Edith sat kicking her heels against the wall near the petrol station at Morrison’s supermarket on the outskirts of Kendal.
It was not her first choice for a mysterious rendezvous point. A railway station would have topped the list but only if they still had steam trains. She’d be wearing a snappy suit with a pencil skirt and box shoulders, and a fox fur stole and one of those little hats with a veil that just covered her smoky eyes. Patrick would suddenly stride out of the billowing clouds, in a long overcoat and a rakish trilby. He’d run the last few yards to sweep her off her feet, whirl her around, as the last express to Paris pulled in behind them.
But this was not one of those old black-and-white films her mother indulged in when her father was off playing copper on drizzly Sunday afternoons. Where everyone smoked elegantly and were too terribly well-spoken, and the women never went anywhere without gloves.
This was dreary real life, with all its dirt and vulgarity. Its shabby disappointments made all the more graphic for being rendered in full Technicolor.
She checked her watch again, but no time seemed to have passed since she’d last looked. If it wasn’t for the slow arc of the second hand, she could almost believe the stupid thing had packed in. It was only some market stall knockoff, the wafer-thin gilt already rubbing off the bezel. She’d promised herself the real thing—after. When she and Patrick had left all this far behind them.
Only he hadn’t come.
She’d been fretting for the past hour, even before he was late. She’d done everything he asked, followed his instructions to the letter like she was defusing a bomb. Dialled the numbers he’d given her, acted her little heart out. No slips, no errors.
That copper from London, who was supposed to be the Big I Am, he’d lapped up every word of it. And the stupid army bloke never suspected for a moment that he wasn’t dealing with a real policewoman.
But despite how brilliantly she’d played her part, Patrick hadn’t come for her.
The only possible reason was that they must have taken him. Somehow, somewhere, his grand design had unraveled, come undone. She harboured a fierce hope that, knowing capture would mean their ultimate separation, he’d fought them to his last breath.
The weather was finally turning, clouds gathering overhead to block out the sun. It fitted Edith’s mood perfectly. If I can’t be with Patrick, she thought tragically, the sun will never shine again.
She’d gone from one extreme of emotion to another, rollercoastering, after that night she’d run from the byre. It was only the next day, when she’d knocked wretchedly on his door to clean for him, that he’d swept her into his arms, held her close and told her how much he needed her. And then he’d shown her. The loo at the byre didn’t get scrubbed that day. Edith had grinned under the visor of her helmet all the way home, struggling to mask her delight in front of her parents.
Because at last—at last—everything was starting to go right for her.
Of course, looking back, Patrick hadn’t actually explained much. He’d carefully gone over what he wanted her to do, but she realised she was hazier on the why of it. Maybe she should have asked more questions, so she’d have known what to expect from their new life together.
But what does any of it matter now, if they’ve taken him?
She drummed her heels against the stonework behind her legs, a random pattern that picked up rhythm and speed to match the dreadful bellow inside her head.
Further along Appleby Road, towards the middle of town, she heard the frantic wail of sirens. Two squad cars hurtled towards her, their strobing headlights searing her eyes, roof lights ablaze. She froze like a rabbit, waiting for them to screech alongside, the slam of doors, booted feet, shouted commands to lie on the ground while they cuffed her.
Both cars rocketed past without a pause, headed on towards Grayrigg. The thudding of Edith’s heartrate faded slowly with the distant wail, yelping in and out of sync. Foreboding lay like a stone in the depths of her belly.
Edith waited another two hours, by which time a steady rain had begun to fall. She caught the bus up to Tebay. The route went past the entrance to the Retreat, which she half-expected to see barricaded with policemen, but there was no sign that things weren’t just as they’d ever been.
Edith sat in the furthest back corner of the bus, clutched her running-away bag to her chest like a baby, and wept silently for the rest of the journey.