Four days later Bea had finished her last round and went back to the post office to collect her final pay packet at 5 p.m.
She had hoped to slip away. No such luck. As soon as she pushed her bicycle in through the yard, she could see it was filled with postmen and counter staff.
“Surprise!” yelled fifty or so voices.
Homemade bunting in the shape of letters was strung across the yard. A trestle table had been laid with a half-passable spread.
“You didn’t think you was gonna slip away without a fuss, did you?” said Nobby, popping the lid on a bottle of beer and guzzling the foam as it spilled out.
“Come on then, girlie, let’s be having you,” said Arthur, pushing a drink into her hand. “I’ve been saving this calvados for a special occasion.”
“We’ve pooled our rations,” said Winnie, gesturing to the trestle table. “It’s not much, but we didn’t want you leaving without a decent send-off.”
Bea felt her throat close up with emotion. Leaving here was breaking her heart. It was just one more sacrifice to make.
“You’re a gobby piece, but we won’t half miss you,” joked Harold.
“Yeah only ’cause you old buggers will have to make your own tea now,” Bea retorted and the crowd fell about.
“Jokes aside, we will miss you. A great deal,” said Arthur softly. “When this occupation is over, you can hold your head up high.”
“Three cheers for Bea,” said Mr. Warder. “À ta bouonne santé! Your good health.”
“Speech,” the crowd clamored.
“Té v’là, vièr bougârron, tu n’as pon acouo mouothi don. Prend tan temps, n’y’a pon d’prêsse,” she replied. The yard fell silent. “You old sods, you’re not dead yet, I see. Take your time. There’s no hurry.” She grinned and translated.
“I thought you didn’t speak Jèrriais,” Winnie exclaimed.
“You don’t know everything about me,” she said, winking at Arthur.
As the yard erupted with laughter, Bea spotted Grace slipping in at the back of the crowd.
When the cheers and backslapping had finished, Winnie tapped her on the arm.
“A little present for you,” said Winnie, drawing her over to the privacy of the bike shed.
“Just have a peek in, but be a good girl and don’t pull it out. You won’t want anyone seeing.”
Bea moved aside the tissue paper and saw soft white wool bootees.
“I had to unravel my son’s old jumper to make it, but it should do you in about a month or so time by my reckoning.”
Bea passed her hand over her mouth.
“It’s all right, you don’t need to say anything. I’ve known for months. I won’t say anything. You have my word.”
Bea leaned over and hugged her.
“Thank you, Win,” she whispered. “I’m touched… and scared.”
“I dare say. You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last.”
Bea pushed back the tidal waves of tears that threatened to swamp her at the act of kindness. If Jimmy were alive then this baby would be a cause for celebration. She’d have a proper ring on her finger, be about to start a new life as a mum. Instead, she was slinking away in shame, her precious baby a dirty little secret. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek as she brushed her fingers over the bootees, imagined 10 little pink toes in them. Up until now, her child had remained faceless, but the closer the birth drew, the more she found herself fantasizing about her baby. Would he look like her or Jimmy? The thought of meeting this little person, conceived from an act of love, so very much wanted, needed even, and then having to hand him over to a stranger was almost more than she could bear. She inhaled sharply, the pain of what lay ahead was excruciating. The heart-rending enormity of having to give her child away crushed down on her like a physical weight.
“I don’t know that I can do this, Win,” she confessed.
The elderly counter clerk touched her cheek.
“Us women are bred to be tough, born to encounter disappointment. You’ll survive. You’ll see.”
Bea nodded.
“That’s what Mum said.”
“And she’s right. You’re still young. You’ll have your family in time.”
But it won’t be Jimmy’s baby.
Winnie smiled sadly. “Be of stout heart, my love.”
She looked around the yard at the tough old posties she’d worked alongside all these long occupation years and realized that, in the finish, it would be the people she missed the most.
“Come on, girlie,” bellowed Harold, beckoning her with an avuncular smile. “Why the long face? It’s Friday, it’s a bank holiday weekend, the sun’s shining and the Hun are on the run. Let’s charge these glasses.”
Through the crowds she spotted Grace talking to Mr. Warder and felt a powerful rush of love for her friend and all that they had been through together. This baby would be Grace’s nephew, her blood. Bea knew her mum didn’t want her to, but she couldn’t keep this a secret from Grace any longer. It wasn’t fair. Grace had risked her life to help. Delivering the warning to Louisa three days ago. Arranging with Dr. McKinstry for Bill to be hidden in another island safehouse. Disaster had been averted and it was all thanks to Grace. She owed her the truth, before it was too late.
“Grace,” she called and waved. Grace turned, her green eyes lighting up. She was so beautiful and radiant she looked as if she’d been lit up from within. Bea recognized that look: she was in love, she realized with a pang.
“Wait there,” she called. “I’ll come to you.” Grace made her way toward the bike sheds, weaving her way through the throng, glass in hand.
Then a peculiar thing happened. The light snapped off. Revulsion and fear clouded her face. She stumbled back, shaking her head.
Faces all around her seemed to freeze mid-conversation.
Slowly, Bea turned around and even before she saw him, a sixth sense told her exactly what was about to unravel.
“Beatrice Gold, I need you to accompany me to Silvertide for questioning.”
The Wolf was flanked by three men, all holding fixed bayonets.
“Is this really necessary?” said Mr. Mourant. “We can all talk in private in my office. I’m sure we can iron out any little problem.”
“I assure you, this isn’t a little problem. Miss Gold is in serious trouble.”
Bea’s legs went from under her and all hell seemed to break loose. She saw mouths opening and closing, yelling words of protest. She saw Grace fighting her way through the crowds, Winnie making a grab for one of the Wolf’s men as he moved toward her. But it was as if someone had turned down a dial on a wireless. Her ears buzzed, everything went blurry and then she was falling.
“Who are you working with?”
Bea came round at Silvertide. At least she assumed it was Silvertide, but the room was dark. Underground? She was slumped in a chair. The Wolf was sitting across from her behind a desk, alongside another man. Her head throbbed and she felt something moist at the corner of her mouth. She tasted the sharp metallic tang of blood on her lip.
“No one,” she croaked.
“You expect me to believe that? If there is a Resistance cell operating at the post office, we will uncover it.”
Bea closed her eyes and felt a powerful tightening across her belly, like she was wearing a metal belt. A gripping sensation squeezed her abdomen. She groaned.
“Don’t think because you are carrying a bastard baby, I will go easy on you. In fact, this might well be a blessing in disguise for you. Wouldn’t you say, Bode?”
Something in his demeanor told Bea the man he was with was his superior.
“Hauptmann Bode. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
He smiled. Bea stared at him. Everything about him was viscerally repulsive. His lips were moist and fleshy, his fat neck seemed to spill over his collar and his hair was an oil slick. She said nothing, trying very hard to breathe through the gathering wave of pain.
“If you are found guilty, you will be deported and your baby will be removed from you,” he continued. “I should imagine under the circumstances that would save you the bother of trying to find a mother for your illegitimate child.” He drew out the word illegitimate, rolling it out through glistening lips. She turned away in disgust. The Wolf motioned to the back of the room and for the first time she noticed his associate, Karl Lodburg. He crossed the room in two easy strides and slapped the side of her face.
“Look at Hauptmann Bode when he addresses you.”
Pain and fear exploded inside her but she forced herself to look the Nazi in the eye.
“Why am I here?”
“Your friend Louisa Gould, her brother and all the rest said the same when we arrested them.”
“How long have you known about the slave she has been harboring?” said Wolf.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bode slid a letter across the table.
“You opened this, didn’t you, and warned Mrs. Gould.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated.
“We know everything. You should have stayed behind to oversee the clean-up.”
“I don’t know—”
“Yes, yes,” Wolf interrupted. “You don’t know what we’re talking about. But don’t worry, Miss Gold. We can be patient while you remember. We have all the time in the world.” He leaned back and lit up a cigarette. “Unlike you.”
He pulled a crystal wireless set and a Russian–English dictionary out of a drawer. Bea’s heart plunged.
“Recognize these?”
She shook her head and gripped her tummy, her mind spinning out of control. Could it be true that Louisa and her family had been arrested, or was he lying? Did those things belong to Louisa, in which case her fate was sealed? But surely, he had no actual proof that she had intercepted this letter, or any others? Anything that could point to her guilt was safely hidden in the basement of a TB isolation hospital.
“I have men searching your mother’s house and allotment as we speak,” the Wolf said. “I wonder what we’ll turn up.”
“You can’t do this,” she yelled. “My mother is sick. You leave her alone.”
Bony fingers crawled up her spine as she imagined her mother opening the door to them. The Germans’ sense of justice meant that all associated with her would be made to suffer. If the Germans on this island loved anything, it was a show trial, with the more people in the dock, the better.
“Please leave her out of this,” she begged. “She is not a well woman.”
“We will when you tell us the truth. Who are you working with at the post office and the library?”
In the distance a boom sounded, and the fetid air in the basement seemed to shudder. The Wolf flinched. Ash dropped off the end of his cigarette into his lap.
The sound of the Allies bombing France offered up a slender shaft of hope. Surely they were getting closer?
“So, what have you to say?” Bode asked.
Bea met his gaze and lifted her chin. “Long live the King.” Then she snubbed her nose at the portrait hanging over his head. “And fuck you, atrocious Adolf.”
The Wolf’s jaw twitched and he gestured to the lump of muscle standing behind her.
A fist snapped across her left cheekbone and sent her reeling. For a while all she could do was hang in his solid arms and watch as blood dripped from her nose onto the carpet.
“She is making a mess,” Bode sniffed. “Take her to the prison.”
Outside, Bea was marched through Havre des Pas with her hands handcuffed behind her back and a bayonet positioned between her shoulder blades. Before they left Wolf had ordered she remove her jacket and stomach girdle.
There truly was nowhere to hide anymore. Her distended stomach went before her. Tears of humiliation burned her eyes, the left-hand side of her face pulsing with pain. All along the seafront she saw the twitching of net curtains. You could almost hear the tremor of the jungle drums. As they drew level with Bay View, Bea prayed her mother wouldn’t see.
No such luck. Queenie Gold was standing in the small front garden smoking a cigarette while inside, Wolf’s men ransacked their home. She saw their dark figures behind the window pane of her bedroom. She imagined them swarming like vermin, trawling through her things.
“You leave my daughter alone, you rotten bastards,” Queenie screamed when she spotted them.
“Mum, get inside,” Bea warned.
A vein bulged in her mother’s neck when she spotted the dried blood caked around Bea’s nose. “I mean it. You harm one hair on her head and I’ll fucking strangle you with my bare hands!”
But her escorts just kept marching her on, their jackboots cracking off the pavement like a whip.
Mr. Bedane the physiotherapist was walking the other way and realized with alarm what was unfolding.
“Please, Mr. Bedane, help,” Bea yelled, tears running down her cheeks.
“Mrs. Gold, this won’t help your daughter.” The physiotherapist restrained her mother. “Come with me.”
He managed to get her mother back inside the garden but Bea’s humiliation still was not complete. They marched her straight through the center of town. Past the library and then along Broad Street, past the post office, where her colleagues were gathered outside, still in a state of shock over her arrest. As they marched closer she saw their unfolding expressions. Anger turned to dismay at the sight of her.
It was a walk of shame, designed to humiliate and warn. They did this to most of their prisoners, but none had been quite so cruelly exposed. Anger pierced the dull fog in her head. All she had ever tried to do was help.
“Hold your chin up, girl,” Arthur called, his mouth tight with fury. The last face she saw as she was marched through the prison gate was her sister Nancy’s.
Jersey’s prison belonged to an earlier war. Its thick, solid stone walls had been built in 1811 to house prisoners at the time of the Napoleonic War. Bea had often gazed up at the blackened 30-foot high wall separating the prison from the street, but never once been inside it.
“Welcome to the Gloucester Street Mansion,” called a woman from the cell next door.
“Lou? Is that you?”
Silence, followed by a rustle. Bea imagined her running her fingers over her rough skirts.
“I’ve been here two days now. They’ve arrested us all.”
“Who, Lou?”
“My brother, my sister, my maid, two of my friends. Everyone bar the budgerigar.”
The left-hand side of Bea’s face started to throb. This was exactly as she feared.
“Did they find anything during the search?” she asked, hardly daring to breathe.
A cough.
“A radio set, a Russian–English dictionary, some gift tags with Bill’s name on.”
Even worse than she’d imagined.
“Don’t worry, Bea. I didn’t say anything about who tipped us off. It will all be all right, you’ll see. We’ll just have to serve our time until liberation.”
Her words sounded hollow and tinny. Louisa’s false sense of security had already been her downfall and Bea didn’t share her belief that this would turn out to be an adventure.
“But listen to me. This is important. They’ll have you back and forth to Silvertide.”
“She’s right,” piped up a voice from the other side.
“George Fox, is that you?” she called.
“For my sins.”
Bea would have recognized that gravelly voice anywhere. She’d got to know George and his wife Cecilia from her postal round. He was a tough old bugger, who slaved in a hot kitchen despite the grief it gave his gippy lungs, as he called them.
“What are you doing in here, George?”
“Caught stealing food from the Hun.”
Bea nodded. Made sense. He had seven hungry mouths to feed.
“Take my advice, love. Say little as you can. Keep it to yes and no. They’ll try and trip you up. They wanna break you.” He began to cough; it sounded like a motor car backfiring. Poor bloke. He’d been gassed in the first war. Had he not suffered enough?
“One minute I’m sitting there, next I’m spitting teeth on the floor,” he wheezed. “But hopefully they’ll go easier on you, being a woman and all.”
“Thanks, George. I’ll be all right,” she replied, unconvincingly, touching her throbbing cheek.
“Keep the faith,” called Louisa. “We just have to bide our time.”
Bea stroked her swollen abdomen. Trouble was, time was not on her side. She felt her baby squirm and kick, a powerful reminder that she must be strong, for it was not only her survival in the balance.
George and Louisa were right. The Wolf was trying to break her mentally. Bea lost track of how many times she was woken from her sleep and dragged to Silvertide at all hours of the night. The left-hand side of her face had mushroomed into a vivid purple bruise from where she had been punched after her arrest. They held back on further violence, but the threat of it was always there, pulsing in the interrogation room. Karl Lodburg was a constant presence, positioned strategically by the door, arms crossed, hands idly caressing his biceps. He was a blond mountain of a man who smelled of bacon and muscle rub. Bea wondered how many of the island girls he’d seduced and lain down with. The thought made her blood boil.
Back and forth. Back and bloody forth. And always the same question. “What network are you working with?”
They genuinely seemed to believe she was a part of an organized network of resistance. As if they could scarcely believe a bunch of old postmen and a librarian with a conscience would risk everything. On George’s advice, Bea kept her answers to as few words as possible—yes, no, don’t recall—remembering the pain of that punch after she’d insulted their Führer.
The walks there and back were psychologically more grueling than the interrogations. The smell of sea air, the tantalizing glimpse of greenery, before plunging back to an underground room and prison cell were torturous.
Day bled into night, into day. Soon Bea was so exhausted, disoriented and hungry that she lost all sense of time. She’d eaten precious little more than a jam jar filled with a watery brown substance, purporting to be soup, and dry black bread. Her skin crawled and she desperately needed a hot bath.
Three days on from her arrest, by Whit Monday evening, the weather was so hot and stifling in her cell that all she could do was lie motionless on her bed, staring at the bruised sky between the bars of the window. Streaks of lightning flickered over the horizon. Now that her secret was out she swore the baby had grown, her bump like a round ripe melon and her breasts full and tender.
Outside, she heard an enormous roar. She struggled to sit upright.
“Lou, did you hear that?” she called breathlessly, gripping the edge of her bed.
The noise rose like a massive wave and permeated the thick prison walls. It sounded like hundreds, if not thousands of people cheering.
She pressed her face to the bars of the window. “Maybe they’ve heard news? Perhaps this is it, Lou. They’ve surrendered! Our liberation is coming.” Immediately her baby started to kick. Oh, thank God. The relief was like a switch being flicked inside her body.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” intoned George. “A guard let slip there’s a football match on. There are huge crowds by all accounts. The Hun are down there now breaking it up. Looked too much like a patriotic demonstration to their eyes.”
A football match? The disappointment was so tangible it was like a stab to her heart.
“How can people be out there enjoying sport when we’re locked up in here?” she cried.
“Life goes on outside,” Louisa sighed.
Bea’s forehead hit the prison wall and she started to weep, great shuddering tears of despair which rolled down her cheeks. The tears were like a gigantic release and she shifted, wobbly, holding on to the walls for support. A gush of warmth sprang from between her legs and liquid spattered onto the concrete floor of her cell.
“Lou,” she whimpered, “I think my waters have broken!”