But at the scene of the riot it was as though nothing had happened. Cars and buses drove down the street as usual, over the spot where Mrs Templeman had died. The streets were full of women Christmas shopping – all the shop windows were full of coloured paper chains and little Christmas trees in pots. She stopped in front of one of the big stores, realizing it was one that was helping with the toy appeal. A big wooden dummy in a Santa Claus outfit stood in the window, with painted red cheeks and a white false beard. A woman in a fake-fur coat, a grizzling child holding each hand, almost barged into her, and snapped, ‘Would you please look where you’re going?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said, but the woman ignored her and passed on. Sarah thought how the shoppers all looked cross and anxious. It was what Christmas did to people, perhaps it always had but she had never really noticed before. Charlie had loved the tree they had bought for his last Christmas, decorated with tiny coloured bulbs. They said Christmas was for children but really it was supposed to be about celebrating the birth of Jesus, who would later sacrifice himself. She remembered her desperate prayer in Westminster Abbey. Since then things had only got worse.
Sarah went into the shop, to get out of the cold as much as anything. The big vestibule was filled with toys. They were much more expensive than when she had last bought presents for Charlie three years before. She passed a display of dolls’ houses. On the opposite side of the aisle were boxes of tin soldiers, A treat for every boy. There was a display of the soldiers arranged as for battle on a papier-mâché field. There were German soldiers in smart grey painted uniforms and coalscuttle helmets, with minute swastika armbands. On the other side of the hill stood a small group of Russians in dull green, little rips and tears painted on their uniforms.
‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’ The voice at her elbow made her jump, as any little thing seemed to these days. She turned and saw a small, thin man in his late fifties, with sparse grey hair and kindly eyes; she recognized the manager of the store, who had attended a couple of committee meetings at Friends House.
‘Mr Fielding, hello.’ She extended a gloved hand.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’
‘I was in a bit of a brown study.’
‘Looking for Christmas presents?’
‘I might get something for my nephews. Everything seems terribly expensive these days.’
He nodded sadly. ‘It’s a shame. I often see people going round the store then walking out again empty-handed, looking disappointed.’
‘It’s very good of your shop to help with our work.’
‘We like to do what we can for those who can’t afford anything. It’s all on track with your order, by the way, it will be delivered to Friends House on time.’ He sighed. ‘If only there weren’t all these terrorist attacks and strikes, that’s what’s stopping the country getting back on its feet. I hear the railwaymen are coming out now.’
Sarah could have argued but she didn’t have the heart. And Mr Fielding was a decent, generous man. She said, ‘It’s very cold out, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. If it goes on like this we might get a white Christmas.’ He paused a moment, then said, ‘I was sorry to hear about poor Mrs Templeman. I couldn’t get to the funeral, but we sent some flowers.’
‘I saw them. That was kind.’
‘A sudden heart attack, I believe. Well, there are worse ways to go.’ He looked sad for a moment, and Sarah wondered if he was a Great War veteran, like her father. He smiled. ‘She was a character, wasn’t she?’
‘She was a very selfless woman.’
‘Well, I must carry on with my rounds. Good morning, Mrs Fitzgerald.’
Sarah watched as he went off down the store, nodding at the assistants as he passed the tills. His gentle touch had brought tears to her eyes. She went back out, into the cold.
She had lunch in a cafe, then went to the National Portrait Gallery and spent an hour with the pictures of kings and queens and statesmen. The gallery was almost empty, uniformed janitors dozing in dim corners. She came to the section where portraits of modern leaders were displayed. Although the gallery was dedicated to English portraits, a picture of Adolf Hitler was prominent. It had been painted about five years ago, before the Führer became so ill. He wore a brown double-breasted jacket, standing with one hand on a globe of the world, the blue eyes under the grey forelock gazing into the distance, contemplating destiny. He had spent twenty years building a world of blood and fear and there seemed no end to it, ever.
She walked the streets for an age, thinking again how normal everything looked, as though nothing had happened the week before. She looked at her watch. Half past three. Her resolve was weakening; it would be so easy just to go home. She thought, I’ll go to Highgate now, wait in a cafe or something. She walked to Embankment tube, stopping at a newsagent to buy a London A–Z. She found Carol’s street and saw it was close to Highgate Station.
She stood on the platform, waiting for the train. Workmen were altering the Underground maps. There were black circles round several east London tube stations, Bethnal Green and Whitechapel and Stepney Green, and the men were painting on the words Closed to the General Public. She thought, those were Jewish areas, maybe the Blackshirts are looting their houses and don’t want people to see.
The train came and rattled slowly up to Highgate. When she came out into the street the gloomy winter’s day was already starting to fade towards dusk. She took a deep breath and then, A–Z in hand, went to find Lovelock Road.
It was a street of Victorian terraced houses, tall lime trees on the edge of the pavement, small front gardens behind dusty privet hedges. She walked up the even-numbered side of the street until she was opposite Number 17, then stopped and looked across. The privet hedge was neatly clipped, net curtains over the windows. She walked further up the street, then slowly back down again. There was little traffic. A milk-float puttered along behind her, crates rattling on the back.
She stopped again in front of the house. She felt as she had in Tottenham Court Road, that she needed to see the place, but it was just an ordinary suburban home. She realized again how cold it was. She was wearing her old brown coat, and hoped the Jewish girl, Ruth, was still wearing her new one, somewhere safe.
The front door of the house opened suddenly and a little old woman stood in the doorway, glaring at Sarah. She wore a grubby housecoat and had a wrinkled face and angry eyes. Her bushy white hair was unbrushed. She advanced down the path with quick, jerky steps, keeping those wild eyes fixed on Sarah’s. She thought with horror, it’s Carol’s mother. She knows who I am, she knows everything.
The old woman threw open the gate and walked across the road without looking to see if there were any cars. She planted herself a few feet from Sarah, staring up at her. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ she shouted furiously in a fluting upper-class voice. ‘I’m not as stupid as you think I am. You want to take me away, don’t you?’
‘No. I was—’
‘Anyone can get taken away these days, I know! Well, my daughter won’t let you. She steals things, I know that, but she won’t let you take me away! Do you understand?’
Sarah realized the woman was senile, half-mad. She looked into her blazing eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll go.’ She stepped away. The old woman remained where she was, arms folded across her thin chest. Sarah turned and walked a few paces before turning to look back. The woman was still standing in the road. Sarah called, ‘Be careful! A car might come!’
‘You mind your own fucking business, damned snooping cow.’ The sudden tirade of abuse sounded even more deranged in that cultivated voice. Sarah walked on a few more steps and when she turned back again the old woman was stumbling back across the road to her house. Sarah realized her legs were shaking.