‘I sometimes wonder if it’s any use,’ Sarah answered bleakly. ‘Whether anything is.’
Mrs Templeman changed the subject, talking about her brother who had just retired from the Indian Civil Service and was living with them till he found a house; he had had a bad time, in the thick of the Calcutta riots last year. Sarah asked if Mrs Templeman had heard the news about Mosley’s address but she shook her head, saying she avoided reading the papers these days, it was all so depressing.
The meeting at Friends House went well. Nobody could deny Mrs Templeman was a good chairwoman, moving business quickly along. Afterwards coffee was served. Sarah had a headache and couldn’t face the thought of the long journey back in Mrs Templeman’s company. She decided to tell a white lie. ‘I’m not going back to Euston,’ she said. ‘My husband’s meeting me at Tottenham Court Road tube.’
‘I’ll walk that way with you, dear, if I may. I need a breath of air after the meeting. It’s a nice walk through the squares. I can get the tube at Tottenham Court Road and then change.’
‘Oh, all right. Yes.’ Sarah supposed that when they got there she would have to pretend her husband hadn’t arrived, that she would have to wait for him. Well, that was where lies got you.
‘I’ll go and put my face on.’ Mrs Templeman walked off to the ladies, and Sarah went over to stand by the door. A couple of committee members called goodbyes as they passed her, huddling into their coats as they stepped outside. Sarah noticed there wasn’t a policeman at the entrance today. Probably off having a cigarette somewhere.
Mrs Templeman returned, face freshly powdered. ‘Right, dear,’ she said, adjusting the hideous fox fur. ‘Let’s face the cold.’
They turned into the network of Georgian squares behind Euston Road, wide streets with gardens in the middle, full of expensive flats, little hotels and university departments displaced when the German embassy took over Senate House. They walked along quickly; it really was cold, the sky a leaden grey. There was hardly anyone around.
‘Thank you for all your work, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ Mrs Templeman smiled. ‘I know phoning round shops isn’t the most exciting job in the world.’
‘It’s all right. It gives me something to do during the day.’
‘Your husband works in the Civil Service, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes. The Dominions Office.’
‘My sister lives in the Dominions. In Canada. Vancouver.’ She laughed. ‘Family scattered all over the Empire, you see. I keep pestering my husband to go out and visit – ’ She broke off. ‘Good God, what’s going on?’
They were turning into Tottenham Court Road. It was almost as quiet as the squares had been. The shops were closed, although behind a plate-glass window in one department store opposite an assistant could be seen putting up Christmas decorations. The few pedestrians, though, had all stopped in their tracks, watching the extraordinary procession coming down the road towards them. Perhaps a hundred frightened-looking people were trudging along, men and women and children, some in coats and hats and carrying suitcases, others wearing only jackets and cardigans. They were escorted by a dozen greatcoated Auxiliary Police in their black caps, pistols at their hips. At the front two regular policemen in blue helmets were mounted on big brown horses. For a second Sarah was reminded of the crocodile of children she had helped escort to the station for evacuation in 1939. Unlike them, though, this procession was silent. Apart from the clop of the horses’ hooves and the tramp of feet the only sound was a shrill, persistent squeak from the wheels of a pram a young woman was pushing along. As they drew close Sarah saw flashes of yellow in people’s lapels.
‘They’re Jews,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘Something’s happening to the Jews.’
Most of the passers-by walked quickly on or disappeared into side-streets. Others, though, stood watching. The two mounted policemen at the head of the group rode past. One was an older man with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve; the other was young, with a wispy pencil moustache. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his horse steady. One of the passers-by, a young woman holding the hand of a little girl, nodded with satisfaction and spat into the gutter. Someone else called out, ‘Shame!’ One of the Auxiliary Police, a tall, thin man with a Mosley moustache, smiled at the watchers, then looked back to the marching prisoners – for that was what they must be – and said, with mocking cheerfulness, ‘Come on, pick those feet up. Let’s have a song, give us “A Long Way to Tipperary”.’
Mrs Templeman clutched her handbag to her chest with her gloved hands. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They can’t do this. Not here, not in England.’
‘They’re doing it,’ Sarah answered bleakly.
‘Where are they taking them?’ Mrs Templeman’s face was anguished now, white beneath her powder, all her brisk confidence gone. A big Vauxhall passed by slowly on the other side of the road, a middle-aged woman looking out from the passenger side in astonishment. An Auxie waved it briskly on. Sarah looked at the Jews shuffling past. An old man in a bowler hat marched stiffly by, like the old soldier he had probably once been, marching as though to the front. Behind him a middle-aged woman, still wearing a flowered pinny and headscarf, held a skinny little boy in shorts and school pullover tightly to her. A young couple in fashionable duffel coats and bright university scarves held hands; the boy, tall and squarely built, had a defiant expression; the girl, slight with long dark hair, looked terrified. The squeaking pram passed; Sarah glimpsed a baby bundled up inside.
Then there was a shout, a yell, from the other side of the road. Everyone, Jews and policemen and the people on the pavement, turned to look. The door of a shabby building between two department stores had opened and a group of a dozen men in Sunday-best clothes had come out. They were carrying, of all things, musical instrument cases of various sizes. Sarah saw a notice board on the wall, University of London Department of Music. They must have been at some sort of practice. As Sarah watched a big, elderly man with untidy silver hair, wearing a rumpled suit, marched straight out into the road, shouting out in a deep voice, ‘Stop! What’s happening here?’ He halted right in front of the two mounted policemen. They had to halt or knock him down. The younger officer’s horse whickered in alarm. The other men who had come out with him stood on the pavement, uncertain and frightened, staring at the old man. One called out, ‘Sir! Be careful!’
The old man’s face was red with fury, fierce little eyes under white brows fixed on the mounted sergeant. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted in anger. ‘What’s happening to these people?’
The older policeman’s back was to Sarah but his voice carried back, deep and firm. ‘Move along, sir. All the London Jews are being moved out of the city.’
The Auxie nearest Sarah, a middle-aged man with the white flash of a Blackshirt badge on his coat, laughed scoffingly. ‘Bloody academics.’ He turned to the Jews, putting a hand to the pistol at his belt and said threateningly, ‘You lot stay put. This show won’t last long.’
Sarah felt shocked, frozen to the spot. Beside her Mrs Templeman was breathing hard, a strange expression on her face, her fingers digging into Sarah’s arm. The old musician didn’t move. He gestured wildly at the group of Jews. ‘You can’t do this! These are British citizens!’ The young policeman’s horse, frightened, tried to step back. The sergeant turned, snapping, ‘Keep that bloody animal steady.’
Someone shouted from the pavement, ‘They’re Yids, you old nosy parker!’ One of the men outside the music department turned up his coat collar and began walking quickly away. Another followed, then another.