Chapter 75
The Northern Line at Warren Street was busy.
Office workers kept late, now off home for a few hours’ sleep between the raids, doing their best to ignore the gallery of women and children camped out on the platform.
A line had been painted along the length of it, halfway between the wall and the platform edge.
Two worlds. Between the painted line and the platform edge it was business as usual – tired civil servants in scuffed bowler hats.
Women in sensible office clothes and sensible shoes.
Behind the line, blankets laid out to claim territory, each one anxiously guarded.
The platform stank. The nearest toilet was at the top of the escalator, in the ticket hall.
Anyone who left their blanket for that long would return to find it gone.
A makeshift curtain at the end of the platform hid what Margaret assumed was a bucket.
Judging by the smell, the bucket was then emptied onto the track, perhaps thrown optimistically into the mouth of the tunnel. Out of sight, out of mind.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief as a train pulled in, passing within inches of the commuters at the front of the platform. It was impossible to see in, with the blackout curtains covering the windows and doors, installed for the sections of the line that ran above ground.
A door stopped in front of her, and the curtains opened as if to start a show.
The train was stuffed full. Margaret shuffled to the side to let a family out – dressed up for an evening at the theatre.
Before she could move, the gap left by the family was filled by others from the platform.
Margaret forced herself into the crush, making a space where none had existed.
She reached up and managed to get a strap to hang on to.
Not that there was much danger of falling over, no matter how much the train might lurch.
Bodies pressed against her in every direction.
In any other setting it would be indecent.
Nine stops later, Margaret emerged to fresh air at Hendon Central, a pretty plaza built around a crossroads, with a large cinema on one corner, and a bank on each of the others.
She checked her map and got her bearings.
The Watford Road ran from left to right, up the hill – three lanes each side, like something out of a science fiction film.
The northbound carriageways were all busy.
Margaret wondered how many of the cars were commuters returning home, and how many were fleeing the city for the night, families heading for a cold, damp night sleeping under the stars in fields and woods outside the city.
Trekkers, the papers were calling them, rather dismissively, as if taking steps to avoid being bombed was in some way a sign of moral weakness.
Stay here and take your chances with the rest of us, seemed to be the underlying message.
Margaret walked up the hill, the darkness of the blackout contributing to the impression that with every step she was entering the unknown.
The grand buildings along the north road thinned out quickly, and soon she was in the suburbs.
As she crested the hill, she looked back.
The dark city was a silhouette against the slate-grey sky.
Already the first bombers had arrived, drawn to the city like wasps to a picnic.
Swynford Grove was a pretty road of detached villas, ornate brickwork and well-kept front gardens. Every house was obediently blacked out, but the half-moon was bright enough for Margaret to find her way. Even so, she was thankful for the white stripes painted on every tree trunk and kerb.
She checked the slip of paper she’d received in the hotel basement.
Expensive paper, torn from a diary. Charlotte Pearson.
44 Swynford Grove. Information Margaret could use to convince Bunny she was trustworthy.
Bad luck for Mrs Pearson, for whom there’d be a knock on the door late at night.
Detention without trial. Disappeared, indefinitely, thanks to the Emergency War Powers Act.
Fascism, when your enemy did it. Common sense, when your own government did it, for your protection.
Quite a thing to do to someone, which was why Margaret was here. Wanted to check, to look the woman in the eye, before she ruined a life.
Number forty-four was a pleasant bungalow. Two fruit trees flanked the garden path – an apple and a pear, both heavy with fruit. The grass had been freshly mown, diagonal stripes.
A woman in her fifties answered the door. She had a turban wrapped around her hair, and wore an apron over her dress. She had flour on her hands. Making a crumble, using the fruit while it was plentiful.
‘Hello?’ the woman said, looking past Margaret to see who else might be out there.
‘Mrs Pearson?’ Margaret asked, hoping it wasn’t. The woman looked friendly. She’d have a husband, children. A good life, here in the suburbs, with the fruit trees.
‘Yes?’ the woman answered.
‘I’m from Tate’s Sugar,’ Margaret said, with a smile. ‘We’re calling on women to ask how they use our products in their baking. You were chosen from a list. May I come in for five minutes?’
‘Of course!’ the woman answered, her shoulders rising, proud she’d been chosen. Hoping her neighbours were watching. She’d have a story to tell.
‘What are you making?’ Margaret asked, as Mrs Pearson led her to the kitchen – a modern room with Formica counters and brightly painted cupboards.
‘Apple crumble,’ Mrs Pearson replied, returning to a large mixing bowl on the counter. ‘I don’t love them myself,’ she said, in a conspiratorial voice, ‘but my husband loves them. So does Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte?’ Margaret asked.
‘My daughter,’ Mrs Pearson said, as the sound of footsteps on the stairs heralded an arrival. ‘Here she is!’
A young woman stepped into the kitchen. She eyed Margaret warily.
‘Charlotte’s down from Cambridge,’ Mrs Pearson said, full of pride. ‘She loves a bit of home cooking when she can get back.’
‘I can’t stop,’ the young woman said, giving her mum a kiss on the cheek.
‘Out with Geoffrey again?’ Mrs Pearson asked.
‘Geoffrey’s old news,’ the young woman said, as she shrugged on a summer coat. ‘Don’t wait up!’
The front door slammed.
Mrs Pearson smiled at Margaret.
‘All the young pilots from the airfield. Honestly, the life these girls lead.’
*
Margaret hurried along the pavement, past the manicured front gardens. Mrs Pearson was clearly unaware her daughter was passing along secrets to the Germans, but Charlotte’s reaction had been a clear admission of guilt.
‘I say,’ Margaret called after Charlotte, who was doing a passable job of pretending she couldn’t hear the fast footsteps behind her.
Charlotte turned, trying to master her fear, but failing.
‘Charlotte?’ Margaret called. ‘We need to talk.’
Charlotte stopped trying to escape. Margaret could see the internal battle she was fighting – keep up the pretence, or admit it all. The girl wanted it over with. Wanted to confess – face the outcome. Anything would be better than the deception.
They walked slowly. Charlotte took them down a path between two houses, out to the fields.
They walked along the top edge, the rest of the field sloping down into a gentle valley.
At the bottom of the valley, a collection of low buildings, too big to be barns.
A landing strip was visible in the distance, and a windsock fluttered in the evening breeze.
‘I was a fresher,’ Charlotte said. ‘Completely alone. Out of my element. Every hour I wasn’t in lectures I spent in my room. It was horrible. Not that I’m making excuses, I just want you to understand.’
‘Of course,’ Margaret said.
‘One night I forced myself to leave the room. Went to a pub. Sat alone in the lounge bar, making up a story of what I’d tell mother.
A succession of parties and friends. Everything she wanted for me.
But then a professor bought me a drink. He’d come from dinner, still wearing his robes.
Ludicrous really. We talked. He bought me another drink.
I wasn’t really used to it. He took me back to his rooms. Said he’d had his eye on me.
Said I was to be his wild oat. It was flattering. ’
Charlotte stopped walking and leant on a gate, watching as a Spitfire came in to land in the valley. Margaret stood beside her. Not too close to spook her. Close enough for moral support.
‘I fell pregnant. He said he knew someone. Paid for it all. Nobody needed to know. But then, afterwards, he said he needed something in return. As if he hadn’t already had what he wanted.’ Her face flushed.
Margaret put her hand on Charlotte’s.
‘You’d told him you lived near the airfield,’ Margaret suggested. ‘Did he ask about that the first time you met?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘He studies aerodynamics,’ she said. ‘Wing shapes. Lift. He can talk your ear off on the subject. Sounds funny, now, but I liked being the one he wanted to talk to. He said I helped him, said I was his muse.’
‘He said I should write to him,’ Charlotte continued.
‘Over the summer hols. Asked me to keep an eye on the airfield. Wanted to know what types of planes they had. How many. That sort of thing. It didn’t seem strange at first. We’d write most days.
Not just about the war. Other things, like a couple would.
But he wanted more and more. Wanted me to get to know the pilot officers.
Report back. Where they’d been. What they were training for.
By then I knew I was in shtook. All those posters. Keep mum, and all that.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Margaret said.
‘It’s all right,’ Charlotte said. ‘I know why you’re here. I’ve been expecting someone. I won’t blame you.’
She held out her hands, wrists together, as if she expected Margaret to produce a pair of handcuffs.
‘I want you to keep writing your letters,’ Margaret said, ‘but I want you to send them to me first. I’ll pass them on, after I’ve made some changes.’
Charlotte brightened. A light at the end of the tunnel. But the light disappeared as she had a thought.
‘Will I still be working for Hitler?’ Charlotte asked.
Margaret smiled.
‘No dear, you’ll be working for me.’