Winter of the World

15

1943 (I)

Lloyd Williams walked along a narrow uphill path at the tail end of a line of desperate fugitives.

He breathed easily. He was used to this. He had now crossed the Pyrenees several times. He wore rope-soled espadrilles that gave his feet a better grip on the rocky ground. He had a heavy coat on top of his blue overalls. The sun was hot now but later, when the party reached higher altitudes and the sun went down, the temperature would drop below freezing.

Ahead of him were two sturdy ponies, three local people, and eight weary, bedraggled escapers, all loaded with packs. There were three American airmen, the surviving crew of a B-24 Liberator bomber that had crash-landed in Belgium. Two more were British officers who had escaped from the Oflag 65 prisoner-of-war camp in Strasbourg. The others were a Czech Communist, a Jewish woman with a violin, and a mysterious Englishman called Watermill who was probably some kind of spy.

They had all come a long way and suffered many hardships. This was the last leg of their journey, and the most dangerous. If captured now, they would all be tortured until they betrayed the brave men and women who had helped them en route.

Leading the party was Teresa. The climb was hard work for people who were not used to it, but they had to keep up a brisk pace to minimize their exposure, and Lloyd had found that the refugees were less likely to fall behind when they were led by a small, ravishingly pretty woman.

The path levelled and broadened into a small clearing. Suddenly a loud voice rang out. Speaking French with a German accent, it shouted: ‘Halt!’

The column came to an abrupt halt.

Two German soldiers emerged from behind a rock. They carried standard Mauser bolt-action rifles, each holding five rounds of ammunition.

Reflexively Lloyd touched the overcoat pocket that contained his loaded 9mm Luger pistol.

Escaping from mainland Europe had become harder, and Lloyd’s job had grown even more dangerous. At the end of last year the Germans had occupied the southern half of France, contemptuously ignoring the Vichy French government like the flimsy sham it had always been. A forbidden zone ten miles deep was declared all along the frontier with Spain. Lloyd and his party were in that zone now.

Teresa addressed the soldiers in French. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Is everything all right?’ Lloyd knew her well, and he could hear the tremor of fear in her voice, but he hoped it was too faint for the sentries to notice.

Among the French police there were many Fascists and a few Communists, but all of them were lazy, and none wanted to chase refugees across the icy passes of the Pyrenees. However, the Germans did. German troops had moved into border towns and begun to patrol the hill paths and mule trails Lloyd and Teresa used. The occupiers were not crack troops: those were fighting in Russia, where they had recently surrendered Stalingrad after a long and murderous struggle. Many of the Germans in France were old men, boys, and the walking wounded. But that seemed to make them more determined to prove themselves. Unlike the French, they rarely turned a blind eye.

Now the older of the two soldiers, cadaverously thin with a grey moustache, said to Teresa: ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the village of Lamont. We have groceries for you and your comrades.’

This particular German unit had moved into a remote hill village, kicking out the local inhabitants. Then they had realized how difficult it was to supply troops in that location. It had been a stroke of genius on Teresa’s part to undertake to carry food to them – at a healthy profit – and thereby get permission to enter the prohibited zone.

The thin soldier looked suspiciously at the men with their backpacks. ‘All this is for German soldiers?’

‘I hope so,’ Teresa said. ‘There’s no one else up here to sell it to.’ She took a piece of paper from her pocket. ‘Here’s the order, signed by your Sergeant Eisenstein.’

The man read it carefully and handed it back. Then he looked at Lieutenant-Colonel Will Donelly, a beefy American pilot. ‘Is he French?’

Lloyd put his hand on the gun in his pocket.

The appearance of the fugitives was a problem. In this part of the world the local people, French and Spanish, were usually small and dark. And everyone was thin. Both Lloyd and Teresa fitted that description, as did the Czech and the violinist. But the British were pale and fair-haired, and the Americans were huge.

Teresa said: ‘Guillaume was born in Normandy. All that butter.’

The younger of the two soldiers, a pale boy with glasses, smiled at Teresa. She was easy to smile at. ‘Do you have wine?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

The two sentries brightened visibly.

Teresa said: ‘Would you like some right now?’

The older man said: ‘It’s thirsty in the sun.’

Lloyd opened a pannier on one of the ponies, took out four bottles of Roussillon white wine, and handed them over. The Germans took two each. Suddenly everyone was smiling and shaking hands. The older sentry said: ‘Carry on, friends.’

The fugitives went on. Lloyd had not really expected trouble, but you could never be sure, and he was relieved to have got past the sentry post.

It took them two more hours to reach Lamont. A dirt-poor hamlet with a handful of crude houses and some empty sheep pens, it stood on the edge of a small upland plain where the new spring grass was just beginning to show. Lloyd pitied the people who had lived here. They had had so little, and even that had been taken from them.

The party walked into the centre of the village and gratefully unshouldered their burdens. They were surrounded by German soldiers.

This was the most dangerous moment, Lloyd thought.

Sergeant Eisenstein was in charge of a platoon of fifteen or twenty men. Everyone helped to unload the supplies: bread, sausage, fresh fish, condensed milk, canned food. The soldiers were pleased to get supplies and glad to see new faces. They merrily attempted to engage their benefactors in conversation.

The fugitives had to say as little as possible. This was the moment when they could so easily betray themselves by a slip. Some Germans spoke French well enough to detect an English or American accent. Even those who had passable accents, such as Teresa and Lloyd, could give themselves away with a grammatical error. It was so easy to say sur le table instead of sur la table, but it was a mistake no French person would ever make.

To compensate, the two genuine Frenchmen in the party went out of their way to be voluble. Any time a soldier began to talk to a fugitive, someone would jump into the conversation.

Teresa presented the sergeant with a bill, and he took a long time to check the numbers then count out the money.

At last they were able to take their leave, with empty backpacks and lighter hearts.

They walked back down the mountain half a mile, then they split up. Teresa went on down with the Frenchmen and the horses. Lloyd and the fugitives turned on to an upward path.

The German sentries at the clearing would probably be too drunk by now to notice that fewer people were coming down than went up. But if they asked questions, Teresa would say some of the party had started a card game with the soldiers, and would be following later. Then there would be a change of shift and the Germans would lose track.

Lloyd made his group walk for two hours, then he allowed them a ten-minute break. They had all been given bottles of water and packets of dried figs for energy. They were discouraged from bringing anything else: Lloyd knew from experience that treasured books, silverware, ornaments and gramophone records would become too heavy and be thrown into a snow-filled ravine long before the footsore travellers crested the pass.

This was the hard part. From now on it would only get darker and colder and rockier.

Just before the snowline, he instructed them to refill their water bottles at a clear cold stream.

When night fell they kept going. It was dangerous to let people sleep: they might freeze to death. They were tired, and they slipped and stumbled on the icy rocks. Inevitably their pace slowed. Lloyd could not let the line spread: stragglers might lose their way, and there were precipitous ravines for the careless to fall into. But he had never lost anyone, yet.

Many of the fugitives were officers, and this was the point where they would sometimes challenge Lloyd, arguing when he ordered them to keep going. Lloyd had been promoted to major to give him more authority.

In the middle of the night, when their morale was at rock bottom, Lloyd announced: ‘You are now in neutral Spain!’ and they raised a ragged cheer. In truth he did not know exactly where the border was, and always made the announcement when they seemed most in need of a boost.

Their spirits lifted again when dawn broke. They still had some way to go, but the route now led downhill, and their cold limbs gradually thawed.

At sunrise they skirted a small town with a dust-coloured church at the top of a hill. Just beyond, they reached a large barn beside the road. Inside was a green Ford flatbed truck with a grimy canvas cover. The lorry was large enough to carry the whole party. At the wheel was Captain Silva, a middle-aged Englishman of Spanish descent who worked with Lloyd.

Also there, to Lloyd’s surprise, was Major Lowther, who had been in charge of the intelligence course at Tŷ Gwyn, and had been snootily disapproving – or perhaps just envious – of Lloyd’s friendship with Daisy.

Lloyd knew that Lowthie had been posted to the British Embassy in Madrid, and guessed he worked for MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, but he would not have expected to see him this far from the capital.

Lowther wore an expensive white flannel suit that was crumpled and grubby. He stood beside the truck looking proprietorial. ‘I’ll take over from here, Williams,’ he said. He looked at the fugitives. ‘Which one of you is Watermill?’

Watermill could have been a real name or a code.

The mysterious Englishman stepped forward and shook hands.

‘I’m Major Lowther. I’m taking you straight to Madrid.’ Turning back to Lloyd he said: ‘I’m afraid your party will have to make your way to the nearest railway station.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Lloyd. ‘That truck belongs to my organization.’ He had purchased it with his budget from MI9, the department that helped escaping prisoners. ‘And the driver works for me.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ Lowther said briskly. ‘Watermill has priority.’

The Secret Intelligence Service always thought they had priority. ‘I don’t agree,’ Lloyd said. ‘I see no reason why we can’t all go to Barcelona in the truck, as planned. Then you can take Watermill on to Madrid by train.’

‘I didn’t ask for your opinion, laddie. Just do as you’re told.’

Watermill himself interjected, in a reasonable tone: ‘I’m perfectly happy to share the truck.’

‘Leave this to me, please,’ Lowther told him.

Lloyd said: ‘All these people have just walked across the Pyrenees. They’re exhausted.’

‘Then they’d better have a rest before going on.’

Lloyd shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. The town on the hill has a sympathetic mayor – that’s why we rendezvous here. But farther down the valley their politics are different. The Gestapo are everywhere, you know that – and most of the Spanish police are on their side, not ours. My group will be in serious danger of arrest for entering the country illegally. And you know how difficult it is to get people out of Franco’s jails, even when they’re innocent.’

‘I’m not going to waste my time arguing with you. I outrank you,’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘What?’

‘I’m a major. So don’t call me “laddie” ever again, unless you want a punch on the nose.’

‘My mission is urgent!’

‘So why didn’t you bring your own vehicle?’

‘Because this one was available!’

‘But it wasn’t.’

Will Donelly, the big American, stepped forward. ‘I’m with Major Williams,’ he drawled. ‘He’s just saved my life. You, Major Lowther, haven’t done shit.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ said Lowther.

‘Well, the situation here seems pretty clear,’ Donelly said. ‘The truck is under the authority of Major Williams. Major Lowther wants it, but he can’t have it. End of story.’

Lowther said: ‘You keep out of this.’

‘I happen to be a Lieutenant-Colonel, so I guess I outrank you both.’

‘But this isn’t under your jurisdiction.’

‘Nor yours, evidently.’ Donelly turned to Lloyd. ‘Should we get going?’

‘I insist!’ spluttered Lowther.

Donelly turned back to him. ‘Major Lowther,’ he said. ‘Shut the fuck up. And that’s an order.’

Lloyd said: ‘All right, everybody – climb aboard.’

Lowther glared furiously at Lloyd. ‘I’ll get you for this, you little Welsh bastard,’ he said.

(ii)

The daffodils were out in London on the day Daisy and Boy went for their medical.

The visit to the doctor was Daisy’s idea. She was fed up with Boy blaming her for not getting pregnant. He constantly compared her to his brother Andy’s wife, May, who now had three children. ‘There must be something wrong with you,’ he had said aggressively.

‘I got pregnant once before.’ She winced at the remembered pain of her miscarriage; then she recalled how Lloyd had taken care of her, and she felt a different kind of pain.

Boy said: ‘Something could have happened since then to make you infertile.’

‘Or you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There might just as easily be something wrong with you.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll make a deal.’ The thought flashed through her mind that she was negotiating rather as her father, Lev, might have done. ‘I’ll go for an examination – if you will.’

That had surprised him, and he had hesitated, then said: ‘All right. You go first. If they say there’s nothing wrong with you, I’ll go.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You go first.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t trust you to keep your promises.’

‘All right, then, we’ll go together.’

Daisy was not sure why she was bothering. She did not love Boy – had not loved him for a long time. She was in love with Lloyd Williams, still in Spain on a mission he could not say much about. But she was married to Boy. He had been unfaithful to her, of course, with numerous women. But she had committed adultery too, albeit with only one man. She had no moral ground to stand on, and in consequence she was paralysed. She just felt that if she did her duty as a wife she might retain the last shreds of her self-respect.

The doctor’s office was in Harley Street, not far from their house though in a less expensive neighbourhood. Daisy found the examination unpleasant. The doctor was a man, and he was grumpy about her being ten minutes late. He asked her a lot of questions about her general health, her menstrual periods, and what he called her ‘relations’ with her husband, not looking at her but making notes with a fountain pen. Then he put a series of cold metal instruments up her vagina. ‘I do this every day, so you don’t need to worry,’ he said, then he gave her a grin that told her the opposite.

When she came out of the doctor’s office she half expected Boy to renege on their deal and refuse to take his turn. He looked sour about it, but he went in.

While she was waiting, Daisy reread a letter from her half-brother, Greg. He had discovered he had a child, from an affair he had with a black girl when he was fifteen. To Daisy’s astonishment the playboy Greg was excited about his son and keen to be part of the child’s life, albeit as an uncle rather than a father. Even more surprising, Lev had met the child and announced that he was smart.

It was ironic, she thought, that Greg had a son even though he had never wanted one, and Boy had no son even though he longed for one so badly.

Boy came out of the doctor’s office an hour later. The doctor promised to give them their results in a week. They left at twelve noon.

‘I need a drink after that,’ Boy said.

‘So do I,’ said Daisy.

They looked up and down the street of identical row houses. ‘This neighbourhood is a bloody desert. Not a pub in sight.’

‘I’m not going to a pub,’ said Daisy. ‘I want a martini, and they don’t know how to make them in pubs.’ She spoke from experience. She had asked for a dry martini at the King’s Head in Chelsea and had been served a glass of disgustingly warm vermouth. ‘Take me to Claridge’s hotel, please. It’s only five minutes’ walk.’

‘Now that’s a damn good idea.’

The bar at Claridge’s was full of people they knew. There were austerity rules about the meals restaurants could sell, but Claridge’s had found a loophole: there were no restrictions on giving food away, so they offered a free buffet, charging only their usual high prices for drinks.

Daisy and Boy sat in art deco splendour and sipped perfect cocktails, and Daisy began to feel better.

‘The doctor asked me if I’d had mumps,’ Boy said.

‘But you have.’ It was mainly a childhood illness, but Boy had caught it a couple of years back. He had been briefly billeted at a vicarage in East Anglia, and had picked up the infection from the vicar’s three small sons. It had been very painful. ‘Did he say why?’

‘No. You know what these chaps are like. Never tell you a bloody thing.’

It occurred to Daisy that she was not as happy-go-lucky as she had once been. In the old days she would never have brooded about her marriage this way. She had always liked what Scarlett O’Hara said in Gone with the Wind: ‘I’ll think about that tomorrow.’ Not any more. Perhaps she was growing up.

Boy was ordering a second cocktail when Daisy looked towards the door and saw the Marquis of Lowther walking in, dressed in a creased and stained uniform.

Daisy disliked him. Ever since he had guessed at her relationship with Lloyd he had treated her with oily familiarity, as if they shared a secret that made them intimates.

Now he sat at their table uninvited, dropping cigar ash on his khaki trousers, and asked for a manhattan.

Daisy knew at once that he was up to no good. There was a look of malignant relish in his eye that could not be explained merely as anticipation of a good cocktail.

Boy said: ‘I haven’t seen you for a year or so, Lowthie. Where have you been?’

‘Madrid,’ Lowthie said. ‘Can’t say much about it. Hush-hush, you know. How about you?’

‘I spend a lot of time training pilots, though I’ve flown a few missions lately, now that we’ve stepped up the bombing of Germany.’

‘Jolly good thing, too. Give the Germans a taste of their own medicine.’

‘You may say that, but there’s a lot of muttering among the pilots.’

‘Really – why?’

‘Because all this stuff about military targets is absolute rubbish. There’s no point in bombing German factories because they just rebuild them. So we’re targeting large areas of dense working-class housing. They can’t replace the workers so fast.’

Lowther looked shocked. ‘That would mean it’s our policy to kill civilians.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But the government assures us—’

‘The government lies,’ Boy said. ‘And the bomber crews know it. Many of them don’t give a damn, of course, but some feel bad. They believe that if we’re doing the right thing, then we should say so; and if we’re doing the wrong thing we should stop.’

Lowther looked uneasy. ‘I’m not sure we should be talking like this here.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Boy said.

The second round of cocktails came. Lowther turned to Daisy. ‘And what about the little woman?’ he said. ‘You must have some war work. The devil finds mischief for idle hands, according to the proverb.’

Daisy replied in a neutral matter-of-fact tone. ‘Now that the Blitz is over, they don’t need women ambulance drivers, so I’m working with the American Red Cross. We have an office in Pall Mall. We do what we can to help American servicemen over here.’

‘Men lonely for a bit of feminine company, eh?’

‘Mostly they’re just homesick. They like to hear an American accent.’

Lowthie leered. ‘I expect you’re very good at consoling them.’

‘I do what I can.’

‘I bet you do.’

Boy said: ‘Look here, Lowthie, are you a bit drunk? Because this sort of talk is awfully bad form, you know.’

Lowther’s expression turned spiteful. ‘Oh, come on, Boy, don’t tell me you don’t know. What are you, blind?’

Daisy said: ‘Take me home, please, Boy.’

He ignored her and spoke to Lowther. ‘What the devil do you mean?’

‘Ask her about Lloyd Williams.’

Boy said: ‘Who the hell is Lloyd Williams?’

Daisy said: ‘I’m going home alone, if you won’t take me.’

‘Do you know a Lloyd Williams, Daisy?’

He’s your brother, Daisy thought; and she felt a powerful impulse to reveal the secret, and knock him sideways; but she resisted the temptation. ‘You know him,’ she said. ‘He was up at Cambridge with you. He took us to a music hall in the East End, years ago.’

‘Oh!’ said Boy, remembering. Then, puzzled, he said to Lowther: ‘Him?’ It was difficult for Boy to see someone such as Lloyd as a rival. With growing incredulity he added: ‘A man who can’t even afford his own dress clothes?’

Lowther said: ‘Three years ago he was on my intelligence course down at Tŷ Gwyn while Daisy was living there. You were risking your life in a Hawker Hurricane over France at the time, I seem to remember. She was dallying with that Welsh weasel – in your family’s house!’

Boy was getting red in the face. ‘If you’re making this up, Lowthie, by God I’ll thrash you.’

‘Ask your wife!’ said Lowther with a confident grin.

Boy turned to Daisy.

She had not slept with Lloyd at Tŷ Gwyn. She had slept with him in his own bed at his mother’s house during the Blitz. But she could not explain that to Boy in front of Lowther, and anyway it was a detail. The accusation of adultery was true, and she was not going to deny it. The secret was out. All she wanted now was to retain some semblance of dignity.

She said: ‘I will tell you everything you want to know, Boy – but not in front of this leering slob.’

Boy raised his voice in astonishment. ‘So you don’t deny it?’

The people at the next table looked around, seemed embarrassed, and returned their attention to their drinks.

Daisy raised her own voice. ‘I refuse to be cross-examined in the bar of Claridge’s Hotel.’

‘You admit it, then?’ he shouted.

The room went quiet.

Daisy stood up. ‘I don’t admit or deny anything here. I’ll tell you everything in private at home, which is where civilized couples discuss such matters.’

‘My God, you did it, you slept with him!’ Boy roared.

Even the waiters had paused in their work and were standing still, watching the row.

Daisy walked to the door.

Boy yelled: ‘You slut!’

Daisy was not going to exit on that line. She turned around. ‘You know about sluts, of course. I had the misfortune to meet two of yours, remember?’ She looked around the room. ‘Joanie and Pearl,’ she said contemptuously. ‘How many wives would put up with that?’ She went out before he could reply.

She stepped into a waiting taxi. As it pulled away, she saw Boy emerge from the hotel and get into the next cab in line.

She gave the driver her address.

In a way she felt relieved that the truth was out. But she also felt terribly sad. Something had ended, she knew.

The house was only a quarter of a mile away. As she arrived, Boy’s taxi pulled up behind hers.

He followed her into the hall.

She could not stay here with him, she realized. That was over. She would never again share his home or his bed. ‘Bring me a suitcase, please,’ she said to the butler.

‘Very good, my lady.’

She looked around. It was an eighteenth-century town house of perfect proportions, with an elegantly curving staircase, but she was not really sorry to leave it.

Boy said: ‘Where are you going?’

‘To a hotel, I suppose. Probably not Claridge’s.’

‘To meet your lover!’

‘No, he’s overseas. But, yes, I do love him. I’m sorry, Boy. You have no right to judge me – your offences are worse – but I judge myself.’

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to divorce you.’

Those were the words she had been waiting for, she realized. Now they had been said, and everything was over. Her new life began from this moment.

She sighed. ‘Thank God,’ she said.

(iii)

Daisy rented an apartment in Piccadilly. It had a large American-style bathroom with a shower. There were two separate toilets, one for guests – a ridiculous extravagance in the eyes of most English people.

Fortunately, money was not an issue for Daisy. Her grandfather Vyalov had left her rich, and she had had control of her own fortune since she was twenty-one. And it was all in American dollars.

New furniture was difficult to buy, so she shopped for antiques, of which there were plenty for sale cheap. She hung modern paintings for a gay, youthful look. She hired an elderly laundress and a girl to clean, and found it was easy to manage the place without a butler or a cook, especially when you did not have a husband to mollycoddle.

The servants at the Mayfair house packed all her clothes and sent them to her in a pantechnicon. Daisy and the laundress spent an afternoon opening the boxes and putting everything away tidily.

She had been both humiliated and liberated. On balance, she thought she was better off. The wound of rejection would heal, but she would be free of Boy for ever.

After a week she wondered what had been the results of the medical examination. The doctor would have reported to Boy, of course, as the husband. She did not want to ask him, and, anyway, it did not seem important any longer, so she forgot about it.

She enjoyed making a new home. For a couple of weeks she was too busy to socialize. When she had fixed up the apartment she decided to see all the friends she had been ignoring.

She had a lot of friends in London. She had been here seven years. For the last four years Boy had been away more than he was home, and she had gone to parties and balls on her own, so being without a husband would not make much difference to her life, she figured. No doubt she would be crossed off the Fitzherbert family’s invitation lists, but they were not the only people in London society.

She bought crates of whisky, gin and champagne, scouring London for what little was available legitimately and buying the rest on the black market. Then she sent out invitations to a flatwarming party.

The responses came back with ominous promptness, and they were all declines.

In tears, she phoned Eva Murray. ‘Why won’t anyone come to my party?’ she wailed.

Eva was at her door ten minutes later.

She arrived with three children and a nanny. Jamie was six, Anna four, and baby Karen two.

Daisy showed her around the apartment, then ordered tea while Jamie turned the couch into a tank, using his sisters as crew.

Speaking English with a mixture of German, American and Scots accents, Eva said: ‘Daisy, dear, this isn’t Rome.’

‘I know. Are you sure you’re comfortable?’

Eva was heavily pregnant with her fourth child. ‘Would you mind if I put my feet up?’

‘Of course not.’ Daisy fetched a cushion.

‘London society is respectable,’ Eva went on. ‘Don’t imagine I approve of it. I have been excluded often, and poor Jimmy is snubbed sometimes for having married a half-Jewish German.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, whatever the reason.’

‘Sometimes I hate the British.’

‘You’re forgetting what Americans are like. Don’t you remember telling me that all the girls in Buffalo were snobs?’

Daisy laughed. ‘What a long time ago it seems.’

‘You’ve left your husband,’ Eva said. ‘And you did so in undeniably spectacular fashion, hurling insults at him in the bar of Claridge’s hotel.’

‘And I’d only had one Martini!’

Eva grinned. ‘How I wish I’d been there!’

‘I kind of wish I hadn’t.’

‘Needless to say, everyone in London society has talked about little else for the last three weeks.’

‘I guess I should have anticipated that.’

‘Now, I’m afraid, anyone who appears at your party will be seen as approving of adultery and divorce. Even I wouldn’t like my mother-in-law to know I’d come here and had tea with you.’

‘But it’s so unfair – Boy was unfaithful first!’

‘And you thought women were treated equally?’

Daisy remembered that Eva had a great deal more to worry about than snobbery. Her family was still in Nazi Germany. Fitz had made inquiries through the Swiss embassy and learned that her doctor father was now in a concentration camp, and her brother, a violin maker, had been beaten up by the police, his hands smashed. ‘When I think about your troubles, I’m ashamed of myself for complaining,’ Daisy said.

‘Don’t be. But cancel the party.’

Daisy did.

But it made her miserable. Her work for the Red Cross filled her days, but in the evenings she had nowhere to go and nothing to do. She went to the movies twice a week. She tried to read Moby Dick but found it tedious. One Sunday she went to church. St James’s, the Wren church opposite her apartment building in Piccadilly, had been bombed, so she went to St Martin-in-the-Fields. Boy was not there, but Fitz and Bea were, and Daisy spent the service looking at the back of Fitz’s head, reflecting that she had fallen in love with two of this man’s sons. Boy had his mother’s looks and his father’s single-minded selfishness. Lloyd had Fitz’s good looks and Ethel’s big heart. Why did it take me so long to see that, she wondered?

The church was full of people she knew, and after the service none of them spoke to her. She was lonely and almost friendless in a foreign country in the middle of a war.

One evening she took a taxi to Aldgate and knocked at the Leckwith house. When Ethel opened the door, Daisy said: ‘I’ve come to ask for your son’s hand in marriage.’ Ethel let out a peal of laughter and hugged her.

She had brought a gift, an American tin of ham she had got from a USAF navigator. Such things were luxuries to British families on rations. She sat in the kitchen with Ethel and Bernie, listening to dance tunes on the radio. They all sang along with ‘Underneath the Arches’ by Flanagan and Allen. ‘Bud Flanagan was born right here in the East End,’ Bernie said proudly. ‘Real name Chaim Reuben Weintrop.’

The Leckwiths were excited about the Beveridge Report, a government paper that had become a bestseller. ‘Commissioned under a Conservative Prime Minister and written by a Liberal economist,’ said Bernie. ‘Yet it proposes what the Labour Party has always wanted! You know you’re winning, in politics, when your opponents steal your ideas.’

Ethel said: ‘The idea is that everyone of working age should pay a weekly insurance premium, then get benefits when they are sick, unemployed, retired or widowed.’

‘A simple proposal, but it will transform our country,’ Bernie said enthusiastically. ‘Cradle to grave, no one will ever be destitute again.’

Daisy said: ‘Has the government accepted it?’

‘No,’ said Ethel. ‘Clem Attlee pressed Churchill very hard, but Churchill won’t endorse the report. The Treasury thinks it will cost too much.’

Bernie said: ‘We’ll have to win an election before we can implement it.’

Ethel and Bernie’s daughter, Millie, dropped in. ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘Abie’s watching the children for half an hour.’ She had lost her job – women were not buying expensive gowns, now, even if they could afford them – but, fortunately, her husband’s leather business was flourishing, and they had two babies, Lennie and Pammie.

They drank cocoa and talked about the young man they all adored. They had little real news of Lloyd. Every six or eight months Ethel received a letter on the headed paper of the British embassy in Madrid, saying he was safe and well and doing his bit to defeat Fascism. He had been promoted to major. He had never written to Daisy, for fear Boy might see the letters, but now he could. Daisy gave Ethel the address of her new flat, and took down Lloyd’s address, which was a British Forces Post Office number.

They had no idea when he might come home on leave.

Daisy told them about her half-brother, Greg, and his son, Georgy. She knew that the Leckwiths of all people would not be censorious, and would be able to rejoice in such news.

She also told the story of Eva’s family in Berlin. Bernie was Jewish, and tears came to his eyes when he heard about Rudi’s broken hands. ‘They should have fought the bastard Fascists on the street, when they had the chance,’ he said. ‘That’s what we did.’

Millie said: ‘I’ve still got the scars on my back, where the police pushed us through Gardiner’s plate-glass window. I used to be ashamed of them – Abie never saw my back until we’d been married six months – but he says they make him proud of me.’

‘It wasn’t pretty, the fighting in Cable Street,’ said Bernie. ‘But we put a stop to their bloody nonsense.’ He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.

Ethel put her arm around his shoulders. ‘I told people to stay home that day,’ she said. ‘I was wrong, and you were right.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘Doesn’t happen often.’

‘But it was the Public Order Act, brought in after Cable Street, that finished the British Fascists,’ Ethel said. ‘Parliament banned the wearing of political uniforms in public. That finished them. If they couldn’t strut up and down in their black shirts they were nothing. The Conservatives did that – credit where credit’s due.’

Always a political family, the Leckwiths were planning the post-war reform of Britain by the Labour Party. Their leader, the quietly brilliant Clement Attlee, was now deputy prime minister under Churchill, and union hero Ernie Bevin was Minister of Labour. Their vision made Daisy feel excited about the future.

Millie left and Bernie went to bed. When they were alone Ethel said to Daisy: ‘Do you really want to marry my Lloyd?’

‘More than anything in the world. Do you think it will be all right?’

‘I do. Why not?’

‘Because we come from such different backgrounds. You’re all such good people. You live for public service.’

‘Except for our Millie. She’s like Bernie’s brother – she wants to make money.’

‘Even she has scars on her back from Cable Street.’

‘True.’

‘Lloyd is like you. Political work isn’t something extra he does, like a hobby – it’s the centre of his life. And I’m a selfish millionaire.’

‘I think there are two kinds of marriage,’ Ethel said thoughtfully. ‘One is a comfortable partnership, where two people share the same hopes and fears, raise children as a team, and give each other comfort and help.’ She was talking about herself and Bernie, Daisy realized. ‘The other is a wild passion, madness and joy and sex, possibly with someone completely unsuitable, maybe someone you don’t admire or don’t even really like.’ She was thinking about her affair with Fitz, Daisy felt sure. She held her breath: she knew Ethel was now telling her the raw truth. ‘I’ve been lucky, I’ve had both,’ Ethel said. ‘And here’s my advice to you. If you get the chance of the mad kind of love, grab it with both hands, and to hell with the consequences.’

‘Wow,’ said Daisy.

She left a few minutes later. She felt privileged that Ethel had given her a glimpse into her soul. But when she got back to her empty apartment she felt depressed. She made a cocktail and poured it away. She put the kettle on and took it off again. The radio went off the air. She lay between cold sheets and wished Lloyd was there.

She compared Lloyd’s family with her own. Both had troubled histories, but Ethel had forged a strong, supportive family out of unfavourable materials, which Daisy’s own mother had been unable to do – though that was more Lev’s fault than Olga’s. Ethel was a remarkable woman, and Lloyd had many of her qualities.

Where was he now, and what was he doing? Whatever the answer, he was sure to be in danger. Would he be killed now, when at last she was free to love him without restraint and, eventually, to marry him? What would she do if he died? Her own life would be at an end, she felt: no husband, no lover, no friends, no country. In the early hours of the morning she cried herself to sleep.

Next day she slept late. At midday she was drinking coffee in her little dining room, dressed in a black silk wrap, when her fifteen-year-old maid came in and said: ‘Major Williams is here, my lady.’

‘What?’ she screeched. ‘He can’t be!’

Then he came through the door with his kitbag over his shoulder.

He looked tired and had several days’ growth of beard, and he had evidently slept in his uniform.

She threw her arms around him and kissed his bristly face. He kissed her back, inhibited somewhat by being unable to stop grinning. ‘I must stink,’ he said between kisses. ‘I haven’t changed my clothes for a week.’

‘You smell like a cheese factory,’ she said. ‘I love it.’ She pulled him into her bedroom and started to take his clothes off.

‘I’ll take a quick shower,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. She pushed him back on the bed. ‘I’m in too much of a hurry.’ Her longing for him was frantic. And the truth was that she relished the strong smell. It should have repelled her, but it had the opposite effect. It was him, the man she had thought might be dead, and he was filling her nostrils and her lungs. She could have wept with joy.

Taking off his trousers would require removing his boots, and she could see that would be complicated, so she did not bother. She just unbuttoned his fly. She threw off her black silk robe and hiked her nightdress up to her waist, all the time staring with happy lust at the white penis sticking up out of the rough khaki cloth. Then she straddled him, easing herself down, and leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve been longing for you.’

She lay on him, not moving much, kissing him again and again. He held her face in his hands and stared at her. ‘This is real, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Not just another happy dream?’

‘It’s real,’ she said.

‘Good. I wouldn’t like to wake up now.’

‘I want to stay like this for ever.’

‘Nice idea, but I can’t keep still much longer.’ He began to move under her.

‘If you do that I’ll come,’ she said.

And she did.

Afterwards they lay on her bed for a long time, talking.

He had two weeks’ leave. ‘Live here,’ she said. ‘You can visit your parents every day, but I want you at night.’

‘I wouldn’t like you to get a bad reputation.’

‘That ship has sailed. I’ve already been shunned by London society.’

‘I know.’ He had telephoned Ethel from Waterloo Station, and she had told him about Daisy’s separation from Boy and given him the address of the flat.

‘We must do something about contraception,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some rubber johnnies. But you might want to get fixed up with a device. What do you think?’

‘You want to make sure I don’t get pregnant?’ she said.

There was a note of sadness in her voice, she realized; and he heard it. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. He raised himself on his elbow. ‘I’m illegitimate. I was told lies about my parentage, and when I found out the truth it was a terrible shock.’ His voice shook a little with emotion. ‘I’ll never put my children through that. Never.’

‘We wouldn’t have to lie to them.’

‘Would we tell them that we’re not married? That in fact you’re married to someone else?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Think how they would be teased at school.’

She was not convinced, but clearly the issue was a profound one for him. ‘So, what’s your plan?’ she said.

‘I want us to have children. But not until we’re married. To each other.’

‘I get that,’ she said. ‘So . . .’

‘We have to wait.’

Men were slow to pick up hints. ‘I’m not much of a girl for tradition,’ she said. ‘But, still, there are some things . . .’

At last he saw what she was getting at. ‘Oh! Okay. Just a minute.’ He knelt upright on the bed. ‘Daisy, dear—’

She burst out laughing. He looked comical, in full uniform with his limp dick hanging out of his fly. ‘Can I take a photo of you like that?’ she said.

He looked down and saw what she meant. ‘Oh, sorry.’

‘No – don’t you dare put it away! Stay just as you are, and say what you were going to say.’

He grinned. ‘Daisy, dear, will you be my wife?’

‘In a heartbeat,’ she said.

They lay down again, embracing.

Soon the novelty of his odour wore off. They got into the shower together. She soaped him all over, taking merry pleasure in his embarrassment when she washed his most intimate places. She put shampoo on his hair and scrubbed his grimy feet with a brush.

When he was clean he insisted on washing her, but he had only got as far as her breasts when they had to make love again. They did it standing in the shower with the hot water coursing down their bodies. Clearly he had momentarily forgotten his aversion to illegitimate pregnancy, and she did not care.

Afterwards he stood at her mirror shaving. She wrapped a large towel around herself and sat on the lid of the toilet, watching him. He asked: ‘How long will it take you to get divorced?’

‘I don’t know. I’d better speak to Boy.’

‘Not today, though. I want you to myself all day.’

‘When will you go to see your parents?’

‘Tomorrow, maybe.’

‘Then I’ll go to see Boy at the same time. I want to get this over as soon as possible.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s settled, then.’

(iv)

Daisy felt strange going into the house where she had lived with Boy. A month ago it had been hers. She had been free to come and go as she wished, and enter any room without asking permission. The servants had obeyed her every order without question. Now she was a stranger in the same house. She kept her hat and gloves on, and she had to follow the old butler as he led her to the morning room.

Boy did not shake hands or kiss her cheek. He looked full of righteous indignation.

‘I haven’t hired a lawyer yet,’ Daisy said as she sat down. ‘I wanted to talk to you personally first. I’m hoping we can do this without hating one another. After all, there are no children to fight over, and we both have plenty of money.’

‘You betrayed me!’ he said.

Daisy sighed. Clearly it was not going to go the way she had hoped. ‘We both committed adultery,’ she said. ‘You first.’

‘I’ve been humiliated. Everyone in London knows!’

‘I did try to stop you making a fool of yourself in Claridge’s – but you were too busy humiliating me! I hope you’ve thrashed the loathsome marquis.’

‘How could I? He did me a favour.’

‘He might have done you a bigger favour by having a quiet word at the club.’

‘I don’t understand how you could fall for such a low-class oik as Williams. I’ve found out a few things about him. His mother was a housemaid!’

‘She’s probably the most impressive woman I’ve ever met.’

‘I hope you realize that no one really knows who his father is.’

That was about as ironic as you could get, Daisy thought. ‘I know who his father is,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘I’m certainly not telling you.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps I should just have a lawyer write to you.’ She stood up. ‘I loved you once, Boy,’ she said sadly. ‘You were fun. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you. I wish you happiness. I hope you marry someone who suits you better, and that she gives you lots of sons. I would be happy for you if that came about.’

‘Well, it won’t,’ he said.

She had turned towards the door, but now she looked back. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘I got the report from that doctor we went to.’

She had forgotten about the medical. It had seemed irrelevant after they split. ‘What did he say?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you – you can have a whole litter of pups. But I can’t father children. Mumps in adult men sometimes causes infertility, and I copped it.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘All those bloody Germans shooting at me for years, and I’ve been downed by a vicar’s three little brats.’

She felt sad for him. ‘Oh, Boy, I’m really sorry to hear that.’

‘Well, you’re going to be sorrier, because I’m not divorcing you.’

She suddenly felt cold. ‘What do you mean? Why not?’

‘Why should I bother? I don’t want to marry again. I can’t have children. Andy’s son will inherit.’

‘But I want to marry Lloyd!’

‘Why should I care about that? Why should he have children if I can’t?’

Daisy was devastated. Would happiness be snatched away from her just when it seemed to be within her reach? ‘Boy, you can’t mean this!’

‘I’ve never been more serious in my life.’

Her voice was anguished. ‘But Lloyd wants children of his own!’

‘He should have thought of that before he f-f-fucked another man’s wife.’

‘Very well, then,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll divorce you.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Adultery, of course.’

‘But you have no evidence.’ She was about to say that that shouldn’t be a problem when he grinned maliciously and added: ‘And I’ll take care you don’t get any.’

He could do that, if he was discreet about his liaisons, she realized with growing horror. ‘But you threw me out!’ she said.

‘I shall tell the judge you’re welcome to come home any time.’

She tried to stop herself crying. ‘I never thought you’d hate me this much,’ she said miserably.

‘Didn’t you?’ said Boy. ‘Well, now you bloody well know.’

(v)

Lloyd Williams went to Boy Fitzherbert’s house in Mayfair at mid-morning, when Boy would be sober, and told the butler he was Major Williams, a distant relative. He thought a man-to-man conversation was worth a try. Surely Boy did not really want to dedicate the rest of his life to revenge? Lloyd was in uniform, hoping to appeal to Boy as one fighting man to another. Good sense must surely prevail.

He was shown into the morning room where Boy sat reading the paper and smoking a cigar. It took Boy a moment to recognize him. ‘You!’ he said when comprehension dawned. ‘You can piss off right away.’

‘I’ve come to ask you to give Daisy a divorce,’ Lloyd said.

‘Get out.’ Boy got to his feet.

Lloyd said: ‘I can see that you’re toying with the idea of taking a swing at me, so in fairness I should tell you that it won’t be as easy as you imagine. I’m a bit smaller than you, but I box at welterweight, and I’ve won quite a lot of contests.’

‘I’m not going to soil my hands on you.’

‘Good decision. But will you reconsider the divorce?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘There’s something you don’t know,’ Lloyd said. ‘I wonder if it might change your mind.’

‘I doubt it,’ Boy said. ‘But go on, now that you’re here, give it a shot.’ He sat down, but did not offer Lloyd a chair.

Be it on your own head, Lloyd thought.

He took from his pocket a faded sepia photograph. ‘If you’d be so kind, glance at this picture of me.’ He put it on the side table next to Boy’s ashtray.

Boy picked it up. ‘This isn’t you. It looks like you, but the uniform is Victorian. It must be your father.’

‘My grandfather, in fact. Turn it over.’

Boy read the inscription on the back. ‘Earl Fitzherbert?’ he said scornfully.

‘Yes. The previous earl, your grandfather – and mine. Daisy found that photo at Tŷ Gwyn.’ Lloyd took a deep breath. ‘You told Daisy that no one knows who my father is. Well, I can tell you. It’s Earl Fitzherbert. You and I are brothers.’ He waited for Boy’s response.

Boy laughed. ‘Ridiculous!’

‘My reaction, exactly, when I was first told.’

‘Well, I must say, you have surprised me. I would have thought you could come up with something better than this absurd fantasy.’

Lloyd had been hoping the revelation would shock Boy into a different frame of mind, but so far it was not working. Nevertheless he continued to reason. ‘Come on, Boy – how unlikely is it? Doesn’t it happen all the time in great houses? Maids are pretty, young noblemen are randy, and nature takes its course. When a baby is born, the matter is hushed up. Please don’t pretend you had no idea such things could occur.’

‘No doubt it’s common enough.’ Boy’s confidence was shaken, but still he blustered. ‘However, lots of people pretend they have connections with the aristocracy.’

‘Oh, please,’ Lloyd said disparagingly. ‘I don’t want connections with the aristocracy. I’m not a draper’s assistant with daydreams of grandeur. I come from a distinguished family of socialist politicians. My maternal grandfather was one of the founders of the South Wales Miners’ Federation. The last thing I need is a wrong-side-of-the-blanket link with a Tory peer. It’s highly embarrassing to me.’

Boy laughed again, but with less conviction. ‘You’re embarrassed! Talk about inverted snobbery.’

‘Inverted? I’m more likely to become prime minister than you are.’ Lloyd realized they had got into a pissing contest, which was not what he wanted. ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to persuade you that you can’t spend the rest of your life taking revenge on me – if only because we’re brothers.’

‘I still don’t believe it,’ Boy said, putting the photo down on the side table and picking up his cigar.

‘Nor did I, at first.’ Lloyd kept trying: his whole future was at stake. ‘Then it was pointed out to me that my mother was working at Tŷ Gwyn when she fell pregnant; that she had always been evasive about my father’s identity; and that shortly before I was born she somehow acquired the funds to buy a three-bedroom house in London. I confronted her with my suspicions and she admitted the truth.’

‘This is laughable.’

‘But you know it’s true, don’t you?’

‘I know no such thing.’

‘You do, though. For the sake of our brotherhood, won’t you do the decent thing?’

‘Certainly not.’

Lloyd saw that he was not going to win. He felt downcast. Boy had the power to blight Lloyd’s life, and he was determined to use it.

He picked up the photograph and put it back in his pocket. ‘You’ll ask our father about this. You won’t be able to restrain yourself. You’ll have to find out.’

Boy made a scornful noise.

Lloyd went to the door. ‘I believe he will tell you the truth. Goodbye, Boy.’

He went out and closed the door behind him.