But what he did not know was the identity of that woman.
Leaving the train at Snowhill Station enmeshed in rancour, Katrin paid little mind to the bomb-damaged properties, the fire-blackened buildings rising like skeletons from graves of rubble and broken concrete.
Isaac Eldon did not know who had spoken with his grandson. Nor did he know her vengeance! Let him rejoice in his security, let him wallow in the idea nothing could befall him, nothing would spoil his mundane working-class life; but Katrin Hawley would. One method had failed but there had to be another, sooner or later the chance to destroy Isaac Eldon would arise and when it did Katrin Hawley would grasp it with both hands.
Her father had returned to Prodor, he was back in the job he loved, in the place he had worked since leaving school a lad of less than thirteen years of age. But he had not returned as department manager.
‘
That don’t be for me wench. I don’t be one for paperwork; give me a job wi’ metal, the mekin’ of it or the forging of it into whatever be wanted; ask me about the designin’ of new machinery or set me the problem of how to produce two of anythin’ in the time it had teken for the makin’ of one and I’ll do my best in the solvin’ of it, but management and paperwork don’t be for me
.’
Looking at her father sitting with his newspaper, the sense of relief Miriam had felt on hearing of his rejoining Prodor lived another brief moment.
She had worried so much when she’d learned of his ‘being sacked’. He had ‘been marched off ’, ‘teken away afore even the shift ended . . .’, ‘be said he’s been a tittle-tattlin’ about what be made at them works.’
Those had been some of the hushed remarks, but they had not been so hushed she could not hear. They had been meant to be heard, said by people who knew nothing of the reason behind her father’s being dismissed and cared less for the hurt their gossip caused.
She had asked her father the reason, of course she had. But he had said only she should not fret. Not fret! How could he have imagined she wouldn’t have fretted? How could he have left her to worry? But that was unfair! He had not given the true reason because he had been bound by the same Act had bound them both on the business of Philip Conroy . . . the Official Secrets Act; her father had been given a job of vital importance, one he would not speak of even to her. Was it the outcome of that job, the project he and Jacob Hawley had worked on together, the revolutionary new method of producing shells without having to separately machine the inside of the cavity? That much he had since been able to share with her.
Had something of that project leaked despite precaution? Was that the information Philip Conroy said was known to have been passed to the enemy? The man had not confirmed that of course, but it did not take a mastermind to construe its being the reason of the hoax concerning the golf links.
‘. . . they said as ’ow it were a fractured gas main . . . I never smelled no gas . . . you ask me I says it be a load o’ codswallop, there ain’t no broken gas pipe.’
Elsie Partridge had complained of the evacuation of nearby houses claiming it a nuisance, but what would have been her complaint had Wednesbury undergone an all out air attack?
‘D’you think there really would have been a raid, I mean one deliberately aimed at the golf links?’
Reuben could have been reading her thoughts.
‘No, just the golf links, son . . .’
Miriam watched the pair, Reuben at his grandfather’s feet, face upturned to the grave look of the older lined one. ‘Not simply that place.’ Isaac shook his head. ‘I reckon had it not been for you the whole of Wednesbury would ’ave suffered what Coventry went through; once the Germans had wind of where that new plant was supposed to be then this town would ’ave been wiped out completely.’
‘It was a big risk Mr Conroy took, wasn’t it, granddad? I mean letting me hand in my project.’
‘Ar lad.’ Isaac replied touching a hand to his grandson’s head. ‘An’ it were a risk you ran in tekin’ them maps to that bloody spy! I don’t know what I were a thinkin’ of lettin’ you go through that!’
‘I wanted to do it granddad, I wanted to help same as my dad helped.’
Miriam’s heart lurched. Glancing at her father, she saw, that his heart was asking the same question as her own. What if Reuben had paid the same price, if helping protect others had cost his life as it had cost Tom’s?
‘You done that lad, you helped, and I know your dad would’ve been proud, he’d ’ave been like a cock wi’ two tails; had
you
been a man you’d ’ave been awarded a medal, but as it is, you get naught, not even an official thank you.’
‘I don’t want any thanks, granddad, I’m satisfied knowing that German agent was captured.’
Isaac’s look was grave. ‘Ar,’ he nodded, ‘we all gives thanks for that, but I finds meself wonderin’ ’ow the hell he got that post along of the school; when Anthony Eden called for men to volunteer for local Civil Defence, applicants was vetted in order to weed out potential Fifth Columnists, so ’ow come that bloody Nazi weren’t weeded out, ’ow come he slipped through the net, an’ to be appointed ’eadmaster no less?’
‘Philip Conroy explained . . . as much as he was allowed.’
‘Oh ar, he explained!’ Isaac was not to be mollified. ‘He said as the man were a retired schoolmaster, that he lived along o’ Dartmoor but had volunteered to return to teachin’ when so many were forced to leave the profession due to conscription, but that don’t explain his gettin’ away wi’ pretendin’ to be English; it be bloody careless on somebody’s part, most like couldn’t be bothered to check his background or they would have found ’im to be a German immigrant an’ he would have been put in internment camp same as other foreigners.’
‘That must be what happened to the Peoli family.’
‘Who?’ Isaac frowned.
‘The Peolis.’ Reuben looked up from his books. ‘They are Italian, they have a sweet shop in Darlaston, it has a small café at the back serves tea and delicious ice cream . . . or they did up until a couple of weeks back, seems they just left giving no reason.’
‘And how does Wednesbury’s very own oracle know this?’ Arms crossed over her chest, Miriam regarded her son.
Reuben grinned. ‘Simple mum, Bobby Walker told me. He’s a boy at school, lives in Dangerfield Lane, that’s near to Darlaston shops so he gets to go there with his sister who keeps house for his dad since his mum died . . . so the news of the Peolis . . .’
Isaac glanced at his daughter. ‘Who needs the Express and Star when they have a news reporter livin’ in the house?’
‘Mmm.’ Miriam dropped her arms. ‘Well, that particular reporter had best be careful over exactly what news he communicates.’ Then she said seriously, ‘Remember Reuben, you gave Conroy your promise to say nothing of what was said in this house nor of what happened at school.’
‘I remember.’
Reaching for the coat she had laid ready alongside her gas mask, Miriam shrugged into it. ‘There is something else it’ll pay you to remember Reuben Carson,’ she said, buttoning the coat, ‘that is the promise you gave not to go on any more night wanderings. If the alarm sounds you are to go with next door into their shelter.’
‘Mum, I’m nearly fourteen!’
‘So you are . . . but it’ll be when you’re forty you can argue with me!’
‘Best give up, lad.’ Isaac smiled over his daughter’s curt reply. ‘You gets nowheres arguin’ wi’ a woman.’
‘Reuben . . .’ Miriam began warningly.
Reuben held up both hands. ‘You win,’ he laughed, ‘but just you wait ’til I’m forty!’
He had laughed, but then why shouldn’t he? He couldn’t realise her heartache of having to leave him, of knowing he was alone in the house once her father returned to his work at Prodor.
‘
I knows what it be like for you wench, but it ’as to be done
. . .’
Her father had sympathised. ‘. . .
but the lad be sensible
. . .’
Sensible! Could her father call it sensible for a young lad to roam alone at night? Lord, he could have been thought a spy!
Passing a word with the watchman at the gates of the Alma Tube Works, Miriam entered the machine shop and stamped her time card in the large wall clock.
A spy! But wasn’t that what Reuben had been suspected of? The accuser had believed those maps not to be a project set as homework but something injurious to the safety of the country.
Indeed, given to that headmaster they could have proved just that. Wednesbury and probably near enough the rest of the Black Country would have been annihilated.
Miriam donned her overall and crossed to her own machine. Whoever it had been helped recover those papers had not intended harm to Reuben; the person had foresight enough to see what a young lad had not, that such information should not be in his possession.
Even so . . . Miriam stared at the bar of brass waiting to be turned into gleaming carriers of death . . . that person could have come to Cross Street, have spoken with her personally, have enquired of what Reuben was doing with those maps; that way the shock of it all could have been lessened, she herself would have taken Reuben and those papers to the police station.
It could only be that that person didn’t think at the time, then when realisation dawned Reuben was already gone, so it was too late to ask where he lived, or could the person come to the house with him?
That was the answer. She set the machine in motion. There had been no malice in the action, no hurtful intent; information had been given solely out of concern for public safety and in that had possibly safeguarded Reuben.
Who are you? The thought whispered in Miriam’s mind. Maybe one day I will know, one day I can say thank you.
He had gone back to the factory. Katrin glanced at the meal her father had scarcely touched. It was not the fault of her cooking, she had been taught cookery at school, lessons augmented by her mother with results appreciated and complimented upon by her father. And Violet had taught her much more than how to prepare a meal. Unwittingly she had taught patience, how to wait and watch for that right moment. Violet had not known she was guiding a young girl along that path, that her own evasive answering of questions put so long ago, her long-held silence concerning secrets held in a box, was paving that path.
Plate and cutlery washed and put away, Katrin glanced at the table. It had become a ritual with her mother, placing gas masks, torch, matches and candle together with flask and blankets on the table last thing before going to bed; ready, she would say, in case of an air raid. Now Katrin followed that same ritual, preparing for a dash from the house to the shelter in the garden. But she set out those things only to reassure her father, to have him believe she would go into the shelter in an emergency.
Her father and Isaac Eldon spent so much of the day together. Will o’ the wisp, Katrin’s thoughts flitted. They spent so many hours talking, testing and re-testing parts of new machinery, nursing it into position with all the care you would give a newly born child, barely leaving it long enough to take a meal in the factory canteen.
But that suited her. Snapping off the light she cast a quick look into the living room. Satisfied her father had positioned the mesh fireguard across the fire he had banked for the night, she walked upstairs. She did not mind being alone. No. She smiled at the reflection that jumped into the mirror as she flicked on the light. Being left to her own devices suited Katrin Hawley very well, especially so at Prodor.
Her father and Eldon were not the only ones devoting almost every minute to that new project; Arthur Whitman was there with them, there on the factory floor and not in his office.
‘
That is most acceptable to you, is it not, Miss Hawley
?’ Katrin laughed the reply. ‘Very, it is very acceptable.’
She had thought that Eldon would be reinstalled as manager on his return to Prodor, but that had not transpired. Nor, as yet, had Whitman done as he proposed and hired a man to act in that capacity. While he was so engrossed in seeing machinery installed, in getting that enterprise up and running to government specification, he was likely to leave more and more administration of affairs in the hands of his secretary.
‘Your capable hands, Miss Hawley, that is the way it must remain.’
Right now Arthur Whitman depended upon her only as his secretary, but that would be remedied. She would get the other half! After all, he had been a married man, had known the comfort of the marital bed, comfort he must be missing.
Crossing the room, Katrin picked up the carrier bag she had deposited on her bed when returning from Birmingham. She emptied its contents and touched a hand to the cloud of sapphire silk chiffon spilling onto the cover.
This was one more thing Violet had taught. Use what you have to your best advantage. This dress would help her do that. Holding it against her, Katrin turned again to the mirror. The sales woman had seemed reluctant to let it go, had said there would probably be nothing of its quality until the war was over . . . and the price, could madam . . .