‘That be it then,’ Alice returned philosophically. ‘I suppose going to that dance once were better than not going at all, at least we knows what we be missing, and we can stick with using sand in place of nylons, least ’til we be twenty one.’
It must not take that long! Alarm sparked like fireworks in Katrin’s veins. This was the opportunity providence was holding out to her, the chance to take revenge on Becky Turner. Lose it and it may not be offered a second time. Suppressing the sweep of concern she said, ‘There could be a way, supposing you wanted to go badly enough.’
Becky sniffed her disappointment. There was nothing she wanted more.
‘What way would that be?’
Katrin breathed silent gratitude for Alice’s question. But still she must move slowly.
‘I don’t really feel . . .’ she paused, an air of false rectitude making it appear she was reluctant to continue, then went on, ‘No . . . no it’s wrong of me even to think it.’
Alice frowned. ‘Is thinking something else we shouldn’t be doing! What with government restrictions and a mother telling you no to everything you want to do, we wenches be stifled so tight it don’t really need old Hitler’s bombs to finish we off, the job is already being done well enough!’
‘I was really looking forward to Saturday.’ Becky seemed not to have heard Alice’s irascible remark. ‘You’d understand if you’d been there, Kate, it was so nice having somebody treat you like a lady and not just a factory girl, somebody who called you ma’am, spoke to you polite instead of ordering.’
Somebody like Earl! Chewing her lip, keeping the pretence of moral reluctance, Katrin said quietly, ‘Becky, there might be a way but . . .’
‘But what? Stop running all round the Wrekin, Kate, if there be a way then tell it!’ Alice’s impatience was a benediction, a sanction on the idea which had fast developed in her mind.
‘It is only a suggestion, Becky, but . . . well I thought should you ask your mother could you come spend the evening at my house, keep me company while my dad is on fire watch duty.’
‘Great!’ Alice thumped her cup onto the table. ‘Your mother wouldn’t say no to that.’
No, Mrs Turner probably would not say no. Katrin watched the two girls leave the canteen as the factory hooter recalled the workers. The woman would have no idea of her daughter’s escapade. Should it become known, Katrin Hawley would claim her involvement was no more than fabrication on Becky’s part.
They would follow her suggestion. Alice Butler and Becky Turner would follow exactly where she guided, and for Becky Turner that could be straight into hell.
Arthur Whitman would not be returning as planned. Replacing the telephone on its cradle, Katrin’s mind ran the call through again. The evening of the raid which had forced her to spend the night in that public shelter had been heavy enough here in Wednesbury but the full fury of it had fallen on Coventry.
‘
It was the worst night I have ever lived through
.’
Arthur Whitman’s voice had trembled as he had talked.
‘
. . . a third of the city has been devastated, the centre of it utterly destroyed, pounded into the ground by wave upon wave of enemy aircraft, the sound of them, oh Christ, Katrin, the sound! Roll after roll so low overhead the throb of engines drummed the brain until the world spun, and the screech of falling bombs, the thud of their hitting target after target, the crash of falling buildings blown apart . . . it was like living through a nightmare, a nightmare intensified by fires raging from exploding gas mains, from burst underground water pipes flooding streets until they resembled rivers . . .
’
He had stopped speaking, only a ragged indrawing of breath signifying he still held the telephone. She had asked then was he all right but his answer had been one of a man still caught in the trauma of shock.
‘
It was the people . . .
’
He had murmured like someone half awakening from a dream. ‘. . .
men
. . .
women
. . .
crying, bleeding, scrambling in the wreckage calling the names of loved ones, fighting off police and civil defence trying to lead them away; and the injured, Katrin, the injured carried by rescuers to hospitals which no longer stood . . . it seemed the Devil had risen from hell and taken dominion of the earth and the burning skeleton of the Cathedral bore witness to his victory.
’
But living through that ordeal had not ended the nightmare, the rest, it had turned out, was yet to come.
Was it sympathy she felt, compassion, pity for the man? Or was it elation for the woman fate had chosen to endow with its favour. It had given Katrin Hawley the gift of becoming indispensable to the running of this office and now it was offering another, one which promised so very much more.
‘
It must have been terrible
,’ she had sympathised, ‘
but thank Heaven you are unhurt . . .
’
The laugh coming hard on her words had been sardonic. ‘
Oh yes, I’m unhurt
.’
‘
Mrs Whitman and her mother,
’ she had asked, ‘
will you bring them back with you? They might be more comfortable here in Wednesbury, if you wish me to make any arrangements . . .
’
His reply had rung with a withering self indictment.
‘
It was my fault
,’ he had said, ‘
I should have been with them but no, no I had to go outside, I had to offer my help . . . Oh Christ, Katrin . . . the bomb! It landed directly on top of the house!
’
17
‘With deepest sympathy.’
Katrin murmured the words on the card accompanying flowers she had sent to that funeral, a card tactfully inscribed, ‘From all at Prodor.’
Sympathy? It had not been sympathy had swept Katrin Hawley when taking that telephone call, it had been the invigorating flush of opportunity. She could not have planned it better, Fate was again holding out a gift and she would take it. But taking advantage must not be rushed. Choosing the sensible grey flannel suit her mother had bought for her to begin her job at Prodor, Katrin buttoned the slim straight skirt. Violet would have pushed, would have had her throw herself at Arthur Whitman, urged her to land him before he knew he was being fished, and the bait? Violet would have had no qualms about using any worm which would see her daughter become the wife of a man of money, and Arthur Whitman would be no exception.
Turning the collar and lapels of her dusky pink artificial silk blouse over those of the suit jacket, Katrin glanced at the lavender scarf nestling in the halfway open drawer.
But Violet’s way was not hers. That would be clumsy, too overt; far better it were achieved quietly, indirectly and seemingly without intervention, exactly as she had dealt with the problem of Harriet Simpson.
There was a crisp November chill but bright sunlight made the morning pleasant. She had enough time to walk to work.
At the end of Hollies Drive was an imposing cream stone building. The library. It had been a stroke of luck colliding with that lad. Those maps falling from his hands had provided the moment she might otherwise have waited years for, her chance to strike a blow against the man she loathed. Her one regret was that she could not be present when he was accused of assisting a minor to betray his country. Yes, that was the one disappointment, but it was mollified somewhat by the fact the woman too would suffer and so would her son. Having a spy, a traitor for father and grandfather would not sit well with them, should the people of the town discover the truth . . . and though that aspect of revenge may have to wait its turn, it would be told.
They would be ostracised, rejected by all who had once called them friend; they would be forever the daughter and grandson of a quisling and Katrin Hawley would rejoice in the outcome, revel in the knowledge, the silent knowledge, of who it was had made everything known.
It would have to be silent. Passing through the factory yard, Katrin climbed the stairs leading to her office. It would not do for the world – the world and Arthur Whitman – to learn her secrets. But she would not deny herself completely. One day she would tell Isaac Eldon who it was had him arrested.
Hanging her coat on the branched coat stand in a corner of the room she glanced at the door of the inner office.
He had been taken from there, escorted away by a man in a dark suit. No uniform, nothing to mark him as anything other than the usual businessman, but she had known the man who had escorted Isaac Eldon from that room had been here on a business very different from that of making gun shells.
Little had been said then and nothing since. Arthur Whitman had given no indication of the reason for that abrupt departure.
‘. . .
you know as much as I do, Katrin . . .
’
No, Mr Whitman! Katrin Hawley knows a great deal
more
than you.
But even so she had thought to hear something, whispers on the grapevine, gossip running around the factory. None of it could be factual but nevertheless it would be interesting and maybe instructive in helping solve the puzzle of what had happened to Isaac Eldon. Of course the apprehending of a spy would be kept quiet, but even the Ministry had their work cut out preventing the like of Nora Bates ferreting information and passing it around. Yet even that woman had nothing to say other than, ‘ ’
Ow come nobody don’t see nuthin’ o’ Isaac Eldon no more? Don’t even a’hear ’im shoutin’ to folk to put a light out. It be a right mucker an’ no mistek!
’
But it was not confusing to Katrin Hawley.
She knew the reason of the man not being seen. She knew he might never be seen again!
He looked so tired.
Closing the door behind her father Miriam felt the tingle of anxiety cold against her spine.
He had not spoken of the reason for his leaving Prodor, nor of what had virtually robbed him of his home and family, of the reason he returned only for a few hours, leaving and returning always at night. Why? Miriam felt the question lodge in her throat. She had tried asking but he had brushed aside any question saying it was nothing, that she was giving way to imagination. But was it imagination had the marks of worry deepen on his face? Was it illusion on her part have him sit for most of those brief visits locked in his own thoughts?
Ought she to have tried to persuade him to stay home this evening? Perhaps plead she felt unwell. But that would add another straw to the burden he carried, one more worry to set beside that Philip Conroy’s visit had left behind. One more secret!
Unable to quell the sharp rise of fear, she set about placing blankets and coats on the sofa in preparation for raids which were an almost nightly occurrence, then fetching the bucket of sleck, small particles of coal and coal dust doused with water and left ready in the scullery, she banked the living-room fire, it would slumber all night, keeping the room tolerably warm.
She should go to bed, rest while chance presented itself. But rest did not come easily, sleep could not combat memories of Tom, of the love they had shared, darkness could not dispel sight of that beloved face nor drown the voice speaking in her head.
‘
This is what we would like you to do
. . .’
Clear, incisive as though the man sat opposite, the words echoed in Miriam’s mind. Miriam reached for yet another pair of socks in need of mending but try as she might she could not banish what Philip Conroy had said.
‘
. . . we want you to be certain, Reuben, absolutely certain you can carry this off.
’
Staring into the dulled fire, Miriam followed the scenes memory unfolded.
Reuben’s head bent over the paper Philip Conroy had placed before him on the table.
‘
This is the area in question
.’ Conroy had pointed to the paper. ‘
We want you to mark this on your diagram as a possible source of armament manufacture
.’
‘
But there is nothing there, it used to be the golf links but nobody plays there any more, that’s right, isn’t it, granddad?
’
‘
We are aware of that, Reuben, and because it is unused land it suits our purposes so well.
’
‘
But the lad be right!
’ Isaac had protested. ‘
There be nothing there . . . least not to my knowin’.
’
‘
Which is exactly why it must be inserted into Reuben’s project bearing a question mark; it must have no name ascribed to it, it must not even be given the pseudonym “Shadow Factory” as that other is signified.
’
‘
Then if it ’as to be so secret how come Reuben is reckoned to know of this . . . factory?
’