A Step Too Far (13 page)

     Guilt? Unhappiness? A mixture of both with one being responsible for the other? Whichever, the outcome was the same: Jacob Hawley was a man plagued by the past.

     And his daughter?

     She also was acquainted with that demon but it was a relationship she had at last begun to destroy.

     Knowledge had been a wine too delicious to swallow in one gulp, it had needed to be sipped a little at a time, savoured, the sweetness captured in the throat before letting the delight of it seep into the soul.

     But now the tasting was over.

     She had put down the glass but the bottle was not yet empty. It still held the ambrosia of revenge and Katrin Hawley would drink deeply.

She had given no name, given no identification when making that telephone call. The government made some things so easy. You needed only to voice your suspicion; the name and address of the security conscious citizen was no requirement. That was how it had worked when she’d reported Freda Evans’ black-market selling and it would work again this time. But there was one difference.

     The consequence of that call would not be a five-year gaol sentence. Treason was a serious crime at any time, but betrayal of your country during war could only be counted the
most
serious and therefore bring the ultimate sentence.

     One difference! She breathed long satisfaction. Execution constituted one very big difference!

     She had worded the call carefully, injecting the right amount of uncertainty into her voice. ‘
I really don’t feel . . . it might be just me imaginin’ . . . I don’t want to be a’ gettin’ o’ nobody into no trouble  . . .
’

     She had hesitated over every fumbled sentence, wavering, seemingly unsure if she should continue, But there had been nothing she wanted more.

     ‘
I don’t be a one to go a’ tellin’ o’ no lies  . . .
’

     She had gone on, local vernacular lending its disguise.

     ‘. . .
but seein’ them there papers . . . them drawrins . . . I means what wi’ secoority the way it be, a’tekin’ away o’ every street sign an’ all
  . . .’

     Had it been her mention of drawings, of security? Certainly when she had said those words the voice at the other end of the line had developed a deal more interest.

     ‘. . .
I ain’t a’wantin’ to be no noosance
.’

     The man urged her to go on, that it was right to inform him of any irregularity, and so she had.

     The snare was set.

     She would watch the rabbit walk into it.

‘Oh God!’ Miriam Carson’s hand flew to her throat. ‘Oh God no, not Robert!’

     ‘Robert is your son?’

     Fear choking her, Miriam’s voice trembled. ‘No . . . he . . . he’s my brother.’

     The tall, spare framed figure, a dark trilby hat covering most of his grey hair, stood on Miriam’s doorstep and watched her reaction with cool assessing eyes.

     ‘Is . . . is Robert . . . has anything happened?’

     There was genuine anxiety in the question. ‘I have not called about your brother.’

     Relief burned bright tears in Miriam’s eyes.

     ‘I should have realised, you aren’t holding a telegram.’

     ‘No, Mrs Carson, I bring no telegram.’

     As perplexed as she had been afraid, Miriam hesitated to invite her visitor into the house. He was not the bearer of that dreaded telegram, he did not wear a uniform, so who was he? Why was he here?

     ‘Perhaps this will explain.’ Taking a slim leather wallet from his pocket, the man held it toward Miriam.

     It bore a card with an identity photograph.

     ‘Mrs Carson, I am here about your son  . . .’

     Reuben! Something had happened to her son, he had been injured! This was one of the teachers from his school come to tell her.

     ‘. . . Please,’ the man went on, seeing the anxiety in Miriam’s stare, ‘could we talk inside.’

     What did Reuben do after school? What were his interests? Did he go out in the evenings? So many questions. Why all the interest? Had Reuben done something he shouldn’t have? Why didn’t this man explain? A mother’s protection suddenly hot and fierce she snapped.

     ‘Hold on a minute! You show a piece of card any schoolboy could come up with and expect it to give you the right to come to this house asking as many questions as you can put tongue to, well let me tell you  . . .’

     ‘Mrs Carson . . .’ His interjection was as calm as the stare in pale grey eyes.

     ‘. . . I am sure if you look carefully you will see this card is not the work of a schoolboy, you will also agree it provides me with the legal right to ask as many questions as I think fit and of every member of this household. Now,’ he took back the wallet returning it to his pocket, ‘please tell me . . . what time do you expect your son home?’

‘I can’t see anyone right now Katrin, tell whoever it is he will have to make an appointment.’

     ‘He was very definite he must speak with you.’

     ‘They always are.’ Arthur Whitman banged his pen agitatedly against the desk. ‘We must have more of this . . . there is a vital need for more of that. Always more, can’t they get it into their heads I can’t conjure munitions out of thin air!’

     ‘What shall I tell him?’

     ‘Tell him to bug . . . Sorry, Katrin.’ Arthur Whitman let his head fall back against his chair his eyes closing for a few seconds before adding, ‘Better get it over with. Ask him to come in.’

     He was not a man she recognised. The man she had shown into her employer’s private office had not called here previously. But he had not intended leaving without first talking to the person he had come to see, that had been very clear. More demands to be made of Arthur Whitman? More weight added to his shoulders? Hopefully, yes. Katrin removed a letter from the typewriter and placed it to one side to await signature. The more pressure on Arthur Whitman the more he would look to someone to alleviate it.

     Would that someone be herself or would it be Isaac Eldon?

     He was turning more and more to that man. Each day had that man consulted over one thing or another, ‘Eldon is the man to sort that out’ was becoming the standard cry.

     Works manager! Why had he been given that position? Wasn’t it patently obvious that he spent all his time in the workshop doing exactly as he had always done, working alongside fitters adapting machinery to a different purpose, replacing broken or worn parts when tool setters had been busy elsewhere? Didn’t that prove he wanted nothing of work which tied him to an office? She had heard him say as much but it had been brushed aside. Eldon was the man for the job. The words had become Whitman’s creed.

     But not her creed.

     Placing a second letter with the first, Katrin nursed resentment.

     She would not subscribe to a doctrine she had set her faith in destroying.

     A quiet buzz called her attention.

     ‘Katrin.’ Arthur Whitman paused as though reluctant to speak. ‘Isaac . . . Mr Eldon,’ he corrected himself, observing protocol in the presence of a visitor, ‘would you tell him I wish to speak with him?’

     Eldon again! Irritation submerged beneath a nod, Katrin affected a smile. ‘I will have someone fetch him.’

     ‘No!’ Whitman answered quickly. ‘I want you to go yourself, and Katrin . . . no word to anybody else.’

     No word. Katrin frowned making her way down the flight of stairs. What was there to talk of when all she had heard was an instruction to fetch Isaac Eldon? What was so important that she must not speak except to Eldon himself? It could not be that Whitman wished the presence of the man in his office kept secret, his arrival had to have been recorded by the gatekeeper and witnessed by several others as he walked along the corridors leading to her office. Yet the instruction had been clear. She was to speak to no one other than Isaac Eldon.

     Ignoring the appreciative glances following her through the various workshops, her breath shallow from the effort not to breathe the odour of slurry oil, Katrin was relieved to see the brown overall-covered figure bent to examine a batch of large mortar shell cases. The man standing at his elbow nudged Eldon, who immediately came towards her.

     What was the sense of appointing this man to a managerial position? She watched him pull a rag from his pocket and rub it over his hands and disapproval became derision. This was all Isaac Eldon was, all he was qualified to be, a worker on the shop floor. One day Whitman would realise that. But not yet. Having him learn too soon could mean another man taking Eldon’s place and that was not in her scheme of things. No, Whitman must be allowed his mistake a while longer. Time she would use to her advantage. She would let him know who saw to the management side, disclose the fact it was she did Eldon’s paperwork, but only when she had entrenched herself so deeply it was impracticable to replace her.

     ‘Katrin  . . .’

     Isaac Eldon’s colour drained leaving pale patches between dark oil smears on his face.

     ‘Katrin . . . is it Robert? Is it my son, is he  . . . ?’

     Had Robert Eldon met with an injury? Was his ship torpedoed? Was he lost at sea? Was he dead? Katrin met eyes filled with dread yet felt no pity. Isaac Eldon did not deserve her sympathy and neither did his family.

     ‘Mr Eldon.’ Cold as the glacier in her eyes, Katrin’s reply cut the query hovering on lips caught firm against emotion. ‘I am to ask you go to Mr Whitman’s office at once, and Mr Eldon . . .’ she paused, her glance chiselling his, ‘. . . please address me as Miss Hawley!’

13

‘My machine were switched off waitin’ of a new drill to be fitted, that be ’ow I come to hear what were said.’

     ‘But why would her say that?’ Drying her hands on the washroom towel, Becky Turner cast a glance at the woman standing with fingers held beneath a running tap.

     ‘ ’Ow would I know!’ The woman shook water from her hands. ‘But I do know what I ’eard and it were that wench tellin’ Isaac Eldon  . . .’

     ‘Who’s tellin’ what to Isaac Eldon . . . ? But don’t say ’til I’ve been to the lav’.’ Alice dashed into the washroom and disappeared into a cubicle. Minutes later, trying without success to build a lather from the tablet of coarse brown soap, she rephrased her question.

     ‘It be like I were tellin’ Becky, I ’eard that there Hawley wench put a flea in Eldon’s ear.’

     Alice pulled the towel on its wooden roller searching for a dry spot. ‘I reckon you’ve got that wrong,’ she said ‘I don’t see nobody giving Isaac Eldon a flea in the ear.’

     The retort was tart. ‘Well you reckon what you will but I knows what I ’eard an’ it were that wench say clear, “Mr Eldon,” her said, “Mr Eldon, please address me as
Miss Hawley
!”’ The woman sniffed disapproval, ‘If that ain’t a flea in the ear then tell me what is!’

     ‘Do you think that is really what Kate said?’ Becky asked the question she had been forced to hold until break.

     Newspaper-wrapped sandwiches tucked under her arm, Alice glanced about the machine shop emptying rapidly of workers. She didn’t really want to chat right now whatever the topic, this was the time she enjoyed, watching the huge crane lift crates of shells easy as lifting an empty cup.

     ‘Can’t believe anythin’ Nosy Nora says,’ she answered dismissively, hoping to end the conversation and for Becky to follow the others to the canteen.

     ‘But her seemed sure enough.’ Becky seemed not to notice Alice’s offhand manner. ‘Her face dropped a mile when you said you couldn’t see anybody giving Isaac Eldon a flea in the ear.’

     Why couldn’t Becky leave it? Why didn’t she go along with the rest of them? Any second now they would be spotted by the night foreman and that would put an end to any chance of indulging in fantasies of monsters and fire-breathing dragons. ‘Sure is one thing, but truth is another and how much Nosy Nora tells of one and how little of the other is anybody’s guess; we all know how ready that one is to call the kettle black.’

     ‘Mmm.’ Becky nodded. ‘Like my mum says, gossip and lies often share the same bed, but . . . well I can’t help but wonder whether there might be something  . . .’

     Hearing the deep rumble which heralded the approach of the steam driven crane, Alice caught at her friend’s arm drawing her to crouch in a well of darkness between machinery.

     ‘Alice we shouldn’t  . . .’

     Alice gave a warning shush. To be caught by this particular foreman would result in a more serious dressing down than that Isaac Eldon might give. Feeling Becky resist she leaned closer, murmuring there was nothing to worry over provided they remain still and silent. But the words froze in her throat as Alice stared at the feet of the man come to a halt before their hiding place.

Isaac Eldon was no longer works manager!

     Notepad on her knee Katrin felt the words push against her brain.