The Londoners (26 page)

He was already hastily reaching for his trilby-hat and Kate said gently, knowing how much he would miss both her efficiency as a secretary and her companionship, ‘There hasn’t been a
bomb alert, Mr Muff. Mr Harvey has dismissed me.’

Mr Muff stared at her, still not understanding, his bewilderment pathetic.

‘I’ve been fired,’ she said starkly. ‘Sacked.’

‘But that’s . . . that’s
preposterous!’
He put his hat on his head as if he, too, intended walking from the building. ‘It’s unthinkable!
Outrageous!’

Kate walked across to her desk and began opening drawers, taking out personal possessions. ‘Mr Harvey now knows that I’m half-German,’ she said, putting a small mirror, a nail
file and a packet of headache tablets in a neat pile on the desk top. ‘And now that he does, even if it hadn’t been for my relationship with Toby, he would be insistent that I leave his
employment.’

‘But you’re
my
secretary!’ he protested, too nonplussed by the revelation that the rumours about Kate and Toby Harvey were true to even begin coming to terms with it,
seizing instead on a fact that was indisputable. ‘And I want you to remain my secretary! I shall speak to Mr Harvey myself, this very minute!’ He strode purposefully towards the door,
his trilby at a rakish angle.

It wasn’t an empty gesture, he was in deadly earnest. Kate, knowing how very nervous he was of Joss Harvey and of how he would go to any lengths to avoid even the slightest contact with
him, was deeply moved by the extent of his indignation and the lengths he was prepared to go to in order to preserve their happy working relationship.

‘It’s no use, Mr Muff,’ she said, scooping her possessions into her shoulder bag. ‘Mr Harvey won’t change his mind. Even if he did, I couldn’t possibly remain
working here.’

Halted by her words, Mr Muff stood at the open doorway, his expression one of abject distress. ‘But what am I going to do? I don’t
want
another secretary. What if they
assign Mr Tutley’s secretary to me? Who am I going to chat to about the progress of the war? Who am I going to share my little jokes with?’

Kate put the cover on her typewriter for the last time. ‘Miss Pierce will make sure that whoever takes my place is pleasant and friendly,’ she said, keeping her voice steady with
difficulty. ‘I’ve enjoyed working with you, Mr Muff.’

‘And I’ve enjoyed working with you, Kate. I can’t quite believe it’s ending like this. So suddenly . . . so utterly without warning . . .’

He looked so lost and forlorn that Kate felt a suspicious pricking sensation behind her eyelids. Knowing that it would be utter foolishness to prolong her leave-taking a moment longer, she swung
her bag and her gas mask canister on to her shoulder and walked towards the door.

‘Goodbye,’ she said, knowing that she should also stop by Miss Pierce’s office and say goodbye to her.

‘Goodbye, Kate.’ He clasped her hand warmly, his eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Take care of yourself. Always look on the bright side. Never say die. Onwards and
upwards!’

Too choked to make any response, she merely squeezed his hand tight and turned on her heel, walking down the familiar corridor and out of the building, not even pausing to knock on the door of
the Personnel Office. One goodbye had been enough to cope with. She would write to Miss Pierce and would, no doubt, see her to talk to when Miss Pierce next visited Miss Godfrey. As always when
deeply distressed she needed to be alone; only when she was alone could she get her thoughts into order and see things in perspective.

It was the end of August now and the midday sun was hot. She looked up at the cloudless sky wondering if, somewhere over the fields of Kent or the English Channel, a pitched battle was taking
place between the RAF’s Spitfires and Hurricanes and the
Luftwaffe’s
Junkers and Messerschmitts. For the last two weeks or so such engagements had been everyday
occurrences.

‘Hitler’s trying to destroy the RAF both on the ground and in the air,’ Mr Muff had said to her grimly when the first all-out attack on an RAF airfield had taken place.
‘It’s an essential part of his invasion strategy. He won’t succeed of course. Our pilots will see to that.’

Many Londoners had travelled out by train to the fringes of the city, to Biggin Hill and Caterham and Croydon where the RAF airfields protecting London were sited, in order to have a grandstand
view of the life-and-death battles taking place above their heads. Kate knew that Mavis had done so, taking Billy and Beryl and a thermos flask and sandwiches with her.

It was the last thing in the world she would have wanted to do. She still had nightmares about Toby’s death; envisaging him trapped in the burning cockpit of his plane, and the mere
prospect of watching other pilots die in such a hideous fashion made her blood run cold with horror.

As she neared the Heath she saw, in the sky to the south where Biggin Hill aerodrome was located, the tell-tale circular vapour trails that indicated a close-fought battle had recently taken
place. Not for the first time she wondered if Lance Merton was still alive or if he, too, had ‘bought’ it, like Toby and Toby’s friend and Hector’s initial owner, Rory.

Her gas mask canister bumped uncomfortably against her thigh as she stepped on to the daisy-starred grass of the Heath. In retrospect she now felt she had behaved incredibly stupidly where Lance
Merton was concerned. If she had invited him into the house for a cup of tea he would, no doubt, have talked to her about Toby and she desperately wanted the comfort of being able to talk with
someone about Toby. There was no-one with whom she could do so. Carrie had barely known him. Miss Godfrey had known him only well enough to exchange an occasional friendly greeting with him. And
any hopes that the baby she was expecting would forge a bond between herself and Joss Harvey had been crushed into total annihilation.

She felt a shudder run down her spine as, for the first time since leaving the boardroom, she allowed herself to think back on what had been said between them. Joss Harvey had behaved
despicably. As she reflected on his coarseness and crassness, the numbness that had enveloped her began to ebb and a positive sensation, almost buoyant, began to replace it.

Without intending to do so, he had simplified her future and her baby’s future. She now had no need to take him into account in any way whatsoever.

‘It’s just going to be the two of us . . . and Dad,’ she said, passing her hand once again across her stomach. ‘And we’re going to manage perfectly, just as Carrie
and Rose manage with Danny never at home now.’

‘I don’t think you’re being very practical,’ Carrie said frankly as she swept up the rubbish that had accumulated around her market stall. ‘Joss
Harvey isn’t just anyone, Kate. He’s rich. Filthy rich. His acknowledging the baby could transform the baby’s life.’

‘I don’t want Joss Harvey’s money, thank you very much,’ Kate said tartly, shifting her basket of shopping from one hand to the other, Hector sitting patiently on the
pavement by her feet. ‘And I’m surprised at you even thinking that I would do.’

‘Not even to help rear the baby?’ Carrie asked, pausing in her task and leaning on the handle of her sweeping-brush. ‘Having an illegitimate kid isn’t a doddle at the
best of times, Kate. Having one in the middle of a war, when your mum isn’t alive to give you moral support and your dad is in an internment camp, is going to be a bloomin’
nightmare.’

‘I have a home,’ Kate said stubbornly. ‘And I can make use of it. I can take lodgers in. Lots of women in the Auxiliary Territorial Service have been drafted into the munitions
factories in Woolwich and they must all be in need of decent lodgings.’

Carrie regarded her exasperatedly, her hands raw from handling boxes and sacks of produce, her fingernails grimy. ‘That’d be all well and good if it was a necessity, Kate. But it
isn’t
a necessity. Or it shouldn’t be.’ She pushed a wing of hair away from her face, leaving a dirt smudge on her forehead as she did so. ‘Toby was Joss
Harvey’s only family. If he had lived he would have been his grandfather’s only heir. Now that he’s dead, all that Joss Harvey possesses should go, eventually, to Toby’s
child. And if Joss Harvey could be made to believe that the baby you are carrying
is
Toby’s child, that is exactly what would happen.’

‘Nothing on earth will ever convince Joss Harvey that my baby is Toby’s.’ Kate’s jaw was set stubbornly, her eyes fierce. ‘And he’s such a nasty, offensive
man that I don’t
want
him to acknowledge my baby. I don’t want him to have anything to do with my baby.’

Carrie shook her head despairingly, recognizing the note of mulish determination that had entered Kate’s voice and knowing that nothing on earth would now shift her in her opinion. It had
been the same when they had been children. Though she was the quicker-tempered of the two of them, it was Kate who, when her anger was roused or her mind made up about anything, was quietly and
utterly implacable.

‘I still think you’re making a mistake,’ she said, returning to her task and sweeping discarded cabbage leaves into the gutter. ‘And what’s more, when the baby
grows up, he or she might very well think so as well!’

‘And so Dad’s out looking for a new cart,’ Carrie said a little while later as they turned off Lewisham High Street into Magnolia Hill. ‘If it
wasn’t for petrol rationing I think he’d have retired Nobby and looked around for a second-hand van. Nobby must be seventeen now and that’s getting on a bit for a horse. As it is,
he’s going to have to make do with whatever he can find. If he’s repaired the old cart once, he’s repaired it a hundred times and it simply fell apart yesterday morning in the Old
Kent Road. Apparently there were potatoes and carrots and caulies everywhere and Dad swears he recognized Miss Helliwell scarpering off with a cabbage under her coat.’

Knowing that Carrie was trying to amuse her, Kate smiled, but it was a smile without any real warmth and she didn’t pursue the subject of either Albert Jennings’ search for a cart or
Miss Helliwell’s speedy appropriation of one of his accidentally spilled cabbages. Ever since the day her father had been arrested and interned, the neighbours who had stood by, watching with
tacit approval, had not spoken to her, nor she to them.

Where Miss Helliwell was concerned, Kate felt bleakly regretful. The anguished expression on Miss Helliwell’s face, whenever their paths crossed, spoke volumes and Kate was sure that Miss
Helliwell was deeply bewildered by the scene that had taken place that morning and the division that had since sprung up between them.

As Hector padded obediently at her heels and Carrie chattered about Rose, she thought back to the long-ago evening when Miss Helliwell had read her palm. Much of what Miss Helliwell had forecast
had come true. After the heartache she had experienced when Jerry Robson had been killed, she had found true love and great happiness with Toby.

She thought of the baby growing in her womb and remembered Miss Helliwell telling her that it was a love from which nothing but good would come. She also remembered Miss Helliwell’s
reluctance to spell out her future to her in detail and knowing now how her palm must have revealed Toby’s tragic, early death, she understood that reluctance all too well.

Carrie broke in on her thoughts abruptly.

‘What’s that outside my house?’ she asked in sudden alarm as they entered the Square. ‘It looks like a hearse!’

For one stunned moment both of them came to a halt, staring at the unmistakably majestic, horse-drawn funeral hearse standing directly outside Carrie’s home and then, her face drained of
colour, Carrie broke into a run.

Slightly hampered by her heavy shopping-basket, Kate ran in her wake, Hector, delighted by the unexpected change of pace, bounding delightedly by her side.

By the time they raced up to the hearse a group of interested spectators had already collected around it. Hettie Collins, her black hat for once looking remarkably appropriate, was saying in a
loud voice: ‘But why isn’t the horse wearing purple funeral plumes? He should be doing. It’s only proper.’

‘Where’s Mum?’ Carrie gasped, pushing her way through the small crowd. ‘Where’s Dad? What’s happened? Who’s died?’

Mavis was nearest to the hearse, resplendent in a shiny, tight rayon skirt and teeteringly high wedged-heel shoes. ‘No-one yet,’ she said with remarkable placidity, ‘but stick
around. A murder’s likely any minute.’

‘But who . . .’ Carrie began agitatedly.

Mavis grinned, enjoying herself hugely. ‘Dad. If Mum doesn’t kill him over this, ’e’s safe for life.’

Before Carrie could demand an explanation her front door burst open and her father nearly fell on the pathway in his haste to be out of the house, a frying-pan and a saucepan raining down around
him.

‘
Clear off down The Swan, you great silly bugger!
’ Miriam shrieked from behind him, handicapped by having nothing else near at hand to throw in the general direction of his
head. ‘
If you think I’m ridin’ up the Old Kent Road in a bloomin’ ’earse every mornin’ you’ve got another bloody think comin’!
’

‘This,’ Mavis said to a vastly relieved Carrie and indicating the hearse behind her, ‘is Dad’s new cart. He says he’ll be able to get twice as much fruit and veg in
it than he could in a normal horse and cart and he also thinks it’s got style. Mum,’ she added unnecessarily as Miriam hurled a further torrent of abuse after Albert, her arms folded
across her heaving chest and every metal curler in her hair bristling with indignation, ‘doesn’t agree with him.’

‘I wouldn’t want to tangle with your mam when she’s in a takin’,’ said Charlie Robson to Mavis, wisely keeping his voice low so that Miriam shouldn’t overhear
him, ‘but your dad’s got a point. Not only will he be able to cram more in the ’earse than an ordinary ’orsecart, but all the other traffic on the road will give way to
’im. They always do for funeral ’earses. It’s traditional.’

‘Charlie’s right,’ Daniel Collins said, admiration in his voice for Charlie’s unusual show of perception and for Albert’s imaginative astuteness. ‘Even army
vehicles give way for a hearse. Albert will be up and back from Covent Garden every morning quicker than it takes to spit.’