Margaret breathed a sigh of relief as a train pulled in, passing within inches of the commuters at the front of the platform. It was impossible to see in, with the blackout curtains covering the windows and doors, installed for the sections of the line that ran above ground.
A door stopped in front of her, and the curtains opened as if to start a show. The train was stuffed full. Margaret shuffled to the side to let a family out – dressed up for an evening atthe theatre. Before she could move, the gap left by the family was filled by others from the platform. Margaret forced herself into the crush, making a space where none had existed. She reached up and managed to get a strap to hang on to. Not that there was much danger of falling over, no matter how much the train might lurch. Bodies pressed against her in every direction. In any other setting it would be indecent.
Nine stops later, Margaret emerged to fresh air at Hendon Central, a pretty plaza built around a crossroads, with a large cinema on one corner, and a bank on each of the others. She checked her map and got her bearings. The Watford Road ran from left to right, up the hill – three lanes each side, like something out of a science fiction film. The northbound carriageways were all busy. Margaret wondered how many of the cars were commuters returning home, and how many were fleeing the city for the night, families heading for a cold, damp night sleeping under the stars in fields and woods outside the city. Trekkers, the papers were calling them, rather dismissively, as if taking steps to avoid being bombed was in some way a sign of moral weakness. Stay here and take your chances with the rest of us, seemed to be the underlying message.
Margaret walked up the hill, the darkness of the blackout contributing to the impression that with every step she was entering the unknown. The grand buildings along the north road thinned out quickly, and soon she was in the suburbs. As she crested the hill, she looked back. The dark city was a silhouette against the slate-grey sky. Already the first bombers had arrived, drawn to the city like wasps to a picnic.
Swynford Grove was a pretty road of detached villas, ornate brickwork and well-kept front gardens. Every house was obediently blacked out, but the half-moon was bright enough for Margaret to find her way. Even so, she was thankful for the white stripes painted on every tree trunk and kerb.
She checked the slip of paper she’d received in the hotel basement. Expensive paper, torn from a diary. Charlotte Pearson. 44 Swynford Grove. Information Margaret could use to convince Bunny she was trustworthy. Bad luck for Mrs Pearson, for whom there’d be a knock on the door late at night. Detention without trial. Disappeared, indefinitely, thanks to the Emergency War Powers Act. Fascism, when your enemy did it. Common sense, when your own government did it, for your protection.
Quite a thing to do to someone, which was why Margaret was here. Wanted to check, to look the woman in the eye, before she ruined a life.
Number forty-four was a pleasant bungalow. Two fruit trees flanked the garden path – an apple and a pear, both heavy with fruit. The grass had been freshly mown, diagonal stripes.
A woman in her fifties answered the door. She had a turban wrapped around her hair, and wore an apron over her dress. She had flour on her hands. Making a crumble, using the fruit while it was plentiful.
‘Hello?’ the woman said, looking past Margaret to see who else might be out there.
‘Mrs Pearson?’ Margaret asked, hoping it wasn’t. The woman looked friendly. She’d have a husband, children. A good life, here in the suburbs, with the fruit trees.
‘Yes?’ the woman answered.
‘I’m from Tate’s Sugar,’ Margaret said, with a smile. ‘We’re calling on women to ask how they use our products in their baking. You were chosen from a list. May I come in for five minutes?’
‘Of course!’ the woman answered, her shoulders rising, proud she’d been chosen. Hoping her neighbours were watching. She’d have a story to tell.
‘What are you making?’ Margaret asked, as Mrs Pearson led her to the kitchen – a modern room with Formica counters and brightly painted cupboards.
‘Apple crumble,’ Mrs Pearson replied, returning to a large mixing bowl on the counter. ‘I don’t love them myself,’ she said, in a conspiratorial voice, ‘but my husband loves them. So does Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte?’ Margaret asked.
‘My daughter,’ Mrs Pearson said, as the sound of footsteps on the stairs heralded an arrival. ‘Here she is!’
A young woman stepped into the kitchen. She eyed Margaret warily.
‘Charlotte’s down from Cambridge,’ Mrs Pearson said, full of pride. ‘She loves a bit of home cooking when she can get back.’
‘I can’t stop,’ the young woman said, giving her mum a kiss on the cheek.
‘Out with Geoffrey again?’ Mrs Pearson asked.
‘Geoffrey’s old news,’ the young woman said, as she shrugged on a summer coat. ‘Don’t wait up!’
The front door slammed.
Mrs Pearson smiled at Margaret.
‘All the young pilots from the airfield. Honestly, the life these girls lead.’
*
Margaret hurried along the pavement, past the manicured front gardens. Mrs Pearson was clearly unaware her daughter was passing along secrets to the Germans, but Charlotte’s reaction had been a clear admission of guilt.
‘I say,’ Margaret called after Charlotte, who was doing a passable job of pretending she couldn’t hear the fast footsteps behind her.
Charlotte turned, trying to master her fear, but failing.
