Next day they were both red-eyed from sleeplessness, but they got up wearily and started the morning routine as usual. Over breakfast David asked Sarah if she was all right to be left alone. She was in her dressing gown, pale and washed-out.
‘I’m supposed to phone round the toyshops this morning. I’ll find an excuse to phone Friends House as well, see if anything’s being said about poor Jane.’
‘Watch what you say.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I’ll phone you from a call-box at lunchtime, see how you are.’
‘Why can’t you ring from the office?’
‘I’m just being careful.’
‘If you use that word again, I’ll scream.’
Travelling in on the crowded tube, strap-hanging, the previous day’s events kept crowding into David’s mind. Natalia had guessed his secret, the only person who ever had. She had said she wouldn’t tell anyone but her loyalties were to the Resistance, not him. And what would happen now with Frank? And Sarah, he was placing her in more and more danger.
People were reading the newspapers with unusual concentration. An elderly couple was talking in fierce undertones as they read. ‘Bastards. It’s wicked, evil. Makes you ashamed to be British.’ They didn’t seem to care about being overheard. One or two people frowned at them, but most buried themselves deeper in their papers. The train went into a tunnel and David caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He looked ravaged, exhausted. He must try and pull himself together.
For the first time, entering the Office, he didn’t feel it was a place of refuge. He had known for years that the service supported an evil government, had been irreparably contaminated by it, but it was the first time he had actually felt it, deep in his bones.
In the lift two of his colleagues were discussing the effect the deportations would have on Dominion relations in the cool, detached Civil Service way, as though it were a more abstract problem.
‘Of course our counter-argument will be that they’ve all closed doors to further Jewish immigration themselves, apart from New Zealand. They feel they’ve taken enough.’
‘Yes. The pot calling the kettle black argument.’
‘Quite.’
‘They may raise the Palestine option again.’
‘Not going to happen, old boy. There’s just too many imponderables.’
‘Did you see there’s a new Resistance leaflet?’
‘No.’
‘Someone had scattered them on the floor of the tube on my line. Usual Churchill stuff – destroying our liberties, dividing the British people, who will be next? Plastered with “V”s and “R”s. I thought, can you call the Jews British people?’
‘Well indeed? There you do have an interesting question of definition.’
‘I suppose there’ll be more strikes and riots with this one.’
‘It just gets worse all the time. I know Mosley wants reprisals, taking captured Resistance people’s families hostage, shooting one for every soldier and policeman killed.’
‘The German way, eh? That’s going a bit far.’
‘Perhaps.’
David stared fixedly ahead as the lift clanked upwards. He wanted to punch them, break their faces.
That morning it was hard to concentrate; fortunately there was only routine deskwork to attend to. He thought of Natalia, her almond-shaped eyes looking at him from the car. You should tell them.
Outside, fog settled slowly over the city. Towards noon David got up and put the light on. At lunchtime he went out for a swim, but first he phoned Sarah. She answered at once, her voice level, normal.
‘It’s me, darling,’ he said. ‘Any news?’
There was a tired, ragged edge to her voice. ‘Yes, they told me at Friends House that Mr Templeman had phoned to say his wife had died of a heart attack. I rang him, to give my condolences. Poor man, he was trying to be brave but you could hear his voice was about to break.’
‘A heart attack?’ David repeated incredulously.
‘Yes. The police called round to say she’d dropped dead outside the station at Wembley. They told him it was a heart attack. He said there’ll be a post-mortem. They’ll fake the result, won’t they? I saw the blood . . .’ Sarah’s own voice was close to breaking now.
‘It’ll be a Home Office pathologist, it won’t be the first time they’ve faked something.’
‘Mr Templeman said the funeral’s next week. I want to go.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Would you like me to come too?’ he asked.
‘Why? You never met her. To make sure I don’t say anything stupid?’
David closed his eyes. ‘No. To support you.’
Sarah sighed. ‘I’m sorry; I just – yes, please come.’
‘Listen, this means they’re going to cover it up, but they’ll still be looking into what happened. We have to go on taking care.’
‘I know. When will you be home?’
‘I’ll try to get away a bit early.’
‘Do.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s hard.’
He walked back to the office, huddled in his coat. Carol was in the lift, along with other people returning from lunch, the tip of her thin nose red with cold. She smiled brightly, ‘Hello, David. Putrid weather, isn’t it?’
It was hard to speak cheerily, conversationally. ‘Dreadful. Hope this fog doesn’t last.’
‘They say it won’t.’
They got out on the second floor. Carol looked at him with concern. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Bit of a cold, I think.’
She smiled. ‘You look a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying.’
He wondered what Carol thought about the deportations. She was a kind woman, but you never knew; perfectly decent people could turn out to condone terrible things.
‘I hope you’re better in time for Friday,’ she said.
‘Friday?’
‘The concert. Bartok, at St Mary’s.’
‘Ah, yes, of course, I’m sure I’ll be better by then.’ He had forgotten.
‘There’s one at the Queen’s Hall, on the ninth of December. Beethoven’s Fifth. I know it’s a bit of a trek over there, but if we asked for an extra half-hour at lunchtime . . .’
‘I’ll see.’ He turned away, aware of her hurt look at his curtness.
A little after three there was a peremptory knock on his door, and Hubbold came in. He sat down, took out his little silver snuff box. ‘I’ve just been with the Permanent Secretary,’ he said abruptly. ‘This business with the Jews will put the cat among the pigeons. The Canadians and Aussies will be up in arms at this week’s High Commissioners’ meeting. Our line will be that this is for their own protection as well as ours. Handle the issue with kid gloves, that’s the word from on high. Thank God the agenda’s gone out, they’ll have to bring it up under Any Other Business.’ He stared at David, the eyes behind those thick lenses impossible to read as usual, but there was a note of challenge in his voice, as though to emphasize this was just a piece of business like any other.
‘Yes, sir. I see.’ David kept his voice neutral.
‘Thanks for fixing up that meeting between the SS and the South Africans, by the way.’
‘I think the South Africans are going across to Senate House on Wednesday.’
Hubbold nodded. ‘Good. I expect they’ll tell the Germans their problem is that they were never able to disarm the Russians. They never let the blacks anywhere near a gun.’
‘Yes,’ David agreed. ‘It’s all about who has the guns.’