Bats were swooping through a pink twilight, and rooks were cawing as they settled for the night in the big trees behind the vicarage as Ben made his way around the village green to the Three Bells. There was a pleasant hum of conversation going on as Ben pushed open the door into the pub. Several men were standing around the bar with beers in their hands, and they looked up as Ben came in.
“Evening, Mr. Cresswell,” the bartender said. “Good to see you home again.”
Ben went up to the bar and ordered a pint.
“You here for long, then?” one of the men asked. “Or just popped down to see your old dad?”
“I had a few days’ leave coming,” Ben said. “It’s nice to get out of London for a break.”
“Seen much bombing, then?” one of the men asked.
“We’ve had our share,” Ben said. “But you get used to it. Nobody even looks up at work now when the air-raid sirens go off.”
“What sort of job are you doing, then?” another asked.
“Working for one of the ministries,” he said.
“Doing what?”
Ben grinned. “You know we’re not allowed to discuss our work.”
“Not allowed to discuss it,” a voice behind them said, and Ben turned to see a skinny chap with bright-red hair coming toward them. Billy Baxter, the builder’s son. Ben felt his hand clench into a fist. Billy had always enjoyed tormenting him when they were small boys. He was grinning. “Hush-hush work is it then, Ben?”
“He said he can’t discuss it,” one of the older men said.
Ben turned his gaze to the redhead. “I notice you’re not in uniform either, Billy Baxter,” he said.
“Ah well, I’m in a protected occupation, aren’t I?” Billy said.
“Making bow windows for Britain?” Ben asked and was pleased to get a general laugh.
Billy Baxter flushed. “If your roof gets blown in during the next bombing raid, who do you think will come out and patch it before the rain gets in?”
“You seem to be doing quite well out of it,” Ben said. “I noticed that new bungalow your dad has built. Looks quite fancy.”
“Hard work pays off, doesn’t it?” Billy said.
Ben watched Billy Baxter as he ordered a pint. He was the type who would sell his own grandmother if the price was right. But working for the Germans? Ben didn’t think he’d have the temperament. At heart he was a coward, as proved that time Ben had punched him and made his nose bleed and he’d run home crying. Ben’s father had lectured him on violence and restraint, but actually he had looked quite pleased.
Halfway through his pint, the pub door burst open and a group of soldiers came in, talking and laughing loudly. They barged their way up to the bar, and Ben noticed that the local men moved away. There was tension in the air. Then one of the soldiers said, “What are you drinking, miss?” and Ben noticed Lady Diana was with them. She was dressed in red trousers and her hair was tied back in a red bandanna, like a land girl’s. And she was wearing bright-red lipstick.
“Don’t call her ‘miss.’ It’s ‘my lady.’ She’s the daughter of an earl,” one of the soldiers hissed at his friend.
Dido heard and laughed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Call me Diana or Dido. I can’t stand stuffiness. I’ll have half a pint of shandy, please, Ronnie.”
As she looked around the room, she spotted Ben at the same time and gave him a big smile. “Hello, Ben,” she said. “These nice boys offered to take me with them to the pub. Wasn’t that kind of them? A brief escape from captivity, you know.” She laughed, but her eyes were saying “Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me here.”
The bartender looked uncomfortable. “Pardon me, my lady, but this is the public bar. Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in the private bar next door? There are armchairs, and it’s not quite as rowdy there.”
“Nonsense,” Dido said, giving Ben a swift glance for support. “I spend my life banished and away from people. I want to live a little. I want to hear laughter and talk to ordinary people.” She looked back to the soldier who had offered her a drink. “Make that a pint, Ronnie,” she said. She walked over to Ben as the pint was being drawn.
“So what are you doing these days, Dido?” Ben asked her. “Still at home?”
She gave a dramatic sigh. “Still stuck at home. Pah won’t let me do anything useful. I’m dying to do my part, you know. I don’t suppose you could find me a job in London, could you? At the place where you work?”
“I probably could, but I can’t go against your father’s wishes while you’re still a minor. There must be useful things to be done in Sevenoaks or Tonbridge.”
“Being a land girl and helping raise pigs? That’s about it. I want to do something exciting. I’m going to ask Mr. Churchill next time we see him. Pah knows him quite well, you know. And if Mr. Churchill says he wants to employ me, then Pah certainly can’t say no, can he?”
“Do you have any useful skills?” Ben asked. “Can you type and take shorthand?”
“Not really.” She chewed on her lip, making him realise how young she still was.
“That’s the sort of thing that women are hired to do on the whole,” he said. “Office work. Clerical stuff.”
“Boring, boring, boring. I’d rather drive an ambulance or learn to be a radio operator or even join the army.”
“They don’t let women fight. I imagine you’d still be doing clerical tasks in uniform.”
“It’s not fair.” She pouted. “I’m just as capable as these boys. And just as brave.”
“Oh no, miss,” one of the soldiers said. “It was to protect ladies like you that we joined up. We have to believe that you’ll be safe at home, waiting for us when we’re shipped overseas.”
“Will you be going overseas soon?” Ben asked.
The young soldier frowned. “We haven’t heard anything. Our lot was at Dunkirk. We lost men there, but I suppose it will be our turn to ship out again soon enough. In the meantime, life in Kent isn’t too bad. Especially when there are young ladies like you around.” And he grinned at Dido.
Ben had just decided there was no point in staying on any longer at the pub when Dr. Sinclair came in and beside him a middle-aged man. There was something distinctly foreign in his facial features and the cut of his jacket. The mysterious German, Ben thought and went over to greet them. The doctor greeted Ben warmly and introduced his companion. “This is Dr. Rosenberg. He’s helping me with my practice. Splendid chap.”
The other man gave a correct little bow and held out his hand. “How do you do?” he said in clipped English.
“You’re from Germany?” Ben asked pleasantly.
“Austria,” Dr. Rosenberg said. “I was at the medical school at the University of Vienna before the war.”
“One of their most distinguished professors,” Dr. Sinclair added. “He managed to get out just in time.”
The man looked at Ben with a bleak expression. “It never occurred to me that I was not safe, even though my grandfather was Jewish. I mean, I don’t look Jewish, do I? And I was a respected man. Then the Germans marched in, and I was dismissed from my position and told I had to wear a yellow star. That was enough for me. I left everything and took the next train to Italy and then to France and then here.” He paused to take the glass of beer that the doctor offered him. “I was fortunate to get out in time. I hear that my friends and relatives were not so lucky. They made my fellow professors scrub the streets while people spat on them. And others just disappeared. Nobody knew where they went, but there were rumours of camps . . .” He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel guilty that I am here, in this pleasant place, able to practise my medicine.”
“You made the right decision, old chap,” Dr. Sinclair said. “You acted. Others didn’t. Most people don’t think such things can happen to them until too late.”