Two streets away from the library, counter clerk Bea Gold stands rigid at the taped-over windows of Broad Street post office, along with the rest of the counter staff. Behind them, bundled into every available space, are mountains of brown paper packages, left behind by the evacuees, attempting to forward their possessions on to England before the occupation. It is, Bea realizes, perhaps too late now.
They hear them before they see them. The perfectly synchronized thud of jackboots on cobbles, echoing up the narrow streets of St. Helier. Panic seizes her in an icy grip.
“You’re the fastest. Go upstairs. Tell them they’ve arrived,” urges Winnie. “Hurry.”
Bea turns, takes the stairs up to the phonograph room on the top floor two at a time.
Vera Le Dain, the telegraph girl, is waiting, eyes as round as pebbles.
“Quick, V. Let London know.”
Vera turns without a word and begins to punch out a message to the Central Telegraph Office in London. Bea stands behind and reads over her shoulder: They’re entering the building; I’ll have to close down now; Hope to be back on circuit after the war, God help us all; God save the King; Bye for now.