she lit a cigarette. As it did every morning,the tobacco made her feel sick and light-headed. But ittook away the hunger. She walked down past thestation with its huge awnings covering the damage andthe first clankings of the early morning trains. Even atthat time, the station would be crowded with troops,the beggars who pleaded with them for food or money,and the little boys who always found soldiers sofascinating. She wondered vaguely if Linz would bethere, supervising troops being sent on leave or up tothe north. She hurried on, her eyes fixed straightahead.

Down North Street, the scene was more familiar.Shops were opening and stallholders setting up

their wares. A few delivery vans were making stops.The feeling of normality, displaced by the thought of Linz, returned. It did not last.

As she came within sight of the cafe, she couldsee from far off white marks disfiguring the glass front

of the building. The street seemed unnaturally quiet,though she was not sure if this was her imagination or not. The feeling of dread returned. She saw that one of the shop's windows had been smashed. Fracture linesin the glass spread out from one point like a fan.

Had it been a bomb? There had been partisanattacks before, though not in Brighton. A restaurant in



Nottingham had been blown up, killing everyoneinside. Or perhaps an unexploded bomb, like the onesthe Germans were having to diffuse every day. Butwhy were the other buildings intact? They would havebeen smashed as well, and this was too little damagefor a bomb of any size to have caused.

And then she could make out the white marks onthe front of the glass were letters, roughly painted, andshe understood. Below each letter, lines of white fellvertically where the paint had dripped.

Jews Get Out.Next to the words was a crude swastika. Ren

stared and began to feel sick. She stopped walking. Of course. She did not doubt the words were aimed atHartman and Isobel. Something in their manner, theway they concentrated fiercely on what they weredoing whenever the subject arose, had convinced her they were Jewish. Wasn't Hartman a Jewish nameanyway?

She realised - with horror - that her first impulsewas to run away. She forced herself to walk towardsthe cafe. She could see the front window, usuallysteamed up with the cooking inside, was still clean anddry in the places where it had not been smashed.Somehow it had stayed up instead of cascading intothe street. Bricks from the smashed theatre opposite

still lay on the pavement. It was impossible to stop her mind from racing with questions. And of course sheknew the answers to them all.

Did it really matter if the Hartman's were Jews?No. If the fascists who had done this thought so, thatwould be enough for the Germans. Hartman had madefriends with many officers who frequented the cafe,





"What do you mean your time has come?" shesaid.

For the first time he looked directly at her. Hiseyes were still dull and hooded, but deep within them alight burned now, flickering to life.

"They came this morning, just after curfew." Heindicated the window.

"They were drunk. We thought we would be fire-bombed but they settled for the paint and the bricks.Then when they’d gone the Germans arrived. Theyasked questions about what had happened. And thewords outside. You know how it is."

"What did you tell them?""What could I? They were just young idiots who

had had too much to drink? That we are not Jews.What does it matter? They will not believe us. It is onlya matter of time before they come back."

Ren fought back tears."But this cannot happen - not to you."

Hartman spoke to her bitterly."Of course it can. They are the masters. They do

as they wish. Who can stop them?"He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. The

dish was overflowing."Where's Isobel?""Upstairs, trying to sleep. She is all right. Quite

calm.""But this cannot be happening. They cannot hurt

you. What about all the soldiers who eat here? Theylike you. They will not believe what a bunch of drunkenfascists say, will they?"



Hartman shook his head patiently from side toside. It seemed to cost him an enormous effort of willto speak.

"Don't you see? The fact they know me, that theyate here, that they were served by me, will only make itworse. They will feel tainted and it will make them hateus more."

There was silence. Ren could hear the crying of aseagull. She took one of Hartman's cigarettes withoutasking and lit it. The smoke made her feel sick again.

"Maybe they won't come here. Maybe they won'tbelieve the fascists. They don't like them any morethan the rest of us do."

"The Germans will believe them. They will findout. I have family still in Austria. They can check. Andthey will find out that I am Jewish and we will be sentto the camps like all the rest."

He looked at Ren and saw that she had begun tocry. He reached for her hand across the table. She

was surprised at how dry and cool his touch was - shehad expected his hand to be warm and damp. Hesqueezed softly.

"Don't upset yourself, girl. We have known thiswould happen all along. And in your heart, you haveknown it too."

She cried. His voice combined sadness with

wisdom that brought the tears in a flood. She hadthought she had lost the ability to cry, but the tears hadbeen waiting for a time such as this. She was cryingfor herself as much as for Max and Isobel. Hartmanwas right. She had known all along, and that one daythe Germans would come for them as they had for theothers. And that life would go on. There were two



jewellers shops on Preston Street. She had bought abrooch for Jean in one of them before the war. A thinwizened man with whispy hair had sold it to her. Shehad not even thought of him being Jewish -the shophad been called Tanners. But it had closedimmediately the curfew after the invasion had beenlifted. She never saw the man again, and the shopnever reopened. Somehow the 18 months since hadconvinced her the Hartmans were immune. TheGermans were said to have rounded up Jews,soldiers, communists and other "undesirables" withinsix months. Since then the occupation had becomesomething liveable with, an abberation from normalitythat was yet sustainable. Now she realised how short-sighted she had been to think like that.

The new reality was still unthinkable.She and Hartman sat at the table for what

seemed an age, their hands still intertwined across thebright tablecloth. She noticed how clean the white

squares were in between the red ones - Isobel cleanedthem every other day.

Eventually there was a footfall on the creakingstairs at the back of the kitchen and Isobel came downand through to the front of the cafe. When she sawRen, her face creased into a look of pained sympathy,as if this was happening to Ren, not to herself. Her

long rich black hair, usually tied back so severely,hung loosely down to her shoulders. Ren thought howbeautiful she must once have been. She was dressedin a red dressing gown under which there was anightdress.

At the sight of her the tears came again.



Isobel came forward and embraced the younger woman, and Ren could smell the warmth of her. Thetwo women held each other.

"Why is this happening, Isobel?" she managed tosay, aware the question was unanswerable.

Isobel lowered her gently into a chair before sittingdown next to her.

"What is happening to us has happened to manybefore. We knew it would happen sooner or later."

She could not believe the two of them could be sofatalistic. There was no urgency to their movements. Itwas as if the bricks outside the cafe had smashed not just the glass but their will to go on - they were slowand lethargic, and seemed to be ageing before her eyes.

"Surely it’ll be all right? If we just get the windowsreplaced and the sign painted over. It could be donethis morning." she asked. "Surely it can carry on asbefore?"

Isobel's voice was a whisper."People have seen what it says outside, Ren.

They know now or at least they will suspect. Word getsround. Even if they let us carry on there will be nocustomers. And the Germans have already seen whatit says." Her voice was still quiet, but now frightenedalso. "We saw the look on their faces. We could tell

what they were thinking. They said officers wouldcome back to question us later. Us, not the peoplewho did this. Smashing the windows of a Jew is not acrime. The British hated us as Germans when the war came - we were interned for six months in 1939,remember. Now the Germans will hate us as Jews."



Ren was about to interrupt again, but Isobel puther hand up.

"What does it matter to them? You know whatthey are like about the Jews. And what does it matter to us? Without the cafe we have nothing anyway. Allour friends from before are gone now, and some of yours too. What do two more matter?"

"But some of the officers who eat here are friends,surely? They will help. They won't allow this to happen.People would listen to them."

Isobel managed to smile at that, and Ren couldnot blame her. It was a ridiculous hope.

"They can get their sandwiches elsewhere. Eventhe ones who don't agree with it would not risk taintingthemselves by trying to help us. Even the English withtheir "fair-play" pass by on the other side now."

Hartman took up his packet of cigarettes againand lit one for himself, Isobel and Ren. She had never seen Isobel smoke before. Hartman lit them with a

steady hand, then drew the smoke into his lungsfiercely, to get it in as deep as possible. His handcame across the table again to grasp Ren's. He lookedat her.

"We will have a cigarette and some tea, now, yes?Isobel - go and make some tea." Ren did not at firsthave any idea of the path his thoughts were taking. He

still looked at her intently, his eyes set."We will have tea together, Ren. Then you will go.

You must leave."The impact took a moment to register. Its horror

was all the worse because she knew, deep in her heart, that part of her wanted to leave as much as hewanted her to. She was frightened for herself as well



as for them. She tried to fight the feeling. She knew if itovertook her, it would be the final defeat, and therewould be nothing left. The self-disgust that rose in her,she knew, was the most powerful weapon their conquerers had. With it, they were invincible. Shetried, unsuccessfully, to keep the thought from her face, but she knew she would fail.

"For God's sake, Max."The tears came again, and this time they were for

herself. For the choices she was being asked to make.Hartman's voice came again, quietly, and the look inhis eyes was only of sympathy. He knew everything inher mind.

"You have to leave. You can no longer afford tobe seen here. It will do you no good. Nor, in allprobability, us."

"But I could help. I met this German officer. He iskind - he will help."

She was stumbling over her speech. She thought

of Linz. Would he help the Hartmans? Even as shethought it, she felt the dead weight of feeling inside her that told her the answer. Hartman said it anyway.

"No German will intercede for us. And you will dono good for yourself by asking one to."

He lit a cigarette straight from the stub of the oldone. Isobel appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray

with teapot and cups - the trappings of normality in aworld gone mad. She sat down beside them andpoured the liquid into the cups, without waiting for it tobrew. Her movements seemed automatic, likesleepwalking.

"Please, Max. How can you be so... resigned tothis? Let me try to help."



"No." Hartman's voice was angry, with a bitternessnow she had rarely heard. "No German will risk tryingto save the Jew." He pronounced the word as aparody, in the same spitting, clipped manner theGermans used. It made Ren shudder.

"We are resigned to it because this is our fate. Ithas always been our fate - throughout history. Whatthe Germans do is only the most recent example. Ithas happened before and it will happen again. Theysay we killed Christ, and they are doing God's work tomake us suffer. It is all they understand of the Jew.Please don't talk of it anymore, Ren. You were better never to have met us."

Hartman relapsed into silence, holding his head inhis hands. Ren stared at the top of his gleaming head,dumb with misery. She turned to Isobel, and Isobeltook her hand with a tired, sad smile. All three sat andsaid nothing more and the silence was complete.

They still sat in the same position when theGermans came.

There were no screeching truck tyres or hammerings on the door, as Ren had secretlyexpected. Instead just a quick, cursory knock on theshuttered front door of the cafe. Before Hartman or Isobel could get up, the door opened quietly. A

German officer stood framed in the dull, early morninglight, peering into the room. For a moment Ren had aninsane flash of hope it might be Linz, but this man wasdifferent. He was thick set, with heavy jowls thatsprang from the tight fastening of his tunic. His eyeswere bloodshot, and he looked as if he had had nosleep the night before. For a second she felt another



flash of hope when she saw he was dressed in grey,rather than black, but then she saw the twin flashes of the SS insignia just below where the tunic fastenedaround his neck, and the hope died.

The man came into the cafe and others followedhim in.

One was dressed in civilian clothes, with a longcoat and no hat. His thin, animal face looked aroundthe walls of the cafe with interest. Two of the other three men were soldiers. They stopped and stood toattention near the door. Both looked bored. The lastman was a British police constable, staring at the floor.

By now Hartman and Isobel were both on their feet. Ren stayed sitting. The SS man addressedHartman politely.

"Mr Hartman?"He nodded, saying nothing. Ren wanted to be

sick. Hartman did not appear to breathe but Isobel wasbreathing so heavily Ren could hear the rasps of her

lungs as her chest filled. She placed a hand on thetable in front of her, as if to steady herself. The SSman spoke again.

"Hauptsturmfuhrer Reinbek." He smiled. "I believethat’s Captain Reinbek, in English. I am informed thatyou had a disturbance this morning,?"

Hartman still said nothing, but gestured towards

the window dumbly. Reinbek followed his gaze, thenlooked back and nodded.

"Good. You and your wife will accompany me tothe police station to make a report. I have a car waiting."

Hartman nodded. Ren could feel her hearthammering in her chest. The icy politeness of the



German and Hartman's dumb submission screamed inthe confines of the small cafe. It would have beenpreferable if they had smashed their way in. At least itwould not have been this silent, icy menace.

"You are Mrs Hartman?" Reinbek had turned toIsobel.

"Yes." She licked dry lips."Then I am afraid you will come too, for the

purposes of the report." Reinbek's voice, like Isobel's,was quiet.

"We just need to collect a few things before wego," Hartman said, finding his voice. It was tired andresigned. Reinbek bowed slightly.

"Of course. Collect whatever you wish."While Isobel went up the stairs, a tortuous silence

settled over those in the cafe. Eventually Reinbekbroke it.

"I have arranged for glaziers to come and attendto the broken glass. It would be very dangerous for

children. They will take the glass away and board thewindow up for you.

"Yes, yes, of course," Hartman spoke vaguely, asif in a dream, holding fast to the delusion the officer was propagating. Ren understood the implication of the officer arranging for the glass to be boarded up -the Hartmans would not be around to do it.

Reinbek's eyes settled on her."I'm afraid I don't know who you are?" he said. His

English was halting and formal in the same way theofficers at the police station were.

"I work here."



She tried to keep her voice level, aware thecivilian, and the soldiers at the door, were looking ather.

"Were you here when the incident occurred thismorning?" Reinbek's eyes looked at her levelly. Apartfrom the tiredness, they carried no expressionwhatsoever. There was no hint of irony in them -nothing at all.

"I only come into work at nine o'clock.""You are not related to Mr and Mrs Hartman then?

May I see papers?"Ren handed over her passport and a white

registration and identification document issued by theoccupation authorities. The German studied them atlength. The identity document listed place of birth,residence, occupation, religion, national insurancenumber, past addresses, and race. It was an offenceto be without it at any time. As Reinbek studied thecard, she noticed he swayed gently from side to side.

She wondered if it was caused by drinking, but thoughtit was more likely fatigue. He was polite in a way theGermans never were when they had been drinking.Eventually he looked up with a thin smile and handedthe papers back to Ren.

"Your papers are in order, Miss Amsden. You maygo."

Ren fought down the twin tides of panic. She wasterrified of being dismissed, and terrified of staying.

"I would prefer to stay with Mr and Mrs Hartman,"she said as loudly as possible.

Hartman stared dumbly at her, his previous wordsforgotten. It was as if nothing held any interest for himany longer.



"I'm afraid the Hartmans will need to help us witha report," Reinbek said. The first signs of irritationshowed in his tone. "And I'm afraid you cannotaccompany them."

As he said the words, the man in civilian clothesstepped forward and whispered something in his ear.He smiled slightly. Ren did not hear or understand it,but Hartman did. He spoke to her urgently.

"You must go now Ren. Now. We will see youlater." She knew by the expression in his eyes, whichhad come alive again, that he was lying, and she hadto fight back the tears again. He hissed at her.

"’For God's sake, go“."The civilian spoke again, this time more loudly.

The officer at once became more animated. He lookedat Hartman and pointed to the civilian.

"You will go with this gentleman out to the car now. I will wait here for your wife and accompany her."Hartman nodded and Reinbek looked at Ren.

"Leave now, please."Ren felt overtaken by panic."But how long will it take?"Reinbek looked at her. For a second, she thought

perhaps there was a flash of something across hiseyes. Sympathy perhaps, even sadness. Then it wasgone.The shutters had come down.

"I have no idea."At a sign from the man with the civilian clothes,

one of the soldiers at the door came across the roomto stand at her side, taking her arm. She was half-escorted, half-pushed to the door of the cafe beforeshe could turn around and stop. When she turned it





She began to walk away, up the street, and sheknew as she did so that it was over.

If she stayed the Germans might take her, or her presence might make it worse for the Hartmans. Therealisation of their power was crushing. With theloneliness and the guilt, she felt her stomach turn over with despair. Nothing had been as bad as this, noteven the days after the invasion, when the shock hadtransfixed people, and they had walked the streets in adaze. At least then she had felt her predicament was ashared one, and there was a comfort in that. Now shefelt more alone than ever in her life before.

They had all gone - Finlay, Stephen, Michael, her father, now Max and Isobel too. She hugged her coataround her, but it did no good. The cold went throughher to the bone.

She found herself heading unconciously for thepolice station. Linz had helped her once. Maybe hewould again, even if it was to save a Jew. As she

articulated the thought, she clung to it greedily, eventhough she could see it was a forlorn hope. Surely justas some of her fellow countrymen applauded thecrimes against the Jews, there must be Germans whowere appalled by them? She crossed North Street,busy with the first activity of the morning. The firstshoppers were out and people were hurrying to work,

and shops were opening their doors to the day. Howcould this life go on? It seemed an offence againstorder, against creation. She walked on. Past the ruinsof the old Pavilion, destroyed in the bombing, past thememorial to the first war dead and its stony-facedsentry.



She passed an old man pulling a cart loaded withvegetables, no doubt for sale in the market at vastlyinflated prices. He shot her a warm smile and wishedher good morning, his mouth a dark cavern in theleathery skin. She did not return the greeting. Whenshe got to the police station, her feeling of panicincreased as she realised she had no idea what to do.She urged herself to think. She had no idea whereLinz was based, nor of what he did. He might be inScotland - or Germany. By tomorrow the Hartmanscould be in a camp, or on a ship heading for theContinent, to a fate she could not imagine.

She took a breath and entered the station, tryingto dispel the images already forming in her mind. Shewalked unchallenged through the doors. There wasstill the legend Police on the blue glass, though thathad long ago ceased to be the purpose of the building.Inside, there were more sentries who demanded tosee the pass that allowed her entry. There was a desk

to one side with a telephone, manned by a youngsoldier. It felt strange to be here in the morning. Butnothing was normal today. She felt the old nausea shealways felt coming here. She swallowed hard.

"I wish to see a Mr Linz, please. Henrik Linz. Ithink he's a lieutenant. I am a friend and it’s urgent."

The young man cocked his head to one side, like

a bird, and there was the beginnings of a smile on hisface. It was a reaction she was used to.

"One moment," was all he said as he reachedunder the desk. He produced a directory and began tolook through it leisurely. He cleared his throat. Renwas vaguely familiar with some of the men who hadsat at this desk. She did not know this one.



"It would help if you knew Herr Linz's office," hesaid drily, looking up at her. She racked her brainquickly.

"I don't know it, I'm sorry."The German looked back down at his book,

leafing through more pages, occasionally stopping atone before moving on again.

"May I ask what this concerns?""It's a... private matter.""I see." The smile was more pronounced now.

She tried to calm the screaming within her. She balledher hands into fists until she felt the nails cut into thepalms. Eventually the idiot at the desk looked upagain.

"I'm sorry Miss...?""Amsden.""There is no officer in the building of that name.

Have you seen him here before?""Yes. He was here recently. I teach English and

my student cancelled. Mr Linz told me. It was a fewweeks ago."

"Ah yes. You’re the English teacher. I have heardof you. I may need your services myself soon, I think."

Ren ignored him. They were always like this. Theman caught her mood at last and became morebusinesslike.

"Do you know what Herr Linz does, MissAmsden?"

"He said he often had to go to Scotland, escortingtroops up there."

"Then that is probably where he is now. He maybe there some time. A troop transport has just gone



up. I should not tell you that but you don't look like apartisan."

His manner was crushingly condescending."Is there any message I can take for him when he

gets back? Or something I can help with?"He cocked his head in the same manner as

before. It was perhaps meant to be endearing, but wasnot.

Ren felt the tension and the panic and the fear subside, a fire flickering out, to be replaced by a flat,deflated emptyness.

"No. It‘s nothing you can help with at all."She walked out, past the sentries and the

sandbags and away towards where the pier had oncestood, long ago.

She walked towards the front, passing faces thatwere closed in a quiet acceptance of a fate they hadnot wished for, but had long ago believed they had nopower to change.



1942‘

In any other life it might have been idyllic.The cottage sat beside a stream trickling towards

a loch a mile down the valley. No longer much of ahome - just three stone walls and half a roof. But itwould do. Straw left long ago for passing sheep had

rotted. There were no sheep now.It had taken Finlay longer than expected to find -

he had begun to worry he would not make it. The maphad given few clues to look for and he was unfamiliar with the territory. When he finally spotted the place, afine drizzle had been coming down for over an hour and there was little daylight left. He approached from



the steepest hill above, treading softly through theheather, and settled behind a slab of rock sticking outlike a gravestone a hundred yards away. His eyesremained fixed on the tiny dwelling, staring, except for glances to scan the skylines for movement.

After an hour of watching, with the light dying, hewas satisfied.

He gathered up his things and with a final sweepof the horizon stepped out and trotted softly down thehill. Inside, he made a quick inventory of the position.There was higher ground on all sides except to theloch. It could not be helped - sound would carry fromat least half a mile away. But no roads came withinthree miles of here. Safe enough. He arranged thestraw with the driest bits covering the sludge below,making a bed for the night. He pulled an old rottingdoor across to provide shelter from the wind where themissing wall had been.

He followed a routine ingrained in his sub-

concious. He took off his boots and socks, hanging thewet socks over the side of the door before putting theboots back on his feet. He did the same with hisundershirt - which stank worse than the straw - beforeputting his shirt, jacket and overcoat back on. Heshivered as the clothes touched his skin, but at leastthere would be a layer that was drier by morning. Now

it was nearly too dark to see, which made him feelbetter. The clouds would obscure the moon for thenight, making the valley pitch black. From his pack hetook a lump of sausage - almost rotten - and bread,which he ate with a pocket knife and water from an oldarmy water bottle carried on his belt. He was so tiredhe had barely any appetite. He saved half the bread





He pulled his stiff body out of the nest of strawand put his undershirt and socks back on. They hadhardly dried at all during the night. He grimaced athaving to dress in the clammy morning mist. When hewas ready, he gathered his belongings and set off tomarch back up the hill, through the mist, to the rock hehad sheltered behind the evening before. Then hesettled down to wait. He shivered in the cold as thedamp clothes stuck to his body. He would have liked towalk and move, just to ease his aching limbs and putsome warmth in his body, but that would not be safe.He had to wait for what seemed an age. The men hewas waiting for would have spent the night in warmbeds and proper cottages not far from here and wouldhave no reason to wake at the hour he had.

When they did eventually come, an hour and ahalf later, the mist was already beginning to clear, andhe froze as he heard the sound of boots crunchingthrough the heather. They sounded careless. As he

peered around the rock, they made no attempt toconceal themselves, or look around them, and seemedunafraid of any ambush. He watched as they walkedup to the cottage and peered through the hole wherethe missing wall should have been. They matched thephysical descriptions he had been given, but he waiteda moment longer, checking there was no signal to any

of the hilltops beginning to appear faintly through themist.

No giveaways like that. The two stood beside thecottage, looking around in the confusion he hadexpected. As satisfied as he could be, he flipped thesafety catch on his gun and stood up.





rucksack he had marched two days to collect. Insidewere individual paper-wrapped packets, 40 in all, eachthe size of half a brick. The packets were soft to thetouch and gave to the press of his fingers. On top werefuses and detonators. Other ammunition would have towait.

The two older men introduced themselves. Theydid not give last names, and the man they had met didnot offer his, merely nodding. Instead, he asked themhow far they had come.

"Brighton north of here. Moffat. A few miles away."The taller one's companion spoke in a broad

Scottish accent."Garrisoned?""God, no. Wouldn't be there if it was. The

Germans come out from Glasgow occasionally, butthey keep to themselves in the main. We don'tencourage them."

The lieutenant sat and ate in silence, staring off

into the distance, a cigarette forgotten between hisfingers. The two men found him disconcerting. Youheard rumours about these people, what they got upto. They hadn’t seen this one before. He had seemedsuspicious of them at first, and now indifferent. Theywondered at the history that was etched into the worn,tired face. The man before them was in fact barely half

their ages. His hair, cut crudely short, was alreadyspeckled with grey, although through the dirt it wasimpossible to be sure. The eyes must once havelaughed, for the wrinkles spreading out from thecorners were deep-set. But now the face was blank.



"Where have you come from?" the tall one asked,to break the silence. The lieutenant seemed to shakehimself from his reverie.

"East of here. The Cheviots.""You have a base there?""Yes.""How many?""Only ten now. It used to be more.""Soldiers?""Some. Others, as well. Stragglers, Jews, some

women. Anyone with a bit of... experience."He looked into the sky. The mist had continued to

rise, but there was still good cloud cover. No planes upthis morning. The fatter one gestured towards therucksack on the floor between them.

"Will that help? Will it make a difference?"The question seemed somehow to encompass

more than the bag that lay at their feet. The lieutenantpondered the question but seemed reluctant to talk.

"Who knows?"At the lieutenant's instigation, all three began their

preparations to leave."The next drop won't be for a few weeks yet, they

say. Will it be you who comes again?"The lieutenant shook his head."Probably not. They don't like the same people

doing the same thing too often. You know how it is."The older man stuck out a hand awkwardly."Well. Good luck then. See you after the war."The lieutenant took the proffered hand and smiled

at the phrase.He felt the familiar loneliness, which he welcomed

because being alone was the safest way. He would



have to find cover until darkness before he could putany distance between himself and the cottage. It wasnot much to look forward to. He shook the other man'shand. The two made to go off as he surveyed thehilltops around them again. Neither of the older menhad made any attempt to do so. As they walked off,the thinner one turned.

"What‘s your name by the way? Or is that againstthe rules?"

The lieutenant stared at him."Everyone calls me Finlay. Everyone did,

anyway."He turned away from them and went back into the

cottage.

When he had watched the two men out of sight,he got his things together quickly. The cottage was tooconspicuous during daylight hours, even so far from aroad and under cloud cover. He had remembered a

wood the other side of the hill. It would provide a better place than this to rest before the night. Thecountryside was too open to risk travelling across indaylight. He pulled the rucksack on, grimacing as thecanvas pushed his wet clothes on to his raw skin. Itwas heavy and would slow him badly - the walk backwould take two days at least. He put the strap of his

own pack around his shoulders and let it hang down infront of him, balancing the weight on his back. Hepicked up the machine gun and looked around thecottage, checking that no trace had been left tocompromise the place. It could be used later. Onlysome cigarette butts attested to any recent human



presence. He turned to go, and then out of habitpicked the butts up and slipped them into his pocket.

As he walked back up the hill away from thecottage, scanning the hilltops as he did so, it started todrizzle softly again. He hurried on. As a child, he coulddimly remember being indifferent to the weather, insome abstract recollection. Now it played such acrucial part in his life he had what amounted to anervous tic, always craning his neck back to see whatclouds and sky were doing every few seconds. RAFpilots were said to have done the same thing, checkingfor enemy aircraft.

In the days when there’d been an RAF.He hurried on faster, anxious to find shelter before

he got soaked again.It drizzled for most of the day, and he spent much

of it lying at the bottom of an upturned tree in the pineforest on the other side of the hill. It had been blowndown in a gale and its roots had pulled earth from the

ground in a semi-circle of compacted soil which theythen covered to form a natural shelter. By buryinghimself in dry leaves he could remain surprisinglywarm. He spent the hours drifting into and out of sleep.At one point he woke to find a fox staring at himintently, its fur glistening with a rich sheen. Hewondered how the animal managed to survive here.

He had no food to give it, yet dared not risk a shot tokill it and eat it himself, so instead the two stared ateach other for a while, until he drifted back to sleep.He was sorry to have lost the company.

It looked like he was going to be lucky with theweather. The cloud and rain had lifted as darknesscame, and it looked like it would be a clear night. That



meant cold, but there might be a moon to see by. Theroute he would take was on a compass bearing, sincethere were few roads to guide himself by. Without amoon, the journey would be far more dangerous, whena badly twisted ankle amounted to a death sentence.He found he could empty his mind and think of nothingwhen he walked.

He made good progress. The moon was almostfull, and cast a spectral light over the moorland as hewalked. His boots began to make a crunching noise asthe frost began to settle, and he went past the firstreference point, an abandoned farmhouse at the endof a track heading down from the north, more quicklythan expected. By morning, the clouds had moved inwith a vengeance, giving him protection from above.He was exhausted and did not want another night inthe open, so he decided to press on through the day.With luck, he might make the camp by nightfall. It wasforbidden to return during the hours of darkness.

He walked on and on.In the end, he made it just in time.The camp had been well-chosen, buried deep in a

pine forest in one of the valleys of the Cheviot Hills onthe borders between areas that had once beenEngland and once been Scotland. Now the border wasan administrative line drawn on maps made in Berlin.

The camp was really no more than an old barn, still ina good state of repair, in a clearing in the forest fromwhich four tracks led away to different points of thecompass. A tunnel had been dug from behind the barnstretching 100 yards into the impenetrable forest, anescape route in case of attack. He and others at thecamp had had to dig it, cutting roots and digging out



soil and clay for days at a time in the clammy pitchblack earth. He had remembered the fort atNewhaven.

He had only a few minutes of dusk left by the timehe got to the outskirts of the forest, and he was nearlyat the end of his endurance. He’d walked seventymiles in barely three days. He tried to get his mind tothink logically, but it was losing coherence fast. Heremembered to check the surrounding hillsides beforeentering the forest, but the mist and dusk were closingin so fast visibility had fallen to only a hundred yards or so. He checked the track for tyre marks - there werenone. He walked into the forest with his hands spreadout to the sides, in a crucifix, whistling. It was thesignal for recognition. He knew there would be a guardon the track somewhere near the edge of the forest -he simply had to wait for the person to appear.

He rounded the first bend, to be greeted by thesight of a figure standing in the road. A man with a rifle

hanging by a strap round his neck, muffled in a thickovercoat engrimed with filth. A familiar figure,welcoming.

Peter Newbury was hatless, and his long hair swept back from a face in which dark eyes stared outkeenly.

"Hello, Finlay."

Finlay looked at his old friend, the man with whomhe had shared so much, and staggered. Newburystepped forward and caught him. When he had revivedslightly, he cautiously let him go.

"Finlay. You're back early. We didn't expect youuntil tomorrow."

"Got lucky with the weather."



"Had there been a drop?""Yes. Explosives."The two men talked briefly, but Finlay was nearly

gone. He had to rest.He walked the last half mile to the barn alone,

leaving Newbury on guard duty. After a mile, the trackopened suddenly into the clearing which surroundedthe barn and a small lake. The lake served as washingtub and bath, despite the fact the water inside wasstale and filthy. When he got to within a hundred yardsof the clearing, he put his arms out to the side andwhistled again, in case anyone was waiting. Nobodywas. The sentry system was designed, with a manmonitoring each road, so that a shot would be heard inthe event of any approach by Germans along any of the tracks, giving people time to scatter into the forest.If the Germans came, it would be by the tracks. Theydid not have the manpower to surround the woodsthemselves. Finlay stopped outside the huge door of

the barn, knocked superfluously, and went in.Inside was another world. A fire glowed in the

middle of the barn in a clearing well away from thestraw bales and bedding around the walls. Five peoplewere gathered around the fire, eating soup from roughwooden bowls. Even from the doorway, he could smellit above the odour of bodies and the farmyard smell

that still inhabited the barn. The others looked up andsmiled and one man, bigger than the others, got upand came to him. Mark Davies had been a Captain inthe army before, outranking both Newbury and Finlay.Without ever having sought or asked for the post, hewas the unelected leader of the group. Because henever sought to make or impose decisions, people



tended to defer to him, feeling less threatened by hisopinion. He stood a head taller than Finlay, anddespite years of hard-living and starvation diets, stillfilled a huge frame topped with close cropped hair. Alivid scar ran down one side of his oval face. A facewhich, for once, was smiling broadly. "Good to seeyou, Finlay. Everything go all right?"

Finlay eased the rucksack of his shoulders andlaid it gently on the floor. He laid his gun down next toit.

"There it is. Any soup left?"He went and found a clear space by the fire and

sat down down in front of it, crossing his legs painfullyand not bothering to remove his coat. His shins achedfrom the long hours of impact with the ground. Steamstarted to rise from his damp clothes almostimmediately. While the others made space for him,Davies went to get a bowl.

By the time he came back, Finlay was asleep.

He woke to find himself sitting between AngharadRees, in her early 30s and from Wales, and SeanNathan, a small, gaunt, dark-haired Jew of Finlay'sage, who smoked incessantly and even now had ahome-made cigarette in one hand as he ate with theother. While Finlay ate, Davies filled him in on the

events of the three days he had been absent.The soup was thin and watery, bits of potato the

only ingredient he could recognise. He tried not tothink of what else might have gone into it. Instead hesat and let the fire warm him and allowed his mind togo blank. He felt his face glowing in the heat. Davieshad seized on the rucksack and was looking through it



enthusiastically, pulling out the packets of Americanexplosive and examining each one, nodding to himself.He looked like a child with a Christmas stocking.

Angharad looked at Finlay."Why don't you sleep? Mark can store the

explosives."He nodded and tipped the last of the soup into his

mouth. Angharad lit a cigarette for him."When will we next get a supply drop? Did the

Scots know?""Two weeks. Maybe three.""Jesus. What do they think we fight with? Bloody

Americans."She had grown up in the mining communities of

south Wales and had been a staunch socialist beforethe Germans came. Finlay suspected she wasashamed their weapons and supplies were Americanin origin - dropped by parachute or landed bysubmarine - and not instead from the Russians, who

needed them themselves. The supplies from the other side of the Atlantic were never enough. A creepingsuspicion had solidified into accepted truth that theAmericans were far more interested in their official war with Japan in the Pacific, rather than their undeclaredone with Germany. Whatever happened in Europecould be left to the Russians fighting the Germans in

the East.Finlay was too tired to argue. It made no

difference."Do you think the Yanks give a damn about what

happens to us?" Angharad went on. "As long as wekeep the Germans occupied they're happy just to sit



back and let the Russians and the Germans destroyeach other. Then they pick up the pieces."

Davies looked up from repacking the rucksackwith explosives.

"I thought it was the Germans keeping us occupied, Angharad."

Some of the others smiled. Angharad just glaredat him.

"Well, how long do they expect us to carry on withthis? How long before they help? It's been two yearsnow."

Her voice was rising to a crescendo the groupwas familiar with, not just from her. They sat in silenceand let nature have its course, aware that sheexpressed a frustration they all felt. All except Finlay,locked within a private bitterness within himself thatmade the war and the occupation in some ways adistraction. Davies came and sat behind Angharad,laying one massive hand on her shoulder. The hand

could probably have broken the shoulder easily,thought Finlay.

"What do you expect, Angharad?" Davies' voicewas calm and level as usual. "Do you expect them toinvade Europe across the Atlantic? It's not going tohappen. It will take as long as it takes, and then we’llhave our country back again. You'll hate it. Churchill

and the King back again, lording it over everyone.Don't you remember 1940, after the French had givenup? We were all saying how good it was to be alone -no more allies to pamper. You've changed your tune."

Finlay listened to the gentle voice.Did he remember 1940, when it had all changed

forever? It was a lifetime ago now. His mind was



shutting down even though his body was still tenseand awake. He got up silently from the fire and walkedover to his bed by the far wall. It was only a strawmattress - old straw at that - but it felt like goose downnow. He took off his boots and sodden socks - hewould sleep with them off tonight. Otherwise it wouldbe a dose of trench-foot like the last war.

He shook his head and checked his feet again tomake sure they were as dry as possible. His pack, asbefore, he used as a pillow. This was the best part of an empty, despairing day. To lie in warmth, listening toothers still awake, talking about the future as thedefeated always did, mentioning the past only whennecessary. Yet they could not forget.

He still felt the fearsome shock of the invasion.Even after so many months, even after the

disasters at Dunkirk and in the skies that summer, no-one had seriously believed the Germans would come.There had always been a blind faith, either that Hitler

would pull back at the last moment - had he notspoken of not wishing to destroy a "great Empire"? - or the Germans would be smashed in the Channel.

But they had not been smashed, and had gotashore, and it had been as good as over. Then hadcome the white faces of the stunned refugees, headingnorth with the defeated army to London and further

north. Then the government's flight to Canada, theexhortations to fight on a grimly ironic backdrop to themass surrenders. Churchill's broadcast itself had beenmade from - of all places - a flying boat in a lake innorth London, the Germans had said, even as it waitedto take off across the Atlantic to safety as the shellscrashed on to the stricken city.



After that, nothing - only memories.Memories, and the smell. The smell of a

countryside ill-fitted to war, reeking in a few weeksmore like an abattoir, bodies of men and animalseverywhere. Finlay had seen the pictures of theaftermath of battle from the first war. But that had beenin the countryside of France, not in Brightons, fieldsand hedgerows of Kent, and Sussex, and Surrey.Many had thought the occupation would be a gentleaffair. There had been talk of new beginnings. Politicalgroups with names like Regeneration and New Dawncame forward to meet the advancing conquerors,hoping to reach accomodation with the victors. But of course it hadn’t been like that - indeed, could never belike that. The gas rolling gently down the cliffs toenvelop the landing Germans had put paid to anymercy they might have been inclined to show the"great Empire". The invasion had cost them 40,000dead and injured in the six weeks before organised

resistance had been wiped out - far higher casualtiesthan they had expected. That, and the knowledge of how close-run it had been, made the repressionharsher. The Germans shot or deported for indefinitehard labour all surrendering troops. Within weeks, theround-ups of "undesirables" and Jews started. Withinmonths, plans were advanced for the wholesale

deportation of all men between the ages of 18 and 45for two-year labour periods on the Continent.

It became known as the "British" treatment.In no other country, not even Poland, had the

repression been as harsh. Only later was it equalled,with Russia, in 1942.

Finlay's mind switched to other images.



The long retreat north-west from London; thearguments about how and whether to surrender. Peter Newbury, lost without his brother, whose body he hadleft on the beaches. And always, the image of awoman crying beside the road, watching the defeatedcolumns of men marching past her to escape, theremains of her baby a bloody mess in her arms.

He knew now what he had not known then, thatthe key to survival was to know how to forget. But itwas impossible.

A week after his return from collecting theexplosives. He woke late. The others were already upapart from the four on night duty and those who wouldrelieve them.

The fire had died to ashes, and the sleepingpeople lay around it to benefit from its dying warmth. Inthe far corner of the barn on a rough wooden tablewas the radio receiver, covered by a sheet of tarpaulin.

Alongside it lay a pile of machine guns, rifles andpistols that made up the group's armoury. Apart fromthe tables and the bedding, the barn was empty. Finlaygot up. The stubble on his chin was over a week old.He needed a wash and a shave badly, and heshuddered at the thought of the freezing water outside.For a change, it was a clear and cold morning with

little mist. They would have to listen carefully for planes going over, although it did not often happen.Buried in the valley, the camp could remain shroudedin mist for days at a time, which was why it had beenchosen.

Davies was chopping wood in the corner of theclearing, Peter Newbury was with a woman called



Jane by the lake washing clothes as best they could.He walked over and squatted down on the hard,compacted earth by the water. His two companionshad broken a semi-circle of ice in the lake to use thewater underneath, and their arms were blue as theydipped the clothes into the lake. They were almostinseperable, nowadays. Finlay was glad for Peter'ssake.

Jane was a thin, nervous girl with tightly curledhair.. She was probably Jewish, which might accountfor her presence in the camp, although she never talked about her background at all. Finlay had beentold her father had committed suicide with theinvasion, although under what circumstances no-oneknew. Her nervousness would often descend into astutter if she had to talk in front of the group. But thismorning she seemed calm and relaxed. Two brightspecks of red appeared on each cheek as her handspummelled the clothing in the freezing water.

From between Newbury's lips a cigarette dangled,forgotten and no longer lit.

"Morning lieutenant. Had a good sleep?"Ranks were preferred to names in the camp, if

applicable, although Finlay had never known if thepractise had evolved or been decided by some ruleno-one had told him of. Jane looked up from the

washing."The Captain has called a meeting for later. I think

we've had orders and there's something on. Do youknow anything about it?"

Finlay shook his head and lit a cigarette. He wascontent to wait - Davies would tell them soon enough.The idea of "orders" was a misnomer anyway. Groups



like his own were free to do as they liked, with theproviso the supplies they were provided with, such asthey were, were used against the enemy.

The "orders" were delivered by submarinesbroadcasting from the Atlantic or the Irish Sea; themen who gave them, the government in exile, nowbased far away in Canada. Often they were weeks outof date. They would be ordered to attack, say, an armyunit that had already been posted to Russia. He gotup, stretching his legs, and walked over to whereDavies had finished chopping the wood and wascarrying it into the barn. Finlay fell into step beside himand helped.

"Jane says we had something on the radio."Davies dumped a pile of logs under the awning of

the barn where, in time, they would dry."This morning. There is some sort of camp being

built on the coast near Alnwick - the other side of themain road. They don't know if it is military, labour or...

something else. Anyway, the orders are to delay it asbest we can."

"How?""Blow the east coast railway line. That's how they

are bringing supplies and labourers up fromNewcastle. They're also landing stuff from Norwaythere. It won't delay 'em long but it should be a fairly

simple job. We can use your fancy new Yankexplosive. If we can blow it over a bridge it will takethem longer to rebuild and there shouldn't be manytroops that far north on the line."

Finlay was the only one in the camp withexplosives expertise apart from Davies himself, whichwould mean he would be part of the team that did the



job. He felt neither pleased nor afraid. It did not matter either way. He had done many similar tasks.

"When the others come back to swap for guardduty I'll fill everyone in. For some reason they seemdesperate to stop the Germans getting this camp upand running."

"I see," Finlay said.There could be only a few reasons why Canada

would be interested in delaying the construction of anisolated camp in North-east England. The Germanswere using Newcastle more and more as a transitpoint between England and Norway to carry coal andsteel to the Continent. The camp might have beenconnected with that. The other reason was moresinister.

Even before the war had started, let alone thedisasters of 1940, the rumours were rife. With theoccupation, they were confirmed by escapees fromcamps set up along the south coast and on the Isle of

Wight. Surrendering soldiers and men of military agemight be shipped to the Continent and forced labour, if they were lucky, but the fate of Jews, Gypsies,communists and homosexuals was worse. They weresent to a special camp somewhere in northernEngland, and for them there was no return.

It was only the latest in a series of happenings

once unimaginable, now commonplace..

Later, Davies gave details of what he had alreadytold Finlay.

The attack was to be carried out as soon aspossible. Finlay, Davies, Newbury and Nathan would



go. The rest would stay behind. Davies outlined theplan and asked for comments.

"Surely more people should go?" askedChapman, a thin-faced, prematurely balding man. WithDavies, Morgan and Finlay himself, he was the onlyother former soldier in the camp. "What happens if theline's guarded? If it's that important it's bound to be."

"If it's guarded," Davies said, "we follow the linesouth until we find a point where it isn't. They cannotguard the whole thing. That is not a problem. Canadaonly said they wanted it blown - they didn't say where.Believe me, it should be simple. We've done it beforeand I want as many people in the camp as possible. Itis safer that way."

People did not argue with him. The ones whowould stay in the camp felt relief they could not admitto, and from then on there would be a line betweenthose who would stay and those who would go. Theformer would do the chores, bringing in the wood,

cooking and mounting guard. Those who would blowthe line would receive first-call on what food wasavailable. It had been like this before. That evening thesoup was enlivened by two rabbits snared in the forestand there was whisky, bartered or stolen fromsurrounding villages whenever the chance arose. Thewhisky was fortified by potato spirit Nathan produced

from a distillery kept outside the barn. The mixturetasted revolting but had the desired effect. Finlay satand stared into the fire, feeling the drink burn his throatand stomach. After the food, he was surprised at howfull he felt. The atmosphere around the fire had asettled expectancy, as it often did before someone hadto leave. The group were conservative - they hated



change, because change meant danger and broughtsuffering.

They left two days later, at dusk.Finlay's joints were only just beginning to recover

from the journey to collect the explosives. Theshoulder gave him little trouble, but his legs ached witha dull throbbing rythm which filled him as much withfear of what it portended as with any physicaldiscomfort. They would be walking for perhaps four days, perhaps six, and there would be no respite. The journey back to the camp, with the Germans alerted totheir presence, would be dangerous.

The four men said their goodbyes and set off,Davies leading, Finlay behind him, Newbury andNathan bringing up the rear. Finlay carried theexplosives they would need, and each man carriedammunition and food, in the quantities the camp couldspare. On such an expedition, it was more importantthan ever that the camp - depleted of numbers - was

left with ammunition to defend itself against a randomGerman patrol, even if it would never have survivedassault by a larger force. Groups like Finlay's - therehad at first been many after the invasion, north of theborder - operated in a limbo, known and unknown tothe local population, thin as it was. There were someoutlying farms that were still occupied where the

inhabitants could be trusted for the remants of a hotmeal and a barn for the night; others where nothing,not even sympathy, could be expected. The receptionusually depended on what dealings the farmer had hadwith the local Germans, and on whether he stillbothered to risk listening to the propaganda broadcastfrom the Atlantic. Many had hoped for an American



landing across the vastness of the Atlantic, or anadvance across Europe from the Russians. But it hadbeen over two years now and neither had yet come.As the month's passed, the number of groupsdwindled, and the places that would receive themdwindled too.

The conditions were worse than they had been for Finlay. The clouds that ushered in yet another steady,freezing drizzle obscured the moon's dim light andmade their progress difficult, even over familiar pathsacross the hills. Several times they had to stop andretrace their steps to pick up the correct one again.Several times also they fell in the dark and this in itsway was more worrying. A fall in open country could befatal. It went on like this for four hours.

Eventually, Davies called a halt."This is no bloody good. We're making no

progress at all. I think we should rest up until morningor until the moon breaks through."

They stopped to consider. They were in open,exposed country, with only the occasional clump of trees and low stone walls for cover. It would bedangerous in daylight.

"Let's find cover, then," said Nathan, trying to lighta cigarette against the wind and the drizzle, shieldingthe light of the flame with his jacket, then giving up.

They walked for another half a mile, until theyreached a large clump of trees. Finlay reckoned theymust be near the main Edinburgh - Newcastle road bynow. As they got close, they would have to be morecareful. The road was heavily patrolled and the countryalongside it bare. The decision was made for them bythe weather, as so many were. The drizzle was



becoming heavier, and the temperature had fallenseveral degrees.

The conditions were deceptive, he knew fromexperience. Options narrowed very suddenly. If youdidn't find shelter quickly, the only chance was to keepwalking through the frozen rain, since exercise was theonly thing that stopped you freezing to death. Theystarted to follow the edge of the forest until eventuallyDavies, who had travelled this route before, foundwhat he was looking for - a low stone byre, waist high,designed for sheep, which would provide rudimentaryprotection.

The four men could fit into the byre by squashingup against each other. It increased their warmth, butmeant the movement of one disturbed the others. Allwere used to it and too tired to care. Nathan managedto get his cigarette lit at last and pulled the smoke intohis lungs gratefully, exhaling with an enormous sigh.They sat with their backs to the stone, staring out into

blackness. The rain, mixed now with hailstones, wascrashing down, and the four of them stared at itwordlessly. Rain like that could have killed them all.Finlay found himself drifting off into sleep. The noisewas soporific, and he could tell by the breathing of themen alongside him that they felt it too.

He woke to find his legs and neck impossibly stiff,

cramped and cold, and he wondered if he would ever move again.

He had slept for perhaps two hours, and the rainhad slowed to a faint drizzle. In the east he imagined,rather than saw, a faint lightening in the sky. Davies,next to him, saw it too. His voice was low and even,



though there was an edge to it that had not been therebefore.

"Let's go. We need to get distance covered beforeit gets too light."

The four men gathered themselves for the marchahead. All felt the cramped hunger they were used to,although none felt like eating. All shivereduncontrollably in the damp, near-freezing mist. Theshelter had kept the worst of the rain off, but the earlymorning had soaked into every fibre and pore of their clothing, and only hours of walking would get rid of it.Even in the darkness as the first hint of light crept over the horizon, faces appeared deathly white in the lastvestiges of moonlight, steam rising from mouths asthey exhaled. Deep shadows ran under each man'sstaring, glinting eyes.

They looked like ghosts from another world; menwho had died already, looking only for a place thatwould grant them peace.

A day later, they made faster progress in the firstmoments of the day's light. A clinging mist, for whichthey were grateful, covered the hillsides of themoorland over which they marched on and on. Finlaycould see barely fifty yards ahead, to the misty figureof Davies ahead of him. Behind him he could see avague outline that was Newbury. Nathan was lost in

the gloom. The mist, welcome as it was, made himnervous. It was unpredictable and could lift in seconds,leaving one exposed on a clear hillside to a spotter plane above. It could also play tricks with sound,distorting and disguising it, so that one had no ideawhere a voice or a footfall had come from. The groundover which they walked, for the most part sodden



heathland, was open and flat with little natural cover.Occasionally they had to cross one of the low stonewalls that had separated one farmer's land fromanother, long ago. For an hour they skirted thenorthern edge of a line of hills before unknowinglycrossing over what had once been the border withEngland.

Within three hours, they had crossed a road andthe land had flattened.

The route Davies was taking would bring them tothe rail line about ten miles north of Alnwick. The openheath land and moors of the Cheviot lowlands hadgiven way to forrested glens and valleys, which madeprogress slower but safer. The mist and cloud cover held. By late afternoon, they had stopped on the banksof a small stream to rest. They sat and ate and weremesmerised by the sound of the clear gurgling water that ran away down the valley. Two more hoursbrought them to the Newcastle - Coldstream road, the

main road running up the coast. According to the mapDavies studied, the line would be only a few miles onthe other side of the road.

The nearest station was at Chathill, a small towntwo miles south. From now on the possibility of beingseen by a patrol was far more likely. Newcastle andEdinburgh were both strongly garrisoned and the road

would be busy. Even to cross it in the late afternoonwas risky.

They scouted north for two miles until they founda clump of woodland that would allow them toapproach the road from cover. In the forest, under theenveloping tree trunks, Davies stopped.



"Once we cross the road, it gets more dangerous,as you know. Getting back across the road once wehave blown the line will be the worst bit of all."

Finlay lit cigarettes for himself, Newbury andNathan, who had already run out, as Davies continuedin a low voice.

"By the time we blow the line, it's going to be darkanyway. But we need to get back across quickly so wedon't get trapped on the other side. We need to put asmuch distance behind us as possible. Unless we areseen, the Germans will assume the charges were laidby locals. They will look for saboteurs there, not on themoors."

There was silence. The implications had beenfaced by each of them before. They would escape,and others would face the reprisals. It was as it hadalways been.

"Unless we’re seen," said Finlay.Davies was breathing raggedly from the effort of

marching, as they all were. He looked at Finlay."Exactly.""Why don't we wait until dark to blow the line?

That cuts the risk out altogether," said Newbury."True, but the sky's clearing and it's getting colder.

We don't want to get caught in the open if it snows.The tracks will be obvious and we could freeze to

death. I know these parts - it's going to get colder. Bytonight I want to be heading back."

The others nodded. None relished having to turnround and begin the trek back without rest, but thesnow could be more dangerous than anything and theyhad all felt the temperature drop.

The road beside the forest was deserted.



Finlay felt an eerie sensation as he scanned itthrough the gloom. It indicated a civilisation he had leftbehind. There was no traffic. They crossed it at a runand took cover behind a low stone wall. There was atleast a mile of open heathland to negotiate before theycould see a copse that would give cover from the road.They set off, jogging and bent double, looking backevery few yards to check the road was still empty.They reached the copse before anything hadappeared and stopped to get their breath back.Nathan, the heaviest smoker, stifled a hacking cough,although there were no houses in sight. Within aminute, Davies was urging them on.

They reached the line they had come to destroyhalf an hour later.

To simply blow the line would never seriouslyhamper the Germans in what they were constructingfurther up the coast. A work detail could fix it within aday. As he had studied Davies' map the day before, a

different possibility had struck Finlay. Less than twomiles further north, the line crossed a river at a villagecalled Newham. Blowing the bridge would delay theGermans weeks, rather than days.

It was not much, but it was something.The four set off, walking up the line, cautious for

any sort of activity. The raised ground of the line left

them exposed, but the river it crossed they could seeto their right, and this would provide cover.

The bridge was perfect.Unguarded, its thin wooden supports already

looked decrepit with age, only held together by themetal girders strapped alongside. It was about forty



feet across, supported on two brick arches that felldown to the water below.

Finlay scrambled down to take a closer look atthem. He was pleased by what he saw. Even the brickof the arches was crumbling with damp from the river.If he used enough explosive on each arch,concentrating the blast, there was a good chance thewhole superstructure might come down. He set to workwhile the others stayed on the bank keeping lookout,taking the packets from the rucksack and taping themtogether. In the cold his fingers were numb and wouldnot function properly. Davies scambled down to thewater's edge to join him. His face was taut.

"How long?""About ten minutes. Why?"Davies smiled like a crazed schoolboy."There's a fucking train coming. Get your stuff and

hide in the bushes."He scrambled up the bank and over the

superstructure of the bridge itself.Finlay could hear the sound of the train himself

now. The clatter of its wheels on the track sentvibrations along the length of the old bridge. Itsounded alarmingly close already. Why the hell hadn'tthe others heard it before? He re-packed theexplosives as carefully as he could and scrambled

over to a thorn bush halfway up the bank, lying downbehind it and praying it wasn't engineers inspecting thebridge.

If they were planning on using this section of theline heavily, the state of the bridge might have worriedthem already. He lay back and tried not to think of it. If they stopped at the bridge, he might be spotted. If he



was spotted, there would be a fight, and he would die.He cradled his gun across his chest and gritted histeeth to stop them chattering.

He was beginning to relax even before the trainpassed. The level of vibration and noise grewcontinuously - the train was not slowing. He felt hismuslces ease as it clattered with a mighty roar over the bridge. Then it was gone as quickly as it came, thenoise of its wheels on the track fading off into the bitter night.

He gathered his bag and went back to work.The worst part was placing the charges. He had

no option but to take off his boots and socks, whichwere sodden with marching but warm, and wade outinto the freezing water up to his waist, to get to thearches. He had felt cold and tired before, but the water in the river left him breathless. He had to force himself to move, when any minor movement increased hisagony. He looked around to see the others staring

anxiously down at him from the top of the bank.He waded further out to the centre of the river.Davies had been right. He was shivering

uncontrollably now, making it almost impossible tohandle the explosives. If they did not get back to thecamp soon, he could die. He thought of himself asimmune to death, immune to the fear of it, for himself

or others. But such a death would be so futile, it wasunbearable. He tried to concentrate on the job in hand.

On each arch, there was a small shelf just abovethe water line on which he placed the charges. He waslucky. Without it he would have had to wire thecharges to the supports and he doubted if his numbedfingers would have been capable of the task. As it was



he had difficulty enough running a wire between thetwo arches and connecting it to the detonators on eachpackage. By the time he had the detonators primedand ready, with a wire to the switch on the bank, hehad lost all feeling in his legs. He waded back andsignalled Davies to join him.

"Everything all right?""Help me put my boots back on. Fingers aren't

working."Davies nodded and while Finlay sat on the bank,

pulled his socks and boots on and tied them, like amother with her child at the beach. The job was moredifficult than either man had expected. Finlay kept hishands clenched under his armpits, trying to get somewarmth into them. Eventually they were done, withFinlay dressed and the explosives wired to thedetonating box. It had a small wooden handle that waswound round sufficient times to create electricity totrigger the charges. Davies summoned Newbury and

Nathan down from the bank and their watch on theline. The light was fading fast, and thick clouds weregathering. The temperature was still falling. The onlygood point was a gathering mist which was falling withthe dark. Davies spoke in an unnecessary whisper.The clouds from his breath obscured his darkenedface.

"After we blow the charge we head along the river,quick. It takes us back to the road. Once we're acrossthat we head out into the open moorland. Even if theGermans hear the explosion, they won't look for anyone there, especially not with this weather. We canwalk through tonight and rest up tomorrow. If there'ssnow we'll have to anyway. I know you are tired, but



we can be back at camp within two days. It will havebeen worth it."

Through the clouds of his breath, they could seethe gleam of excitement in his eyes as he spoke. Hehad not underestimated their condition. In the last twodays they had covered nearly thirty miles acrossdifficult terrain and were already approachingexhaustion, with another thirty still to go. With theweather deteriorating fast, they would have to keepmoving just to stay alive. He could feel himself alreadyseizing up with the cold. It was time to go.

The four of them clambered back up to the top of the bank. The wind was increasing and gusts wereblowing across the heathland from the North Sea.Before they did anything else, they sheltered in the leeof the bank and ate most of the rest of their food anddrink. If anything went wrong, there would be no timelater, and they would need the energy. There wascheese and bread and even chocolate. They ate

quickly and greedily, anxious to be away. For the lasttime, Finlay scrambled down to the bank. He made thefinal connection between the charges and thedetonating box, then began to play out the wire as hescrambled back up the bank. There was only justenough to allow him the protection of the far side of the raised bank.

He prayed the explosives would be enough. Dewwas already settling on the ground and turning almostimmediately to frost. He looked at the anxious andexpectant faces alongside him and asked if they wereready. The glint in Davies' eyes was more pronouncedthan ever. He cranked the detonator handle round and





remain under cover and avoid open ground. Crouchingbeside the road, they could see no sign of lights alongits length in either direction. Their boots clatteredsharply on the tarmac after the silence of the soddenfields, and in front of them the cover of the dark forestbeckoned. Only a low stone wall bordering the road laybetween them and its comforting shelter. Davies withFinlay and Nathan behind him clambered over it.Newbury jumped up on to the wall and made a finalcheck for any sign of activity before jumping down.There was a sharp crack.

He had landed awkwardly on the compacted earthbelow the wall. The others were turning away as helanded and heard only the snap and the muffled thumpas he collapsed on to the ground. In the darkness andsilence the noises were clear and perceptible. Theyturned around, but were barely able to see the faintoutline of Newbury's form, prone on the floor below thewall. He lay on his side, a stream of hissed obscenities

pouring steadily from his mouth.Finlay felt dread in the pit of his stomach - he had

heard the crack clearly and already suspected what itsignified. Davies was already past him, scramblingover to the wall on all fours.

"What the fuck was that?" he askedunnecessarily, his voice matching Newbury's in hissed

intensity.Newbury put his head back in agony, fighting the

scream building inside of him and trying to keep a levelvoice.

"My ankle. A hole in the ground as I came down.Jesus."



"Let me see." Finlay bent over his friend. Heclicked on a small battery torch, then tried to pull thetrouser leg up to examine the ankle. Newbury gaspedand fended his hands away.

"Wait. I'll do it." He pulled the leg up andtentatively started to undo the bootlace. "It's broken. Ifelt it go."

"We heard it," said Davies. In the shaded light of the torch, the leg looked pale and fragile, like whiteporcelain. Without taking off the boot, Finlay pulled thesock down as far as it would go. There was nodiscolouration to the skin yet, although the joint lookedas if it was already swollen. Newbury's breathing wascoming in shivering, racking sobs.

"Don't take the boot off. You'll never get it back onagain," he said.

"What the fuck do we do now?"Nathan expressed the thought that was already in

all their minds. They knew no-one in the area who

could be trusted. Within hours, the surroundingvillages would be subjected to searches anyway.

Davies sighed violently. "I don't know. Let methink for a moment."

Newbury let out another string of expletivesthrough clenched teeth. "It's my own fault. Just leaveme."

"Shut up," Davies hissed at him. "I said let methink for a moment. Nathan, keep an eye on the road."

The silence of unspoken thought settled on themfor a moment. If the Germans had heard or beenalerted to the explosion on the line, they wouldprobably come from Alnwick, five miles down the road.Brightons in the area were among the most heavily



garrisoned in northern England. Eventually Daviesspoke.

"Right. We are not leaving you here, but you arenever going to make it back to the camp. We don'tknow anyone to trust around here and it'll soon becrawling with Germans anyway. So we'll have to take achance. There's a village five miles west of here on theway back - Chillingham. It's isolated. We'll asksomeone to take you in. We can carry you there."

"Carry me there? Five miles? Are you joking?""You got any better ideas?""I just gave you one."Davies ignored him, picking up his rifle and

slinging it over one shoulder."Come on. Let's go. We've wasted enough time

already. And for Christ's sake don't leave anythingbehind."

They distributed Newbury's equipment and pickedhim up between them, his arms around Finlay and

Nathan's shoulders, a further string of obscenitiescoming as he got up. But he could move along fairlywell, hopping on the one good leg.

Less comfortable were his two supporters. Hisweight pulled at the already exhausted muscles of their backs and legs. They had to rest more frequently thanthe injured man himself.

They set off shambling and stumbling into thefreezing night.

It took four hours of halting progress to cover thedistance to the village Davies had spoken of. If therehad been habitation before that, they would havestopped there. But there was only the frozen,forbidding moorland. The thick clouds that threatened



to unload their burden on them at any momentobscured whatever light the moon offered, makingprogress even more difficult. They had to stop for restsevery few hundred yards, and the stops became ever more frequent.

Eventually, there was a cluster of lights, dim butunquestionable, in a plain below them. They hadcrossed the first patch of moorland and in front of them, invisible, lay the dark bulk of the Cheviots. Asthey edged closer to the dim lights, they could discernthat they came from a low farm building, among acluster at the foot of the moor. Further on, a sprinklingof fainter lights further down the valley was all theycould see of the village. It was nearly ten o'clock, andall four men were approaching exhaustion. As theystopped and looked the farmhouse over, the firstflakes of snow were starting to come down. Newbury'sbreath in Finlay's ear, like his own, was coming inshort, ragged gasps, a symptom of pain, shock and

fear.Davies turned to face them."I'll go and take a look. If it's all right, I'll ask them

to take you in. We'll take your pack and your rifle. I'llleave you this."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a smallpistol, slipping it into Newbury's pocket. Finlay

wondered for a moment what Davies expectedNewbury to do with it, then put the thought from hismind. He knew well enough. He thought of Jane backat the camp. What would he tell her?

"What happens if they refuse to take him?" saidNathan.

"They'll take him."



"And what are you going to tell them?""Nothing. The less they know the better. All they

will need to know is that we are English. They'll work itout, even if they don't hear of the line being blown.We’ll have to trust them."

He turned his back and disappeared down the hill.The two men gently helped Newbury to the floor,where he sat on the snow-speckled ground. He wasshivering uncontrollably and probably already in thefirst stages of hypothermia. Finlay spoke to him gently,but it was impossible to know if Newbury was coherentenough to understand any longer.

"These people will sort you out. It will only be afew weeks of hiding out till the leg heals. Then you canget back to us. You probably won't want to come backanyway."

Placing his body between the torch and the farm,he examined Newbury's leg.

The white skin was now so swollen it bulged out

grotesquely. The boot was keeping the swellingaround the ankle down, but probably only at theexpense of excruciating pain for Newbury. In thetorchlight, his face was white. His eyes were closedand all the blood seemed to have drained from him.He was in shock. If they did not take him at the house,he would be dead within hours.

Davies re-appeared."It's an old man, alone. He's terrified and I cannot

get much sense out of him but I think it’ll be all right.Come on."

The two of them stirred their aching limbs oncemore, levering Newbury up between them until he wasagain perched slackly on one leg. They staggered the



short distance down to the farmhouse, then crossed acobbled front yard and through the open front door of the building.

Inside there was no fire but it was still blissfullywarm after outside. The farmhouse was starklyfurnished. An old moth-eaten sofa sat under onewindow, next to the empty fireplace. Alongside it weretwo equally delapidated armchairs. The floor of thehouse was bare stone. The only light, the light theyhad seen from outside, came from a small oil lamphanging from the low ceiling, spluttering in the windfrom the open door. Apart from that the room was bare- no pictures, no wood for the fire, only a doorway tothe kitchen beyond and another to some roughwooden stairs.

In the corner, the old man looked on at the menfiling through into his house. He was completely bald,with a wrinkled face and a gash for a mouth. He didnot appear to have any teeth. His small eyes stared

out across the room at the strangers. Even in the dim,flickering light, it was obvious he was petrified.

"Do you have any blankets?" Davies asked himgently.

He stared at Davies for a long second, thennodded once and turned round to shuffle painfully upthe stairs. His clothes were rags. Finlay wondered

what he lived on. Finlay looked at Newbury. He waslying on the sofa, eyes closed, though the warmthseemed to be reviving him slightly and he appeared tobe awake.

"Peter?""Yes."



"You know we have to get back to the camp, don'tyou?. The weather is closing in and we cannot all stayhere. We can leave you some food."

Newbury's face broke into a smile, forced through.His eyes were still closed.

"I know. If you don't go now the weather will killyou. I'll be fine here. There's bound to be somebodyaround here who can do something with the ankle.What did you say the village was called?"

"Chillingham.""Good."The smile disappeared from Newbury's face as he

looked at Finlay intently."Go on, piss off, Finlay. You've a long way to go.

You must go now. The old man will be all right - don'tworry about me."

His eyes swivelled to Nathan, then to Davies."Best of luck to all of you. I'll see you again."He shook hands awkwardly with all three of them

as the old man shuffled back down the stairs carryinga blanket. Then the three men were moving towardsthe door, towards the freezing dark and the gentlyfalling snow. Finlay was the last to walk through it. Inthe doorway he paused. He turned to say something toNewbury, but saw that his friend's eyes were closed.The old man still stood, motionless, at the foot of the

stairs, the blanket still in his hands, his terrified eyesflicking between the two of them. Finlay tried to speak,but the words would not come. There was nothing tosay. Just another loss, first Philip, then Peter, likeall the rest.

"Goodbye, Peter."



He smiled as best he could, then turned andstepped out into the night.

Through the night Newbury slipped in and out of conciousness. The exhaustion in his limbs and mindkept carrying him to sleep, but the pain in his anklewould bring him back to a semi-conciousness wherehe was dimly aware of what was going on around him.Through his mind filtered dreams and memories of childhood and life before the war. He thought of Philip.

When he rose towards waking, he was aware of the wind battering against the windows, blowingflurries of snow up against the thin veneer. Once, near the morning, he was aware of hands covering him witha blanket, and the front door opening and someonestepping out into the night. Then the door closedgently and he slipped back into sleep.

He was dragged back from sleep in the earlydawn by the worsening pain in his leg. The foot, eased

by its position on the end of the bed, had continued toswell, and the pressure against the boot increased thepain. When he was finally awake, sour-breathed andaching, it was to see the old man standing at the footof the sofa. He had hardly been aware of him, or anything else, the night before. Now he took in thewragged clothes, the wrinkled face and the gash of a

mouth, toothless. It was the old man's eyes that heldhim. They were drawn wide open in a dazed look of pure terror as they looked down at Newbury. Seeinghim awake, the old man took a stumbling stepbackward. Still confused by sleep and pain, Newburytried to reassure the pitiful sight in front of him.



"It's all right, old man. There's nothing to worryabout." He could manage barely a croak.

The old man still said nothing, but was nowshaking his head from side to side, his eyes bright withfear. Like clouds shifting, the pain subsided, andNewbury remembered the door opening and quietlyclosing before the dawn. With a sadness he had never known before, he at once understood. He had alwaysknown it would come to this.

And there it was - he could hear it already. Hepulled the pistol from his coat pocket as the sound of the truck engines grew until it was a roaring in hisears.

He pointed the pistol across the room.The old man backed against the wall, still shaking

his head from side to side, his dark mouth movingwordlessly, silently. A tear swelled from each eye andcoursed down the roughened, whitened cheeks. Fromhis mouth there came a sound, but it was too

whispered, and drowned in the noise of the enginesoutside. It was one word, repeated over and over, andwithout understanding Newbury knew what it was. Theold man's face was scarred by sorrow and fear, andthe torment in it was something Newbury could feelthrough his own agony.

It took away what pain and sadness he himself

felt, and filled him only with a great calm and certainty,even a relief that the cold and the hunger and theloneliness was over. He lowered the pistol as thesound of the truck engines died out, replaced by bootshitting the concrete outside.

He nodded at the old man, even managed asmile, and his voice came clearly to him now; calm



and strong. He could see Philip now, really see him.His brother, who had died on the beaches of Newhaven so long ago.

"It's all right, old man. Not your fault. Don't worry."He brought the gun back up and as the boots

clattered outside he placed the barrel carefully into hismouth.

The three who had left walked on into the night.All found it easier to carry on if they switched their

minds off and allowed them to settle elsewhere, onsome distant memory or interest, like a bee selecting apromising flower. Mile after mile, foot after foot, their progress continued. They did not think about the manthey had left behind.

Finlay found himself hallucinating with exhaustion,the pain in his feet and legs, and the hunger in hisstomach. With the sweat of exertion, it was as easy,he knew, to become dehydrated and die in a raging

blizzard as it was in the heat of the desert. From timeto time they would stop and suck handfulls of snow,never speaking, creatures from some other existence.With the cloud cover now blanketing them as itdeposited its white shroud on the land, it was possiblefor Davies to select a much more direct route home,across open country, on a compass bearing.

It was more direct, but it meant they had to climbhigher over the hills. As dawn broke, they passed by apeak which Davies informed them in a rambling waywas called Cushat Law. The snow had cleared themist from around them. As light broke behind the peak,it appeared before them. Finlay imagined some



fabulous monster, arising out of the ground in front of him. But he felt no fear.

Skirting a thick forest, the three found themselveslooking from their elevated height down a shallowvalley into which a thin river trickled. Alongside theriver a rough track ran. By now it was light and far below them, at the track's end, they could see a smallhamlet. Davies studied the map. His movements wereslow and exaggerated like a drunk or an old man, andhis speech was slurred and indistinct with exhaustionand cold.

"Shillmoor... Down there."Finlay looked at him. His own tongue felt thick and

inflexible in his mouth and there was a roaring soundin his ears. He knew they were close to the end.

"Let's go down there. We need to find shelter andrest. Otherwise we won't make it back, not in this.We've still got 15 miles to go."

Davies nodded dumbly. Exhaustion had robbed

him of all powers to command or any desire to do so.He followed Nathan and Finlay down the hillsidetowards the cluster of low stone houses in thedistance. They made no effort to conceal themselves.There was nothing to hide behind and it was too lateanyway.

Yet even as he stumbled drunkenly down the

hillside, disquiet scratched inside Finlay's mind.Something was wrong - out of the ordinary. He feltdisconcerted rather than afraid. He stopped to take abreath and let the others catch up and then he thoughtof it. Even in this early morning, surely there would besome activity? The bark of a dog, the cluck of a hen,smoke rising from a chimney? There was nothing. His



muddled mind considered the answer. It was notunusual for small villages to be deserted. Plenty of themore isolated ones had become so in the light of shortages, famines and deportations. But as hestumbled on, something still burrowed at the back of his mind, worrying him in some abstract way.

Only as he reached the level of the track that ledthrough the village did he realise what unsettled him.None of the buildings had any windows. Each buildingappeared only as a stone outline; where doors andwindows should have been, there were only gapingholes. It looked like a model village, only half completed. Yet it was not half completed - the stonewas old and the buildings had the settled permanenceof age. As they walked up the track to the firstcottages, comprehension finally dawned. Aroundwindows and doorframes was the charcoal black stainof fire.

The village had not been abandoned, as others

had been. It had been burned.As they walked on, every house was the same.

The grey Northumberland stone mostly unmarked, butevery house a shell with the scorched timbers inside.Some had bullet holes clearly marked in the stoneoutside, others the blast damage of grenades. Finlaylooked through the doorway of the nearest house. The

inside was gutted completely, although there was nosmell of smoke. What had happened here hadhappened a long time ago. On the floor at his feetwere the blackened cases of shells from a machinegun. There were scores of them, here and on thestreet outside, under the gently falling snow. As hekicked them, they tinkled together with a sound like a



child's bell. In the corner of the room was somethingelse. Finlay looked at it, then quickly looked away.There were others in other houses.

Outside, the snow-capped peaks looked downimpassively. Perhaps even now there was another village where the trucks were pulling up, the men jumping off, pulling wire across the main road,smashing the doors down and all the rest. His voicewas a flat monotone as he spoke.

"We'll rest here. If we set off tonight we will backat the camp by tomorrow morning."

The others nodded but did not speak as theylooked around them. He felt nothing as he closed hiseyes against the bright early morning light. Only thedesire to sleep.

By the following morning they were back in thecamp.

A week later.

Finlay woke to sunshine and clear cold skies. Itwould be a day to beware of spotter planes, a day notto venture out of the forest, a day to hide and forget.Outside, Audrey squatted on her haunches, washingclothes in the lake. Its surface was no longer frozenover, but the snows had swollen it.

Finlay walked over and sat down, lighting a rolled

cigarette made with a mixture of tobacco and driedgrass. He watched as she expertly rubbed clothtogether, dousing it and re-dousing it in the freezingwater. The skin of her hands was pink and swollen.Perhaps that was what was meant by washer-woman'shands, he thought to himself. He smiled at the thoughtof applying the epithet to Audrey. Like Rennie, the



other Scot, she had a ferocious temper and was agood fighter. Six months before, she had shot aGerman soldier through the head, in cold blood. Finlayremembered the man's brains on her hands. Hesuspected the other women feigned ferocity. NotAudrey.

"Morning, lieutenant. You’re late up. Got anythingyou want washed?"

With her dark hair and a pretty, almost orientalface, the rough tones of her home city 50 miles to thenorth sounded incongruous. She had been living in thecamp for a year. Alongside her, Finlay was anewcomer. But he had brought experience and arms.

"No thanks. Anything over the radio?""Nothing from Canada. Not much from London

either. Just shit about the occupation arrangements for the “Greater German Reich” as they are always callingit now. They’re putting the country under a Governor-General - whatever that is. Like a colony."

The radio was the only source of communicationwith a world they had left behind. There were dailybulletins from the BBC, vetted and controlled by theoccupying Germans, and less clear transmissions fromthe government-in-exile in Canada, transported likethe supplies over the Atlantic in submarines andbroadcast when they surfaced out to sea. The

broadcasts were intermittent, difficult to pick up, and of poor quality, but they at least contained a grain of truthabout what was happening in the wars betweenAmerica and Japan, and between Germany andRussia. In the forests there was little danger of theGermans using directional radar to spot the signals.



Finlay watched as Audrey rang a shirt out over thecold water. The droplets cascaded from the material,then slowed. Perhaps because of the snow, the water somehow looked cleaner than usual.

"They must think they’ve pacified us by now -what's that word they always use? Regularisation," hesaid.

"They've pacified the fucking English all right.Only the Scots still fighting. You lot caved in, expectingto be treated nicely."

There were resistance cells in England, but theywere largely aimed at irritating the Germans, writinggraffiti and publishing underground newspapers.Partisan groups - actually fighting - operated only inthe remotest areas of Scotland, where they could hideand the German presence was thinnest. To haveoperated anywhere else would have been suicide. Twoyears after the invasion, their numbers were dwindlingfast. Finlay didn’t answer Audrey, but instead sat

beside her and watched her busy at her task. Despitehimself, he found his mind wondering andremembering. He was brought back by her voice.

"Give me a hand with these. The water makes myhands ache and I cannot grip properly."

He squatted further down and reached into thefreezing, clear water. Before he selected a shirt, on an

impulse, he brought his dripping hands up to his faceand pressed them onto his skin. The cold made himgasp. Audrey laughed.

"Jesus, man. Are you a sucker for punishment."She began to sing a song from her home town,

softly mouthing the words. He could not make themout. When they had finished wringing the clothes out,



he helped her carry them to a line stretched betweentwo trees at the edge of the clearing. The clusteredbranches would shield them from overhead. Finlayworked with the calm, methodical actions of one happyto concentrate on his task. Later that evening, hewould be on guard duty on one of the tracks into theforest. It was the worst time for him, when the hours of standing at the edge of the forest allowed the memoryand imagination to run riot. He dreaded it. Daviescame over and watched them working. His face wascreased with a frown even deeper than the onehabitually there.

"What's the matter?""Angharad’s ill.""What do you mean, ill?" asked Audrey, carrying

on with her work."She's got an infection. She's been coughing for a

few days now, but it’s getting worse. I've covered her in blankets but she says she’s still cold. She has a

fever. I'm not a doctor but I think it's pneumonia."Finlay could tell by the look on Davies' face that it

was serious.At some point in the past, Davies and Angharad

had been lovers. There was an ease between them,as well as an occasional bitterness, that spoke of pastinvolvement. Neither spoke of it, and the others had

therefore not asked. Now there was a white, staringquality to Davies' face which sent a chill throughFinlay. With the diet they existed on, with no antibioticsor medicine, even the smallest infections could beserious. In the forest he had seen the graves of otherswho had been here before him, coughing up blood intoa pile of blankets, far from home, buried even more



anonymously than the thousands who had gonebefore. Audrey stopped her work.

"Has Chapman seen her?"Chapman had the most medical knowledge of

them all."He's looking at her now."Audrey hung up the last of the clothing and picked

up the rough wooden basket that had contained it. Sheput a hand on Davies' shoulder and squeezed.

"Don't worry, Mark. Angharad's tough. She'll be allright. Probably just a fever that will be gone bytomorrow. She's had them before. We all have."

As she talked, the harshness of her accent hadgone.

But it would not be all right, and Finlay knew itwhen he went to look in on Angharad before guardduty that evening.

She lay under a pile of blankets, her own and

others, with a small fire glowing in a cleared patch of earth by her head. As he knelt beside her, he wasshocked by the evidence of illness in her face, evencalmed - as it was now - by sleep. A sheen of sweatrose, not only on her forehead, but around her mouthand her neck as well. The top of her shirt, visibleabove the blankets, was stained a darker colour by it.

Her cheeks and face were deathly white and on oneside of her forehead a vein pulsed with a quickened,irregular beat, raising the skin as it traced its passageunderneath. Her breath was coming in short irregular gasps.

Finlay knew that she would die.



By the side of her mouth was a smudge of somedark red colour. He knew before looking that it wasblood from her lungs, and that she had either tuberculosis or pneumonia. Either way it would befatal. He laid his palm on her forehead, which wasragingly hot, and leant forward to kiss it. He could tastethe salt of her sweat on his lips. He did not care if heinfected himself. Then he went out into the gatheringgloom for guard duty.

She was no better when he returned. As othersslept, Jane lay beside her, mopping her brow with adamp cloth. She became delirious, and tossed andcried in her sleep, though no-one could understand thethings she said. On the third day, Finlay again hadguard duty.

When he was relieved, he was told that she haddied. He walked back through the forest alone. Whenhe got to the barn, it was to find the others gathered

around her body. Of Davies there was no sign.They buried her the following morning. Chapman

had said hesitantly that they should carry the bodyoutside before nightfall, in a voice that suggested heknew the idea would be ignored. They buried her alongside the others, in a small clearing made a fewyards from the main one. Finlay, Nathan and Rennie

dug the grave. Still Davies had not returned."Do you think we should look for him?" Nathan

asked. "He may not be coming back."Finlay shook his head. "If he’s not coming back

there’s no point looking for him. If he is, he’ll comeback in his own time. Leave him be."





The loss of Peter and Angharad settled like scarson the camp. Winter began to take the forest in itsgrasp - the second winter of occupation - andconditions grew more difficult. Wood had to be cutfrom further and further afield, in order not to leaveclues for planes that passed overhead more frequentlynow.

The food situation worsened. It seemed it wouldnot be long before starvation became a possibility. Theprevious winter, the group had existed on stockpiles of food prepared before the collapse, and on the help of isolated farmers. But the stockpiles had run out andthe farmers who would still help had no food. Fullstomachs were a memory.

One dizzying weekend, Chapman and Audrey hadcome upon a sympathetic farmer a day's walk to thesouth, who had provided five sackfuls of potatoes andeven some cheese, along with a cart on which totransport them. No-one could imagine how the farmer

could have come across, let alone stored, such wealth,but with the distance between farm and camp the riskhad been deemed acceptable and the food gratefullytaken. With no cloud cover, leaving clear wheel marksin the snow at their feet, the two had dragged the cartall the way back to the camp. Davies had been furious,but when there was no sign of them having been

spotted, and a snowfall to cover their tracks, even hehad relented.

It was a bonus, but it ran out quickly. There wasan unspoken realisation in the camp that their timewas coming to an end. It would not be possible to goon as they were.



The only time everyone was warm together waswhen they gathered around the radio receiver and atiny fire. There had been an announcement theprevious night, warning of an important message to bebroadcast, when the king and the government wouldaddress the abandoned nation.

The atmosphere in the camp was of restrainedexcitement, with speculation as to what the messagesmight contain. Finlay sat transfixed by the bright lightsof the receiver as Davies tried desperately to catch thefaint and intermittent signal. He caught it only halfwaythrough the broadcast, after the king had alreadyspoken. There was swearing from the assembledcompany and then silence as the crackling, dogmatictones of Churchill issued from the metal box. Evenwith the static and the poor quality of the sound, thevoice came through.

Hitler is beaten and he knows it. The colossal wars in the east go on and he is being pushed back

there, despite the tyranny those countries have seen.The wars of resistance continue; in France, in Holland,in Poland and Czechoslovakia, in Belgium and on our own beloved island. The blockades are having their effect and biting into his ability to prosecute this foul war of conquest and aggression…

The voice on the radio was drowned briefly by

static before Davies managed to find the signal again.…he thinks he can paper over the cracks in his

occupation of our island by turning it into a province of what he is pleased to call the Greater German Reich.But that will not stop resistance to him; in Scotland and in Wales, and increasingly in Brightons and cities of England as well. I call upon every citizen of our still



proud island to redouble his efforts. To take the battleto the enemy. To show Herr Hitler that it will take morethan a decree from Berlin to turn our island into acolony. I say this to those same citizens. This war cannot continue indefinitely and this murderousoccupation cannot continue indefinitely. You must set your country ablaze. The invader must not simply leave our island, forced to go as the war with our Russian friends drains him of his strength. He must bedriven from the island by active resistance, all over theland. Only then will we be able to look others in theeye and say, we fought our own fight, and we won our

own victory... The price we will pay will be great, but it is worth the sacrifice. God bless you all. God Save theKing...

The signal began to break up again as the firstbars of the national anthem played. Davies turned theset off, and for a moment there was silence.

Nathan lit a cigarette and looked around at the

others."Fighting our own fight? There's your answer. He

wouldn't have said that if the Americans were coming.We’re on our own."

"But he has a point," said Jane wearily. "We haveto help ourselves. Isn't that what the Irish say?Ourselves alone."

"A rather inappropriate analogy," said Chapman, asardonic glint replacing the usual dazed expression."Look what we did to them."

Another guard duty.Finlay shivered in his inadequate coat, his mind

an unthinking blank after hours staring up the track to



the snow-laden hills beyond. There had been heavyfalls over the last days, which made the temperaturewarmer, especially at night. Snow gathered on thebranches of the trees was melting in the thaw. Inbetween the soft pattering of drops of water there wasthe occasional clump as a larger piece fell to theground. He was startled into cocking his gun by thesound of a human footfall, heavy and regular, comingalong the path towards him from the direction of thecamp. He sheltered behind a tree.

"Who’s that?""Davies."He relaxed.It was some time yet before he was due to be

relieved and he had allowed himself to fall into atrance-like state. He was intrigued. Breaks fromroutine were dangerous. There was always thepossibility of a startled sentry, expecting no-one,loosing off a round in fear. It was getting dark, and

Finlay had to wait for Davies to come up to him beforehe could make out the outline of his face. Outwardly,the captain had recovered from Angharad's death, butover his features there had settled a grim melancholywhich spoke of repressed torment.

"What is it?""It came over the radio. They want a meeting."

"Who does?""Someone big. They're coming all the way from

Canada. That speech by Churchill.""What can they want a meeting with us about?""It isn't a meeting with everyone. It is a meeting

with you and me. Others too. They're sending severalpeople over. Some landed by subs, others coming in



openly, as Americans, attached to the embassy.Cultural attaches and that sort of thing - like in the spybooks. The one meeting us is a full-blown Colonel."

"What does he want?""Don't know. Something to do with setting up

groups down the south. They want people who knowthe area. Anyway. I'm just marking your cards for you.They wanted people who knew the south so I said youdid. The meeting's next week, in Moffat. If the manthey’re sending doesn't have any problems."

"How the hell will we know who he is?""They’ll radio a description of him, passwords,

locations, that sort of thing, in the next few days.""You mean he’ll be wondering around the country

with details of resistance groups in his pocket and half the fucking Gestapo on his tail? Jesus Christ."

"Relax. He doesn't know any of our details. Weare meeting him, he's not meeting us. We'll just haveto be careful."

"What if he's caught?"In the darkness, Davies' face was a black outline."No doubt they’ll have provided a pill."Finlay was left alone with his thoughts.He had been with the camp almost nine months

now; he considered it a home, for all its discomforts. Itwas a place where he had been able to belong, for the

first time since the invasion. For men such as him,there was no going back. The Germans had nowdeported all military age men who did not qualify for exemption. Those caught now were shot out of hand.It meant they were safer in camps like this thanoutside them. Going south again would mean danger of a kind he had grown unaccustomed to.



Not the danger of taking a bullet in a firefight withan ambushed German patrol, but the danger of fingernails pulled out and beatings in a darkenedcellar, before the long walk to the firing squad. Not ahomecoming to relish. He shivered in the cold andhugged his damp coat around him tighter, feeling theold familiar fear come again.

Finlay and Davies set off four days later. Themeeting was to be in an empty cottage outside Moffat,north of where Finlay had picked up the explosivesbefore. The thaw had continued, assisted by denselow cloud that warmed the air above them. It meantthe snow had melted completely in some areas, whichmade the ground sodden and the going difficult. Twodays marching to get there, then a night spentwatching the cottage from cover. The man coming tomeet them would arrive in the morning, under thecover of being a neutral American, on a familiarisation

tour, attached to the US "legation" in Edinburgh. TheGerman authorities no longer allowed embassies inthe new "province" of their Reich.

Despite the poor going, the soldiers made goodprogress.

They got to what they considered half distance bydawn. They were in a shallow valley of the gently

undulating foothills and there was a hunting cabin,disused since the start of the war which would provideshelter through the hours of daylight. It was empty,with an earth floor that was surprisingly comfortable. Itwas not as cold as in recent days, so they decided notto risk a fire.



The two men ate bread and cheese. Davies pulleda bottle from his rucksack. In the growing light of theshack, Finlay could see the etched lines of melancholyon the older man's face. He envied him the feeling,envied him his sense of loss. He had had something tolose.

"I'm sorry about Angharad."The words were inadequate, but he could think of

nothing else.Davies was staring out of the window at the

lightening sky outside. The view was obscured byyears of dirt on the glass.

"She never would have come to the camp if ithadn't been for me. The others - Jane and Audrey -they have their reasons. But Angharad followed me.She'd been a communist but the Germans wouldnever have found it out. She would have been allright."

"That doesn't mean her death is your fault."

"Doesn't it?""No. She came to the camp of her own free will. If

she hadn't been allowed that, what is the point of anyof us fighting?"

Davies shook his head."What the hell has free will got to do with it? We

fight because we have to. If we give ourselves up, we

would be shot out of hand. Are you really doing thisbecause you still want to?"

"Yes.""And why’s that? Because you hate the Germans

and want your country back? Or because there’snothing better to do? "



"It's good enough reason for me. I'm going tosleep. You take the first watch and wake me when youwant to change over."

He rested his head on his rucksack and turnedaway from Davies to sleep.

The cottage lay on the outskirts of the town.They repeated the drill Finlay had used before,

finding a suitable hiding place a hundred yards awayfrom which to survey it. Although deserted, it looked ina better state of repair than many, and that increasedtheir caution. Finlay remembered the two men he hadmet from Brighton, who had said it was not garrisoned.That had been weeks ago now. They spent the daysitting in a clump of woodland overlooking the cottage.All day they watched, and all day there was no sign of life at all. If Brighton of Moffat was not deserted, thecottage itself appeared to be.

At dusk, after eight hours, they were satisfied.

They made their way over a field to the back of thebuilding, where their first impressions were confirmed.It had been abandoned only recently. The back door was unlocked and the stone floor inside clean andswept. The house was even sparsely furnished, with afaded armchair and sofa in the middle of the room anda table in one corner. There were no other signs of

habitation, no sign of who had lived here, and wherethey had gone.

The two men settled down for the night, onesleeping or resting for two hours while the other keptguard. This would be the most dangerous time.



Finlay was woken by Davies shaking his shoulder shortly after dawn.

"He's here."He felt the usual sense of fear and panic, but this

time it was worse. They had made a mistake. Beforedawn, they should have been up and in the safety of the woodland above. In his despair, Davies hadbecome careless and had not woken him in time. Andnow maybe it would kill them both. Finlay scrambled tothe window alongside the captain, trying to clear hishead. Down the long cottage track a small car wascrunching its way towards them slowly.

Finlay froze. This was all wrong. Surely their visitor's cover could not be so good he could drivearound the country in a fucking car? The only vehicleson the road nowadays were German. This wasmadness. His mind was in turmoil. If the Germans hadcome, they would have come with trucks and instrength, surely? He tried to stop his heart hammering

in his chest. Behind him, he heard the dry click asDavies cocked his gun.

The gesture was fruitless; if the cottage wassurrounded, they were gone.

"You stay here. I'll go and see if anyone's roundthe back. If it's Germans we might be able to make thewoods before they see us."

Finlay fought nausea rising in his stomach. Thelittle black car came on.

Perhaps this really is the end, he thought, after allthe fighting and the running and the hiding. He felthimself grow cold. His fear was like standing on theedge of an abyss, into which it would be as easy toleap as to walk away. No matter what happened, the



end would be a relief. And then the car was pulling upoutside the cottage, still in full view of the window, andthe track behind was still deserted, and he could feelhis heart quieten. He heard the ragged breathing of Davies, back in the room now, behind him.

"Nothing out the back. How in God's name has hegot hold of a car?"

Three men got out, and Finlay began to think itwould be all right. Two of them were the men he hadseen weeks before, who had handed over theexplosives. What had their names been? He could notremember.

He could feel the relief flooding through him,though they were still exposed, and the car was boundto attract attention. He wanted to be away from here,in the sheltering woods and the forest. He wanted nopart of this. He turned to Davies.

"The two in front. They’re our people."The two men were walking off down the track, to

where it joined with the road, on the lookout for passing patrols. They would stick out like sore thumbsif one passed. They had looked amatuerish when hehad met them before but this was worse. He cursedunder his breath. The man they had brought with themwas from a different world. He wore a longcomfortable-looking overcoat, with shirt and tie and

hat, all conspiciously expensive. He looked like he hadstepped straight from his hotel five minutes before. Hewas at least six feet tall and well fed. Only the neatlyclipped moustache, the straight back and the way hiseyes swept from side to side in a quick, professionalappraisal indicated any military bearing. He strodequickly to the front door of the cottage and entered



without knocking. The stranger found himself lookinginto the barrels of two guns. He drily surveyed hiscompanions without the least discomfort. His voicewas strong, with an English accent, cultured in theauthority of command.

"It used to be an offence to point a loaded weaponat a superior officer."

The guns were lowered."Which one of you is Davies?""I am."The visitor did not salute, but instead stepped

forward to shake Davies' hand. His eyes moved toFinlay.

"Colonel James Thomas, of the Black Watch. Youmust be Lieutenant Derrington?"

Thomas pulled three cigarettes from a silver cigarette case.

"Virginia tobacco. Possibly rather different fromwhat you’re used to."

The last was said with embarrassment. Finlaysucked the smoke into his lungs. Davies was speakingfor them both.

"If you don't mind my asking, how the bloody helldid you get hold of the car?"

Finlay was reminded of the easy familiarity of theofficers' mess, a long time ago now. Thomas smiled.

"I didn't bring it in a submarine, if that's whatyou're wondering. You’re also talking to LieutenantColonel James Thomas, of the United States MarineCorps, over here on official attachment to the UnitedStates military attache at the legation in London."

He spoke in a convincing West Virginian drawl,down to the curious pronounciation of Lieutenant.



"Our German friends are rather shy of upsettingAmericans at the moment - treating us with kid gloves.A sure sign things are not going well in the East."

The voice was so incongruous both other mensmiled

"It's a good accent," said Davies."Not a problem if your father was an American

and settled over here. Anyway, here I am in Scotland."He spoke with an easy informality that belied his

rank and those of the men he addressed. But behind itthere was some reserve, some element of discomfort.Finlay remembered the scenes at Liverpool docks,with the army commanders on board the last ships toleave, the refugees below being held back by troopsas they screamed and tried to buy their way on board.Perhaps the Colonel had been on one of those boats.

He had the air of one coming to business."Right, gentlemen. I haven't much time. Even as

an official of a foreign government I still have to report

to the headquarters in Edinburgh in a couple of hours.Firstly, a strategic update, if you like. Briefly, thesituation is pretty good as far as we know. Although Iappreciate it may not appear so on the ground here."

The Colonel looked up as if expecting a comment,but there was none.

"The Americans are doing well in the Pacific. For

the last three months they have pushed the Japs off three islands in a row, driving them back all the time.They have almost cleared them out of mainland China.It's a hard slog but things are moving. That has had amassive follow-on effect in Russia. These thingsalways do. The Russians have been able to releaseseveral divisions of Siberian troops who were watching



Japan, and are starting to move them over the Uralsnow."

He paused again, this time perhaps for dramaticeffect, and stubbed out the cigarette under his foot. Hepicked up the butt and put it in his pocket.

"As you probably know, its been chaos with theReds ever since they were invaded. One fuck-up after another. But now they've got a new man in charge - aGeneral Zhukov I think - and he seems to be havingan effect. The Germans failed to take Moscow lastwinter and it doesn't look like they will take it this oneeither. They also have a large army in the Caucasuswhich looks like it will be surrounded at any moment.Place called Stalingrad. They have been trying to takeit for weeks but the Russians have gone mad to holdthem off."

He paused and looked at both men in front of him."In other words, it looks like the tide is finally

turning."

"Jesus Christ," said Davies."That's the good news. There is every indication

even without America formally declaring war onGermany and invading Europe, the Germans arebeing bled white in the East. And that is good newsbecause with the state of Russian-American relationsat the moment, the US are not in any hurry to launch

heroics across the Atlantic even if they thought itpossible, which it probably isn't…”

"What's the bad news?" asked Finlay."The bad news is this. With Zhukov getting the

upper hand in the East, the Russians are notinterested in negotiating spheres of influence inEurope. If they beat the Germans, they are going all



the way to the Atlantic. They won't let the Americansin. If they are successful, and it's only a matter of time,it means we swap a Nazi dictator for a Bolshevik one. Iam informed the two are not dissimilar."

"What does this mean?""It means our only hope of staying free from the

Russians is to get the Germans to leave within a year,before they lose the war in the East."

"But if they are losing in the East they will have towithdraw troops from England to defend Germanyanyway. They will leave of their own accord."

"Possible but unlikely. What is more likely is theGermans get cut off here - we know their Navy isdepleted. Then they surrender and hand us over to theSoviets. Don't forget they partitioned Poland betweenthem. And now there’s no Poland. We need to getthem out before they lose, so the Russians have noexcuse to occupy the country. They may walk inanyway, but at least they won't have an excuse to."

Thomas smiled ruefully. "It's not much of a plan but it'sall we've got."

"So where do we come in?" asked Davies.Thomas looked out of the window."You don't. That's the reason I'm here. Groups

like yours are finished. We both know you cannot lastmuch beyond the winter. Now the supply dumps are

exhausted we cannot keep you fed and supplied withammunition with the number of submarines we have.Right now we have a better use for you - setting thecountry ablaze, like the old man said. A resistancenetwork in the south. We have some people in placealready but we need more. You'll be going to the areasyou knew best - that's where you can be the most



effective. That means Liverpool for you, captain, andthe lieutenant will be heading south. The lieutenantalso has a rather more specialised mission toaccomplish."

There was silence. Neither Davies nor Finlayspoke, though they were thinking the same thought.Thomas seemed to read it.

"It means you breaking cover and coming out intothe open. It's more dangerous I know, but it’s alsounavoidable. It's the only way we can get some form of organised resistance that might make the Germansreconsider staying here. I can provide you with all theidentity papers you will need - labour exemptioncertificates and that sort of thing - I can bring them withme next time we meet. There's no hurry as yet but wewant you in place by the spring."

He stood up abruptly. Both men could smell after-shave. Another world.

"I have to go now. I'll see you again tomorrow.

Same time and place. I'll bring documents for all your group, and money. And details of rendevous and safehouses. You should be safe here - the place is ownedby someone we know and trust. If you’re not happywith the arrangement, go and stay in the forest andcome back tomorrow. It's up to you."

The faces before him stared, white with fatigue,

eyes unnervingly blank. He spoke briskly to cover hisawkwardness.

"I know you’re tired. But you're going to have tocarry on. There isn't any choice. You heard Churchillthe other day. What happens now, how we behavenow , will affect how we see ourselves forever. TheGermans can’t stay here forever." He paused again.



"When they’re gone we’ll need to know some of uscarried on. Otherwise there’ll be nothing to build on."

Still the two men stared at him without speaking.Thomas could see there was nothing more to say. Heturned and left, closing the door of the cottage behindhim gently. Finlay stared at the floor of the cottagebeneath his feet. His mind could not take in what thecolonel had said. For too long he had led an existencelived only hour to hour and day to day, limited byhorizons he could see and comprehend. It wasimpossible to think of a time when the Germans hadnot been here, impossible to think of a time when theymight leave. The idea of returning south was equallyimpossible, the memories waiting there for him camefrom another life lived by a different person. He knewonly that he would do as they asked. He would gosouth as ordered, would carry on fighting as ordered.

To think otherwise needed an energy andimagination which he no longer possessed.



1943

A train, heading south.The first Finlay had been on in years. He sat

alone in the carriage, staring out of the window, and

was terrified. When he could get his breathing under control, his heart rate would slow in sympathy. Thenboth would take off at a gallop again and the cyclewould repeat itself. He noticed a nerve above his righteye had started to flicker. For Christ’s sake. At another time, he might have found the torrent of symptomsinteresting. After four hours on the train, he was past



that. Through the bland Hertfordshire countryside hestared intently at the fields and hedgerows, under adull grey April sky. He strained harder to see eachobject, its lines and details and colours. He hadthought himself immune to fear but he had beenwrong. He had seen others die around him, andthought it something that could not be guarded againstindefinitely. He had lived as an animal for years, onefailed skirmish to the next, but it had insulated him onlyfrom the death and suffering of others, not himself. Heknew now the fear would never leave.

He sat in the empty civilian carriage of thesouthbound train, endlessly checking the package inthe inside pocket of his jacket. The papers presentedhim as a labour-exempted civil engineer, headingsouth for a commission repairing bomb-damaged railtrack along the south coast of England. He knew littleof civil engineering except how to destroy it. The ironywas not amusing. Through the walls of the carriage

echoing along the corridor came the raised voices andlaughter of German troops. They were heading for thesouth-coast and leave and they were in high spirits. Heunderstood a little of their language. It filled him withhatred.

He gave up on the view outside and insteadfocussed on the stitching of the seat in front of him,

sinews straining at the thought of a German officer entering the civilian carriage. Under their ownregulations they were entitled to do so, he knew, if space was limited. As his eye traced along the line that joined the old and cracked leather to cloth, the facesthat came into his mind were of soldiers - Germans -he had seen before, unlucky enough to have been



taken alive in ambushes that, occasionally,succeeded. They always knew their fate. He hadwatched in fascination as faces turned from shock tofear. In the hardest, a very few, grim resignation tookhold and with it a certain disdainful pride, but thoseones had seen it before and knew what was to come.With most of them he remembered the strained,questioning eyes, desperate for hope and salvation.Would his own eyes betray the same clues anexperienced soldier would see?

His hand moved yet again to his chest. Travelpermit, ID card, ration book, labour exemptioncertificate and letter of commission. Each touch of thebulge stilled the beating in his heart slightly. It hadbecome a talisman. The documents were all genuine,obtained no doubt from a sympathiser somewhere inthe regime. His hand tapped once more, beforereturning to his lap. The palms of his hands, despitethe cold of the carriage, were wet. He looked back out

over the fields towards a clump of woodland on thehorizon, almost invisible in the mist, and rememberedthe last train he had travelled on, a lifetime ago.

From London to the coast, to rejoin his regiment inthe last chaotic weeks before the end.

He had felt then as he did now, frightened, fearfulof what the future would bring, but lulled by the rythm

of the train's steady thumping over the tracks. Thesound could still transport him back to childhoodseaside trips; sisters arguing, his mother staring out atthe passing countryside, father an absence. Hissisters. He didn’t know whether they were still alive,interned and deported because they shared a namewith a soldier the records would show as unaccounted



for, or been killed in the bombing. Their memory camefrom another life.

The scenery gave way slowly to grimy back-to-back terraced houses as they finally neared London.He felt the tension ease slightly. Perhaps his cover and his nerve might not be tested in conversation witha German after all - there had been nothing at thestation in York. But he was frightened of what might lieahead. The larger stations in the capital, with troopmovements through them, would be the places wheresecurity would be highest - the best troops would bethere. From outside the carriage there came a burst of laughter, louder then before. He bunched his handsinto fists, nails dug into sweaty palms. Not long now. AGerman came stumbling along the passageway,heading for the lavatory, face red and puffy with drinkand tunic undone. He lurched from side to side eventhough the train had slowed to a crawl. He barelylooked at Finlay as he passed, and Finlay had to force

himself to look away. He was grateful to have seen theman, though he feared he might ask for papers on theway back to his carriage. The man's stomach, in awhite vest under his open tunic, bulging over thewaistline of his trousers, the insolent arrogance of thered, glassy-eyed face, rekindled hatred. Cold hatredthat had kept him going. He felt strength flow back.

As the train slowed for the platform, his attentionwas drawn to the edge of the concourse to his right. Awall led up from track level to the street alongside, onwhich a row of houses with black, grimy walls stood.One of the houses had been blown apart by a bomb or shell, leaving a neat gap in the row. The outside wallsof the two houses either side were shored up with



rough wooden planks. On one of the walls a huge Vsign had been painted in white. Nearly six feet high.The signs were supposed to be common in towns andcities across the country, although Finlay had never seen one. Whoever had painted this one would haverisked execution to do it. He felt the loneliness lift off him as he looked away.

Before the train stopped he got up to stretch hislegs and reach for his bag on the luggage shelf. Hehad to reach up with his left hand - his right arm wouldnot stretch that far above his head, a legacy of Newhaven. He wanted a chance to exercise beforestepping from the train. A limp attracted the attentionof the Germans, who were always suspicious of anyone showing signs of injury, which might indicatean uncaptured soldier or partisan. He stepped off thetrain and started towards the ticket barrier. There werecrowds of German soldiers unloading kitbags andequipment, laughing, ignoring him. The proximity of

them sent shivers up his neck, and then on up to hisscalp, which itched in the cold damp air. He walked on,trying to keep a measured pace and not look up at thebarrier ahead. There would be a ticket inspector, aGerman soldier, and probably a policeman too. Hereached down and pretended to be fiddling with thebuckle on his bag, his heart hammering in his chest.

Don't look up, he told himself. They’ll looking for the ones who look up.

When he could stop himself no longer, he foundhimself looking into the sad, friendly, water-loggedeyes of a ticket inspector. No sign of any army officersor police. He almost sagged with relief. The ticket



inspector's damp eyes held his in an unexpectedlysteady gaze.

"Ticket and travel permit, please."Finlay listened to the voice intently. It was almost

artificially low, and he wondered if he was imaginingthe note of amused conspiracy the voice and eyesseemed to suggest. He handed over his documentswithout comment, wondering if the man simply enjoyedhis show of authority, or whether it was somethingdeeper. The inspector did not look at the ticket, butconcentrated on the travel permit. He stared at it for along time, and Finlay felt his heart in his chest again.The permit could be out of date, or unacceptable for any number of other reasons he could not think of. Hestole a glance around him, calculating where exitswere and whether he could hope to reach them intime. The station concourse was almost empty - hewould have no chance. Some of the disembarkedsoldiers were already being shepherded up the

platform by officers towards him, he could hear theclattering of boots on concrete. They were young, fitmen. And then as the panic took hold, the inspector looked up.

He had run a finger across the rough typing of thetravel permit, as if it were braille for a blind man, as if searching for some hidden signal in the very fibre of

the ticket. A slow smile spread across his face.“One of the best I've seen. Hope you had a nice

journey."Finlay stared at him.He knows. There is something wrong with the

travel permit but he has ignored it.



As he took the two slips of paper back and movedoff, he almost managed a smile at the old man. He hadto resist the temptation to run across the stationforecourt. Behind him, the inspector looked after himall the while until he was out of sight. Only then did heturn his attention to the German troops waiting for himto open the gate.

It took Finlay half an hour to find the safe house,even though it was in a square only a few hundredyards from the station. He was hampered by notwanting to look lost. That might invite attention. Thelast thing he needed was a policemen asking him if heneeded directions. When he found the right streetnorth of the station he walked up it looking for the rightnumber.

He had thought that he might have lost the abilityto be shocked, but he knew now that was not trueeither. On the four or five streets he had so far seen of

the capital city, he had walked past ten or fifteenbeggars, both sexes and all ages. Some were silent,others beseeching. He knew better than most thehardship and privation the occupation had caused,with the diversion of food production to the Continentor the occupying forces. But in the countryside he hadlived in for the past two and a half years, the poverty

and desperation were hidden. Here, in London, it wasall around him. At the first street corner, he walkedpast a man sitting with his back to the wall, his faceingrained with a dirt no water could wash away. Theman stared straight ahead, shivering in an inadequatecoat of some military cut, his eyes blazing and his hair sticking out in rough thickets around his scalp. In



between the clumps of hair, patches of baldness couldbe seen, spread haphazardly around the skull. Oneempty trouser leg lay flat on the pavement in silenttestimony. There was no sign of a begging bowl, nosign of crutches either. A few yards up the street, anold woman in filthy rags crouched in a doorway, cryingbitterly. She seemed unaware of her surroundings,fortified by grief. Again, there was no sign of begging.He felt a physical recoil of panic overtake him as anold, familiar memory came to him, unbidden as always.He hurried on, as if to outrun the memory, but it wouldnot leave him.

A country road. The soldiers are moving as fast asthey can to get away from the Germans. The injured have been left behind and the dead have not beenburied. They have been strafed an hour before and totheir right they can hear the distant rumble of artillery moving forward on their flanks to cut them off.

Somewhere near Oxford. A woman beside the

road, crying helplessly, energetically, like this one, her baby son in her arms. A bomb has removed the child'slegs at the waist. The woman is clutching the top half to her mindlessly. The raid had been days before and the body is already starting to stink.

Some of the men try to get her to part with theremains, but she holds on with terrifying strength.

Eventually they give up and leave her, dried stinking blood covering her dress.

Finlay looked at the woman before him and with aconcious effort of will pulled his eyes away and shookhis head. The city, with its beggars and ruins, wasunreal, no more part of this life than of the old one. Hehad to get away and find somewhere to think, to



adjust. He found the house at the end of the street,opposite a tobacconists'. He walked straight past it atfirst, trying to remember the rules and clear his head of the woman, barely stealing a glance to check on anysigns of occupation. His fear had calmed on the walkfrom the station, but was getting worse at the thoughtof entering the unknown house. He had lived too longin the open.

His fingers fiddled with the keys in his pocket. Hewould have preferred to wait outside the house for atleast an hour or two, to check for watchers, but thestreet outside offered no cover of any kind. To linger for even a minute, let alone an hour, was to inviteattention. Yet the only alternative would be to walkaway and find a park or something to wait in, beforereturning after dark. And the place could be crammedwith Gestapo. It might even be dangerous to spendthat much time on a bench in a park. His aching legsmade the decision. He gave it one more circuit around

the block - there was still no sign of life - then went upthe four stone steps to the green front door. He had noproblems with the keys, surprisingly, and found thedoor opened onto a dim hallway with bare floorboards.He closed the door gently behind him and stood in thehallway for two minutes, adjusting to the sounds andsilence of the house, getting his bearings.

Deserted. A thick film of dust over everything.When he moved forward to the sitting room, he foundit uncarpeted with bare walls. It did not seem to havebeen occupied for years. Only a few footmarks in thedust at his feet spoke of any more recent activity.

He explored the house quickly and quietly.



There was at least a modicum of furnitureupstairs, with an old bed in the main bedroom with afew damp blankets covering it. The kitchen at the backof the house was empty, although the stained sink hadrunning water. In one of the kitchen cupboards he wasamazed to find tins of army issue bully beef. He had aknife with which to open them, but he did not want toeat now. He carried his bag up to the bedroom anddrew the filthy curtains across a window that wasalmost opaque with dirt. He was exhausted. He hadnot slept in 48 hours and the last twelve he had spentrigid with tension. As he walked about the bedroom hefound himself stumbling with tiredness. He went backdownstairs and bolted the front door, then walkedthrough to the kitchen and unbolted the door at theback that gave on to a small, overgrown garden. Itwould give him a few minutes if the worst was tohappen. He walked back to the foot of the stairs. Hehad to hold on to the bannister rail to stop himself from

falling. Now that the tension and the fear were inabeyance, his body felt like it was collapsing in onitself. He had to breathe deeply to keep himself uprightand his head clear. He would go upstairs and sleep.

But there was one more thing he had to do.He walked back into the kitchen and looked at the

floorboards. He studied them for a full minute until he

saw what he was looking for, what he had beenordered to look for. He went to the back of the roomnear the unlocked door, and bent down to prise up oneof the boards with the blade of his knife. The boardcame up easily - it had been unscrewed only daysbefore. He reached down into the dust below.



At first his fingers closed on nothing, and he hadto extend his arm along under the next board almost tothe elbow before his fingers found what he had knownwould be there. A slim brown envelope. He pulled itout and put it in his pocket, before replacing thefloorboard exactly as he had found it. He went back upthe stairs and sat on the bed. He untied the laces onhis boots and took them off. He was about to lie backon the bed, but habit was too strong. Boots back on,unlaced. The room was cold and damp.

He pulled the envelope from his pocket andlooked at it. It was plain brown, no markingswhatsoever. He opened it and pulled out a singlesheet of paper. It was covered in close typing on oneside, blank on the other. Alongside the sheet of paper was a single photograph. He looked at the photographand a bolt of recognition hit him in the stomach. Therealisation of who it was made him forget how tired hewas. The sheet of paper was filled with instructions,

timings and an itinerary. No indication who had writtenthe words, when they had been written, or to whom.He read the first few paragraphs without expression,unsurprised. Then when he reached the lower half of the sheet, he stopped. His mind could not comprehendwhat the words on the sheet meant; the implicationswere too much. He put the sheet down on the bed and

stared at the wall, shaking his head slowly from side toside in disbelief.

He picked up the sheet again and re-read and re-read it again, trying to convince himself that his mindwas understanding what his eyes were telling it.

When he was done, he burnt letter andphotograph, stamping the ashes into the floor.



He lay back on the bed with his mind racing. Heno longer felt tired at all.

He smiled.

He stayed in the house two days and nights,sleeping, eating the tins of food and resting as he grewaccustomed to his surroundings and stopped listeningfor the sound of trucks drawing up outside.

There was a chair upstairs, and for hours he satstaring through a crack in the curtains over thebedroom window, his mind blank. He becameabsorbed in the characters and lifestyle of the beggarsin the street. They would go away for hours at a time,but always returned to an allotted place. It was as if,with nothing left to cling to, they cherished order androutine as goods in themselves. After a day watching,he had worked out a German patrol passed the houseevery hour. The soldiers looked young, fresh-facedand inexperienced. With the war in Russia, they were

not likely to be front-line troops here.On the second day, he found a newspaper under

the bed. The Times, dated June 22, 1942, nearly ayear before. The pages were dry and dusty, andalready yellowed with age. But it was the firstnewspaper he had read in years and he read thestories with fascination. The evidence of censorship

was everywhere to his untutored eye. There werereports of war and "progress" in Russia, of plans for Hitler's second visit to London later that year. Lessobviously dictated reports of a murder in Paddingtonand a rationing and black-market scandal in Bristol. Hespent hours devouring the newspaper, reading everyarticle, fascinated. He still had not finished it when it



began to grow dark in the house. He lit the stub of acandle which he had found the previous day, andcarried on reading by its light.

The next morning it was time to move on. He roseearly, feeling less tired than in years, and after washing as best he could he checked the house tomake sure there were no indications of his presence.The food tins he left in the kitchen.

After a final check, he left the house and walkedback to the station to buy an Underground ticket for Victoria. Like the train, it was the first time he had beenon the Underground for years. He found the darkpassageways even more claustrophobic than the trainhad been, although the Underground had theadvantage that few German soldiers used it. The longtunnels reminded him of the days under the fort inNewhaven. He shuddered and walked on down.

He got onto a crowded morning train and stoodnear the door. He felt disconnected. He had no feeling

of being bound by common experience or nationalitywith the people he was now so close to. They felt asalien to him as the soldiers on the train. Their faceslooked tired and weary, disinterested and defeated,even now. He looked around him and felt an achingstab of loneliness. If he did not belong here, where didhe belong?

A couple near him were arguing gently together.Something about going to see the woman's mother.The man might have been about the same age asFinlay. He wondered how he had avoided deportation.What reserved occupation had he gained for himself toescape it? He did not look like a policeman or one of the fascists. He and Finlay were the only military age



men in the carriage. The couple's bickering onlyincreased the isolation Finlay felt. As he looked atthem argue, the man caught his eye and returned hisgaze in a questioning manner. His look was sullen andresentful.

Finlay turned away and looked at the black wallsof the tunnel rushing past.

At Victoria, he joined the throng of people rushingup the stairs to the station above. His sense of dislocation increased above ground. The station wasthronged with early-morning commuters, but also withdozens of German soldiers, heading south. Therewere far more sentries here, standing at points on thestation concourse. There were piles of sandbagsclustered around every doorway. The damage tobuildings was far more evident. He remembered thestation only vaguely, but the bomb damage here, soclose to Whitehall, was worse than anywhere else inthe capital. There were yawning gaps in the streets

around with houses smashed to rubble and no buildingwork at all. With the rushing crowds, the scene waslike some bizarre pastiche of normality. He had toforce himself not to look at the destruction in wonder.He remembered there had been a theatre almostopposite the station. Now there was simply a pile of cordoned-off rubble where the building had once been.

He hurried on. He would be glad to be out of the city if it was all like this.

He already had a travel permit and ticket, so hehad no need to join the queue for them on the far sideof the concourse. Instead, he allowed himself theluxury of a cup of tea, black without sugar, at thecanteen on the station forecourt. A sign in the window



said the cafe was restricted to civilians and officers. Itwas empty when he went inside apart from an old manbehind the counter. The man looked at himsuspiciously as he served him but did not attemptconversation.

Finlay sat near the window and sipped the hot tea,which came in a chipped china mug, and lit one of thecheap cigarettes he had bought that morning. Thetobacco, adulterated with God knew what, was stillbetter than he was used to. With the prospect of another train full of soldiers for the journey south, hecould feel the fear again. He sipped the tea to stop hismouth drying out altogether.

The train left on time, as nowadays they alwaysseemed to.

As he walked up the platform towards the civiliancarriage, he could see the train would be even morecrowded than the one two days before. Most of the

carriages were already full to overflowing with soldiers,young and in high spirits, while others jostled at thedoorways and loaded bags on. As he walked past onegroup, a young soldier at the rear recoiled sharply,avoiding a playful punch from one of the others. Hebacked directly into Finlay's path, making him checkand move swiftly to one side. He winced. The young

man turned quickly, alerted by his friends' laughter towhat had happened. The face that stared into Finlay'swas young, open and honest, with close cropped hair above eyes that smiled frankly. He apologised inbroken English.

Finlay could feel himself struggling to shift hisgrimace into a smile of forgiveness. It was difficult. He





officers who had moved up for him. One of them waslooking at him and nodded back. Finlay was preparedfor the man - about his own age - to give him the onceover. If it was going to happen it would happen now.But the man turned away. Finlay stared out of thewindow and on to the platform. His toes inside hisboots had curled up with the tension and he had toconciously straighten them out. He stared out andbreathed in as deeply and slowly as he could. Inside,his mind was screaming.

With a judder, the train moved off.Finlay struggled to remember the times he had

been on trains before. Tried to encourage thememories of other trips. It was the way a civilian mightthink. But he found he had no such memories. Hecould think of the first time he had gone to Brighton asan adult, to teach at the school in Lewes, but only inan analytical way. He could not remember the feelingof what it had been like. He had been a different

person then.The train crossed the Thames, and for one

shocking moment as he looked up the river to the easthe forgot his surroundings. He dimly remembered themagnificent buildings that had been there yearsbefore, with the tower of Big Ben above them. Nowthere was nothing. Parliament had been smashed

deliberately, first by bombs and then by shells from theadvancing artillery, until there was nothing left. For hundreds of yards along the river bank there wassimply wreckage; piles of rubble with the occasionalpiece of wall rising above it, nothing left. Of Big Benthere was no sign, and the bridge had the entirecentral section missing. London had been declared an



open city, for Christ's sake. It had made no differenceat all.

The train crossed the river and the evidence of the rape of his country was replaced by the grimyfacades of the terraced houses south of the river.

There was respite only for a moment, then thetrain clattered past the wreckage of a huge railway junction. Here the damage was if anything worse. Itlooked like the fighting had only stopped a few daysbefore, not three years ago. There were carriages andlocomotives still lying on their sides across the tracks,and the train he was on had to by-pass most of thestation's many platforms. From his window, Finlaylooked out across the wreckage to houses that backedon to the line. In a row of around twenty, perhaps half were still standing. In one, a young woman washanging out washing, despite the cold damp air andthe proximity to the fumes and the filth of the trains.Then she disappeared from view.

He was due to get off at Haywards Heath, a smalltown just over an hour south of London. His luck lasteduntil a few miles north of it. The German officers hadtalked happily on for perhaps an hour after leaving thestation. He had no watch, and no means of telling howfar they had come, since he could not remember thestations on the line he had travelled on so long ago.

The soldiers were thankfully not drinking, andafter a while he began to relax and wonder if it wouldnot be all right. Then their conversation started to dryup. Something in his unconcious mind realised fromthe cadences of it that it had now turned to him, to thisodd, nervous and no doubt exhausted-looking manwho had sat next to them for an hour, saying nothing.



The carriage door opened. The train's guard - anold man - stood in the doorway and asked for tickets.His voice seemed unnaturally loud. He was lookingstraight at Finlay. A German soldier behind him saidsomething to the officers, and they reached intopockets presumably for their own.

So it begins.The guard examined Finlay's ticket perfunctorily,

then returned it and turned around. The officer behindhim indicated he should squeeze past him and thenhis eyes settled on Finlay.

"Your papers and travel permit, please," he said inEnglish. The soldier was older than the others in thecarriage, though he looked only to be the rank of something like a sergeant. As Finlay reached for hisdocuments he was concious of the others in thecarriage all now looking at him. He handed over theticket, travel permit, ID card and labour exemptioncertificate. The officer examined them laboriously.

Then his eyes looked up into Finlay's. He seemed tobe trying to impress the other officers in the carriagewith his thoroughness.

"You have come a long way," he said, his eyessearching.

Finlay was not sure if it was statement or question. The ticket would only have given details of

the trip from London, but the travel permit would haveindicated his journey had begun in York.

"Yes," he said, his mind racing.The officer held his gaze for a moment longer. A

flicker of something like disappointment crossed hiseyes, although it might have been Finlay's imagination,then he nodded and turned to go. The officers in the



carriage had already started to talk among themselvesagain, their interest in him spent. As he left thecarriage, the officer who had checked his ticket saidsomething to the officer nearest the door, who lookedat Finlay and smiled.

Then he resumed his conversation, the guard left,and Finlay breathed again.

As they neared Haywards Heath, he got to hisfeet to pull his bag from the luggage rack in good time,to avoid the appearance of a hurried departure.

The four officers looked at him blank-faced, andhe nodded to them curtly as the train began to slow for the station. He turned away and looked out of thewindow, urging the carriage to slow down morequickly, fighting the longing to wrench open thecarriage door too soon. And then the train had stoppedand he opened the door and stepped out on to theplatform.

He was the only person to get off. The others - all

soldiers - were heading south for the coast, a coast hehad last seen three years before. As he walked to theticket office and the exit, the train started off again witha screech of tortured metal. He walked out of thestation past the lone sentry standing stony-faced bythe exit. When he was outside, there were two roads,one leading into Brighton, the other leading out into the

Sussex countryside. He chose the latter. As hewalked, he pulled in a huge breath and held it as longas possible, then let it out with a huge sigh.

It was over.

The smell of earth and manure from the fields waslike perfume, it was as if the air was so clear it was



water, cleansing him. The sky overhead was grey andthickly studded with cloud, though no rain fell yet. Hewalked on and on past the rolling hedgerows down theroad, further and further into the countryside. He felthe could walk forever in this state. There was now apure silence, with only the rustling of the wind in thetrees and the occasional bird to break the silence.After the perverted destruction he had seen in London,the world he walked through now seemed to havereturned to the order of before, the correct order of things. It gave him peace.

Eventually, he stopped beside the road and sethis case down. He squatted on his haunches and saton it, lighting a cigarette and drawing the smoke deepinto his lungs. He could feel the tension drain fromhim. He looked up at the range of low hills, at thegreen countryside around him, and for a moment itwas impossible to imagine any other world but this.

The field on the other side of the road led up to a

small clump of woodland. He looked at it intently,wondering if he was being watched by those who weremeant to meet him and who had designated that hestop here, on the road away from Brighton. He blewsmoke into the damp, morning air. Let them watch. Hewas content to wait.

He knew that by coming south, by rejecting the life

of a partisan and swapping it for the world of undercover resistance, he had taken a step that wouldmean him placing his trust in others in a way he hadnever done before. At first it had seemed madness -like that first meeting with Thomas months before,when he had felt everything was running out of control



and he was helpless to stop it. Now he found he wasable to live with it.

After all, it was not as if everyone was a completestranger. When three cigarette butts lay crushed onthe road at his feet, he heard the approach of the manhe was here to meet. A man from another time, from apast life. A ghost.

The clear sound of a horse's hooves soundedfrom along the road, hidden by the hedgerow. Fromaround a bend, a horse and cart appeared, driven by aman sitting on a rough wooden bench fastened to thefront of the ancient looking vehicle. The horse lookedthin and haggard to the point of starvation, with baldand scaly patches on its haunches. It seemed barelyto have the strength to pull the cart and its passenger along. Horse and cart drew up in the road next to him.

The man was thinner than Finlay remembered.Thinner and older.

He had changed, as had they all. He looked down

and smiled. Time had come full circle."Well, well. Been a long time.""Hello, Stephen."Finlay looked up into the face of Stephen Calvert,

who had been his friend in Brighton and who he hadlast seen five long years, a lifetime, ago.

A long time indeed.

It was some time before they set off creaking backthe way they had come, the horse setting a gentle,unhurried pace. Even with Stephen there, Finlay wastense with the possibility of betrayal, but he found thesilence of the countryside and the rythm of the cartsoothing. Stephen stared ahead at the road.



"Forgive the mode of transport. But even if we hada car, which we don't, it would attract too muchattention. The only people who have cars are theGermans. They are the only people who can get petrolfor them. This here's Jessie. She doesn't look muchbut she's game enough. We've another one back atthe farm called Albert."

Finlay looked at the muscles working away under the thin, dry skin of the haunches.

"He looks like he could do with a square meal.""Couldn't we all? Jessie's more likely to end up as

someone else's." Stephen's voice went quiet. "Isuppose it's worse in Scotland."

"Yes. It is."Finlay did not want to talk of Scotland. The letter

in the safe house had told him of Stephen's existence,but he wanted to know more. His mind was alive withquestions.

"What happened to you, after the invasion?"

Stephen's voice was a flat monotone, so differentto what Finlay remembered.

"Me and Michael were in the Local DefenceVolunteers, in Brighton. I was captured. I managed toescape and get back here. My family have known thelocal copper for years. He got me an exemptioncertificate, saying I'd always worked on the farm. So

officially I never fought and it's a reserved occupation.I wasn't deported like the others."

"Hell of a coincidence us meeting again.""Not really," said Stephen. "In fact, hardly one at

all. Remember - almost all the military age malepopulation have been deported already. It's good tosee you."



"Michael?"Stephen looked ahead of him."Michael died.""I see."Finlay stared at the passing countryside. Stephen

only increased the dislocation and loneliness he felt.He was not the same person, and neither wasStephen. That was the tragedy. There was no wayback. Yet he had to know.

"And the others. Ren?"Stephen did not look at him."As far as I know still in Brighton, if she survived

the fighting. I haven't tried to contact her.""Why not?"Stephen turned and looked directly at him."It would put her in danger. Me too. Besides..."He looked away and made as if to speak, but then

stopped."Never mind."

There was silence.Eventually Stephen spoke again."You must have been told a lot about the farm and

me and the girls for your cover. But nobody told usabout you."

Finlay thought for a moment."Not much to tell. I was at Newhaven when they

landed. Got wounded but managed to fall back. Beenin the north ever since."

"Is it true people are still fighting up there, aspartisans?"

"There were some, but the food and ammunitionran out over the first winter. People either died or went



home if they could. The powers that be reckoned wewould be better off fighting down here, under cover."

They drew up into a farmyard nestling betweenrough farm buildings. It had begun to rain. Stephenpulled the cart up and jumped off.

"While you are here you can help with themanuring. You look fit enough. Grab your bag andcome in. The women went up to Brighton earlier butthey should be back by now."

Finlay got off the cart and followed Stephentowards the main farmhouse. The building hadcracked and low whitewashed walls. Some of thecracks ran from the patchy thatched roof all the way tothe floor, and the walls had not been painted in years.The building looked like it could fall down at anymoment. Stephen opened the front door and steppedinto a dark and low kitchen. There were stained oakbeams on the ceiling and a cracked stone floor.

Two women were sitting at the rough wooden

table as the men entered.They both looked to be in their late twenties or

early thirties, tighter and more compact versions of Stephen himself. Both with short dark hair and bothobviously sisters. Finlay found he had to bow in order not to hit his head on the ceiling. Stephen was takingoff his coat.

"This is Finlay. I suppose I should introduce himas Finlay Calvert, since he is supposed to be our brother. That's what your papers say, isn't it? This isClare, and over there is Marjorie."

Finlay nodded to them. Neither seemedparticularly welcoming, and neither got up as theyentered. They stared at him with drawn smiles that



disappeared quickly. Both looked tense andfrightened. Finlay realised he was shy. He did notknow what to say to them. The feeling was sounfamiliar he did not recognise it at first. EventuallyClare spoke, looking at him with a level, direct gaze.

"You must be tired after your journey. It cannothave been easy."

"It was all right. The Germans are more interestedin leave."

"Sit down and I'll make some tea. There's no milkor sugar, but the tea is genuine."

She got up and reached for an old iron kettle thatstood on the hob. Marjorie got up too. She saidnothing, but shot a glance at her brother before goingthrough into the room next to the kitchen. Stephenfollowed her wordlessly, shutting the thin wooden door behind him. Finlay followed them with his gaze, thensat down. The room was warm. He took his coat off and laid it over the back of a chair.

"You've been in Scotland, is that right?""Yes.""And now you are here.""Yes."She busied herself with the kettle."I'm afraid Marjorie doesn't agree with what is

happening here - with us sheltering you. She thinks it

is stupid to carry on fighting. It only leads to morereprisals and more people dying."

"I see." It was expected."The thing is... it is not much of a life here but we

survive. We survive because we co-operate. There isno other way. If they are attacked there will be a priceto pay. There always is."



He had heard it all before. There had been a timewhen he had thought of little but this.

"And what do you think?"She set down a mug of dark tea before him and

her face creased into a tired smile. She had the samecrow's feet around the eyes as her brother. Unlike his,her face was pale, almost white. There were darkshadows under her eyes.

"I suppose I'm one of those people caught in themiddle who make up most of the population. I stoppedthinking about it long ago. My fiance was killed inDover when they landed. While you are here you arewelcome."

Finlay sipped at the tea, which was hot andstrong. Outside, he could hear the rain starting tocrash down. In the far distance there was thunder.

Later, after a short tour of the farm with Stephen,he set off through the rain alone back to Brighton. The

journey had two purposes. He wanted to familiarisehimself with his surroundings and the route to Brightonas quickly as possible. It made him uncomfortable tobe in such an alien place. The other reason wastucked into the bundle of documents in his jacketpocket. The occupation regulations stated that hemust register with the police at Haywards Heath on the

day of his arrival in the district. He walked along thecountry lanes in the silence gratefully.

He wanted to be alone.Having seen Stephen, and now he was back

barely ten miles from Brighton and the coast, thememories of his time there - the memory of Ren -flowed back uncontrollably. He found he could not



concentrate, even on the buildings Stephen pointedout on the farm. He could see her face everywhere,the sudden uncontrolled laughter like an explosion, theway she walked, the mocking in her tone, the warmthof her scalp through the fineness of hair. He had never been able to think of her as dead and gone, killed bythe bombing or walking along a street breaking thecurfew, nor as anything that might be finished in hismemory to be discarded and only remembered. Toomuch of him was a part of her, measured itself alongside her, saw things still as he imagined shewould have seen them.

He knew the feelings were unnatural,disproportionate. They had never even become lovers.But she exercised such power within him as theexpression of an impossible ideal, never compromisedby experience. He knew the reason he still thought of her was the same reason he kept fighting. His love for her was as his hatred of the enemy, a way of

channelling emotion into some avenue where it couldnot be compromised by lesser feelings, the realities of an everyday existence.

His mind filled with faces he had seen and knownand lost; his sisters, the friends from school days andBrighton; Michael and the Newbury brothers andDavies. It was impossible to think of such things

without despair. The feelings for Ren, the hatred of theGermans, were an escape, a safety valve. The longingfor what had never happened was a shield against thedespair of what had happened. If he took away love for Ren, would anything be there? If he took away thehatred of the Germans, would anything be left? Love



and hatred were the only strengths left in him, so heclung to them.

He felt his spirits lift as he reached the outskirts of Brighton.

The police station was opposite the railway station- he had seen it when he had first arrived. There weresandbags outside and another sentry. Like the one atthe station, he looked young and inexperienced. Finlaywondered how things were going for the Germans inthe East. The sentry looked barely out of his teens. Hedid not challenge Finlay as he walked past him into thestation and looked about him.

There was a glass fronted booth that he took for the reception desk directly in front of him. Behind itwere two men, one a British policeman in uniform, theother a German officer. Both looked up at himexpectantly as he approached the desk. He addressedhimself to the policeman and ignored the German.

That would be what was expected of him."I've come to register as a new arrival. I'm an

engineer staying with my brother at Manor Farm." Hetried to remember to smile. "I just arrived thismorning."

The sergeant seemed friendly enough. Hereached under the counter for a log book of some kind.

"Manor Farm? Stephen Calvert's place? Didn'tknow he had a brother."

Finlay was prepared for this, but the hair still roseon his neck.

"I've been working up north. In London, then up inYork. No rest for the wicked."



He felt sure the smile would be taken as agrimace, but the policemen didn't seem to notice. TheGerman officer barely looked up from the papers hewas writing on. Finlay handed over documents for thepoliceman's inspection. They were examined carefullyand the details noted down in the black book. The manwrote in a tiny, spidery hand. Finlay could feel his heartslow a little. The police sergeant spoke without lookingup.

"How are the two sisters? What are their namesagain? I sometimes see them."

"Clare and... Marjorie. They're fine.""Nice girls. Always friendly. Tragic about your

mother and father. I knew them too."Finlay said nothing. Inwardly he was screaming.

This was getting dangerous. Why didn't the bastarddispense with the jovial copper routine? It didn't workwith a fucking German at your shoulder.

Eventually, the man looked up and smiled.

"There you are, sir. Just sign on the right handside."

Finlay smiled again.He remembered to sign with his false name.

‘Stephen sat staring out of the window of the

farmhouse, across to the outhouse where Finlay was

sleeping. It was dark now and the rain, heavier earlier on, had slowed to a drizzle, without thunder. Thebuilding across the courtyard was shrouded in gloomand mist even from a few yards away, although fromone window there was a faint glow from a candle.

Stephen was frightened. He knew that byaccepting Derrington's presence with them, he and his



sisters had taken a step that would have profoundconsequences for them all. At best it would changetheir lives, at worst perhaps end them. The idea of taking an active part in resisting the occupation hadgiven him an ease he had not felt for years, a feelingof belonging that coloured everything. He rememberedhis father saying it - sooner or later, you had to tie your colours to a mast. He had not understood the words atthe time, but they had stayed with him through theyears.

He realised now what it was that made himwelcome the man he had once known, so long ago,despite the dangers the man brought with him for Stephen and his sisters. It was what his father wouldhave done.

He sucked hard on the dying remnants of acigarette. Things could not go on as they had done -even Marjorie had to see that. Ever more stories of defeats for the Germans against the Russians, and no

indication of the Americans doing anything - it wasmore important now than ever that his country shouldexhibit some spirit.. He had found himself surprised atthe feeling his country could awaken in him. But onceit had come he had accepted it.

The Germans were bound to take more hostagesto try and insure against acts of sabotage and attacks

on them, they had done it so often. There had beenhorrific stories of what had happened in the north. Butthat, surely, was the price to be paid? He thought of the distant memory of Churchill and his imprecationsto fight on. At first they had sounded magnificent, thenhollow when it was revealed he had flown. But themessage had not completely died.



He gave up on the cigarette and stubbed it out onthe floor. The thought of what the next few weeksmight hold filled him with fear - a cold emptiness in thestomach - but the fear was not for himself. It was for Clare and Marjorie.

And for Katherine, the quiet and shy daughter over on the Miller farm on the other side of the hill. Hehad wondered about proposing to her, but there wasno point now, with things as they were. If he was tomarry her, he wanted to bring something with him. If not money, then some other wealth, a wealth of spirit.He had been fond of Ren, had loved her even, but hadknown all along she had not loved him. She had lovedanother.

With a last thoughtful look at the glowing windowof the outhouse, he blew out the oil lamp in the kitchenand made his way to bed.

The outhouse in which Finlay lay was even more

delapidated than the farmhouse itself.Great clumps of plaster had fallen from the walls

and there was a steady dripping from various leaks inthe ceiling of the old shed. The smell of pigs - its lastoccupants, long ago - was still strong. Finlay was evenfurther from sleep than Stephen.

He was grateful for the hospitality people were

showing him, knowing the risks they faced. But he wasfilled also with frustration. He wanted to see Brightonagain. He was impatient to see Brighton, to see if itmatched up to the mental picture his memory had lefthim with.

He could no longer stop the picture of Ren cominginto his mind. He no longer wanted to. He was



consumed by the thought she might still be alive, mighteven be in Brighton. The simple fact of geography hadaltered the capacity of his brain to expel her from histhoughts. While he could no longer see her face in asharp focus, he could recall the evening of her birthdaywith the precision of a surgeon's knife.

Far more than anything since, more than theGerman invasion, it was the night he felt he had losteverything. There had been no-one since then, exceptfor a prostitute in Newhaven, in the mad days beforethe landings. No-one in London, no-one in Scotland.

As the pictures of her came, the image thatreturned again and again was the feeling of her hair when he had touched it, the smell of it when he hadbent to kiss it. He could smell it now, clearer than anypicture. He lay back and stared up at the brokenceiling with its dirt and cobwebs, cold and empty.

Eventually, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

He stayed in the farmhouse for a week, never venturing further than the outlying fields, and in thattime he saw no Germans at all. Impatience to seeBrighton and to plan for the task that was ahead inLondon nagged at him, but he was also overtaken bythe life at the farm, so far from what he had known, soclose to what he had considered a normal life before.

By day he would help Stephen with the farming asbest he could, in the evenings he would sit down for evening meals better than he had known for years.One evening there was even bacon. He had forgottenits strong, salty taste. Clare, the younger of the sisters,remained open to him. Marjorie kept up a hostilereserve. He was beginning to relax and find the life



enjoyable. He had to remind himself, with a growingsense of dread, that he was here to do a job.

One night Stephen did it for him. The two weresitting at the kitchen table together. Clare and Marjoriehad gone to bed. Stephen looked at Finlay. His eyeswere tense.

"You... we... are going to need weapons, aren'twe? I presume you were told I know of an arms dumpnear here."

"It hasn't been used?"Not that I know of."Before the invasion arms caches had been buried

at pre-determined locations all over the country, aprelude to the expected guerilla war that would followsuccessful German landings. The caches were buriedin watertight boxes the size of coffins - Finlay had seenseveral in the north.

"It's over near Cuckfield, just outside Brightonunder a cow trough. I saw them putting it in when I

came back here. I thought of going to get it out myself but it would be a long job even for two men. It's a lot of digging." There was a defensive note in his voice.

"Could we use the cart?""No. Too dangerous at that time of night. It would

make a hell of a noise. Even if we were only stoppedon the way out we could still be shot for breaking

curfew. Besides, if we take the cart we have to stick tothe roads. Between the two of us we can carry it - just."

Finlay got up and walked to the window. Therewas low cloud cover, and the first beginnings of a nightmist coming in.

"We'll go tonight."



They set off at midnight. Finlay wore a dark

overcoat, Stephen a dark duffel coat that looked navalin origin. He carried a slim pencil torch in one of thepockets. They walked down the farm track and turnedright on to the open road. At this time of night theywould have ample warning of any vehicle approaching.This far into the countryside, a foot patrol was unlikely.Finlay had to trust to Stephen's knowledge of the road- which seemed to be excellent; he could see nothing.Only occasionally did the clouds break to reveal aquarter moon which bathed them in light. Heconcentrated on following Stephen's footfalls, walkingbehind him, relishing the silence. Several times hefound himself wandering off the road and nearly intothe ditch alongside. He was not used to the darknessof southern nights.

They walked for nearly two hours, by-passingseveral hamlets along the way, at which no lights

showed. Finlay wasn't sure if it was because of thehour or because the houses were deserted andabandoned, as they had been in Scotland.

As they approached Cuckfield they stopped. Thecloud cover was now less heavy and the moon wasbreaking through more often. He was worried that itmight be getting too light under its glow, but Stephen

did not seem worried. He could just make out that theyhad stopped at a crossroads. To one side a woodenstake came out of the ground to a height of aboutthree feet, where it had been raggedly broken off.Probably an old signpost destroyed before theinvasion. Instead of a road-sign in English, there was







might have only two hours of darkness left. It hadtaken that to get here and then they had beenunencumbered.

"We need to hurry," he whispered to Stephen'soutline.

He sensed, rather than saw, the face expectantlywatching his.

"Don't you want to open it up and have a lookinside? Just to check."

Finlay had already set to work filling in the holethey had made.

"No time."

They only just made it back before daybreak. Theclouds had disappeared and they were bathed inalmost continuous moonlight. The best way to carrythe box was as if they were pall-bearers, on their shoulders. Finlay's neck and shoulders were achingunbearably and he was beginning to limp badly. His

hands were bleeding. Stephen, more used to suchwork and healthier, seemed less affected.

They carried the box into the kitchen and set itdown heavily on the scarred surface of the table. Clareand Marjorie were still asleep, for which Finlay wasgrateful, and the two men worked silently, only talkingin whispers as they had outside. By the light of the oil

lamp, Finlay could see where the box was not caked inearth it had been eaten away by rust. There was noindication what colour it might once have been. Thebox had what was left of a metal catch, without a lock.He opened it using a knife to prise apart the weakenedmetal.



Tense with anticipation, he raised up the lid,pushing hard as the corroded hinges stuck.

The contents were covered in soddennewspapers. Water and time had reduced them to adamp and moulding mush. He pulled layer after layer away, and then underneath, found black tarpaulincloth. As he touched it, he found it not sodden withwater, but with a mixture of grease and oil. Underneathwere the weapons. There were four American-mademachine guns, four pistols, hand grenades and boxesof bullets and magazines. He pulled out one of themachine guns. It gleamed blackly in the light from thelamp, its surfaces shining with a layer of thick grease.It looked brand new. He pulled the bolt back and it slideasily. When he looked up, it was to see Stephen'sface staring at him, pale in the early morning light.

Behind him, silent and unnoticed, was Marjorie.The three of them stood for several moments after

Stephen had caught the line of Finlay's eye and looked

behind him. Neither of them could mistake thereproach in the woman's face as she looked at both of them first and then at the gun in Finlay's hand. Withouta word, he replaced it in the box and covered it againwith the black cloth.

Marjorie, clad in a dressing gown, turned awayand walked silently from the room. Finlay looked at

Stephen questioningly, not needing to ask. Her fear and her hostility aroused in him equal mixtures of anger and sympathy. He did not know which was right.Stephen looked back at him and shrugged.

"Where are we going to put these?"Finlay thought as Stephen, reconsidering, left the

room after Marjorie. Without the box, the weapons



would take up far less space and be easier to hide.The box could be discarded. Any military insignia hadlong ago rusted away.

After a few minutes, there were raised voices fromthe room next door. They grew louder all the time;Marjorie's angry, Stephen's consoling. Finlay could nothear the words but he could imagine them. Hewondered if they would wake Clare, then decided itwould be a good thing if they did. The sitting roomdoor opened and Marjorie stood framed in it. Therewere red flushes on her usually pallid cheeks and her eyes were full of unreleased tears.

"You know what all of this means, don't you?" Her gesture took in Finlay, the weapons, everything.

"It means simply more killing, more dying. And for what? Whose war are you fighting? Everyone says theRussians are winning in the East. Sooner or later theGermans will leave. What is the sense in provokingthem further? You won't have to take the fucking

consequences."She paused, fighting back sobs. Her whole body

shook. He was more shocked by that than by thewords she used. His eyes bored into the box in front of him, as if it might contain the answer to her. No wordscame. There was silence for a while, and thenStephen's voice.

"We have been through this over and over again,Marj. We cannot just let the Russians win the war for us. Where will that leave us? A damn sight worse off than before. Something has to be done, whatever thecost."

"How can we be any worse off than we are now,for God's sake? Whatever the cost . You always use



that expression don't you? That's because it's not youwho has to bear the fucking cost. It's the ones who gettaken hostage, shot or hung for no other reason thanbecause of what you want to do. I cannot believe youdon't think about that."

She paused and gestured at the guns again, her voice quieter, still staring at her brother.

"Nobody wants this, you know. You may think youare making heroes of yourselves or something, butnobody else does. People don't want any more killing,don't want any more resistance. You can see that fromthe newspapers. People accept the Germans are here.They don't like it but they accept it. It cannot bechanged by a few stupid men getting others killed.Nobody bothers anymore. It just means needlesssuffering. If the Russians come, they come. All welland good. But we're beaten. The great British Empireis over. Most people in this country just want peoplelike you to accept it."

Stephen was having difficulty keeping his voicedown.

"If we carry on fighting, we're not beaten. There isa point to it."

"There's no point at all. We were beaten threeyears ago. Beaten. Everything since then has beenfutile gestures paid for in other's blood. All the slogans

on the walls, the bombs in cafes and on trains, allthat." She turned to look at Finlay, crying now.

"Why don't you tell him? You've been in Scotland,haven't you? It's worse up there. Fighting and bombsever since the invasion. What difference has it made?I'm not a fascist - not one of the blackshirts. But tell me



- what difference has it made, apart from moresuffering?"

Stephen took Marjorie's arm but she pulled awayfrom him, still staring at Finlay.

"Well?""For God's sake Marjorie, drop it."Finlay stared into the box of weapons. He could

think of nothing that would explain it to her or help her in any way. Everything she had said was true anyway.That was the worst part.

The three of them stood together, not speaking.Eventually, he turned and walked out into the yardthrough the front door, closing it behind him softly.‘

Two days later Finlay went back to Brighton. Ithad been three years since he had seen it last, andthen only the station as he waited for a connection toNewhaven, too frightened of venturing into a town thatwould hold such memories.

To go there now was pointless and dangerous -but the longing was too great.

Stephen gave him a lift to the station on the cart.They rode most of the way in silence. Stephen did notask what the purpose of Finlay's trip to the coast was.He would have received no answer had he done so.

At the station, he jumped down and went in to buy

ticket and permit. The guard who manned the ticketoffice viewed him with keen eyes, staring out from aweathered face. On his right arm a red swastikaarmband sat, insignia of one of the fascist parties thathad sprung up since the occupation. Finlay asked theguard about travel permits, and was informed nonewere needed for such a short trip. The bureaucracy of



processing permits for such short distances haddefeated even the Germans. He bought a ticket thatwould enable him to return that evening.

"New around here, aren't you?" The guard'smanner did not imply a friendly question.

"Not really. I'm staying with my brother. Beenworking up north."

"Oh really." His eyebrows rose in a look of scepticism that Finlay thought was probably general,rather than specific. The guard handed over the ticket."Nice work if you can get it." He looked at Finlay withunreadable eyes.

Outside, Stephen stared down at him. There wasa light in his eyes that was a mixture of curiosity andconcern. The two shook hands.

"Take care of yourself," Stephen said. "You don'thave to be told it's far easier to be picked up inBrighton, even if your papers are in order. Whatever you are doing there, be careful."

Finlay nodded and went back into the station towait for his train.

He was luckier than he had been on the train fromLondon. This time the civilian carriage was empty. Hewas grateful. He knew he was nervous and distracted,not thinking straight - he would not have relished any

sort of company.The journey was a short one - barely half an hour

- and then the train was slowing down as it passedPreston Park and approached the station. He lookedout at the skyline he had last seen three years before.Then, as now, the effects of bombing were lessapparent from up here on the station approach. Only



the odd gap in a street here or there pointed to anyabnormality. As the train approached the station thedamage become more apparent. The railway sidingsto his right had been destroyed in several places withhuge craters and gaps still unrepaired. The stationitself was missing the whole eastern section of thewall. The difference between memory and realitycompounded the unease he was experiencing. Somuch had changed, but so much remained the same.He was not sure which was which any more. He triedto remember his first arrival six years before, when hehad come to teach at the school in Lewes. But thememories from that time were faded and misty, like aphotographic film corrupted by light.

Once the train had stopped and he had passedthrough the platform gates on to a concoursecrammed with soldiers, he found himself unconciouslyfollowing the footsteps he had taken six years before.He felt frightened and even vaguely ridiculous. He had

no idea why he had come, no idea what to do. He wentout of the station and down Trafalgar Street towardsthe Old Steine. The barber's shop was still there, stillopen; the cafe alongside it still steamed up by thecooking inside. His sense of displacement increased,but his nervousness lessened. He dreamed of enteringa pub and ordering a whisky - it had been so long. He

could afford it and it would fit into his cover storyshould that be necessary. He decided later on hewould risk it.

Only when he got to the bottom of Trafalgar Streetwas he brought up short. Both sides of the street,including the pub on the left hand corner, had beenflattened by blast. For the last 100 yards before it



opened out, the street was a dirt track, passing over earth and rubble used to fill the crater. The pub hadhad low ceilings and bookshelves lining the walls. Ithad been a friendly place.

Perhaps he was walking over some of thosebooks now. The flattened square where the pub hadbeen brought back more memories of another life. Heremembered a game of darts with Ren and Stephen inthis very place. He could see her face quite clearlynow, laughing as her darts went anywhere but theboard.

He stopped to light a cigarette, and his handswere shaking. The visions in his mind were like aphysical presence alongside him. He coughed heavilyas the smoke hit his lungs. He turned right, away fromthe road in which he had once lived, and walkedtowards the seafront. The closer he got, the moreevidence of invasion there was. He had thought of Brighton so often during the years of struggle and

hardship, he had been unprepared for the evidence of devastation within it. Brighton had been somethinguntouched in his mind, he could not now take in thesmashed buildings and bullet holes in walls as hewalked along.

The Pavilion had been smashed by shellfire. Awooden fence now surrounded it. Where once there

had been the extraordinary domes of the building'soriental roof, a jagged edge of broken brickwork nowran along the top of walls intact, but without windows.As he watched, a group of boys emerged from adoorway and ran off towards a gap in the fencing.

He walked on. The war memorial was undamagedby the fighting, its white portals still above the fountain.





He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Hewas brought back to the present by the sound of anarmy truck thundering down the seafront road behindhim. Sitting on a bench alone, a solitary man of militaryage staring out to sea, was not the best way of avoiding attention. Under the guise of lighting another cigarette against the wind, he stole a look at the truck.It was packed with soldiers. Unlike those at the stationgoing on leave, they looked purposeful and serious.He tensed, grateful to be rescued from the storms inhis mind by the danger of the present, but the truckdrove on along the coast past him. He got up andcrossed the road, re-entering the streets of Brighton.

He walked up the road towards the street Ren hadonce lived on, the rooms she and Jean had been burntout of after the fire. He could not find the building thatshe had once lived in. He could not remember whattype of shop it had been above, and the whitewashedfacades of the buildings provided no clue. He

narrowed it down to three possible candidates, butcould not choose between the three. He walked on intoBrighton.

He found a quiet, empty pub far from the stationand the police headquarters, a place where hispresence was unremarkable. He was hungry and hislegs ached. They seemed to give him more pain than

they had in Scotland, perhaps because he was walkingless now. He ordered a whisky and a cheesesandwich.

While he ate, he read a copy of the Daily Mailsomeone had left on the seat beside him. It wasthinner than he had remembered, the stories obviouslydoctored by the occupation forces like the paper he



had read in London the week before. Eventually, he letit drop and stared into space. After he had eaten, hecarried on walking from street to street, trying toremember the names and fit them into the picture inhis mind of what Brighton had been. He had to quell agrowing feeling of aimlessness as he walked, but theillusion of activity stilled the thoughts in his mind. Hestopped himself from heading anywhere near thehouse in which he had lived on Viaduct Road, or therooms Ren had taken up the hill from there.

On the seafront, and in the town, he saw Germansoldiers walking with their arms around obviously localgirls, speaking in studied, halting accents. He had tostop himself from staring at them. When he looked attheir comfortable togetherness, it emphasised his ownalienation, not theirs. He was the interloper here, notthey. The world had swung on its axis to take newbearings, and those people around him seemed, if nothappy with them, at least comfortable.

He thought again of Marjorie the other morning.She was right. People had accepted the Germanpresence here; they wanted no more killing. He walkedon, trying to avoid the eyes and outstretched hands of the beggars who seemed to be everywhere now. Hefelt more contempt for them than for the enemy - their begging seemed the final confirmation of defeat. He

thought the Germans with their intolerance would havecleared the beggars from the street. But of course theydid the opposite. They thought as he had done; it wasthe final confirmation of a people vanquished. He gavemoney - a few pennies - to a young woman with abundle of filthy rags beside her. Only when the bundlemoved did he realise it was her child.



He was anxious to be gone. The road to his rightled up over the hill to the station. It was the most directroute, but it was also the road on which Ren had lived.He was frightened of what he might see when hepassed her old house. God knew, she might still beliving there. More than that, he was frightened of thesame thing happening as on St James' Street. Hemight not remember which building had been hers,and that would be worse than knowing she had livedthere, might still live there.

It was the early evening and the wind rushed in off the sea a few streets away. He shivered. There was apub just up the road which he remembered frombefore. He would stop there for another drink to givehis mind time to calm.

The pub had a small yard at the front with prettyplant pots - that much had not changed. Inside, it hada low ceiling. Light from the front windows providedsome illumination towards the front of the pub, but

further back there was almost no light at all. It wasbusier than most places at this time of the evening.There were several elderly men at the bar, and agroup of younger women at tables to his left as heentered. The pub was near the main street andbenefitted from people who came for a drink after work. Finlay scanned the place as unobtrusively as

possible - there were no Germans apart from a partyof officers at a table near the front window. They weretalking quietly among themselves and barely looked upas he entered. Had they not been so near him, hewould have turned and left. But that would have drawnmore attention, so he went to the bar and ordered awhisky instead. The barmaid who served him looked



tired. He took his drink to the back of the room, whereit was darkest, and sat down.

He should not be in here. It was madness. He wascompounding error with error, taking stupid risks for noreason at all. He sipped the whisky, which was coarseand adulterated with some unknown spirit, and listenedto the conversation at the bar. The pub was beginningto fill up. Finlay wondered where they got the moneywith things as bad as they were.

He would have this drink and get out of here, hedecided. He would draw the day to an end.

He looked at the faces of the drinkers orderingpints of beer and spirits at the bar. He could notreconcile this picture with the beggars he had seenoutside, could not understand how the two picturescould co-exist together. How people could let ithappen.

The German officers at the window carried ontalking and drinking, ignored by those around them.

There seemed none of the bitter resentment he hadexpected, had sought to draw strength from, in thestudied indifference to them.

Another German officer entered the bar, a womanin a dark coat behind him.

The German was tall and limped. Finlay waslooking away - anxious to avoid eye contact - when

some familiar aspect of the woman caught him, in thefragment of time when he still had her in his peripheralvision. He looked back, his stomach already churning.

Madness indeed.The woman was Ren.





but to get away, he looked for one last time towardsthe bar. Ren and the German were now at it. Ren wasshielded from Finlay.

He could go now, or he could stay sitting where hewas, and face all that that might entail.

He brought his left hand up and made a pretenseof running his hand through his hair, covering his eyesas he did so. His right hand went down to deposit hisglass in front of him. He stood up and walked to thelavatory door, praying it would not be locked andwilling himself not to look towards the bar. His handwas still in front of his face. It would have been clear toanyone looking at him that he was hiding fromsomething. The door gave under his pressure, and hepassed through to the safety inside.

There was no sign of recognition, no hand on hisshoulder. Once inside the door, he collapsed againstthe wall, fighting to get his breathing under control andtrying to think. He succeeded with neither. His mind

could only summon different images of her from thepast back to his unwelcoming vision. He swore tohimself silently under his ragged breathing. The sameword, over and over again. After some moments hemanaged to look around him with a semblance of thought.

He was in a small room with only two doors, one

leading to the pub, the other a glass one to thepassageway outside. If the pub did not have anoutside passageway, he was trapped. He crashedthrough, making far too much noise, and felt weak withrelief as the blast of cold air hit him. At the end was awooden door, marked ’Gents“. He ran to it and yankedit open. On the other side was a small stone-floored



yard lit by a bare light bulb. The yard was crowded withbeer crates, and was open to the sky overhead. A lightrain was falling. He turned his face up, breathingdeeply. On the other side of the yard was a lighteddoorway - the entrance to the lavatory.

His heart was still hammering. He was sweatingprofusely, though it was not warm. On one side of theyard was a pair of locked wooden gates, at least sevenfeet high. Anyone coming into the yard would see himat once. There was nowhere to hide under the lightfrom the bare bulb. Perhaps at that very moment oneof the German officers was coming along thepassageway to the yard...

The thought galvanised him into action. Hecrossed quickly to a line of huge beer barrels. Theywere too heavy to lift, but he found that if he tipped itup he could roll the barrel towards the gates. Hepushed the barrel up against them, where it settledback on to the ground with a dull thud. He wrenched

himself up on to it and looked over the gate, prayingnobody would come into the yard now. The street onthe other side was darkening steadily, the pavementsglinting, slick with rain. The only figure was shamblingaway from the pub, at least 100 yards off. It mighthave been either a beggar or a drunk. He did not care.He sensed deliverance. He hauled himself up on to the

gate, swung his legs over with difficulty, and droppedawkwardly to the street below.

There was no shout, no challenge, no cocking of arifle or the bark of a dog. The shambling figurecontinued on up the street. He pulled the collar of hiscoat up and walked away, down towards the sea,



willing himself not to break into a run. Slowly thebeating of his heart subsided.

He walked on into the rain.

The man had been a German officer, and he had kissed her. But that was not what had crucified Finlay.It was the light in Ren's eyes as she had looked up intohis face. He had seen it before. The despair wouldcome soon enough, Finlay knew well. But the hatredwould have to be dealt with first. A few hundred yardsdown the road, when he was sure he had not beenseen, he turned and doubled back. Back towards thepub, and the woman he had once known.

It was over an hour before they came out of thepub.

Finlay followed them up the hill to where Ren hadlived before.

It was dangerous, but it did not matter to him anymore. The German was obviously walking Ren home.

Outside the rooms she had shared with Jean all thoseyears before, the couple said goodnight. She livedthere still. Finlay watched as they embraced.

Eventually, Ren went inside. The German walkedaway towards the hill that went down into Brighton. Hewas limping. Finlay knew if he killed him, Ren might beimplicated, if it was known she had been with him.

It was another thing that didn't matter anymore.Not really.

He followed the German into the night.

Finlay was shaving in cold water in the outhouse.He had risen not long after dawn, having slept not at



all. All through the night he had stared into darkness. Ithad been the same every night since Brighton.

Tiredness numbed his mind and body, and hebarely noticed as he dragged a razor down his face inthe cold morning air. As he finished, the unfamiliar sound of engines crashed into the silence of thefarmyard. It could mean only one thing. He did nothurry his washing, only settling himself for what mightbe waiting outside. He pulled on shirt, jumper and jacket calmly, then went out. Two vehicles had pulledup - an open command car in front with the officers,and a truck behind with a platoon of soldiers. Stephenwas already next to the command car, talking to thetwo officers in the back of it. Neither had made anymove to get out of the car. Finlay was pleased to seeClare and Marjorie had come into the yard - thewomen would take the edge off the soldier'swatchfulness, although the expression on Marjorie'sface was one of rank terror.

Stephen was animated as Finlay came over. Hecould see with relief none of the soldiers looked to begetting out of the truck with a view to searching thefarm. The guns were hidden in the outhouse where heslept. Even a cursory search would find them.

Stephen looked at him as he approached."This is my brother. He’s staying with us while he

is working on the rail lines. An engineer."His voice had just the right note of sycophancy

mixed with pride at his engineer brother. He seemed abetter liar than Finlay had given him credit for. Theofficers looked at him. Relaxed, but alert andintelligent. Panzer Grenadiers - far superior quality tothe usual occupation soldiers. He wondered what



fighting troops like this were doing here. The onenearest cast an eye over him and spoke in haltingEnglish.

"You don't look much like your brother."Finlay could feel the hairs rise on the back of his

neck, but even as he said it the officer was lookingaway around the farmyard, checking things off. Theother said something in German, at which the firstlaughed. Finlay assumed it was a remark questioninghis parentage. All well and good. Finlay smiled asbenignly and ruefully as his stomach - knotted with fear - would allow. He said nothing.

The officer finished his examination of the farmand looked back at Stephen.

"We are looking around this area for accomodation for officers. Brighton is crowded nowand there is difficulty with billets. How many bedroomsdo you have?"

"Three."

"Good. We will allow you and your sisters to stayin one. We will need the others. Your brother can staywhere he is."

Finlay did not know if it was his imagination, or there really was some hidden inflexion in the use of theword brother. Perhaps it did not matter if there was.Not if the man believed they were from different

fathers. Stephen nodded quickly."I'm sure we’ll manage."Finlay silently congratulated him on his tone. It

seemed to please the officer, who appeared to havedecided he was sympathetic. He marked something ona clipboard.



"Very well, then. Thank you. We will come back toinspect the rooms later."

He turned to Clare and Marjorie and nodded atthem with formal courtesy. Clare nodded back coldly,Marjorie still looked petrified. The officer had alreadylooked away. He was used to it.

The two vehicles circled the farmyard to turnaround. Finlay glanced at the truck in the rear; sixteenbodies held rigid, eyes staring ahead. He thought of cattle, but these men were not that. They weredisciplined, fighting men. The four of them watched asthe Germans drove out of the farmyard and down thetrack until they had disappeared behind a hedgerow.Stephen let out a huge sigh and turned to Finlay.

"Christ. I thought they would search the place. Weneed to find a better hiding place for the guns."

"Not now. We'll do it later. It's a classic trick. Theycome back in a few moments and find us lugging aload of guns around the place. Leave it until the

afternoon. They are not fools.""What do you think troops like that are doing

here? They don't look like the usual ones. Perhaps theAmericans are coming to save us after all."

Finlay shrugged. "Or the Russians."He walked back into the outhouse to finish

dressing. Clare had gone back into the farmhouse, but

Marjorie still stood at the farmhouse door, staring after the Germans, the look of fear still on her face.

Finlay did not wish to see it any longer.After seeing Ren and her German, nothing

mattered. The German had died coughing up his ownblood under the bridge in the dark, a mile down the



road from where he had left her. Nothing matterednow.

Three days later Finlay and Stephen went to meetmembers of a resistance cell created by Stephen inthe recent months. The men were in occupationsexempt from deportation. They would help with thetask Finlay had been ordered to accomplish.

The meeting was an arrangement made weeksbefore Finlay had arrived and it made him nervous.These were not people like Stephen - put in positionyears before, awaiting a call to action. They were menwhose sympathies had been measured by Stephenhimself, probing gently without revealing his hand, tosee whether their hatred of the occupier was enoughfor them to take action. Finlay was placing his life inother's hands more than ever before. But there was nochoice. What they had to do he and Stephen could notdo alone.

By the afternoon it had started to drizzle lightly.The meeting was at a farm owned by a friend of Stephen's family from before the war, ten miles away.They would go in the evening and return the followingmorning to avoid curfew.

Stephen attached the horse to the cart onceagain. The drizzle had taken the edge off the cold for

which Finlay, looking at the soaked hills around them,was grateful. He climbed up alongside Stephen. Hehad debated taking one of the guns, but the risk wouldbe too great. Whatever awaited them at the meeting or on the journey could not be changed, and the risk of being stopped and searched would be too great. Therewould be a time for such risks, but not now. Stephen



gathered the reins together and flicked them to moveoff. As he did so, Clare came out of the door of thefarmhouse. She was dressed in a hefty raincoat, with adrab scarf around her head which did little to protect itfrom the drizzle. She trotted across the yard andhopped up lightly into a sitting position on the back of the cart, looking at one man, then the other, her leveleyes challenging them. Stephen looked at Finlay, thenat his sister, then at Finlay again, his eyebrows raisedin question. Finlay shrugged, and Clare smiled briefly.Finlay looked away. He trusted her as much as hetrusted anyone. Her presence would help if they werestopped.

The rain grew worse as they made their waythrough the country lanes, keeping to side roads. Thesky was darkening with the clouds overhead. Raintrickled down Finlay's neck, although he was used to it.Behind him Clare sat like a child, her legs hangingover the edge of the cart.

"What will Marjorie do while we are away?" heasked. Her opposition still worried him.

"She'll be all right," said Clare. "She'll go to bedand read a book."

There was silence for a while, then she spokeagain.

"What did you do before the war?"

"I was a teacher, with your brother. At a school inLewes. That's why I know this area. I lived in Brighton."

"Stephen never told me.""He wasn't supposed to.""You were a teacher up until the invasion?""Yes. Then I joined up in 1939.""You didn't like teaching?"



"It wasn't that. It was... something else.""Did you think there would be a war like this?""Didn't you?""No. I suppose I always thought they would work

something out. I certainly didn't think we'd lose. Or thatwe would accept it as easily as we have. And thenwhen Duncan got killed... I suppose I didn't really thinkabout anything after that."

Her voice trailed off. Finlay stared at the passinghillsides.

The house was buried deep in woodland - likesomething from a fairy story.

It reminded Finlay of the camp in Scotland.Lighted windows appeared before them like beaconsin the gathering gloom. From somewhere an owlhooted. Finlay looked at the black woodland thatsurrounded them. It could have contained a battalionof men. The feeling of losing control, of surrendering

his fate to others, was strong as never before. Hewondered if the same thought had occurred toStephen and his sister.

The door of the house was thrown open. A figurewas briefly silhouetted against the light, then it quicklymoved to one side into the dark. It was a man, andthere was something in his hand. Before he could

challenge them, Stephen's voice rang out."It's Calvert."The man did not speak, but stayed standing in the

dark by the door. Stephen's voice dropped to awhisper.

"That's Baker. Curtis must be inside."



Stephen pulled the cart up into the light of thedoorway. Finlay could dimly discern a whitewashedbuilding with a thatched roof, in the same state of repair as Stephen's farm. Only when they had jumpedoff the cart did Baker come forward into the light andspeak. His accent was broad Yorkshire, and Finlaycould make out a short, thick-set man, older thanhimself, with thinning hair cropped short and leatheryskin. Keen eyes stared at him.

"Any problems?""No," Stephen said. "This is the lieutenant. He got

here eventually. Where's Curtis?""He's here," said Baker, and turned to go back

through the doorway. In his hand was not a gun but acarving knife. Inside, oil lamps hung from the low oakbeams of the ceiling. The only other occupant of theroom - Curtis - was taller and younger than Baker, andstood by the kitchen door on the far side of the livingroom. About thirty, with a thin angular face and strong

bones. His greeting, unlike Baker's, was formal. Hestepped forward and shook all their hands in turn. Hehad to stoop to avoid the beams above their heads.The room was cold with no fire, and Finlay andStephen sat on a delapidated couch. Curtis sat downopposite them on a small stool. His thin, wiry framewas rarely still, and he sat hunched, tensed for

movement. Unlike Baker and Stephen, he hadachieved exemption from labour deportation onmedical grounds, rather than from essential farm work,and he worked as a journalist in London.

"Did you get the guns?" he asked Stephen."Yes.""And do they still work?"



"Still in their wrapping, as good as new."The direct gaze switched to Finlay."And you’re the army man who’s here to tell us

what to do with them."Finlay listened for resentment in Curtis' tone, but

there appeared only enthusiasm. Somehow it worriedhim more.

"So what are we going to do with them?"Finlay pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and

passed it across to Curtis. It was from the Daily Telegraph some days before. He watched as Curtis'face registered what he was reading. As the otherssaw the expression turn from puzzlement to horror,their eyes turned to Finlay. He stayed still, notspeaking, waiting for Curtis' reaction. The slip of newsprint, crumpled and grubby with the poor ink,gave details of Court events for the following Monday,a week away. Most of the items concerned senior members of the occupation regime, as if they were

some new royal family. One item he’d underlined.Curtis looked up at him, shaking his head in disbelief.His voice was low and clear.

"You must be joking.”"What is it?" asked Stephen.Curtis looked up at him, then back to Finlay, then

back down at the paper in his hand again. He read the

underlined item out slowly.Reich Party Comrade and Governor General

Reinhard Heydrich and SS Colonel Dr Franz Six of theMilitary Economic Staff will meet with their royal highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Windsor at Hampton Court Palace and proceed from there toBuckingham Palace for luncheon and talks.



Curtis looked up again."What are you thinking? You're going to kill them?

You must be mad!"Finlay took a deep breath."I’m not going to kill them. We are."

He looked away from Curtis and stared at the wall.He did not wish to meet his eyes or any of the others.He could feel the tension rising in the room, but hefought the urge to break it. They would draw theconclusion they wished. For a second Curtis' look of horror had unsettled him, disturbing the scarred linesof thought in his own mind that had led up to this,making him question his own judgement. It was whathe had been asked to do and he would do it, comewhat may. Curtis broke the silence. Finlay hadexpected shouting, outrage. Instead his voice wasquiet.

"Heydrich?“ The Governor General? Have you

any idea what they will do if he’s assassinated? Andthe Duke of Windsor?"

Finlay stared at the faces around him before hiseyes returned to Curtis. The others stared at the floor,though whether in shock at the revelation or acceptance of their task he did not know. He kept hisvoice level, though there was a rising bitterness and

resentment in it, directed as much at Curtis as at their occupiers.

"Heydrich is viewed as Hitler's successor. We alsoknow as governor in Czechoslovakia last year hebutchered Prague. It's rumoured the partisans theretried to get him but missed. He's an animal. The worstof them all. That is why we’re suffering so badly now.



The whole military-age male population has beendeported. It never happened in France, in Belgium, noteven in Poland."

Curtis made as if to speak, then shook his headand stared at the wall. Finlay went on.

"There are rumours - the Americans again - therehave been attempts on Hitler's life. The generals maytry to boot him out before he fucks up the war for themin Russia. But if he goes, the one man worse than himwill take over. Heydrich."

"But why kill the Duke of Windsor?" Curtis finallyasked.

"The Germans will install him as king before theend of the year. They think it will make themrespectable here. In the eyes of some, it will."

"What does this all mean?"This time it was Baker asking. His voice from the

kitchen doorway was quiet. Finlay continued."We know the Russians are winning in the east. It

may be years, but it is only a matter of time. ThenRussia will rule Europe. We also know neither Hitler nor Heydrich will sue for peace, ever. So the Russianswill have to destroy Germany and then they will haveEurope. If Heydrich and Hitler are both dead, maybesomeone will take over who will make peace with theRussians before they take over everything."

"So we're killing Heydrich to save the fuckingGermans from the Russians?" said Curtis.

"In a sense, yes. And to save ourselves."He knew what the others would be thinking, could

imagine the scene himself. It was always the same. Hehad seen its aftermath even more closely than they.Villages and towns closed off by barbed wire. SS going



door to door. The mothers and children draggedscreaming to the trains, the fathers to the pits. He hadwalked across the sites of such events after they hadhappened and he had caused them and the silencehad screamed at him as it would for years to come. Itwould be ten times worse for Heydrich. He found theatmosphere suddenly choking and he needed to beout in fresh air. His hands were shaking and his heartwas beating. He had no strength to argue anymore.He thought of the words he used to describe Heydrichand knew they could be used against him now. Hecarried death with him like a scent. He could notcontinue to argue for an action which was so obviouslyinsane. Its execution was dependent on acceptancewithout question. Without that, there was onlymadness and despair. He got up and walked to thedoor and stepped out into the rain, closing it behindhim firmly. He took great gulps of air, looking at theblack woods around and clenching his fists. The others

would talk and argue and come to their ownconclusions. He no longer cared. He lit a cigarette andstood leaning against the damp wall, oblivious.

Eventually, the door opened. Clare stood in it. Her face was expressionless, though her bearingsuggested a decision had been reached.

"You'd better come in. You'll catch your death out

here."The atmosphere was a funeral. Stephen stared at

the floor, while Baker was in the kitchen, out of sight.Curtis' angular face stared up at him. His skin wasdrained of colour, and the eyes that looked upsparkled with torment. His voice was barely a whisper.



"How do you propose we go about committingthis... act?"

"An ambush, on the street. Without explosives, it'sthe safest way, with the most chance of us gettingaway."

Curtis nodded, staring into space."And what of those who cannot - get away?"Finlay stared at him."They die."

A week later.Finlay got off the morning train at Croydon and

waited for one that would take him on to Kingston, asuburb south of London. The normal way to make the journey would have been via Clapham Junction, butthe interchange had been destroyed in the bombing.The travel permit he had with him was a forgery,prepared weeks in advance; he had had only to fill inthe date and the destination. It was the first time he

had used a forged document and it added to hisunease. The longer he remained in the south,travelling as an engineer working on the railways, themore likely it was that some zealous German officer might inquire as to whether a Mr Finlay Calvert wasactually known to his employers. The train on which hehad travelled up to Croydon had been almost empty,

but it did not stop the fear. The journey to Kingstonwas short and he stepped off the train with only ahandful of other travellers. There had been noGermans at all.

He set off towards the river in the direction of Hampton Court Palace - the official residence of theGerman Governor General in Britain. He remembered



it vaguely from a visit years ago when he and hissisters had gone walking up the river. They had tried tofish but had caught nothing.

The enormity of what he planned, and the lack of knowledge with which he planned it, made him feel asif he were drowning. From a cursory look at an illegalstreet map, he could guess the likely route of anyconvoy from the Palace to central London. Theshortest and simplest route would be along HamptonCourt Road with Bushy Park on one side and HamptonCourt Park on the other, over Kingston Bridge and onto the London Road. But that was only one questionaddressed.

The best plan would be to hit the convoy asquickly as possible after it had left. The nearer it got toLondon, the more likely it was to take a different routefrom the one he and the others might be waiting on.The disadvantage with hitting the convoy so soon wasthe nature of the area. Open, suburbia, hardly touched

by bombing or fighting, a difficult place to hide. Ideally,they would disappear into the Underground system,where they would be untraceable. But out here thatwas not an option. To try and get away using the parkson either side of the road before Kingston Bridgewould be suicide; if they were seen entering them theycould be surrounded and flushed out. But a house

would be no better. With Heydrich dead, the Germanswould conduct house to house searches for milesaround as if their lives depended upon it. Their liveswould.

Looking at the map, the germ of an idea dawned.A mile north of the bridge up the river they would bewithin a few hundred yards of Richmond Park; five



miles of thickly-wooded moorland to hide in. Mostparks in London had been decimated for firewood over the past years, or razed by the Germans to denyshelter to vagrants or partisans. But Heydrich huntedthe deer in Richmond Park - so the woodland therehad been guarded. They could strike, then make their way to the towpath beside the river and head north.There had been pleasure-boating on that section of the river before the war - it would be deserted now. Hecould imagine the German reaction after years of peace in the south. They would panic. They would gofor road blocks and searches on trains. It would takethem time to imagine more exotic forms of escape.Once in the park, he and the others would have onlythe hours of daylight to wait, and then they would besafe. The Germans would not have troops immediatelyto surround the entire park.

Another, more obvious, question nagged at him.Even with little partisan activity in southern

England since the capitulation, that did not meanHeydrich would be unguarded. Finlay remembered thetruckload of Panzer Grenadiers that had visitedStephen's farm. If those sort of soldiers were followingthe convoy, an attack would be out of the question.Their only chance would be with a convoy of at mosttwo motorcycle outriders and two cars. Anything else

would be suicide. And he was not ready for that. Thesolution would have to be left to the last minute. Theywould be in position and ready, and attack only if theconvoy was unescorted by a troop detachment. It wasnot ideal, and they would be running huge risks just toget into position, but without intelligence from withinthe palace there was no other way. He walked on



towards the bridge at Kingston feeling an increasingsense of unreality as his mind pondered suchproblems in the pleasant calm of the suburbs with their lawns and affluent facades.

He felt quite alone, in a way that had never affected him, even in the worst times in Scotland. Heshook his head. The plan he favoured would opt for simplicity. He knew from experience that the morecomplicated it was, the more things could go wrongand kill them all. They would take over a houseoverlooking the road just before or after the bridge,place a look-out to await the convoy's approach, thenhit it with machine guns and grenades. If Heydrich'scar was armoured, only a grenade was likely to stop it.With only five people and no vehicles of their own, theywould not be able to create a diversion or use another car to stop the vehicles. It was also possible - if theweather was favourable - the German cars might beopen-topped. Then it would be easy.

As he walked on over the bridge, he calculatedthe odds with a dispassionate mind. He thought thechances of killing Heydrich and his royal passengerswere at best only one in two, the chances of doing itwithout casualties to themselves zero. He thought of the villages he had seen in Scotland, charred ruins,their people dead or deported. He selected a house on

the far side of the bridge, looking out over the river.The convoy would be slowing down to take the corner on to the bridge. Heydrich and the Duke would bediscussing... what? He couldn't imagine. As he thoughtof them, he felt hatred and he welcomed it, nurtured it.It would make things so much easier. The housecommanded good views over the bridge and, to the



right, up the road towards the Palace a few milesaway. He had seen no German officers around here.The area was too affluent, the owners of the houseswould have bought the Germans off long ago to avoidhaving them billeted on them. It was always the way.He felt the hatred make his throat tighten. Theoccupants of the house he had selected he gave nofurther thought to. The time to think about them wouldbe later. He felt more confident as he walked back intoKingston. A mood of grim determination settled uponhim, which lasted all the way to the station.

As he reached it, two black saloon cars, of thetype only the Germans would have, pulled up rapidlyon the other side of the street. He tensed immediately,but the men inside had not come for him. He watchedas best he could. There were four of them, one in theblack of the SS, the other three in the plain clothes of the Gestapo. The SS officer rapped hard on adoorway. He thought back to the visit of the Germans

to Stephen's farm. Perhaps they had not come for billets at all? Perhaps security was being tightened for some reason he could not fathom, connected to theDuke of Windsor, who had returned from the Bahamasonly weeks before.

It would do them no good, he thought to himself as he walked on, forcing himself not to look as the

door was opened and the Germans forced their wayinside. Anyone walking past him would have seen asmile on his face, and might have wondered what itportended. But they had seen the cars ahead of them,and their eyes were lowered too.



Even with only five day's grace, there was little todo, little to plan.

The attack would follow the same pattern asothers before. In London, he would have theadvantage of knowing who the target was, his likelylevel of protection, and the approximate route of the journey. Finlay had already decided he, Stephen andBaker would attack the convoy; Clare and Curtis wouldbe look-outs to warn of its approach. Only the three of them had any experience of handling the weaponsthey would use.

He awoke next morning with a feeling very likeeuphoria. In some fashion that was beyond hiscomprehension, the date of the attack provided a kindof relief. He knew the worst fear came with notknowing - the fear he had had, they all had had - backin the dark days of 1940 before the onslaught. Thiswas different. He had no doubt the fear would come,but it was something that could be controlled until the

time was at hand. In this artificial and unexpected stateof mind, he and Stephen and the sisters continuedwith the running of the farm. The normality of the workseemed to emphasise the enormity of what was aboutto happen.

The days somehow passed.

With four days to go, Finlay lay on his rough strawbed as dawn broke, staring wide-eyed as the light fromthe grubby window spread across the floor. He wasremembering mornings like this in the camp inScotland, when he would wake hours before the dawnand lie listening to the wind outside. There was a softknocking on the door.



It was Stephen. He pulled open the creaking door and walked into the room. His face was haunted.

"Are you awake?""Yes."Stephen perched himself on an upturned rusty

milk churn in the corner of the room. He was dressed,and his breath made patterns in the air as he exhaled.He looked exhausted, but could not meet Finlay'sgaze.

"Marjorie’s leaving. She is going to stay with our cousins in London."

He looked at Finlay for a reaction. When therewas none, he looked away again.

"She says if we are going to kill ourselves andothers she wants no part of it. You probably gatheredher attitude when she saw us bring the guns back."

The first alarm bells began to sound in Finlay'smind.

"She doesn't know about the attack?"

"No, but she knows something’s up. And sheknows what the German reaction will be. We all knowthat, I suppose."

Finlay knew that the other man was telling him thisto express his own doubts. He waited for him to voicethem, but offered no encouragement.

"We really are going to do this, aren't we?"

"Do you think we shouldn't?""I don't know. It's difficult to talk about your

country's pride and honour, and what might happen toHitler or Heydrich or whoever, when you are faced withseeing what happens to people here, on the ground,people we know. It's difficult to make any sense of it.It's difficult to make sense of anything any more."



Finlay was tired of the argument."When is she leaving?""This morning.""Will she talk?"It came out more harshly than he intended, and

he regretted it instantly. Stephen looked at him, hiseyes angry.

"Good God, no, of course she won't talk . She's mysister, for God's sake."

"Sorry."Stephen seemed mollified. His gaze shrank back

to the earth floor at his feet."If you and Clare don't want to be involved you

don't have to be. You’re not in any army. You knowhow dangerous it’s going to be. God knows doing thisis not going to make us popular with our own people,let alone the Germans."

"It's not that. It genuinely isn't the fear, although Iadmit it's terrifying. It's just the bloody... cost. To have

so much blood on your hands. To imagine what theywill do afterwards."

"That's why they do it, to make us feel as you donow. To stop us in our tracks. Then they win. They’regood psychologists. Getting better all the time."

"This must have happened in Scotland. Reprisalsand all that. Even the Germans admitted what was

going on.""It did.""And you just stop thinking about it after a while, is

that it?""Yes."The word came easily in the effort to help the

other man. It wasn’t true.



When Stephen had left, he dressed in the cold of

the outhouse and walked out into the farmyard. Themorning mist obscured the hills around them and therewas ice mixed with the frost on the concrete floor of the yard. On the cart, which had been drawn upoutside the farmhouse door, Stephen sat with the reinsin his hands, staring straight ahead. He did not lookaround as Finlay came out. A suitcase and a bag werestowed behind him. The farmhouse door opened andMarjorie and Clare came out. He was struck again byhow dissimilar they looked, despite the short dark hair and square, strong features. This morning the effectwas stronger. Marjorie was ashen white. There weredeep shadows under her eyes, which were red-rimmedwith crying. They sparkled with tears, though her expression was blank and staring. Finlay stayed in thedoorway. It was he who had brought this misery uponher, he could offer her no comfort. He watched silently

as she hugged Clare wordlessly and then clamberedaboard the cart on which Stephen still sat. Only asthey moved off did she look around at him, staring witha peculiar intensity. He realised the look was hatred.For the Germans, she had shown only fear. And thenher eyes snapped back to Clare's and held them asthe cart trundled forward over the ice and frost of the

yard to the road beyond and was gone.In the kitchen, he set about making tea with water

from the kettle on the hob. Clare had disappeared inthe house, but re-appeared silently as the kettle boiled.

"Would you like some tea?" He could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes, please."



When he looked up, she was staring at him. Hehad expected hatred, like the sister, or at leasthostility, but there was only an open, frank appraisal.

"Does anything touch you, anymore? Aren't youfrightened about what happens next week?"

"Yes. And what happens after it.""What will you do after that?""You mean if we survive?""Yes." Her expression did not change."I don't know. Whatever I'm asked to do, I

suppose.""Might you stay on here?"He did not know if it was meant as an invitation, or

the opposite."I don't know. It depends on the orders I receive.""Do you always follow orders? Would you follow

them if they told you to stop this? To stop fighting?""I suppose it would depend on who gave them,

and why."

She grunted, almost with laughter."But don't you ever want to stop fighting? Accept

what's happened and get on with your life? Any life?It's what everybody else has done."

He set her cup down in front of her and lit acigarette. He did not sit down himself, but stared out of the window at the mist just rising from the hills.

"A lot of us don't have a choice but to carry on.We cannot just stop. If the Germans caught me nowI’d be shot anyway. They would take it for granted Iwas a partisan. It's the only life I’ve had, since theinvasion."

"But doesn't that mean you are fighting for all thewrong reasons?"



For the first time emotion - a hint of reproach -was in her voice.

"Probably." He drew on the cigarette. "I don't careanymore. Everybody has different reasons. Usually notas good as they appear."

He sipped his tea. The smoke from the cigarettemingled with the steam from the cup, until the twobecame indistinguishable. Clare broke the silence,getting to her feet and reaching for a newspaper hidden behind some saucepans on a shelf.

"You might like to look at this. Curtis is involved init. He gave it to me. It has a picture of our man in it."She threw the paper on to the kitchen table.

The word newspaper leant it a gravity it did notdeserve. In reality it was a large sheet of rough, poor-quality paper, folded down the middle to form four pages in all. He had been told of these things, like theV-signs on the walls, though he had never seen onehimself. In rough but ornate newspaper lettering

across the top was the word Victory . The print wasirregular and badly-spaced, and the ink came off in hishand. It was one of dozens of undergroundnewspapers produced around the country, an antidoteto the remnants of the national press which hadsurvived in censored, propagandised form. The imagethat held him was the picture that stared from the front

of the paper. A face he had seen, had studied, severaltimes before. The face seemed gaunt to the point of starvation, the hair receding already and graying. Butthe tiny pale eyes were what held him, staring outaccusingly, as if the camera itself had been guilty of some monstrous wrongdoing. Above it, the headline;The Butcher Arrives... with a short, surprisingly neutral



article giving details of Heydrich's installation asGovernor General three months before and a shorthistory of his career in Czechoslovakia and Germany.Finlay had read all the details before, many times, buthe devoured the article anyway. When he looked atthe face again, as well as the hatred there was alsofear. Not of what he was about to do, but a fear that hewould not do it, would not be able to do it, would beunable to bring himself to once more accept his owndeath and that of others as meaningless. He put thepaper back on the shelf behind the saucepans andwent out into the cold damp air of the morning.

Two days before the attack Baker and Curtiscame to the farmhouse in the evening.

The atmosphere in the dimly-lit kitchen was tense,and both men's faces were drawn and watchful. Finlaywas glad. If nothing else it showed they understoodwhat they were about to undertake. Stephen reached

to the back of the pantry and produced a bottle of whisky. Scotch - from before the war, not the drinkdistilled by the Germans.

"I was keeping it for a special occasion.""Why not?"The plan was simple enough. Finlay, Stephen and

Baker would go to the house he had selected in the

evening, before curfew. They would knock on the door and overpower whoever was inside. They would betied up and gagged, partly to ensure their silence,partly to ensure they might not be harmed when theGermans discovered them. To get inside the housewithout making a commotion was one of the riskiestparts of the plan, but he could see no way around it.



They could not wait in the open. Curtis and Clarewould arrive in the morning, positioning themselvesfurther down the street at intervals of 100 yards. Theywould be more exposed, and would have to find a wayto look as inconspicuous as they could, which wouldbe impossible, he knew, at that time and in that place.It could not be avoided. The attackers would have tohave warning of the convoy's approach.

"What if there are troops on the street. A patrol or something?" asked Baker.

"In that case, nothing happens. This is not asuicide mission." He wondered at the truth of thewords.

"And what if there's a truckload of troops withthem?" asked Curtis. His voice was not quite steady.

Finlay took a gulp of the whisky, feeling the liquidlight a fire in his throat and chest.

"The same thing. It’s a decision that can only betaken at the last minute. Your job will be to give us

warning when they come. Only when we see them do Idecide if we’re to attack. We can cancel right up untilthe last moment. If the street is lined with troops, if there is a truck behind them, we let them drive pastand we go home."

"And if neither happens?" asked Clare quietly."There will be some escort, but hopefully only one

other car and outriders. The important thing is to hitthem with everything, as fast as possible. It's no goodfiring off a few shots just as they go past. That’ll justget hostages shot for no reason. If we’re going to do it,we do it properly. The car’ll be slowing for the bridge,but it will still be travelling at speed. It will needeverything we’ve got, and a lot of luck as well."



"And if people are captured?" Curtis again."You all know what it means if you are captured.

To you, to the rest of us, to your families. You're allhere of your own free will. None of us will be able tohold out from telling the Germans everything they wantto know and it isn't expected of anyone to do so. If anyone is taken alive, the rest will assume they telleverything, and quickly. We meet back here only if weall get away safely."

"Or if whoever didn't get away is dead," saidCurtis tonelessly.

"Yes. If any of us is taken alive, you all havemoney and the addresses in the north to help youdisappear and get new papers. Hide them in a placeknown only to yourself and for Christ's sake don't havethem with you when we attack. And don't leave themhere. If someone is taken alive, you all look after your own. Clare and Stephen will have to get Marjorieaway. Curtis and Baker will do the same for those

linked to them.""Is there anyone the Germans can link to you?"

Stephen asked."No." He paused for a moment. "If anybody

doesn't want to be involved, say so now. This is your last chance." He looked at the faces around him. No-one spoke. "Good. Then there is not much more to

say, is there?"He drained the whisky in his cup and reached for

the bottle on the table.

They talked late into the night, the kitchen tableilluminated by four candles in cheap tin containers,



flickering flames casting shadows over them all andbathing the walls of the kitchen in shallow orange light.

Finlay took part in the conversation, but allowedthe drink to impart the familiar melancholy within him,and volunteered little. He did not wish to become fondof any of them, to care about the fates that awaitedthem, for in less than two days they would be dead tohim, if not to the rest of the world. With Curtis andBaker it was easy, but with Stephen it was moredifficult. They had known so much together, even if itwas so long ago.

He thought of Peter Newbury again, of Philip. Hethought of all the others; Milner and Smith andGaskell, all left on the beach. Johnson, crying in terror,and Farrell who had saved him on the hill tops, killed inthe mad scramble north. Already some of the namesand the faces had gone, and others were confused.He knew that normal life was a place to which hewould not return, whatever should happen in this war.

And he knew it, not because of all the dead faces, butbecause of one very much alive, seen in a pub inBrighton, while he, the stranger, looked on.

He excused himself and went to bed.Lying on the rough blankets fully dressed, one

thought revolving around in his mind. The following twodays might be the last of his life. He viewed the

thought with abstraction, like the line of a poem or anadvertisement. He remembered from his childhood thefeeling of having no control over time, the way it wouldspeed up as one approached a dreaded event. Fromtime to time, he heard snatches of conversation, evenlaughter, from the farmhouse kitchen.

Eventually he slept.





Stephen nodded. His fear made him child-like."Does it help? Experience, I mean.""Not really."They walked on over the sodden, partly frozen

earth, without speaking.In the evening, there was no alcohol, and even

less chance of rest.Clare cooked a thin stew, though no-one could

manage it. Finlay felt, as he had done before, he wason a lorry without brakes, unable to get off. Hadn'tPhilip Newbury said much the same thing inNewhaven all those years ago? There was little talkand all wished to be alone. After a while, most madetheir excuses and went off to bed, though no-onewould sleep. Finlay lay as he had the night before,images flitting through his mind, nothing settling longenough to be viewed and understood. Despite himself,he slept.

The morning brought relief with activity.Finlay shaved in freezing water in the light of a

guttering candle as the dawn slowly broke, the paingiving his mind something to concentrate on. He usedthe light of the candle to check the guns and grenades,nestling in a sack at the foot of his bed, one final time.The guns were of a type made famous by Chicago

gangsters in the 1930s, with fat cylindrical magazinesthat could hold over 70 bullets. They had been shippedover in the last days of 1940, as the Americansdesperately tried to shore up the crumbling Britishdefences without formally declaring war. The gunscould sustain a continuous fire for far longer than mostsimilar weapons because of their huge magazines, but



were prone to stop when a bullet got jammed in thebreech. A soldier from the Middlesex, Finlay'sregiment, attempting to ambush a German motorcycle,had jumped out from behind a tree with one of theguns, only for it to refuse to fire. He had still beentrying to unjam it when the motorcycle's machine gunhad cut him in half.

There was a thin drizzle falling, warming the air and creating a fine mist for the few yards Finlay couldsee. He breathed deeply. In the farmhouse, theygathered again around the kitchen table, for the lasttime. Their faces were haggard and drawn - they couldtake little more of this. He and Stephen and Baker would have the most hazardous journey, taking gunsand grenades on an afternoon train that was bound tocarry soldiers. They would go seperately. Curtis andClare would go into London together and join them atthe station. The four men and the woman sat aroundthe table and silently drank the tea Clare had made for

them.

At two o'clock, they made their preparations toleave.

Each checked they carried their necessarydocuments with them. Clare and Curtis were the first.They would travel together. Baker, Stephen and Finlay

would be on the same train, but seperate.The three men waited for a few minutes, then set

off for the station at five minute intervals. Even apart, itwas the most dangerous part of the journey. Threemen, all of military age, walking down a country road.At the station, they stood apart on the platform, tryingto ignore each other as best they could. When the train



arrived, the civilian carriage was empty save for twoelderly women. The carriages reserved for troopslooked empty too, as they often were in this direction,away from the coast. Finlay sat where he could seeboth Baker and Stephen, though Clare and Curtiswere further down the carriage, near the women, whoimmediately began to talk to them. Finlay hoped theywould be able to speak without revealing their fear.

He was not sure he would have been able to do ithimself.

They changed at Croydon, where there were moretroops on the station, awaiting transfers to the coast.

Finlay pretended to study the train timetables onthe platform, willing himself not to look to see what theothers were doing. The bag in his hand, with the partsof the stripped gun within it, useless now, feltimpossibly heavy. He felt sure the bag must looksuspicious - some bright-eyed corporal was bound tonotice and stop him. There would be the shouts, and

the running, and the sound of a rifle cocking behind hisback, and then the end.

The train for Kingston wheezed in, promisingdeliverance from one fear only to another. The five of them, still ranged up the platform, got on. Thecarriages were again almost empty. Stephen,disobeying instructions, had sat next to his sister and

Curtis and was talking to them. Finlay did not bother toobject. They were close now, and there was nothinghe could do about it.

At the station, there was only the ticket inspector and a bored sentry to negotiate. The sentry did noteven look at him as he passed, the first to get off thetrain. He walked out into the cold afternoon light, and



set off through the town towards the bridge, his heartbeating a slow, pounding rythm in his chest. He willedhimself to calm down, to think. There was a long timeto go yet. Following the plan, Baker and Stephen werenot far behind him. Clare and Curtis would walk aroundthe town a little before coming to the house. His mindtoyed with the cosily suburban street names, WoodStreet, Dolphin Street. They seemed absurd. Hethought for a minute of their inhabitants, with their hopes and dreams and fears and concerns. He wishedhe were one of them. Then he had reached the bridgeand was crossing it and he could see the house infront of him. No sign of life in its windows. Just oneother in a row of cosy domesticity. He walked on. Hefingered the knife in his coat pocket, the weapon hewould have to use to subdue the inhabitants shouldthey resist. He hated knives - hated their uncertainty.He had never killed anyone with a knife.

He slowed as he approached, to allow the other

two to catch up. The house had a small, pretty frontgarden flanked by a low stone wall. He turned to seethe faces of his companions. They were stricken withtension.

"This one."He led them up the three steps to a black, glossy

door, looking left and right to check the streets were

deserted. They were completely exposed if anythingshould go wrong. There was a figure off in thedistance, but it would take it minutes to get level withthe house. He pulled the knife from the pocket of his jacket and looked at the others for a final time.

Finlay brought the knocker crashing down threetimes, as loudly as he could, then three times more,



then three after that. The knock of the Gestapo, theoccupation forces, the authorities.

Those inside would already be terrified. The threemen were partly sheltered by the portals of thedoorway. They waited, breathing heavily, silent.

There was at last a thin, frightened voice, an oldman.

"Who is it? What do you want?"Finlay didn’t bother with a foreign accent."Open the door, now ." There was silence for a

long moment, then the sound of keys in the door andbolts being thrown. He made himself wait. The door began to move. He threw himself against it with hisshoulder, smashing it backwards into whoever wasinside and almost falling into the house as he did so.The man behind the door was elderly, with a baldinghead and dressed in a threadbare dressing gown over his clothes. He was hurled back against the wall by theforce of Finlay's lunge, and the breath knocked from

him.He looked petrified. Finlay pushed him back

against the wall, one hand at his throat, ready to stifleany cry, the other holding the knife against his face sothat he could see it. He fought the urge to vomit.Stephen and Baker were already past him, crashinginto the house and up the stairs to find anyone else in

the house. Finlay kicked the door shut as a thinscream errupted from upstairs and was stifled.

"How many in the house?" he hissed. “How many? ”

The old man recovered some breath, but his voicecame only in gasps.

"Don't hurt us. We've done nothing wrong."



"How many people in the house? ’Who liveshere?“"

"Just me and my wife, upstairs in bed. Our daughter’s away. Please."

"I'm not going to hurt you. Shut up."He felt the hammering of his heart. An elderly

couple alone. Too bloody good to be true. He felt likecrying with relief. Stephen appeared at the top of thestairs, looking stunned. He gave him a silent thumbs-up, then indicated he should bring the old man up.Finlay grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.The man's breath was sour, and a stain was spreadingdown the leg of his trousers under the dressing gown.There was a red mark on his forehead where the door had hit.

"Up the stairs. Don't say anything."The couple's bedroom was at the back of the

house - the front bedroom would be clear. An elderlywoman was still lying on the bed, Baker's hand

clamped over her mouth. In his other hand, like Finlay,he clasped a knife, his face blank. The women's eyeswere already bright with tears. Still holding her husband, Finlay talked to the woman, trying to keephis voice calm.

"We’re not going to hurt you, if you stay silent.We’re here to hurt the Germans and we need your

house. We will tie you up but we won't hurt you.Understand?"

The old woman stared at him. He was about torepeat what he had said, but then she nodded, once,quickly. Finlay looked at her husband in front of him,then back at her.



"We’ll tie you up and gag you. It's for your owngood."

He nodded at Baker and Stephen to get on with it.Each man produced rope they had brought with them.Baker began tying the woman's hands behind her back, while Stephen started to rip one of the sheetsinto strips, to use as a gag. The woman's shouldersstarted to heave in great, racking sobs. Finlaywondered whether to bother to reassure her, but hecould think of nothing apart from what he had alreadysaid. They had the couple bound and gagged withinminutes, lying side by side on the bed facing eachother. Stephen had gagged their mouths with socksfrom a drawer, then with the strips of sheet. Thecouple seemed calmer. Finlay took a handkerchief from one of the drawers in the room and went over tothe woman. He held the handkerchief over her nose.

"Blow your nose. It’ll help you breath."The woman looked at him with terrified

incomprehension, then blew her nose feebly. Finlayrepeated the exercise with the old man. He looked attheir quiet, subservient bodies.

"Try not to worry. Neither of you will be harmed."Stephen and Baker were both looking at him."What now?""Now we wait."

"Might as well make a cup of tea, then," Baker grunted, and started for the bedroom door.

Finlay laughed out loud. He felt the tension slip.Suddenly he was desperate for tea, for a cigarette, for anything.

Stephen was looking at him in wonder."Did you think it would be like this?"



"What?" asked Finlay."I don't know. Anything. Everything. The war.""Good God, no. Did you?" He clapped Stephen's

shoulder and managed to smile.The front bedroom was obviously the absent

daughter's. The walls were a feminine pink, althoughthe room did not look as if it had been lived in for years. He wondered how old the daughter could be.The couple must have been in their sixties, andobviously comfortable to afford such a house. Herisked a look out of the front window. The thing hadgone off fairly quietly, in the end, and the days of neighbours coming to investigate disturbances werelong past here. The view over the river and bridge anddown the street to his right was a pleasant one.

There was no sign of Curtis and Clare.Down the street to his right was something even

more welcome. He could not understand why he hadnot seen it before. About two hundred yards up; a

bench, one of the few left in London after most hadbeen ripped up for their metal and wood. Sitting on itwould make Curtis much less conspicuous - a mansitting on a bench, reading a paper, might be mistakenfor something normal. It wasn't so very long since ithad been. The house was warm after the drizzle of outside. He took off his overcoat and pulled the gun

from the bag, assembling it quickly on the bed. Themetal gleamed blackly in the soft pink of the bedroom,incongruous. True to his word, Baker appeared with amug of tea.

"Do we keep them tied up all night?""Yes. Check they’re comfortable from time to time

if you like. But they stay tied and gagged."



"Do you think people heard us next door?""Doesn't matter if they did. They won't come

looking. They'll assume it is Gestapo. Who else wouldbe knocking on doors?"

He sipped the tea and lit a cigarette, tipping theash into a china bowl that must once have containedflowers. The tea tasted unfamiliar. It had been yearssince he had had it with milk. He wondered where theold couple got milk from nowadays. He pulled anupholstered armchair from the corner of the room andplaced it to one side of the window, a few feet backand shielded by the light blue curtains.

Then he went downstairs to check the backgarden. They would need an escape route through theback and away from the road. The house's garden waslarge and well-maintained - the old man was agardener. Most of the flower beds had been given over to vegetables, as in every other garden for those luckyenough to have them. But what caught his eye as he

looked out of the back window, not daring to ventureinto the open, was the gate at the back of the lawn. Itled to a walkway that ran along the backs of thegardens. He nodded to himself. It would be enough, if any of them were lucky enough to use it. Their luckwas holding. From the front of the house he heard thefive distinct knocks that told them Clare and Curtis had

arrived.After he had greeted them, Clare wide-eyed and

pale, Finlay went back upstairs to sit in the window.They had timed it well - it was getting dark. The streetoutside was eerily quiet. To imagine what mighthappen tomorrow was impossible - he could notcontemplate it. He pulled from his pocket the rough,



crumpled picture he had cut from the newspaper Curtis had brought. He looked again at the thin, cruelface with its psychopath eyes. He imagined bulletssmashing into the face, destroying it bit by bit in a hazeof blood and brain. First the eyes, then the thin mouth,all reduced to pulp. The Duke and the Duchess too.He stared at the picture for a long time.

The others downstairs had settled themselves asbest they could on armchairs and sofa, if not to sleepthen at least to rest. The elderly couple had their gagsremoved and were given water to drink, still dumb withfear. The gags were put back.

Finlay stayed upstairs as long as possible, staringout into the street.

He had waited like this before. But the odds, andso the fear, had never been as bad as this. He litanother cigarette, sucking fiercely on the tobacco,pleased to see his hands still steady, so far. From timeto time his heart would quicken, hammering as if to be

released, then as suddenly it would quieten again. Thesilence was like a blanket.

All night he sat staring out.At one point, deep in the night, he felt tired, as if

he might sleep, but the feeling passed. He wondered if he should write a letter, though he could not think whoto write to, or what to say. They had waited like this on

the beach at Newhaven years before, but then theyhad not known when the Germans would come and ithad been easier. This was worse. Perhaps this washow his father had felt. Waiting to go “over the top”,forward to death at some prearranged signal. This ishow he must have felt.

The thought provided no comfort. He was alone.



At last there came the sound of birds in the trees,and a dog barking, and the first hint of light muddyingthe black of the sky with streaks of grey. The tirednessand tension of the night hit him and he felt suddenlyexhausted. The day ahead, with all that it might bring,seemed unendurable. He wanted to be elsewhere,some quiet and warm place, buried, able to sleepforever.

He went downstairs.The others were sitting around the living room,

faces white and watchful. No-one had slept. Theystared at him questioningly. The clock on the fireplacesaid 6.20am.

"I'll make some tea," he said, his mouth dry asdust.

He took water to the old couple up the stairs. Thewoman appeared to be asleep, but the old manwatched him with careful eyes. When he took theman's gag off, he groaned.

"What are you trying to do?""Don't ask," Finlay said. "It’s better for you not to

know. It will be finished soon enough."He did not wish to speak to the old man, to have

his self-control tested any more. Ignorance would bethe couple's only chance. He re-tied the gag in placebefore the old man could speak again.

He went back into the front bedroom and satagain by the window.

It was nearly seven o'clock now and there was theoccasional passer-by outside; delivery carts crossingthe bridge, the occasional military truck passing,making him flinch. He watched as three office girls -secretaries or typists - went past, grim in the early



morning cold and rain. He wanted to reach out tothem, to share in their intimacy, to once again feel thetrappings of a normal life. Then the girls had gone,crossing over the bridge to their offices somewhere inthe town and it was quiet again.

At nine o'clock they could wait no longer.It was time for Curtis and Clare to take up

positions on the road. Curtis would be nearest, readinga newspaper on the bench. The signal would be himstanding up as if to move off, then dropping the paper.The convoy would appear, and it would be Finlay'sdecision whether to hit it or not.

His mouth was dry as he spoke to the two of them.

"Whatever the level of protection they have - yousignal anyway. We’ll decide to attack or not. If you’rechallenged by a policeman or patrol, you walk away inthis direction and signal that that has happened as you

pass. If all goes to plan, we meet back at thefarmhouse tonight."

He shook hands with Curtis who was looking athim with the fear wild in his eyes. He made to do sowith Clare, who seemed calmer, but she steppedforward and kissed him on the cheek. She smelt of soap and her lips were ice cold.

After they had gone, he went back upstairs.The urge to be alone was paramount. Up the

street two hundred yards away, he could see Curtisarranging his lanky frame on the bench. He lookedterribly conspicuous. But if challenged, he could atleast show that he was resident in London, could evenconceivably be here to survey the journey of Heydrich



and the Duke as some form of research for an article.It was Clare who was in the greater danger, with nocover story at all and far from home with a forgedtravel permit. She had disappeared up the road andout of sight to him, though not to Curtis.

He wondered if he would see her again. Theywere on the final stretch now. It might be only minutes.

He prayed silently that nothing would go wrong,that they would take this route, that the level of protection of the convoy would not be too great.Having come this far down the road, he was not surehe could do it all again. Like before, in the pillbox atNewhaven looking out to sea, he felt insulated,studying things in some parallel dimension, things thatcould not touch him. The fear came in knowing thatthey could. Stephen came up the stairs to thebedroom. His voice was strained. Its quiet intensitystartled Finlay.

"It's been half an hour. Any signs?"

"Nothing. Go back downstairs."His voice seemed to come from a long way away -

it did not seem to be his own. He went back to staringout of the window, focussing with such intensity onCurtis that the image swam before his eyes. Still hesat there, still he read.

Another half hour somehow passed.

And then time stopped.There was the familiar rushing in his ears and his

heart seemed first to slow, then accelerate wildly.Curtis was standing up, exactly as planned, making asif to fold the newspaper, then letting it slip to the



ground. The pages, caught by the wind, began toseparate.

Finlay's actions were automatic, honed by hoursof imagining nothing but this.

He jumped from the chair and ran across theroom, clicking the gun's safety catch off as he went.There was no time for prayer, or thought, or reflection.Only the small questioning voice at the back of hismind, wondering how it would be...

Baker and Stephen had heard him clatteringacross the room and were waiting by the front door ashe crashed down the stairs. Their weapons were intheir hands, their eyes wide and staring. He did notlook at them, but pulled a grenade from his coatpocket. The bomb felt cold and heavy in his hand.

"Come on." His voice was no more than awhisper.

He opened the front door and stepped out. Therewas still a light drizzle. It was cold. To his left there

was a horse-drawn cart moving away in the distance,away from the bridge, and a few pedestrians walkingtowards it, still a hundred yards away.

He looked to his right.The road was empty save for what had just

rounded the bend and was approaching them atspeed, only two hundred yards away. A motorcycle

and sidecar, in front of two huge black saloon cars,gleaming like beetles. From the wings of both,pennants and swastikas flew. The convoy had alreadypassed Curtis.

Finlay made his decision."Concentrate on the lead car first."



He could hear Stephen swearing quietly tohimself, his voice shaking.

After the calm of before, his heart had now startedto beat so terribly it was painful. The fear, as he hadalways known, was worse than anything reality mightbring. He stepped forward and down the stairs, andtook up position behind a tree a few yards from thehouse, keeping the gun behind him hidden.

He had thought there might still be seconds left,but as he looked out, he saw the convoy had slowedlittle and was almost upon them. In slow motion, hetook a step to his right, swung the machine gun up andaimed. He pulled the trigger.

The motorcyclist had seen him, but had nochance.

Even with the sound of the car engines, the clatter of the gun in his hands was shocking in the quiet of themorning. He opened up directly at the motorcycle, thenstarted to rake the fire back and forth across the

windscreen of the car in front.In the split seconds before the first bullets hit him,

the driver of the command car had braked to avoid themotorcyclist in front, thrown back off his machine bybullets smashing into his chest. As his own vehiclewas hit and bullets hit him in the face, the pressure onthe brake pedal increased, as the car began to skid.

With a huge crash of tearing metal, the car behindsmashed into the one in front at the same moment thenow riderless motorcycle combination ran into therailings on the other side of the street.

Finlay was already pulling the pin from a grenadeas Stephen and Baker started to rake fire across bothcars, now joined together, as they slid forward. The



motorcyclist disappeared under the wheels of the frontcar, and it reared up as it rode over his body. Finlaymoved forward, determined the grenade would find itstarget. Behind him, Stephen and Baker had to movealong the pavement as they fired, to avoid hitting himin the back.

He ran to within twenty feet of the lead car, thenthrew his bomb. It landed against the right side of thecar, exploding with a deafening crash. Finlay wasalready running around the front of the now stationaryconvoy when the blast caught him and threw him off his feet. He got up again to run to the other side,pulling another grenade from his pocket as he did so.He could see soldiers getting out from the car at theback, only to be hit by Stephen and Baker's fire. Infront of him, the back door of the lead car opened ashe pulled the pin of the second grenade.

He had an impression of faces he had seenbefore, had studied for so long. In the back of the car,

on the side nearest him and making no effort to getout, the thin, haunted face of the Duke, slumped toone side. Two other figures were also in the lead car,their backs to him.

And already half out of the car - Heydrich. The face was as he remembered, thin, pale and

cruel, but now one side was blackened and glistening

with blood. The eyes that stared were smiling, the lipsdrawn up and back in an unmistakable snarl of pleasure. The head went down to sight along thebarrel of a pistol held in his right hand.

Finlay felt a savage kick in the stomach whichthrew him backwards. He hurled the grenade as besthe could. He was closer to the car this time, and the



bomb had only to travel some fifteen feet. It explodedright in front of Heydrich, smashing him back into thearmour plated door of the car with savage force. Hedied.

Lying on the street, dazed by the blast and windedby the bullet that had entered his stomach, Finlay feltremoved from everything. The voice in the back of hismind now seemed to have taken over, allowing him toview things with detachment. He felt warm. The noiseof firing broke through again. There were still soldiersin the rear car who were protected by its armour plating as long as they stayed inside, and he had toget cover from them. He got to his feet - impossiblyslowly - and stumbled back across the road towardsthe gateway of the house he and the others had comefrom.

As he came back round the front of the cars, hesaw Stephen, his back against the wall of the gardenof the next house along, feet stretched out in front of

him. His gun lay on the ground beside him.Stephen's face was unmarked, and he seemed to

be studying the pavement between his legs withinterest. There were black marks on his chest. AsFinlay looked, his face dissolved in red mist as a bulletcaught it, smashing his head back against the brickand rolling his body to the floor.

Finlay thought: Now even he has gone.Baker was still firing, sheltering behind the stone

of the gate of the house.Finlay ran doubled up across the street, firing

blindly to his left as he went. He had an impression of soldiers lying on the road by the open door of the rear car, though whether they were alive or dead he



couldn’t say. He screamed at Baker to get back intothe house, then crashed to the ground to seek shelter behind the wall and cover the other man's retreat.Baker needed no second bidding. He ran up the stairsinto the house, dropping his now empty machine gunbehind him.

Finlay lay behind the wall, firing blindly at theremains of the convoy. His stomach felt impossiblywarm, like something burning had been set upon it. Ashe watched, two soldiers jumped from the door of thecar to assume firing positions. He pulled his gun upagain and fired a burst at them. He saw one soldier blown backwards by the bullets, but the other jumpedback behind the rear of the car, stepping on the bodiesof his fallen comrades as he did so. The last bullet thesoldier fired caught the stone wall in front of Finlay'sface, smashing concrete and brick into his unprotectedeyes, blinding him completely. He fell back behind thewall on his side.

And still there was no pain.Instead, the warmth of his stomach was now all

over his face. He lay stunned, shaking his head. After a while, some blurred reddened vision returned slowlyto his left eye. From the destroyed right eye, there wasnothing.

The voice inside his head spoke more clearly now

- he could hear it plainly.Stephen was dead and he was alone. Finally

alone. The voice urged him to go. All his energy seemed

to have left him. He remembered the exhaustion after a battle, after Newhaven - this was worse. He gotstaggering to his feet, fired a last burst in the direction



of the convoy he could no longer see, and ran up thestairs for the doorway.

He ran and ran. As he was almost through it,there was a tremendous shove as if someone weregiving a helping hand, far too strong. He was thrownforward, to sprawl on the floor of the hallway, out of sight of the soldiers in the street.

Now the burning was all over him. The voicedrove him on. He managed to get on his hands andknees and crawl along the passageway. The instinct toescape had taken over his concious mind, driving himforward with an imperative that was automatic. Onlyhis unconcious mind - the voice inside his headgrowing fainter all the time - still functioned, viewingwhat was happening with dispassionate interest. In thekitchen, he levered himself up on to his feet using thetable. Baker had disappeared.

He staggered out of the back door and across thegarden to the back gate. He stumbled through it and

tried to make his way along the passageway that ranfrom left to right. He was banging from one wall to theother and energy seemed to be slipping away from himby the second. He would have to rest soon.

The alleyway opened out on to a quiet residentialstreet. His one-eyed vision was clouding red again,and he felt more and more tired. Soon he would sleep.

As his view diminished, he could more clearly seethe face of Ren instead –Ren! - and he was happy. Hecould see her dark, glinting eyes, that furious barkinglaughter. He smiled at the thought of it. It would benice to see it one last time. He turned right, in what hethought might be the direction of the station.





1945‘

It was time for the class to be dismissed for lunch.Ren Amsden surveyed the ranks of tousled, ten-

year old heads bent as they sat, cross-legged,labouring. She had never known classes so well-

behaved. She had no watch with which to tell the time,but she could hear the clanging of the bell whichannounced the break.

Heads shot up expectantly. The meal would be nomore than soup and bread, but it would be hot andserved in the main hall of the school, the only roomthat was heated. She would be glad to get out of the



freezing winter of the classroom herself, with its stonefloor and cracked windows. She collected up the work.Forty scraps of paper crowded with unreadable writing.It would have been nice to have more paper but thatwas impossible. She would be working into the nightagain to mark them.

When the last of the children had tumbled out of the classroom door, she sat for a moment at her desk,trying to read the top sheet of paper. The writingblurred and swam in front of her eyes for a second,and for a moment she thought she would faint. It was asensation she was used to and it did not frighten her.Hunger did it. The hunger and the cold.

After a while it passed and she went down to theschool hall.

The lunchtime ritual was a mixture of the familiar and the bizarre. The usual babble of children's voices;the unusual sight of boys all eating from tin bowlsbalanced on knees as they sat on the floor. The

benches and tables were long gone, burnt for firewood. The bowls were army surplus - a triumph for the scavenging skills of the headmaster.

Ten teachers, mostly women older than Ren, hadtheir meal after the boys had finished and gone out -reluctantly - into the cold. They sat at the only table, ontwo wooden benches. As usual, the soup was thin and

the conversation as stale as the bread. Moreland, theheadmaster, a thin, energetic man with protrudingteeth and bright eyes behind thick spectacles, turnedto Ren.

"That Scottish lad in your class, Miss Amsden -Ballater, isn't it?"



She thought for a second. The boy was unusuallyquiet. He never complained about the food, or thecold. His work was adequate.

"Something wrong?""Not at all. Good news for him. The DPO have

been on this morning. His father's coming back fromGermany. Arriving this afternoon. The mother insistson bringing him here to collect the boy. Against myadvice, of course. If you could make sure the other boys don't see him, in the usual way."

There had been a steady trickle, over thesummer. Soldiers who had survived returning fromcamps on the Continent. The DPO was the DisplacedPerson's Office, which handled the wrecks who cameback. The school had seen a few return but most boysstill knew nothing. It was policy not to let the ones stillwaiting see the other, luckier ones.

Moreland was still speaking."Keep him behind as usual. The others should be

out of the way by the time I bring the parents up."

In the afternoon, she detected no trace in theboy's behaviour that he knew what awaited him.Although some fathers had returned, she had never had the child of one in her class before. She was filledwith an excitement which seemed disproportionate.

She ached to tell him, looking at his quiet face; like somany, old beyond his years.

Much of her excitement had nothing to do with theboy himself. A month earlier her mother and brother had moved down to Brighton to be near here, movinginto the room that Jean had vacated after being



offered a job in Liverpool. Her mother had brought her own DPO note.

John Derek Amsden No. 4759309/Believed Died 1944 Hamburg /Cause of Death: Allied Bombing/Unknown" “

She had handed it over wordlessly. There hadbeen shock, then perhaps a more surprisingemptiness. Neither had spoken of it since.

Now it was four o'clock and the bell to end the dayhad sounded. Ren dismissed the class and askedBallater to stay behind. There was a murmering andlooks at his unexplained detention. It was usually the

sign of news, bad or good. The boy himself retained acalm watchfulness, in keeping with his character. Heseemed more adult than any child Ren had ever known. He had red hair and long eyelashes. His deadwhite skin seemed to have grown paler at beingsingled out. It was the only indication of emotion. Rentalked to him as she gathered her books, grateful to

unburden the secret."There's wonderful news, John. Your father is

coming back. He's not in Germany anymore. He's hereat the school to collect you."

She was aware of the door opening and figuresappearing. Ballater's face changed slowly as he lookedtowards the door. The blank watchfulness

disappeared. The expression that came over it was notelation. It was more like a puzzled fear. Moreland hadalready entered the room. Behind him stood a tinywoman with pinched features dressed in a threadbarecoat. Her eyes were smiling over deep shadows. Shewas very thin, and had obviously been crying. As shelooked at her son, the tears came again. The boy got



up and came towards her hesitantly. His eyes were noton her, but on the figure behind her. The man was of medium height, but even in the bulky army coat,impossibly thin. His eyes seemed to have shrunk backinto his head. The skin on his face was stretched sotaut the bones of his cheeks seemed to be in danger of breaking through. His hair was cut savagely shortand there were sores at the corner of his lips. Hestared with uncomprehending eyes at his son, as if hehad never seen the boy before.

The mother was trying to speak."He's back, John. Back from Germany."She came forward to take the boy's shoulders,

pushing him towards his father.The boy moved only reluctantly, suspiciously. He

walked to his father with slow measured steps. Whenhe was in front of him, unsure of his reception, he putout his arms and embraced the man around thestomach. Neither said anything. The man looked down

at the son he had not seen for five years. There wasstill blank puzzlement on his haunted face, but in hiseyes there was a glitter of some tormented emotion atlast. Slowly his arms came round, like an automaton.The mother, perhaps through exhaustion, was calm.

Only Ren wept.

Later, her feet crunched through the snow thathad fallen overnight and through the day. She headeddown the familiar High Street through Lewes to thetrain station, and home. At Brighton, she walked outfrom the concourse and up the hill, trying not to slip onthe icy pavements. The station and the buildingsaround had been further smashed by the sabotage



and fighting the year before, but it still functioned. Her shoes were hopeless against the cold and her feetsoon became numb. She was used to the feeling. Shewas immune to discomfort in a way she had never known before.

After Linz had been stabbed under the bridge twoyears before they had tortured her, convinced shemust have assisted in his killing. They had beaten her.But she had known nothing. Eventually, they had lether go. She had been surprised. Others had not beenso lucky. When the school at Lewes had re-opened sixmonths ago, she had without thinking applied for apost and been accepted. All the previous teachers hadgone. Whitworth had died just after the invasion in1940. She had noticed the stark conditions now andcontrasted them with the happiness of before, but thedistinction did not reach her.

She survived by instinct. She’d watched the last of the Germans withdraw the year before in an orgy of

destruction, and seen the wave of recriminations andhangings that followed. There was a new, differentbrutality, with even greater shortages, but it could nolonger affect her. There had been the return of theKing and the government, but it had been a mutedaffair. Until today, she had not cried at all.

When she got home, she knocked the snow from

her shoes. The block was freezing even when sheopened the front door. None of the rooms had either heating or running water. Some did not even havewindows, yet still people lived in them. The water hadto be collected from a faucet outside the back door inthe building's yard. She remembered how it had beenwhen she had shared with Jean. The time when the



Germans had been here seemed luxurious bycontrast.

She climbed the stairs wearily, looking forward tositting down with a cup of tea from the one luxury stillleft them, the stove. Her mother and Keith would notbe home from work for at least two hours. After shehad boiled water, she put her shoes into the oven todry them out. It was an old trick that made the ovenstink, but there was not much to cook in it nowadays.She settled herself in the sparsely furnished room,without carpet or curtains and with only the one largemattress for her, her mother and Keith to sleep on.Instead of falling into a doze as usual, she wasunsettled and could not relax. The day had disturbedher, had unsettled some unconcious equilibrium of whose existence she had not been aware. It was to dowith Ballater and his father's return, but she could notfathom what it was.

Only as she heard the sound of her mother and

brother returning did she realise the sensation washope. She marvelled at the new feeling. Perhaps thedeadness within her was about to lift. She thought of her father, and of all those who had gone, and she feltguilty at the very thought of it. She did not wish to bringsuch a painful experience up with her mother again,but the idea that had been planted within her grew

untrammelled.Later, as the three ate potatoes and fish her

mother had been able to acquire from work, she couldhold back no longer.

"I'm going to the DPO, the Displaced Person'sOffice, to trace someone. I don't know how to do it."



At first she thought her mother, whose thin facestared into her food without expression, had not heard.Then she thought she would refuse to answer. Renhad not gone with her to the office for her father. Her mother had not forgiven her.

"Who do you want to find?""Just... someone. I wondered if you needed

authorisation from somewhere. That sort of thing. Andwhere do you go."

Her mother shook her head."You don't need papers. There's an office in

Brighton, at the town hall. If you ask, they send up toLondon for information. But you need details of whatyou are looking for. The Yanks and the Russians runthe office in London and they don't care."

"Oh.""You won't tell me who you are looking for?"Ren picked at her food."Someone I knew before the war."

"Not the German, then?""I told you, the German died. He didn't matter

anyway.""So who is it?""No-one, like I said. Just something at school set

me thinking, that's all. Let's forget about it. I'll makesome tea."

All the following day she tried to drop the subjectin her mind. It was absurd.

Ballater had not appeared that morning,unsurprisingly. But however far-fetched the question inher mind, she could not deny it. At lunchtime, she gaveup and went to see Moreland, asking to have the



afternoon off, pleading illness. In truth, she did not feelwell and found it easy to pull off the subterfuge.Moreland raised no objections.

When she got to the station, she walked downtowards the town hall as her mother had directed.Some of the shops were still open on North Street,others had closed either through a lack of supplies or bomb damage still unrepaired. The streets were eerilyquiet in the mid-afternoon snow. There was no traffic,apart from the occasional army truck. The trucks hadbeen abandoned by the Germans and still had their markings on. She walked on and her heart sank asshe saw there was a queue at least a hundred yardslong. She knew it would be for the office she wanted.She shivered in the snow and the rubble and debatedturning back and going home. But something droveher on down the road, and she took her place at theback.

The pinched faces of those in front told their

stories clearly enough; women who looked for sonsand brothers, husbands and fathers. Almost allwomen. She tried to comfort herself. It was no worsethan any of the other queues she was used to, for bread or milk. Just different. What was here was tooimportant to share with others. The people in front of her did not speak, but shuffled forward in grim

expectancy.Her feet were in agony by the time the queue had

shortened enough for her to anticipate entering thebuilding. More people had joined behind her. Shewondered how her feet could be so numb and yet sopainful at the same time. The faces around her werepictures of pinched anxiety. Eventually, she moved



forward once more and entered blissful warmth. It wastrue what they said - only the army was warmnowadays. Up ahead she could see a line of desksstretched across the back of the marble entrance hall.It had once been a grand building, though now everypossible part of it was being used for someadministrative purpose.

Those reaching the head of the queue had to goto one of five desks, behind which sat military officers.They looked bored just as the Germans had oncelooked, though their faces and uniforms were different.From time to time, officers would get up from their desks and go into a room at the back, inside whichfigures could be seen working at more desks,surrounded by paperwork. Feeling foolish and self-concious, she wondered again whether to forget her quest and go back to the cold, dark rooms across theother side of Brighton. She had no place here. Thearmy was as suspicious of everything as the Germans

- often more so. But then she had reached the front of the queue and the desk on the far right of the line wasavailable.

She walked to it and sat down, aware of eyesbehind her that stared intently, wondering if she wouldsteal their luck from them. The soldier stared at her without expression in his thin face. He looked very

young and very tired."I'm looking for someone."The statement seemed stupidly obvious but she

could think of nothing more to say. She felt her facecolouring in the warmth.

"Yes?""He was in the army, in 1940."



She panicked as she realised it was nearly theextent of her knowledge. She should not have come.She wracked her brains for more details, andsomething came to her. A fragment of a letter, yearsbefore. Stephen had read it out to her. It had beenbefore the war. She seized on it with hope.

"I think he was in the Middlesex Regiment, or something like that."

The soldier looked at her, his expression amixture of boredom and insolence.

"Do you know where he was stationed, and whathis name was?"

Ren swallowed and took a deep breath."His name was Derrington. Finlay Derrington. I

don't know where he was stationed."The soldier flicked a form across to her from a pile

by his side. It was printed on rough cardboard paper.Displaced Persons Information was printed at the topabove some incomprehensible letters.

"Fill the form out at the desk over there. Thenhand it in to the sergeant."

His face softened and there was the hint of a sadsmile. Then it was gone.

"Come back in a week."She did as she was told, trying to beat down the

feeling of hope that had caught in her. They had all

gone - she knew it. She knew this last try wasridiculous, but she could not stop herself. She hadgrasped the hope as a drowning man would. Shewalked back towards her home.

Within minutes, her feet were numb and throbbingagain.





his hand. He sat down and leafed through them,unsure of what to say. Eventually, he spoke.

"There’s no trace of a Finlay Derrington in theGerman records of prisoners of war that we have fromthe occupation. And no record of him before theinvasion either."

He stared at her."That's it?""Yes. We had a request to trace him from a sister

who lives in London, three months ago. There wasnothing."

"But what does it mean? Is there no way of tracinghim?"

He shook his head."The army destroyed its records in 1940 to

prevent them falling into enemy hands. All we have arerecords of soldiers who surrendered to the Germansafter the invasion. His name is not on those."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged again and smiled sadly."It means he was not part of the formal surrender.

Either he was killed in the invasion, or captured later,and well killed then He was not captured with the

Documents

Novel - Losing