‘Which is better, do you think: “Saving food saves ships” or, “Better pot luck today with Chamberlain, than humble pie under Hitler tomorrow. Don’t waste food!”
‘Hmm,’ said Harriet. ‘I think I prefer the second, although it is rather wordy for a poster.’
‘Well, what about “The squander bug helps Hitler.” How does that strike you?’
‘It’s a bit limp, really, isn’t it?’
‘I was afraid you would say that. Someone in the department suggested “Make your shopping save our shipping.”’
‘That’s much better – it’s got a bit of bite to it, and a memorable word-tune, like a jingle. It jollies us along.’
‘I am told the public will resent being jollied along. You don’t think they will feel patronised?’
‘That is a danger, certainly. Whoever thought up “
Your
courage,
your
cheerfulness,
your
resolution will bring
us
victory” needed a rapid secondment to other work.’
‘Really?’ said Helen. ‘I don’t see what’s wrong with it, myself. Now, about Bredon . . .’
‘What about him?’ said Harriet warily.
‘Well, that’s what I came to talk about,’ said Helen. ‘Didn’t I say? I’ve been wondering about his schooling. Peter was at Eton of course, but then Peter—’
‘Helen, don’t you think that’s rather a matter for the child’s own parents to decide?’
‘You have to arrange a boarding school well in advance, Harriet.’
‘I’ll mention it to Peter when he gets home, Helen. But I don’t think we were thinking of boarding schools when he’s very young.’
‘Look, let’s not beat about the bush. You’ve got to have him educated as Denver’s heir, Harriet, in case he
is
Denver’s heir.’
Harriet’s flash of anger died quickly. ‘Helen, we all hope Jerry is taking care of himself. He’s full of bravado, I know, but perhaps he isn’t as reckless as he likes to make out.’
‘Do you think so?’ she said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps you’re right, Harriet, but all the same . . .’
‘All the same what? What are you asking me to do?’
‘Put the boys’ names down for a decent prep school, bring them to Denver now and then so that they get to know the place. Keep them away from those rather insolent Parker cousins.’
Harriet considered, her fork poised above the last morsel of omelette on her plate. ‘Put their names down for a prep school? Perhaps in due course. Bring them to Denver now and then? Yes, gladly, whenever there’s a chance. Keep them away from their cousins? No,’ she said, and left Helen to think about it while she cut slices of cold apple pie.
‘Now that I’m here, you wouldn’t mind my consulting you about something else?’ Helen said. ‘Only it’s difficult for me to work out how ordinary people might react to things—’
‘I am the only ordinary person of your acquaintance?’ said Harriet, dryly. Helen missed the tone. ‘Well, I don’t know many,’ she said, ‘but then you wouldn’t expect—’
‘How can I help?’ asked Harriet.
‘We are being bombarded with letters in the papers, and addressed to us directly, about making some sort of broadcast answer to this wretched Haw-Haw person. Look, I brought just a few from the top of the pile to show you.’
She passed a sheaf of paper across to Harriet. Harriet began to look through them.
Dear Sirs,
I welcome the suggestion to reply to the German propaganda from Hamburg. Anything for a change from the everlasting drone of cinema organs.
Dear Lord Beetle,
Do try and stop this suggestion that the BBC should broadcast an answer to Haw-Haw. It would merely encourage my husband to turn the man on, and the creature’s voice gets on my nerves, so monotonous and genteel, like a shop-walker. We need not, surely, add to the horrors of war!
Dear Sirs,
I see Mr Harold Nicolson wants to run a series of replies to Haw-Haw. This is all very well and a fine idea, but for pity’s sake don’t make it one of your college professors but somebody as understands what is a good debating speech. There is nothing like a good controversy for entertainment but it must be good lively stuff. I am a working man myself and wireless is my hobby. I have a set gets all the foreign stations. I think Haw-Haw is very dangerous for ignorant people and there’s plenty with posh wireless sets more ignorant than the working class by a long chalk.
Dear Beetle,
What’s the good of complaining about the publicity given to Haw-Haw? Do you imagine anything is going to stop the British public from taking cock-shies at an enemy alien? By all means answer the fellow and give the nation its money’s worth. Undignified be damned!
Dear Sirs,
Since the identity of the German broadcaster known as ‘Haw-Haw’ seems to be arousing some public interest, may I offer a suggestion? His accent seems to me to resemble very closely (particularly in the vowel sounds) that used by (a) an actor of insufficient breeding and experience when impersonating an English aristocrat, or (b) (more subtly) an experienced actor of good social standing impersonating a man of inferior breeding aping the speech of the English aristocracy. It is, in fact, very like the accent I use myself in the character of the self-made Stanton in
Dangerous Corner
, which I have played with marked success in the West End and in the provinces (photograph and press cuttings enclosed, with stamped addressed envelope for return). If it is decided to broadcast a reply to this propaganda, would you consider me for the part?
Harriet laughed.
‘I think the public are bearing up remarkably,’ said Helen, ‘and no action or reply is required. What do you think, Harriet?’
Harriet took a moment to reply; this was, after all, the first time her sister-in-law had asked her opinion about anything whatever. ‘Better no answer than a badly made one; a pompous one, for example,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’s doing any actual harm at the moment. His scriptwriters seem to think that the British working classes go around saying “honest injun” and calling each other “old chap”; he mostly just arouses derision. The other day, when he had been telling us to ask “Where is HMS
Daring
?” I heard people in the queue at the butcher’s saying in his hee-haw tones, “Where is the Isle of Wight?”’
‘I don’t understand you,’ said Helen. ‘Everybody knows where the Isle of Wight is; it’s at the mouth of Southampton Water.’
‘Never mind, Helen,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m agreeing with you. At the moment Lord Haw-Haw is just a harmless entertainment.’
‘Yes. Good,’ said Helen. ‘You ought to reconsider the schooling,’ she added, suddenly returning to the attack. ‘There’s an excellent little prep school at Duke’s Denver that takes boarders from seven. And he would be near his grandmother for weekend outings.’
‘Look, Helen, I do see that the situation gives you an interest in how Peter and I raise our children. But it doesn’t put you in charge. I think a child is far too young for boarding school at seven. But I’m not making decisions about that kind of thing without Peter.’
‘You may have to,’ Helen said.
Harriet let silence lengthen between them.
Then: ‘I only thought, since your own background was rather different, you might like a little help and advice.’
‘I am half my children’s background,’ said Harriet, ‘and the other half is not the Duke of Denver, but the wildly unconventional younger brother.’
‘Well, I’ve said my piece,’ said Helen, rising abruptly. ‘I must be going. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll just say a word to Mrs Trapp. I must get her recipe for omelette with dried egg – that was absolutely first class. My friend in the Ministry of Food is urgently seeking palatable recipes.’
She strode down the hallway and into the kitchen, where she found the children, with the addition of Sam Bateson, all happily eating chocolate custard.
Mrs Trapp, straight-faced, gave her a recipe for making an omelette with reconstituted dried egg. Then Helen left, saying as she went, ‘I hope that other child brings a ration-book when he eats here!’
Charlie thumbed his nose at the back of his departing aunt. Both Harriet and Mrs Trapp saw him do it, but neither of them reproached him.
‘Where did those eggs come from?’ asked Harriet, when Helen had departed. ‘Ought I to ask?’
‘Miss Twitterton let me have two dozen of her bantams’ eggs the day before yesterday, m’lady.’
‘Did we pay for them? I didn’t notice them in the accounts for the week.’
‘Fair exchange,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘She had bought a beautiful silk blouse at a WVS sale, which was far too big for her, and she wondered if it could be taken in. Ivory crêpe-de-chine – gorgeous to wear, but slippery to work with.’
‘You managed it for her?’
‘She’s thin as a stick, that woman. I had to cut each piece of the shirt out of the seams, and make it again.’
‘So we won’t be short of eggs for a while? All completely against the regulations, Mrs Trapp.’
‘People who make regulations,’ Mrs Trapp observed, ‘should have a firm grasp of human nature.’
And Harriet couldn’t argue with that. She looked forward to seeing Miss Twitterton resplendent in ivory silk. But whatever Miss Twitterton had wanted the gorgeous shirt for, it wasn’t to wear to church on Sunday. She appeared as usual to play the organ at the communion service, wearing her navy Viyella dress.
An inquest held by Mr Perkins, the coroner, and featuring evidence of the cause and time of death given by the local pathologist, Dr Craven, was bound to take Harriet’s mind back to the inquest that had interrupted her honeymoon. This one was not likely to be as lively as the earlier one, surely. But perhaps there is a pattern to village inquests, for, as on the previous occasion, the back room at the Crown was packed. Somehow a lot of people had contrived to be available to attend in the middle of the working morning. A hum of excitement filled the room, and Mr Perkins had to hammer hard with his gavel to obtain the necessary silence. There were some similarities in the proceedings. Evidence of identification was given by Rita Smith, working at Bateson’s farm for the Women’s Land Army. The murdered girl’s next of kin, Superintendent Kirk told the jury, lived a distance off, and were understandably too distressed to make the identification. Rita Smith had lived and worked with the deceased for some months. Miss Smith gave evidence in a firm voice, although she was visibly distressed herself.
Harriet thought that many people in the room were for the first time perceiving Wendy as a real person with grieving parents and friends; her reality had been masked in the eyes of many by the miasma of disapproval which surrounded her dashing conduct. Harriet herself had once been wrapped in notoriety – admittedly much more extreme. Nobody had been able to see her clearly through the fog of condemnation. It had seemed to most people that a woman who would live in sin with a man would do anything, even murder him. Only Peter had seen her clearly, and he had done so on first sight! She wrenched her attention back to the present moment.
Dr Craven described the results of the post-mortem he had carried out. There had been a sequence of hard blows which had overpowered and killed the deceased: a blow to the front of the throat which had crushed the vocal cords, a hard blow to the side of the neck, sufficient to interrupt the flow of blood through the jugular vein, a blow to the kidneys from the back, probably caused by the assailant’s knee, minor injuries consistent with falling to the ground as the attack concluded.
‘In your experience as a pathologist, have you ever encountered injuries such as these before?’ enquired Mr Perkins.
‘Never. A killing without a weapon of somebody who resists is usually a prolonged and messy affair. This was expertly and rapidly done.’
‘Can we draw conclusions as to the identity of the assailant, do you think, Dr Craven?’
‘Hardly, Mr Perkins. May I draw your attention to the training booklet for unarmed conflict that was issued to Home Defence instructors last year? There must now be many people with the requisite knowledge.’
Dr Jellyfield gave evidence of the warmth of the body when he knelt to take the pulse of the deceased as the crowd dispersed from the Crown. The corpse had been warm to the touch. His own hands had been cold from the chill of the underground vault, and he had experienced the woman’s wrist as warmer than his own fingers. He concluded that she had been dead only for a very short time; a conclusion which was consistent with the body temperature taken by thermometer half an hour later in the police cell to which the body had been taken.
Police Constable Jack Baker gave evidence that he had been at the scene of the crime very quickly, since he and his wife were among those taking shelter in the vaults of the Crown. He had come forward in the crowd, and had reached the body while Dr Jellyfield was still holding the victim’s wrist, and trying to take a pulse. He had asked the crowd to stand back, and he had telephoned Superintendent Kirk at Pagford who was senior enough to take charge. Then he had stood beside the body until he could hand over to the Superintendent.
Superintendent Kirk gave evidence confirming Constable Baker’s account, and embarking briefly on the investigation that he had conducted. Because of the dance at the Crown the village had been full of strangers on the evening in question. The first thing he had put in hand was interviewing the commanding officers of all the air-bases whose men had attended the dance. He had satisfied himself that all the air force personnel had arrived and departed in official transport, and that nobody had failed to return in the truck in which he had left the base.
‘That is to say,’ interposed Mr Perkins, ‘that although many men in uniform attended the dance, they had all departed upon the sirens announcing the practice air-raid, and are all accounted for?’
‘Quite so, Mr Perkins. The enlisted men cannot leave their bases without signing themselves out with the duty sergeant at the gates, and they have to sign in when they return. The times are given in the books, and this is all in order for the evening in question.’