The station swirled in a thickening cloud of cheap Woodbine and Craven A cigarette smoke mingled with the cloying odour of damp bedding and too many unwashed bodies in close proximity. Diana, holding her dismay tightly in check, wondered: How long are we to remain here? One of her gloves had lost its button during their headlong flight and both stockings were now laddered. For a moment she did not quite believe this double catastrophe, laying a finger on the laddered stocking, gazing dumbly at the spoiled glove.
The raid could not last all night.
But they did last all night, she knew that. And even if a miracle should happen and they got the all-clear before midnight they could not possibly make it home; the last train would have long gone. They would be stranded. They would have to find a hotel at Liverpool Street. Yes, she resolved, if they could make it as far as Liverpool Street they would get a hotel. It helped, making this decision, gave one a sense of having some control over events. In the morning they would return home, they would tell Mrs Probart about their adventure, they would write a letter to Gerald, and in a month or so Abigail would forget.
In the meantime, it was simply a question of sitting it out.
She had found a position not far from the entrance to the tunnel. It was strange to see the tunnel, the Underground station, from the angle at which a train driver must see it, or a mouse down on the tracks scurrying away into the darkness. She closed her eyes, pushing down thoughts of mice. Of rats. And yet people were sheltering there, right inside the tunnel, almost swallowed up in its blackness. For it stretched away into oblivion, into East London, and when she tried to think what station would be next heading eastwards she could not. There was nothing: her knowledge of London stopped dead at Liverpool Street.
The place she had found for herself and Abigail allowed just enough space for her to sit on the hard compacted earth (the tweed Liberty coat!) her legs beneath her, her handbag clutched tightly in her hand, the little travelling case at her side and Abigail on her lap. Abigail stared about, wide-eyed and silent, at the sprawling, shifting spread of humanity, at the gaping mouth of the tunnel.
‘Mummy, Teddy doesn’t like it!’
Diana stroked her hair. She had brushed Abigail’s hair this morning and placed a hairband on it and Abigail had sat squirming, waiting for the ordeal to be over, impatient to return to her dolls, to her bricks, to her world. She had not wanted to come out for the day. She had not wanted to come up to London.
‘Teddy wants to go home!’
‘Sssh, sweetheart. We’ll go home as soon as it’s safe. Until then we shall just have to make the best of it, shan’t we?’
‘It smells funny!’
Abigail was determined not to make the best of it. And there was no denying it did smell funny. Worse than funny. Diana pulled her handkerchief from her handbag and held it to her nose. She would not look at the people all around them; their presence was vivid and compelling without one actually needing to view them. For they seethed, spreading like some virulent Victorian disease that began less than three inches from her feet and stretched without end in every direction. A family of half-starved children shuffled past, their eyes huge and too large for their faces. Their mother was barely out of adolescence herself. She walked dully and without expression, as though she had awoken to find herself in the middle of a war with five runny-nosed children to provide for and no husband in sight. Diana dropped her gaze lest the woman see her staring but the woman seemed to see and hear nothing. And perhaps that was the trick.
Up on the platform tarpaulins formed a closed-off area where, one presumed, the lavatories were. But what horror lay beyond the tarpaulins? Buckets? Were they expected to use buckets? She would not go there, no matter the discomfort. She pulled Abigail closer to her, wondering about her child’s bladder capacity, knowing it was really only a matter of time. To see and hear nothing, yes, that was the trick. She imagined herself relating this to Mrs Probart, putting it in her letter to Gerald. But why had she gone up to London at all, he would ask in his reply, and why bring Abigail?
The air seemed to be thinning as more and more people sucked it in and coughed it out again and Diana felt her chest constrict. It was just her imagination. She knew the air could not really be thinning.
She would not mention it to Gerald. There would be no letter. And in a month or so Abigail would forget.
The piece of ground that, in their panicked flight, Diana had found and claimed was right beside a woman and child with a pile of belongings and bedding that the woman had rather ungraciously moved aside in order to make space. The woman was in her early twenties with a scarf tied over her head from which strands of fair hair had escaped. She wore vivid scarlet lipstick and had high, shaped eyebrows over eyes narrowed either in annoyance or to ward off the trail of smoke from her cigarette, all of which gave her a severe, rather hard face—but what should have been cheap, vulgar even, somehow was neither, somehow was striking. It was a beauty—vivid, compelling, and yet, somehow one knew, that would fade, if not this year then the next. The woman wore, oddly, an old apricot dressing-gown with a man’s overcoat slung over her shoulders and the cigarette was wedged in the corner of her mouth as though she had placed it there some hours earlier then forgotten about it. She was deftly laying out bedding, provisions and her child on the ground as if she had done it all fifty times before, which no doubt she had. There was something rather splendid about this woman who would not have looked out of place in the pages of a magazine but whom fate had put here, in the East End, in a tube station with a cigarette in her mouth and a small child. It set her apart from the wretched mother and her five starving children. The child, like its mother, was fair-haired and bundled up in mismatching clothes with a ghastly little red knitted hat on its head. She had the same neat little nose and deep-set eyes as her mother, with that same severity, almost hardness about her that was a little disturbing in a child so young. It was the child who saw Diana, her mother oblivious it seemed, absorbed, unconcerned. It was the child who stared back at Diana with black eyes that glared with a measured look that was somehow furious and patient both at once.
Diana felt herself shrivel under the gaze and she looked away and hugged Abigail to her, feeling her own child’s sleek good health, her plump little arms, her rosy cheeks—streaked at the moment with dusty tears—her shiny chestnut hair pushed neatly off her face by the gay little hairband. But oddly this felt, now, like something to be ashamed of, something, instinctively, to hide. For the other woman’s child was wretched, her hair lank and unwashed and undoubtedly nit-infested, her features were grey, her arms and legs pitifully thin, and it was easy to blame the war, to blame rationing for the little girl’s miserable state, but what sort of existence would she live normally in a place like this?
One ought to feel compassion, thought Diana, yet she felt nothing. Worse, she felt revulsion. It was the war: it focused one’s priorities. Her priority was her own and her child’s safety. And Gerald, of course. Nothing else mattered. And if they did not look after themselves, who else was there to turn to? Both her parents were dead. John was dead—more than twenty years dead, though it was extraordinary to realise it. Gerald, thank God, was not dead—or if he was, the Ministry of Defence had not yet informed her of it.
The child had a scrap of blanket clutched to her cheek but now its eyes had settled, disturbingly, on Abigail. No, not on Abigail—on Teddy. Diana felt tiny creatures crawl up over her flesh and she pulled Abigail closer to her. She closed Abigail’s little fingers tighter about Teddy’s round, furry tummy.
Gerald was somewhere in North Africa, or perhaps the Med, or even the Near East; it was difficult to know with any certainty because all he could say in his occasional letters and hurriedly scribbled postcards was that it was hot, that the flies were a jolly nuisance and that he had acquired a marvellous winter tan—he could just as well have been writing to her from the terrace of a hotel on the French Riviera. Wherever he was, it was safe to assume he was not on board a ship in the North Atlantic being bombed by U-boats and that was a comfort, for Diana had a horror of him drowning in rough seas. But Gerald was in a tank regiment so the chances of his dying at sea were, thankfully, remote.
Abigail, clearly having waited what she considered a long enough time, stirred restlessly. ‘Mummy, when can we go home?’
‘Darling, I know it’s not very nice, but however horrid it is, however much we dislike it, we must always remember that it’s far, far worse for Daddy than it is for us.’
She had used this line before and Abigail had accepted it, for the most part, though what she understood by the term ‘Daddy’ Diana could hardly imagine, for Abigail had met him just the once and as this was the day after she was born it hardly counted. Her daddy was a figure as mythical as Father Christmas, which was wretched for Abigail (though she appeared unconcerned by it), wretched for herself, who had had no husband for the past three years, and of course dreadfully wretched for poor Gerald.
Diana spat on her handkerchief and wiped away the dust and grime from Abigail’s shoes, giving the little silver buckles a polish. The futility of this was clear in Abigail’s silent observation but she could not stop herself. She wiped harder.
Gerald had been thirty-eight already at the outbreak of war with quite a senior position at the merchant bank of Goldberg Staedtler in the City, which, though not exactly essential war work, still it had seemed that this, coupled with his age, would keep him out of active service. And so it had proved, with Gerald drafted to the newly created Ministry of Supply in the early weeks of the war. There had followed a strange but not entirely unpleasant period, with Gerald travelling into Whitehall each day rather than to the City, and, apart from the rare occasions when he was obliged, by weight of work or civil defence drills, to sleep in the office, their lives in those first months of the war had not changed noticeably. They had still played tennis on the weekends and, when rationing allowed, had a roast on Sunday. True, they had listened gravely to the Home Service news each evening on the wireless, and in a burst of patriotic duty Diana had ordered Mr Baines to dig up the garden and plant vegetables—she had drawn the line at keeping chickens—but, on the whole, the war had barely touched them.
After Dunkirk everything had changed. Gerald had got his call-up papers.
‘I’m jolly good at figures, but Lord knows what use they’ll make of me in a uniform,’ he had observed as she had kissed him goodbye at the station. She had wondered the same thing. He was fit enough—the tennis saw to that—but in a battle? She hoped, she trusted, the military would have the good sense to keep him behind the front lines.
He had been attached to a tank regiment.
And she had been proud but uncertain—what did joining a tank regiment mean? She could not picture what it might entail, what exactly he might be doing. At least he would not drown in rough seas, and for that she was grateful, though she supposed he could suffocate or be burned alive inside a tank. It had seemed important for his sake to minutely consider these things, but she found it hard to imagine either of these two scenarios with any clarity. She had put it out of her mind because she found she could not live in this state of muted panic (though other wives seemed able to) and, though it seemed disloyal, she had resumed her life, or tried to. There was one complication: she was seven months pregnant.
They had been married ten years by then and though there had been two other pregnancies both had miscarried in the first few months, the last one four years ago. This one, coming as it had out of the blue, had appeared—seemingly against all expectations—to be heading towards full term. They had been realistic about its chances from the first, not speaking of the child’s future, making no preparations in their home for a new arrival—not even a cot—taking nothing for granted. Yet as each month had progressed and nothing had gone wrong, they had taken to sitting side by side of an evening, holding hands, not speaking, looks exchanged every now and again.
And then, with two months to go, the army had swooped in—cruelly, sadistically it had seemed—and taken him from her right when she had needed him most. She was utterly alone but she would make the baby survive, if only by sheer force of will. And she was not alone in one sense: wives all over England were in the same position, though other wives had mothers and sisters and in-laws. She had none of these, and Gerald’s parents had died out in Ceylon when he was at boarding school. He had an elderly aunt somewhere near Inverness, but what use was that? Diana had been alone. And yet when the time had come there had been a team of nurses and a wonderful midwife who had said she was doing splendidly. She did do splendidly: she had produced a perfect, a beautiful baby girl. She had named her Abigail, after Gerald’s mother. Gerald had just completed his initial training and had been allowed forty-eight hours leave to visit her and the new baby. When he had arrived, so strange in his army uniform, leaning over the cot to stare at the tiny thing they had produced together, he had been unable to speak. At the end of his leave he had said, ‘Well, whatever happens, now I shall just have to make sure I return in one piece.’
But with the war now in its fifth year there appeared to be no end in sight. Abigail had celebrated her third birthday last September much as she had celebrated her first and her second and looked destined to celebrate her fourth—which was to say, fatherless. Diana made an annual visit to Timms Photographic Studio in Amersham, where the elderly Mr Timms sat the protesting Abigail on a settee and tied a handsome bow around her hair or handed her a toy monkey or placed a puppet on his hand to distract her while he took her photograph: a photograph that would find its way, via the British Forces Post Office, to Gerald, wherever he might be—in his tank in the desert, or back at company headquarters or in an officers’ mess in Cairo . . . she had not the least idea. But he always got it eventually and in his reply he marvelled at how she had grown—no longer a baby but a little girl!—and that was perhaps the hardest part to bear, for Abigail had grown, was growing, almost daily and Gerald was missing it. The last time she had visited Timms it was to find that old Mr Timms had died and his boy had taken over the business although, as the boy had just received his call-up papers, it seemed likely there would be no more photographs for the duration.
Beside her, cross-legged on the ground, Abigail sat absorbed, smoothing the fur out of Teddy’s two small round amber-coloured glass eyes—for he had become a little ruffled in their headlong flight—but now she looked up and said in a loud voice, ‘Mummy, you lied! You said we went to the pantomime but we didn’t!’
‘Abigail, it hardly matters—’
‘I want to go to the pantomime! Why can’t we go to the pantomime?’
It had been a mistake, Diana realised, to bring Abigail with her.
And the little girl in the red woollen hat watched them, her gaze never wavering. Diana felt something cold pass through her body. She wished the little girl would stop staring.