‘Yes. Just – having a few days away.’ She heard the coolness in her voice.
The man smiled gently. ‘I’ll leave you the paper when I’m finished.’ He nodded and returned to his meal.
Later that evening Sarah sought out Bert and Jane in their little office. She said she was worried there was still no news and asked if the smog in London was part of the problem. Jane smiled nervously. ‘I’m sorry, dear. We don’t know any more than you’ve been told. It’s always a worry for us too, the waiting time.’ From the way Jane had spoken, this wasn’t the first time they had helped people get out of England.
On Sunday she went for another walk, down to the promenade. It was still sunny but very cold, the sea completely still and calm, the promenade deserted apart from a few elderly people walking dogs. The sea looked freezing cold. She walked towards the Palace Pier, past closed booths advertising their summer wares in faded paint.
She went onto the pier, her shoes clumping on the wooden boards. She passed the carousel and the shuttered freak show, and walked on towards the end of the pier. There was a little breeze out here, cold as a knife, the sound of the sea all around.
There was only one other person there, leaning over the rail, gazing towards the shore. She recognized the man whose paper she had borrowed at the hotel. There was a battered suitcase at his feet. Hearing her footsteps he looked up, tipping the brim of his bowler hat to her. ‘Out for some sea air?’ he asked.
She approached him. ‘Yes. Freezing, isn’t it?’
‘Bitter.’
‘I heard on the radio that the fog is as bad as ever in London.’
‘Yes. So they say.’
She was about to walk on, she knew she shouldn’t be talking to him, but there was something appealingly pathetic about the man huddled against the railing, and she was desperately lonely. So she said, ‘Not working today?’
He shook his head. ‘Just booked out of the hotel. Off back to London now. Not having much luck this trip. I travel in toys and novelties, you know. Going round the Sussex resorts. People normally buy in for next spring at this time of year, but times are hard.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not going to be splashing out on Christmas this year, I don’t think.’
‘Toys and novelties?’ She remembered her committee, the toys for poor children in the North, Mrs Templeman.
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I’m from Brighton originally, everyone knows me round here.’ He extended a gloved hand. ‘Danny Waterson.’
‘Sarah Hardcastle.’
They were silent for a moment. He said, ‘I heard the Coronation’s fixed for June.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. I phoned the office this morning and they told me. They still haven’t found anyone she’ll marry. They say the Queen Mother’s pressing German princes on her.’
‘Maybe she’ll stay single, like the first Elizabeth?’
He looked across to the shore again. ‘I remember this place in 1940. Barbed wire all along the promenade, down on the beach too, concrete tank traps in the water. You can’t believe it now.’
‘No.’
‘And the rationing, remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now you can buy what you like. So long as you can afford it.’ He spoke with a touch of bitterness. ‘I was in the Home Guard for a couple of months, remember them?’
She did: old men and boys on the newsreels, parading with wooden sticks because there weren’t enough rifles. She had thought of how they would all be slaughtered in an invasion. Danny went on, ‘I was just too young to be called up. Then in a couple of months it was all over.’ He leaned on the railing again. ‘I wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t made peace, whether the Germans would’ve invaded. It would have been difficult, you know, getting an army across the Channel.’
‘They tell us it would have been easy. We’d lost all our equipment at Dunkirk.’
‘Maybe. Well, we made our choice in 1940 and here we are.’ From his tone he was anti-regime, though he hadn’t actually said anything incriminating.
‘Yes.’ Sarah sighed heavily.
Danny shook his head sadly. ‘I worry about my kiddies’ future, I do. I saw one of those places where they’re holding the Jews outside Worthing yesterday. In the distance, from the train, it looked like an old army barracks. Surrounded with wire, guards patrolling. My wife says the Jews deserve it, they can’t be trusted, they’re not really loyal to Britain.’ He shook his head again. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do.’
Sarah realized she had hardly thought about the Jews over the last few days. ‘There’s been nothing on the news,’ she said.
‘No. People will forget soon, they do if it’s things they can’t see and don’t affect them.’
‘How old are your children?’ she asked.
‘Two boys. Six and eight. You?’
‘No. I – I’m a widow.’
‘From the 1940 war?’
‘No. Recently. My husband died in a car crash.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’
‘Maybe I should be getting back,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s cold.’
He looked at her. ‘Must be a hard time for you, Christmas.’
‘Yes. That’s why I had to get away for a few days.’ She realized that lying was already coming easily to her. Had it been like that for David? She looked into Danny’s sad face and felt guilty.
He said, nervously, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come for a drink. Lots of nice little pubs in the Lanes, warm coal fires. They’ll be opening up about now.’
She thought, he’s trying to pick me up. But maybe not, perhaps he was just looking for companionship on this bleak morning. She hesitated a second, then smiled and said, ‘Thank you very much, but no. I should be getting back.’
He was apologetic and a little embarrassed. ‘Of course, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind—’
‘Not at all. But I must go.’
He tipped his hat again, an awkward little gesture, then said, ‘This is a sad sort of town in winter. Maybe, don’t think I’m intruding, but maybe you’d be happier back in London.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, perhaps. Well . . .’ She turned away.
‘I hope I didn’t speak out of turn—’
‘No. No, it was nice to talk to you.’
She walked away, down the pier, back to the promenade, bleakly conscious of the loneliness that might now lie ahead for ever.
As she reached the promenade a newsboy was shouting, from the stand outside the Old Ship Hotel. ‘Hitler dead!’ she heard, ‘Führer dies!’
Chapter Forty-Nine
AFTER PASSING THROUGH the roadblock the fire engine continued racing dangerously fast down the road, sirens blaring. At one point the driver sounded the horn and a man in a white facemask crossing the road jumped wildly out of the way, his leaping figure momentarily visible in the headlights. Then, so suddenly that David was thrown violently sideways, the powerful machine juddered to a halt. He and the others stood, a little shakily, and looked over the side. The headlights were still on and though they barely penetrated the fog David was able to see that they had stopped in front of a large stationary truck, its canvas-covered back facing them. An army truck, he thought with horror. Beside him the young man who had rescued them threw off his helmet. ‘Go on,’ he said cheerfully, ‘get down. Your new transport’s waiting.’
‘But it’s army . . .’
He laughed. ‘We stole that, too. Now, come on. It won’t take the police long to realize this engine was on a fake call.’
David climbed down into the street, Ben and Natalia and their young rescuer following. The three firemen who had been in the cab stepped out too. David looked round; they were in a cobbled street, lock-up garages on either side. He saw a man in military uniform standing beside the army truck, tall and burly.