WHEN EILEEN ARRIVED AT THE FACTORY, SHE FOUND Mr. Cudmore waiting for her in front of the clinic.
“Miss Abbott, Mr. Endicott has come in today and Mr. Kaplan has persuaded him to take part in the film he’s putting together. Mr. Kaplan suggested a good location to start might be here in the clinic.” He allowed himself a little smile. “Mr. Endicott is not quite comfortable being photographed and we thought something on the active side might help him relax.”
“Good heavens. What do you mean, active?”
Before the secretary had a chance to elaborate, Lev Kaplan appeared carrying a heavy-looking camera on his shoulder.
“Good morning, Miss Abbott. Ready for stardom?”
“Perpetually. Do come in.”
Endicott was trailing behind with obvious reluctance. She ushered them into the waiting room.
“I’ll just take this opportunity to check in with the inspector,” said Cudmore, and he disappeared.
Lev grinned at Eileen. “Thank you for giving us your time, Miss Abbott. We won’t take long.” He started to set up his tripod. “I thought I’d do a pan of the waiting room first. It’s so cozy.”
Eileen felt almost sorry for Endicott, who was fidgeting with his tie like a schoolboy on a first date. “Yes, very nice, very nice,” he muttered.
“Now then, Sister,” said Lev. “Pretend Mr. Endicott has just come in. Open and close the door. Good. Start talking. We’ll do a voice-over later, so don’t worry about what you say. Just be as natural as you can. Good. Go into the surgery and show him the equipment. Smile. Talk it up.”
Eileen produced a smile and Endicott grimaced fiercely with what she presumed was his equivalent. In fact, his awkwardness brought out her professional side. She was used to men who collapsed into shyness in the presence of a nurse.
“Miss Abbott, perhaps you can demonstrate how you handle blood donations,” Lev called out. “Mr. Endicott, would you just lie on the bed for a moment?”
“Do I have to?” asked the other man, and he twisted his moustache frantically. “I wasn’t expecting to be donating today.”
“Think of it as a contribution to the war effort. It won’t hurt. I can guarantee Miss Abbott is very gentle.”
Endicott climbed reluctantly onto the cot.
“Yes, that’s it. Now cover him over with your pretty quilt, Miss Abbott. Good. Nice smile, now. That always does wonders.”
Eileen patted Endicott’s arm. “Will you remove your jacket, sir. Now roll up your sleeve. I’ll just take your blood pressure first.” She tightened the cuff around Endicott’s arm and pumped up the pressure.
“Hmm, 170 over 95. Rather high.”
For the first time Endicott became engaged in the process. “What does that mean?”
“I suggest you check with your GP. He will probably recommend a regimen of diet and exercise for you. You might have to cut out any alcohol.”
“Oh dear, do you really think so?”
“It isn’t something to be ignored, sir. However, one reading isn’t conclusive. The circumstances might have elevated your pressure. A lot of men react in a similar fashion.”
“That’s nice,” said Lev. “Very nice. Mr. Endicott, perhaps you wouldn’t mind lying back again and we can do a repeat.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t donate blood today, Sister,” said Endicott as he lay back.
“Miss Abbott, will you stroke his head, soothe him – do something comforting. Mr. Endicott, you can smile up at her appreciatively.”
Eileen’s encounters with Charles Endicott had been minimal. He was the factory owner, she his employee. She wanted to tell Lev he was being too American again. Take his blood pressure, all right, but stroke his forehead? No, thank you. However, before she could do anything one way or the other, they heard loud screams and cries from outside the clinic.
The door burst open and Cudmore rushed in.
“Sister, Sister, come quick. There’s been an accident on the floor. One of the girls has been scalped.”
Tyler and Eagleton had just arrived at the factory when they heard the screams. They ran through the lobby and shoved open the doors to the factory floor. One of the women was half sitting, half lying in front of her machine with her hands to her head. Blood was streaming through her fingers and had already soaked the front of her overalls. She was sobbing and moaning. A small group of workers was hovering nearby, clutching at each other, unable to look away but terrified by what they saw.
Tyler could see Miss Abbott kneeling beside the injured girl, the top of whose head was a red, jellied mess.
Eileen bent over. “Francine. Francine. Let me have a look. Take your hands away.”
The girl hardly seemed to hear her. She was uttering loud, frightened cries.
Tyler crouched down as well. “Come on, lass. Let the nurse have a look.”
Francine’s sobs subsided slightly, but when she removed her hands and saw the amount of blood on them she let out a high-pitched wail.
Tyler nodded at his constable, who went over to the other women.
“Come on, ladies, step back if you please.”
They shuffled away a few feet. Tyler saw several of the women from the canteen among them. The photographer was standing nearby, not intervening, apparently waiting to be called upon if necessary.
Eileen had a medicine bag beside her from which she took a sterile dressing. She unwrapped it and placed it on the girl’s head. Almost immediately the cotton turned scarlet.
“Do you want me to hold it in place?” Tyler asked.
Eileen nodded. “Now, Francine,” she said to the girl. “Scalp wounds always bleed a lot, so this seems much worse than it is. You’ll be all right when we get you stitched up.” She looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Cudmore, will you go and telephone for an ambulance.”
The secretary hurried off to do her bidding and Eileen slipped her arm around Francine’s shoulders.
“We’re going to get you to sit up on the bench, Frankie. You’ll be more comfortable … I’ll need your help, Inspector.”
Kaplan stepped forward. “We’ll do that. You keep pressure on the pad.”
“All right. You take her under the hips. Inspector Tyler, get her shoulders. On the count of three swing her onto the bench, gently as you can. One … two … three.”
They got Francine up and sitting. Without being asked, Kaplan took another pad from the medical bag and handed it to Eileen, who replaced the sodden one. Tyler heard a whimper from one of the other girls but it was quickly suppressed.
The nurse addressed Pat O’Callaghan. “Go to the clinic. Bring me the packet of ice that’s in the refrigerator. And a pillow and a blanket.”
Pat took off.
Francine’s face was grey-white. Tyler could see her eyes were starting to roll up in her head.
Eileen spoke firmly. “Francine, sit up straight, there’s a girl. I’m going to put a bandage on to keep the dressing in place. Do you think you can hold your head up while I do so?”
“I’ll help her, Sister.”
Tyler was rather surprised to see it was Mary Ringwald-Brown stepping forward. She came over, grasped Francine by the chin to hold her steady with one hand, and pushed down on the pad with the other. Eileen took a triangular bandage from the bag.
In spite of the pressure Mary was putting on the wound, the amount of blood still flowing was horrific. Eileen started to wrap the pad in place.
Cudmore came hurrying back, Pat at his heels. “The ambulance will be here right away, Sister.”
Pat handed over the ice pack and Mary held it on top of the bandage.
Eileen took a long syringe from the bag, which she thrust through the seal of a small ampoule.
“Pat, roll up her sleeve for me … Francine, make a fist, there’s a good girl.” She plunged the needle into the swelling vein. Francine yelped – there had been no time for finesse. Fortunately the tranquilizer was fast-acting, and within moments she became quieter, although her body continued to shudder like a motor car running out of petrol.
Eileen covered her with the blanket and propped a pillow behind her head.
“What happened?” Tyler asked.
“Apparently her hair got entangled in the wheel of her lathe.”
At that moment the scream of the air-raid warning siren tore through the room. Tyler had heard it only once before, when Whitchurch had run a practice. It was a horrible sound, the rise and fall of the wailing like some strange animal in agony.
Eileen straightened up. “Oh God, that’s all we need.” She addressed the girls. “All right everybody, to the shelters. Hurry.”
“What about Frankie?” Mary asked.
“We’ll be fine here. I don’t want her moved.”
“I’ll stay,” said Pat.
“No, you won’t. We’ll be all right. Get out of here.”
The siren continued to wail.
Eagleton had already got the group mobilized. “Everybody to the shelters. Come on, hurry.”
They had been well drilled and began to move to the exit.
“Pat, Mary, get going,” commanded Eileen.
Reluctantly Pat obeyed. Mary followed. Her hands were stained with Francine’s blood and she was wiping them, unheeding, on her overalls.
“Good heavens, I’d better check on Mr. Endicott,” said Cudmore.
“Speaking of which, where is he?” Kaplan asked. “He must still be in the clinic.”
“I’ll have a look,” said the secretary and he scuttled off. The siren continued.
Eagleton returned. He looked nervous. An actual bombing raid was new to him too.
“Eager, go with the women, there’s a lad,” said Tyler. He looked at Eileen. “I’ll stay here. If we have to move her you’ll need help.”
Francine was out for the count by now.
“I’m not going anywhere either,” said Lev. “Yanks can tough it out with any Limey.”
In spite of the situation, the others had to smile.
“All right. Let’s at least get ourselves underneath one of the machines,” said Eileen. “It’ll give us some protection if the ceiling comes down. We’ll reverse what we did before.”
The two men picked up Francine and shifted her as carefully as they could so she was lying underneath the lathe. Eileen squeezed in beside her.
She waved her hands at the two men. “Take cover.”
Tyler thought the best thing to do was cram himself in the space under the nearby machine. He slid into something wet. Then he saw, just above him, a long swatch of once-blonde hair dangling from the wheel. A piece of scalp was still attached.
Lev gave the password and was admitted. As always, from his American perspective, Comrade Arnold seemed formally dressed for a mere evening at home. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, striped tie, and grey flannels. His shoes were highly polished. Only his canary-yellow socks appeared out of place.
“Who’s here?” Lev asked.
“Everybody but Comrade Cardiff.”
“Has the new guy, Bolton, arrived yet?”
“Yes, he has. They are all a little concerned about your message.”
Lev had chalked Hitchcock requests meeting tonight on the church wall.
Arnold led the way down the hall to his room. “I do hope this is necessary, comrade,” he said fussily. “It really isn’t safe to meet other than at our regular times.”
“I’d think it was the opposite. Being unpredictable has always seemed a much better course of action. However, who am I to say? I’m just an ignorant Yank.”
He received the customary giggle as a response.
As with the previous meeting, the room was already filled with tobacco smoke. Nobody was talking. Comrade Bolton was sitting just inside the door with his cap and overcoat on; Chopin was by the fireplace, also wearing his outdoor clothes and fingerless gloves, his hands outstretched to the low-burning fire. He nodded a greeting to Lev, but Comrade Bolton glared at him in such an obvious, provocative way that Lev felt a surge of anger. How that lad had got to this age without somebody killing him was a miracle.
“Sorry, I don’t have any tea to offer you,” said Arnold. “Rationing, don’t you know.” He pulled forward a rickety-looking chair just as they heard a knock on the door. “Ah, that must be Comrade Cardiff. I’ll let him in.”
Lev could hear the faint sound of music from the upstairs room. The invisible landlords were home. Who were they, and what did they think was going on in their parlour? he wondered.
Arnold returned, the Welshman behind him. Cardiff looked angry.
“I’m on the night shift, comrades. I’d like to get this over with quickly. What’s so urgent?”
“I’ll be working at Endicott’s for a while longer,” said Lev. I want to know what the plans are. As you can imagine, comrades, I have no desire to be present in the factory if it is going to get blown to smithereens.”
Chopin looked up, startled. “What you mean? Who said so?”
Lev shrugged. “It’s as obvious as the nose on your face something is in the works. Incidents like today aren’t enough. They only slow down production for a short while.” He looked over at the Pole. “Were you the one responsible for the so-called mishap?”
Arnold jumped in with surprising firmness. “Better not to ask questions like that, comrade. Who does what shouldn’t be part of general parlance.”
“Hey, I’m a Yank, don’t forget. We don’t use ten-dollar words if we don’t have to. I assume you’re telling me to keep my trap shut.”
“Quite so.”
“Suit yourself. However, what’s been done so far is piddling – a woman injured, no general strike, no significant halt in production.”
“Sunday not piddling,” said Chopin without turning his head.
“According to you lot, that was an accident. Lucky for us, unlucky for those women.”
Nobody spoke. Even Comrade Bolton was still.
Lev continued. “What comes next has to be major and we all know that. Let’s not kid ourselves. I assume our esteemed leader, Patrick, is planning another ‘accident.’ And soon. Am I right, Comrade Arnold?”
Arnold had lit his pipe and he sucked on it hungrily. “I’m not able to answer you at this time, Comrade Hitchcock. I am awaiting orders.”
Cardiff spoke out sharply. “I’m with our Yankee comrade, look you. I don’t want to be killed either. I’d like to live another day and continue with our work. I want to know what the plans are. And do they involve me or not?”
Arnold shrugged nervously. “All I can tell you is that Comrade Patrick has something in mind that is very close to being executed. But until all is worked out, it’s better you not know.”
“Christ almighty,” said Lev. “Are we talking about days? Tomorrow? Next week?”
Bolton spoke up. “Don’t get your knickers in a bleedin’ knot, comrade. It will happen soon, I promise.”
“You promise. Why is it you promising? I thought we had an equal stake in this mission. Why do you have special privilege?”
The youth sneered at him. “Let’s say I’m currently acting as Comrade Patrick’s lieutenant.”
“Really? I find it hard to believe, our illustrious leader would rely on a kid like you. You’ve hardly let go of your mommy’s titty.”
He was doing everything he could to needle the youth, but Bolton had a lot of self-control and one of those dead faces that revealed little. Only his eyes seemed to grow darker.
Cardiff grinned. Chopin hardly seemed to have heard or understood.
Arnold fluttered his pale, fat hands. “Please, Comrade Hitchcock. This is quite unproductive. It is not relevant. We must await our orders.”
“I need to know who my orders are coming from,” said Lev. “Why should I risk everything for an invisible man?”
Comrade Bolton nodded. “You have a point, Yank. But don’t worry. Everything is in place for our little party. And it’s going to be bloody spectacular.”
“When? Or is that too difficult a question for a mere lieutenant to answer?”
“Let’s say you will be given warning.”
“But I need to have some idea when these fireworks are going to happen. As well as everything else, I’m a legitimate filmmaker making a legitimate film. I have no desire to have my hard work go up in smoke. Besides, as our Welsh comrade says, I too want to live to fight another day. When are you and ‘the boss’ planning this, and what do you mean by spectacular?”
Cardiff lit up one of his home-rolled fags, drew on it deeply, and picked a piece of tobacco from his lip. “If our American friend here is going to be in the clear, what about us two, Comrade Chopin and me? Will we have a job to do or is it better if we are absent that day?”
Arnold did another flutter. “You will be receiving your instructions within the next day or two. You are part of the plan, an important part. Both of you.”
“But not me?” Lev managed to make his voice sound sulky. A man who was being passed over in favour of inferiors.
Comrade Bolton answered. “You’ll be needed afterwards.”
Lev raised his eyebrows. “I get it. I’m to film the destruction part. Pan over dead bodies and that sort of thing. My secret other film to show the people what a lousy job their government is doing.”
“That’s right. You’ve hit the nail on the head.”
“I thought we had agreed there would be no civilian casualties. You’re suggesting there will be, and a lot of them.”
Comrade Bolton bared his teeth in a sort of smile. “Minimal, old chap. Fucking minimal.”
Lev turned to the Welshman. “How do you feel about the civilian damage, comrade?”
Cardiff hesitated. “Like we’ve said previous, you can’t win a war without spilling blood, and we’re in a war.”
“But these are innocent young women we’re talking about,” said Lev.
Cardiff dragged on his cigarette. “Let’s put it this way, comrade. The English have a long history of not giving a damn about the innocent when they want something.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah, comrade,” interrupted Bolton. “Tell us your own sad story. And then I can add mine and Chopin here can tell his. I bet he has a doozy. Except for Comrade Arnold, who grew up in the lap of luxury with a silver spoon in his arse. I bet we can all turn on the bloody spigot. Maybe even the Yank has got a sob story tucked away.”
“Comrade Chopin,” Lev interjected. “How do you feel about what’s being planned? This so-called spectacular show.”
The other man didn’t move. “We have to stop the sickness in the world.”
Before Lev could press him as to what the hell he meant by that, Cardiff spoke up.
“If you must know, my father, both of his brothers, and my oldest cousin all worked in the mines in Wales. What else is there to do for a living in that godforsaken place? They worked for a pittance. Most of them had too many children, most of them had black lung. Those men – my own flesh and blood, look you – all died in the mines. Typical happening. One of the shafts collapsed and twenty men died a slow and lingering death. They had no pensions, of course, except what the benevolent society could pay out. The English owners didn’t give a shite. Nobody came to the funerals and they docked the wages of the men who did attend. Nobody asked if something could be done to prevent accidents like that.”
Cardiff’s voice was low. He was looking at the floor. “I was eleven years old when my pa died and I became the breadwinner for the family. Seven wee ones, me the oldest. One day I saw one of the owners drive by in his motor car with his wife in furs beside him. My mam didn’t have furs. She went without clothes and food so her kiddies could have something to stop the pain from the cold and the hunger. She died when she was forty. The doctor said the cause of death was pernicious anemia. I say she died because she was worn out.”
His bitterness and white-hot rage were spilling into the room, so palpable they could burn the skin. “I’m sorry if civilians have to die, but if this is one more step on our journey to bring down the English and return the Welsh land to its rightful owners, I consider it necessary. No matter what the price.”
“I gather that was a vote in favour,” said Lev.
Cardiff flushed. “That’s right. And sorry I am for the long speech. Mind you, I’d like to know sooner rather than later when I might expect it all to happen.”
Arnold was clearly so relieved to have Taffy’s support that he blurted out, “It’ll be before the week is out.” Realizing he had said too much, he stopped. “But that is for your information only.”
Bolton looked at Lev. “Can we all trust you to keep your bleedin’ mouth shut, comrade?”
“What do you take me for?” Lev answered irritably.
“Good bloody question. Unless I read you wrong, you’re very interested in saving your own bloody skin. That, or you’ve got another reason for wanting to know when the party will happen.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Lev and he took a step forward. In the small parlour that meant he was almost nose to nose with the youth.
Cardiff put out a hand between them. “Not a good time to fight among ourselves, comrades.”
Lev could feel the strength of Cardiff’s forearm and he moved back.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. A pleasant, melodic sound that seemed to belong to a world of china teacups and freshly toasted crumpets, not this squalid, dingy room filled with murder.
“I’ve got to go,” said Cardiff. “Comrade Hitchcock, do you have an answer to your questions?”
Lev shrugged. “In a way. But I do want to go on record that I hate being kept in the dark like this.”
“Objection noted,” said Arnold.
The Welshman held out his hand to Lev. “In case I don’t have a chance to shake your hand at a later date, I wish you well, and here’s to the revolution.”
They shook hands. Cardiff waved at the others. “I shall await my instructions, Comrade Arnold. Usual method of communication?”
“Quite so.”
He left and there was an uneasy silence for a few moments. Lev knew it would be impossible to get any more information. Nobody trusted him. The doors had closed. He wasn’t even sure who was in the know. Not Chopin, and presumably not Cardiff as yet. The little thug was, and obviously Arnold. For a moment he felt a wave of desperation. How the hell was he going to find out what they had planned? Even if he had them arrested he didn’t know who the leader at the plant was, and that was the man he wanted. Otherwise he would have simply lopped off one of the heads of the Hydra. More would grow.
It was almost midnight and Eileen knew she should get to sleep, but she was too agitated to even try. She took out her Mass Observation diary.
Lev Kaplan asked me to go to the pictures with him. He said I deserved it after what had happened this morning. I immediately said no, I couldn’t possibly, but he pressed me. “Why not? It’s no disrespect to Frankie and the other girls if we try to grasp at whatever pleasure we can while we can.” Words to that effect anyway, although he put it more elegantly. He has a way with words, does Mr. Kaplan. He’s right. At least I think he is. Francine is going to be all right, but she will have some disfigurement for the rest of her life. Poor girl. She was always so proud of her lovely long hair.
Eileen paused. What she wanted to write about she was reluctant to share with Mass Observation. She decided to continue anyway.
I can hardly remember what the film was about. Michael Wilding doing something or other with Anna Neagle. The only seats left were in the back row and I felt some misgivings about sitting there. Lev seemed oblivious. Is this just an English custom – the back-row courtships? It was soon apparent nobody was there to see a film. I felt quite ridiculous. The man seated next to me was virtually moaning as he kissed his girlfriend. His hand was clearly in a very intimate place. I was trying to cut him out of my consciousness and concentrate on the film but it was almost impossible. Then Lev whispered in my ear, “If we can’t beat them, let’s join them.” He turned my chin and kissed me.
Eileen stopped writing. What a sweet, long kiss it had been. His lips were soft. Had men’s lips always been that soft? There was more tenderness and exploration than passion in that kiss.
I couldn’t shake off my self-consciousness. I’m over forty, for heaven’s sake, not fourteen. But the cinema was dark. I hoped nobody would see us. I wanted him to kiss me again, but he didn’t right away. He turned back to the film although he kept hold of my hand. He seemed comfortable in a way I wasn’t at all. He laughed at some antic on the screen. All I could think of was when he would kiss me again. He must have read my mind, because after a while he turned again. I could see his smile. “Are you okay?” he asked. I wanted to say, “No, I’m not. I want to go somewhere where we can lie naked together, where I can feel you inside me. I don’t care if we’ve only just met. We could be dead tomorrow and I would never have known the bliss of being made love to by a man like you.” But of course I couldn’t say that and simply nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. He did kiss me again, but it wasn’t like the first kiss. This time there was more intensity to it. I could hardly breathe. The man next to me must have had his orgasm, because his groans were stifled. His girlfriend was giggling and he was jerking. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be acting like a teenager. I suddenly felt cold and removed. I didn’t want to kiss anymore. The film wasn’t over yet but a couple a few rows in front of us got up and left. “Let’s take their seat,” I said to Lev. I didn’t give him much chance to answer and I stood up with my coat. I was almost afraid to go past the noisy couple on my left but they were both lighting cigarettes and didn’t seem to be aware of me at all. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, the boy hardly any older. We did go and sit in the other seats and it was better, although if my life depended on it, I don’t think I could recall the plot of the film. Lev had brought chocolates with him and I ate more than I should. I regretted it later.
About seven thirty, just before the film ended, there was an air-raid warning. The second one today. The film was stopped and the little nervous manager came out to tell us we could leave for the shelter. They couldn’t give a refund as more than half of the film had been played. Those who wanted could stay at their own risk and watch the rest. Only a few people left, and after a brief consultation, Lev and I decided to stick it out. We didn’t hear any bombs dropping, so either it was a false alarm or the bombers were heading somewhere else, the way they did this morning. Bristol or Liverpool probably – surely Coventry can’t get hit again. Poor people. It was even more difficult to concentrate with half an ear on what was happening outside, but even though I couldn’t see anybody in the dark, I felt as if we were all connected by the invisible bonds of fear and defiance. At least it took me away from my agitation, so I’m thankful for that. The all-clear sounded half an hour later, almost at the same time that THE END flashed on the screen. We laughed at that. Then the lights went on and we filed out, smiling and chatting to each other like old friends as if we had cheated the Nazi war machine, which I suppose we had in a way.
The night was so overcast we thought we were probably safe from another raid and we actually found a café open. I’d never been in it before and it looked decidedly seedy, but I didn’t want to go home yet and neither did he. And it was seedy, the air heavy with stale grease that clung to my clothes after. But the tea was all right and they had some scones left. They were rock-hard but we took them anyway. Lev said, “Eileen, forgive me for the back-row thing. They were the only seats left. I think I embarrassed you.” I didn’t want to lie, so I just said, “Well, we’re not teenagers, are we?” I wasn’t going to say how much I still felt that kiss. Then he leaned closer so nobody could hear us. “I would like to make love to you properly. Is there any possibility that could ever happen, dear Miss Abbott?”
My God. What could I say? I made a feeble joke that it was all right to call me by my first name now that we’d kissed. The café was filled with men in uniform and their girls. All younger than us, of course. I seemed to be surrounded by love, or certainly a desperate lust.
“I’d like that,” I said. The words were out of my mouth before I knew it.
So that was more or less that. He said he’s going back to London soon. He has digs there. But he said that Mrs. Cooper goes to her daughter’s in the country every weekend. Perhaps we could work it out for me to come and stay. I agreed, although I don’t know how I’m going to do that. Not with the Brian situation hanging over us.
Again Eileen stopped writing for a moment. The house was silent, everybody asleep except her.
Things were very bad before I went out. Brian was desperate and couldn’t sit down for more than a minute. He’s upset that he can’t see Vanessa. I made him take a sedative to calm him down. I don’t know how she is going to deal with that pregnancy. Over tea, Brian told Dad and me what he’d already told Mum, that he might be able to get papers to get him to Ireland. It will cost money but we’re willing to pay if we have to. He says Jack can be the go-between and nobody questioned that. Later perhaps we will take our respective heads out of the sand where that boy is concerned.
She closed the diary and replaced it at the back of the drawer. Her room was chilly but it was too late to build up the fire. A needless extravagance. Her thoughts leaped to being in bed with Lev. It had been such a long time since she had experienced sexual intimacy, and that last time hadn’t been particularly fulfilling. She had imagined herself in love with one of the office managers at Endicott’s. She knew he was married but he said he was separated. Not true, as it turned out. But they had gone to a hotel in the country for a weekend. The lovemaking had been rather perfunctory. Indeed, she had to say dull. He had spent most of the time complaining about his wife and kids, who were feckless. What she had seen in him she couldn’t imagine and she was glad when he moved away to Nottingham. And now there was Lev. And she had never in her life felt like this about anybody before.
She turned out her bedside lamp, got out of bed, and went over to the window. She pulled back the blackout curtain. It was so dark outside she could hardly see past the end of the front garden, but she caught the tiny flash of a torch. The air-raid warden was making his rounds. She knew him – Reg Anderson from the next street. He was too old to be doing this but he insisted. Watching his slow progress, she felt absurdly weepy.
She went back to her bed. How could she have been daydreaming about loving a strange man when all this life and death was on her doorstep? Another war within her lifetime. Another time when young, vital men lost their lives. Another time when women wept.
Tyler was sitting with Alf Mason in the common room. They’d had a decent enough meal and were now into the cigar-and-brandy stage. “Like gents,” said Alf. “Drink up, it’s the last bottle.” There were three constables – one of them Eagleton – playing a spirited game of darts, and the wireless was broadcasting some BBC light music program. Tyler could actually feel himself relaxing.
Eagleton hit a bull’s eye and let out a loud cheer. Considering he wasn’t wearing his spectacles, it was a quite a feat.
Mason turned back to Tyler. “Do you remember when we used to hide our duty arm bands and pretend we were off-duty so we could go into the pub? You were darts-mad in those days and you were always on the lookout for a match.”
“Not to mention a pint,” added Tyler.
“That too.”
Tyler grinned. “We must have had wool for noggins. We could have got dismissed on the spot if we’d been found out.”
“Might not have been such a bad thing. I would have bought my own pub and been a wealthy man by now instead of an underpaid copper.”
“True.”
They lapsed into the comfortable silence of old friends.
Alf flicked off some cigar ash. “What’s your take, then, Tom? Are you chalking up this latest incident to another accident? More carelessness?”
Tyler blew out some of the rich cigar smoke. “It is looking like that. I examined Francine’s lathe but those machines were built decades ago. The guard had come loose and slipped down between the wheels. Francine was also apparently in the habit of leaving some of her hair out of her turban. Thought the turban was ugly.”
“Sounds like a contemporary morality play. The fruits of vanity.”
It was Tyler who swished around his brandy this time. “They’re young girls, most of them. A bit of vanity is allowed, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re talking to somebody who has two daughters, Tom.”
“The wheel should have stopped immediately when her hair got caught, but it didn’t,” continued Tyler. “Apparently there’s been more than one of these accidents. Nobody has been scalped before, thank God, but there have been badly bruised fingers.”
“Endicott should have them replaced,” said Alf. “The lathes, I mean.”
“I agree. The workers have been asking for new models since the factory was commandeered, but so far Endicott has been dragging his feet.”
“He’s got a reputation of being a skinflint.”
Tyler stabbed the air with his cigar. “I’m going to make it part of my recommendations. ‘Replace decrepit machines.’ ”
Alf laughed. “You’re enjoying the chance to throw your weight around, aren’t you, Tommy. I always knew you were a bit of a bolshie.”
“Me! You, more like.”
“Not so. But the older I get, the more I get fed up with the privileged few ruling the roost.”
Tyler raised his glass. “I’m with you there, Alf. My fighting ancestors go back a long way.”
Alf clicked his glass against Tyler’s. “Here’s to the revolution.”
They both sipped the brandy, Tyler making noises of appreciation. “Good stuff, Alf.”
“Savour it, mate. Like I said, that’s the last bottle I’ve got. Everything’s vanishing into the black market.” He scowled. “I hate profiteers like poison.”
Tyler nodded. He hadn’t told Alf that in the summer he’d been on the point of arresting his own father-in-law for dabbling in the black market.
“Speaking of which,” continued Alf, “did Endicott have any reaction to the incident?”
“He vanished. His secretary whispered in my ear that the poor man has a phobia about blood. Faints dead away at the very sight.”
Alf grinned. “That could be convenient or inconvenient, depending on your point of view. Anyway, with regard to the other matter, wish I could be of more help.”
“No, you have been, Alf. Just the chance to run things by you has been grand. And getting access to the police files without having to go through red tape.”
“None of those on your list have police form, I gather.”
“Not one. All clean as whistles.”
“Like I said, we’re pretty thorough about screening the munitions workers.”
“Young Eager over there did manage to check out the Yank I mentioned,” said Tyler. “He seems bona fide. Commissioned by the Ministry of Information to make documentaries. I’m glad he’s cleared, to tell you the truth. He seems like a good bloke. He was right there when needed. Very steady. Besides which, I think he and the nurse fancy each other. I’d hate to see her hurt.”
“I wish the Yanks would get off the po and join us,” said Alf. “Don’t say I said this, but I’m not sure England can survive without them.”
Tyler nodded. “It’s looking grimmer every day, Alf.”
“So, back to what we were saying. Come to any conclusion about Sunday yet?”
“Not quite. I read over the most meticulous notes that Mr. Cudmore typed up for me but I couldn’t see any patterns. No inconsistencies in the statements that jumped out and bit me on the nose.”
“Ah, that kind. Either people are becoming better liars or I’m getting too old for this job,” said Mason. “I don’t seem to catch those things.”
Another good throw by Eagleton, and the resulting excitement distracted them. Tyler put down his brandy glass so he could clap.
Alf turned back to face Tyler. “So what’s your doubt about the explosion, Tom? You’ve got one, I can tell.”
Tyler shrugged. “You and I both know how many people died in the last war because of so many factors. Stupidity on their part; even worse stupidity on the part of the top brass; or the weather turned; or a mechanical part broke down. Nothing you could control except perhaps the ignorance.” He sighed. “In this case, the combination of pressure to go fast – management’s fault; perhaps the lust of the two supervisors, who left the girls to start on their own; the chance that the men were working when they shouldn’t; the fact that somebody locked the change-room door and made them late. All those factors added up. Remove any one of them and you might not have had the explosion. At least not on that day.”
Mason swished his brandy around in his glass before swallowing the last of it. “Why would somebody lock the doors?”
“It’s my guess the culprit was a woman named Mary Ringwald-Brown. Clearly upper class but she says she’s a member of the Communist Party. She’s an ignorant woman, I have to say. Stopped thinking years ago. She talks like a pamphlet. I could see her trying to disrupt production and convincing herself she was justified.” He mimicked Mary’s nasal voice. “ ‘It’s not a war of country against country. It’s a war of the owners against the proletariat.’ ”
“Cor blimey. I can’t even spell proletariat.”
There was yet another shout of triumph from the direction of the dartboard. This time it was one of the Brummie constables who’d hit a bull’s eye.
“Come and join us, Inspector Tyler,” called Eagleton.
“No, thanks, lad. I’m for bed.”
“Me too,” said Mason. “Another bloody early morning call.” He stood up. “You lads make sure the fire’s tamped down before you leave.”
They all exchanged good-nights and Tyler went to his room. It was funny how quickly he’d slipped back into the old routine. Alf had joked about being a publican but he wasn’t serious. Once a copper always a copper, as far as Tyler was concerned. He started to undress, unlacing his shoes and placing them side by side underneath the bed. Shite – that was what had been niggling at him. He’d been drilled when he was in the army to keep his kit neat and tidy. Clothes hung up, boots together out of sight. All the men learned this until it was instinct. All drill became that way.
When Mick Smith had got to his feet at the start of their interview, he’d automatically stood at attention. He’d also been about to salute, Tyler would swear. When he left, he’d made a sharp turn as if he was on a parade ground.
Mr. Smith had been a soldier.
Tyler turned back his covers. Was that significant? There were lots of ex-soldiers around, including himself. Joe Abbott, for instance, had made no bones about being in the army during the Great War. Smith could have served then. There was no real reason to mention it. He’d ask Cudmore in the morning.
But Tyler remembered what Alf had told him. The Irishman they had hanged for planting a bomb in the Coventry police station had claimed to be a member of the Irish Republican Army. He’d emphasized that he was a soldier. The IRA trained their men to think and act like that. Smith certainly didn’t appear to be Irish, but it was something else to take note of. Alf was right – Tyler did have doubts. He hadn’t finished nosing around yet.