‘To find your courage,’ Cook said. ‘Make a difference.’
Beaumont didn’t seem convinced.
‘Do you think there’ll be an end to it?’ he asked Cook.
‘One day there will, and you’ll remember how you got through. Good and bad. It’ll be a part of you for the rest of your life.’
Frankie interrupted them.
‘Ruby’s going to come and see the farm,’ he said, his eyes full of the excitement of it, despite the sombre occasion.
‘Just a visit,’ Ruby said. ‘Mum’s going to need me up here, keep this place on its feet.’
‘You should come,’ Cook said to the American. ‘See what the rest of the country’s like.’
107
Eleanor rode the escalator down to the underground platform at Green Park, her weekend bag over her shoulder and her notebook in her inside pocket. The smell as she descended got steadily worse. Her first time on the tube, and probably her last. The things she did for her readers.
She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d first arrived in London. So close to the war, and yet at the same time so removed from it. It had been hard to imagine anything she’d see or write could be of use, far less be worth the rather generous sum she was being paid.
Did it bother her, writing articles that were sent, first to New York, then forwarded to the German intelligence services? Why should it? The United States wasn’t at war with Germany, any more than it was at war with Britain. If a US citizen wanted to visit either one of those countries and write home with her observations, she was free to do so. Besides, it was only a game. And whoever won, America would be safe, with its oceans protecting it.
Eleanor followed the signs for the Victoria line. One stop, the ticket attendant had said, southbound, to Victoria station, where she’d meet the farmer. She was rather looking forward to seeing him again. He was a brute, of course, but sometimes a brute was exactly what a girl needed.
She’d seen the way he’d looked at Margaret in the lobby. Something going on there, no doubt. But Eleanor couldhold her own against any of these English roses. The British didn’t understand. Americans had a scrappiness that people from the Old World underestimated. Besides, Margaret was a pawn, working for Eleanor. A precarious existence, only ever one false move away from a knock on the door by the police, and a dark cell, or worse.
The platform was full. One half of it, behind a painted line, given over to a mass of unwashed humanity that seemed to have camped out, avoiding the bombs. Eleanor tried not to breathe through her nose. The stench was indescribable. All details for the story though, the terror in the eyes of the poor. Wanting it over with. Only a matter of time before they rose up and got rid of Churchill.
A warm breeze blew through the station, and Eleanor heard the train approaching. She felt a tingle of anticipation. Her first trip on the tube.
The train roared into the station, and the crowd on the platform surged in anticipation. Eleanor didn’t feel the hand on her back until it was too late.
Mr Jones took the escalator back up. No point waiting on the platform. The train wasn’t going anywhere. They had a procedure for when someone jumped. Paperwork to be completed. The body to be recovered. A thousand commuters would be late home, but they were used to it. Seemed like every day now there was some kind of delay.
108
Cook waited on the platform at Victoria, the train ready to go. The American was late.
She could follow them down. He’d wait for her at the station. Walk her across the fields. Show her what they were fighting for – the real England.
‘All aboard!’ the guard shouted. Cook was holding up the train.
The distant crowd parted and he saw her. Running towards him across the concourse. A bag slung over her shoulder, low heels clacking.
It was Margaret.
She saw him, holding the train, and reduced her run to a hurried walk.
The train whistled.
‘Shut that door will you, we haven’t got all day!’ the guard yelled, following up with a blast of his whistle. Cook felt the prickle of impropriety, but he waited until Margaret reached him, stepping out of the way to let her on the train, then following her inside. The train moved instantly, and he slammed the door. Huge, angry clouds of smoke rose up through the forest of ironwork holding the vast roof aloft.
‘She asked me to send her apologies,’ Margaret said. ‘Something came up.’
109
Tea was sausages, boiled potatoes, and baked beans. Frankie’s favourite. They ate at the kitchen table, a full house. Mum stood at the stove, Uncle Nob kept to his armchair by the fire, watching silently.
