Dominion

Chapter Seventeen

SARAH LEFT THE HOUSE AN HOUR after David. There was a special meeting of the Christmas Toys Committee at twelve. It was a nuisance having to go into town on a Sunday, but an important committee member, who was on the board of a major toy manufacturer, was unable to attend during the week. She walked briskly up to Kenton tube station. She thought of David, driving north. She couldn’t prevent the niggling thought that perhaps it hadn’t been Uncle Ted phoning, but that woman from his office. She told herself she was being stupid, she had heard the tail end of his conversation and he had looked worried and anxious for the rest of the day.

On the way into the station she saw a poster by the newspaper kiosk: Mosley to Address Nation on TV Tonight. She bought a copy of the Sunday Times, another Beaverbrook paper now. It told her the Prime Minister, back from Germany, and the Home Secretary were to broadcast at seven; there was no further detail. A colour supplement inside the newspaper advertised the latest Paris fashion for men, tight-fitting dark suits with short lapels, like military uniforms. ‘SS kitsch’, she had heard people call it.

There were fewer trains on Sundays but Sarah had to wait an unusually long time, over half an hour in the open. She was cold, she was glad she had put on a thick jumper and her new grey winter coat, though the fashionably wide sleeves left her wrists bare. The few other people on the platform looked at their watches and tutted. Sometimes on these journeys to committee meetings Mrs Templeman got on at Wembley. At least, Sarah thought, if there were problems with the trains she might be less likely to run into her and have to listen to her talking nineteen to the dozen all the way to Euston. When the train arrived at last she got into the nearest carriage, even though it was a smoker. An old man in cap and muffler sat across from her, a labourer in heavy hobnailed boots. He was smoking a pipe, surrounded by a cloud of aromatic blue smoke. Sarah’s father had always enjoyed his pipe, and she didn’t mind the smell.

Her luck was out; when the train came into Wembley she saw Mrs Templeman’s tall, stout figure on the platform, swathed in her heavy coat, a round fur hat over her permed curls and the fox-fur stole round her neck. She saw Sarah, waved a plump hand, and headed for her carriage. She sat down heavily opposite her. ‘Hello, dear. Goodness, I had to wait ages.’

‘So did I. It was jolly cold on the platform.’

‘They say it’s the coldest November for years. Let’s hope we don’t get another winter like ’47. All our pipes froze.’ As ever Mrs Templeman spoke loudly, in a rush. She adjusted her stole, the fox’s eyes staring glassily at Sarah. ‘All shipshape for the committee, dear?’

‘Yes. I’ve got the costings here.’ Sarah tapped her bag. ‘If everything gets approved today I can start placing the orders tomorrow.’

‘I do wish we hadn’t had to come in on Sunday. It’s all such a rush, after church.’

‘It’s a nuisance, but I suppose we have to keep Mr Hamilton sweet.’

‘He is generous. Goodness, it’s a bit of a fug in here, isn’t it?’ Mrs Templeman looked disapprovingly at the man with the pipe. He gave a little smile and turned to face the window, blowing out a fresh cloud of smoke.

‘It’s a smoking carriage,’ Sarah said mildly.

‘Yes, of course. I do like a cigarette myself in the evening, but my husband—’ She broke off as the train juddered to a halt, jerking them violently in their seats. ‘Oh, dear, what now? We shall be late—’

‘There must be a problem on the line.’ Sarah looked out of the window, thinking that no trains had passed them on the ‘up’ line. They hadn’t entered the tunnels yet, they were on a stone bridge looking down on rows of back-to-back houses of soot-stained yellow London brick. Grey smoke rose from chimneys, washing was hung out to dry in the backyards. A big poster had been put on a wall: Buy National Bonds. Save For All Our Futures. Being Sunday the streets were almost empty. A rag-and-bone man led a thin brown horse along the cobbles, discarded furniture and a pile of rags in his cart. Sarah remembered the man who had visited their street when she was little; her mother would give her a penny to take to him in return for letting her stroke his horse. Nowadays it was salesmen in suits who called at the house in Kenton, selling vacuum cleaners and refrigerators on the new hire-purchase schemes, raising their hats with cheerful, sometimes slightly desperate smiles. She remembered the jingling bells on the horse’s harness of her childhood, and thought, Charlie would have loved that.

‘In a brown study, dear?’ Mrs Templeman smiled at her enquiringly.

‘Sorry. I was just thinking about my little boy.’

‘Left him at home with hubby, have you?’

‘No. He died in an accident at home, two years ago.’

‘I’m so sorry, dear.’ Mrs Templeman looked shocked, genuinely concerned. She spoke softly: ‘That must have been terrible for you.’

‘He fell down the stairs.’

‘I still think of my Fred,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘He died in the war, at Dunkirk. He would have been forty this year.’ She paused, then added, ‘I find my faith a great help. I don’t know how I’d cope without it.’ Sarah didn’t answer. ‘I believe He leads us all, though often we can’t see the path clearly. But we know He wants us to help those in need. That’s why I’m on the committee.’

‘I sometimes wonder if it’s any use,’ Sarah answered bleakly. ‘Whether anything is.’

Mrs Templeman changed the subject, talking about her brother who had just retired from the Indian Civil Service and was living with them till he found a house; he had had a bad time, in the thick of the Calcutta riots last year. Sarah asked if Mrs Templeman had heard the news about Mosley’s address but she shook her head, saying she avoided reading the papers these days, it was all so depressing.

The meeting at Friends House went well. Nobody could deny Mrs Templeman was a good chairwoman, moving business quickly along. Afterwards coffee was served. Sarah had a headache and couldn’t face the thought of the long journey back in Mrs Templeman’s company. She decided to tell a white lie. ‘I’m not going back to Euston,’ she said. ‘My husband’s meeting me at Tottenham Court Road tube.’

‘I’ll walk that way with you, dear, if I may. I need a breath of air after the meeting. It’s a nice walk through the squares. I can get the tube at Tottenham Court Road and then change.’

‘Oh, all right. Yes.’ Sarah supposed that when they got there she would have to pretend her husband hadn’t arrived, that she would have to wait for him. Well, that was where lies got you.

‘I’ll go and put my face on.’ Mrs Templeman walked off to the ladies, and Sarah went over to stand by the door. A couple of committee members called goodbyes as they passed her, huddling into their coats as they stepped outside. Sarah noticed there wasn’t a policeman at the entrance today. Probably off having a cigarette somewhere.

Mrs Templeman returned, face freshly powdered. ‘Right, dear,’ she said, adjusting the hideous fox fur. ‘Let’s face the cold.’

They turned into the network of Georgian squares behind Euston Road, wide streets with gardens in the middle, full of expensive flats, little hotels and university departments displaced when the German embassy took over Senate House. They walked along quickly; it really was cold, the sky a leaden grey. There was hardly anyone around.

‘Thank you for all your work, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ Mrs Templeman smiled. ‘I know phoning round shops isn’t the most exciting job in the world.’

‘It’s all right. It gives me something to do during the day.’

‘Your husband works in the Civil Service, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes. The Dominions Office.’

‘My sister lives in the Dominions. In Canada. Vancouver.’ She laughed. ‘Family scattered all over the Empire, you see. I keep pestering my husband to go out and visit – ’ She broke off. ‘Good God, what’s going on?’

They were turning into Tottenham Court Road. It was almost as quiet as the squares had been. The shops were closed, although behind a plate-glass window in one department store opposite an assistant could be seen putting up Christmas decorations. The few pedestrians, though, had all stopped in their tracks, watching the extraordinary procession coming down the road towards them. Perhaps a hundred frightened-looking people were trudging along, men and women and children, some in coats and hats and carrying suitcases, others wearing only jackets and cardigans. They were escorted by a dozen greatcoated Auxiliary Police in their black caps, pistols at their hips. At the front two regular policemen in blue helmets were mounted on big brown horses. For a second Sarah was reminded of the crocodile of children she had helped escort to the station for evacuation in 1939. Unlike them, though, this procession was silent. Apart from the clop of the horses’ hooves and the tramp of feet the only sound was a shrill, persistent squeak from the wheels of a pram a young woman was pushing along. As they drew close Sarah saw flashes of yellow in people’s lapels.

‘They’re Jews,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘Something’s happening to the Jews.’

Most of the passers-by walked quickly on or disappeared into side-streets. Others, though, stood watching. The two mounted policemen at the head of the group rode past. One was an older man with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve; the other was young, with a wispy pencil moustache. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his horse steady. One of the passers-by, a young woman holding the hand of a little girl, nodded with satisfaction and spat into the gutter. Someone else called out, ‘Shame!’ One of the Auxiliary Police, a tall, thin man with a Mosley moustache, smiled at the watchers, then looked back to the marching prisoners – for that was what they must be – and said, with mocking cheerfulness, ‘Come on, pick those feet up. Let’s have a song, give us “A Long Way to Tipperary”.’

Mrs Templeman clutched her handbag to her chest with her gloved hands. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They can’t do this. Not here, not in England.’

‘They’re doing it,’ Sarah answered bleakly.

‘Where are they taking them?’ Mrs Templeman’s face was anguished now, white beneath her powder, all her brisk confidence gone. A big Vauxhall passed by slowly on the other side of the road, a middle-aged woman looking out from the passenger side in astonishment. An Auxie waved it briskly on. Sarah looked at the Jews shuffling past. An old man in a bowler hat marched stiffly by, like the old soldier he had probably once been, marching as though to the front. Behind him a middle-aged woman, still wearing a flowered pinny and headscarf, held a skinny little boy in shorts and school pullover tightly to her. A young couple in fashionable duffel coats and bright university scarves held hands; the boy, tall and squarely built, had a defiant expression; the girl, slight with long dark hair, looked terrified. The squeaking pram passed; Sarah glimpsed a baby bundled up inside.

Then there was a shout, a yell, from the other side of the road. Everyone, Jews and policemen and the people on the pavement, turned to look. The door of a shabby building between two department stores had opened and a group of a dozen men in Sunday-best clothes had come out. They were carrying, of all things, musical instrument cases of various sizes. Sarah saw a notice board on the wall, University of London Department of Music. They must have been at some sort of practice. As Sarah watched a big, elderly man with untidy silver hair, wearing a rumpled suit, marched straight out into the road, shouting out in a deep voice, ‘Stop! What’s happening here?’ He halted right in front of the two mounted policemen. They had to halt or knock him down. The younger officer’s horse whickered in alarm. The other men who had come out with him stood on the pavement, uncertain and frightened, staring at the old man. One called out, ‘Sir! Be careful!’

The old man’s face was red with fury, fierce little eyes under white brows fixed on the mounted sergeant. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted in anger. ‘What’s happening to these people?’

The older policeman’s back was to Sarah but his voice carried back, deep and firm. ‘Move along, sir. All the London Jews are being moved out of the city.’

The Auxie nearest Sarah, a middle-aged man with the white flash of a Blackshirt badge on his coat, laughed scoffingly. ‘Bloody academics.’ He turned to the Jews, putting a hand to the pistol at his belt and said threateningly, ‘You lot stay put. This show won’t last long.’

Sarah felt shocked, frozen to the spot. Beside her Mrs Templeman was breathing hard, a strange expression on her face, her fingers digging into Sarah’s arm. The old musician didn’t move. He gestured wildly at the group of Jews. ‘You can’t do this! These are British citizens!’ The young policeman’s horse, frightened, tried to step back. The sergeant turned, snapping, ‘Keep that bloody animal steady.’

Someone shouted from the pavement, ‘They’re Yids, you old nosy parker!’ One of the men outside the music department turned up his coat collar and began walking quickly away. Another followed, then another.

The mounted policeman’s voice was loud and clear, still steady. ‘We’re following official orders. You’re causing a breach of the peace, sir. Move on or you’ll be taken into custody.’

Then, letting go Sarah’s arm, Mrs Templeman stepped out into the road. She walked up to the old musician and stood beside him. Sarah could see she was trembling, grey curls shaking beneath the fur hat.

‘Fuck this,’ the policeman nearest Sarah said, fingering his holster. The Jews were shifting uneasily, looking frightened.

‘Right, that’s it,’ the sergeant said. ‘You two are both under arrest.’ The musician looked appealingly across to those of his people who remained standing on the pavement. They looked at each other. Three more men walked away. One young man carrying a violin case stood where he was with an agonized expression on his face, but the four remaining others stepped hesitantly into the road, walked across and stood beside the old man and Mrs Templeman. The sergeant called over his shoulder, waving an arm. ‘Get these people out of the road!’

‘You turn this world into hell!’ the old musician shouted. He was beside himself, spittle at the corner of his mouth. Along the line, some of the Auxies began to move forward, reaching for the batons at their belts. Sarah’s heart began to pound, thumping in her chest. Mrs Templeman looked at the approaching Auxies and then suddenly sat down on the cold tarmac, the skirts of her coat billowing out, fat stockinged thighs exposed. Her white face was determined now. The old man stared at her for a moment, then sat down as well, stiffly putting a hand on her shoulder as he got down. The four other men, all younger, hesitated for a moment then sat down too. On the pavement, the one who hadn’t been able to make up his mind turned and walked away.

Four of the Auxies ran forward, past the horses. The one ridden by the young policeman bucked and reared. The rider cried out, trying to bring the animal under control. It jolted forward and Sarah watched in horror as a big flailing hoof struck Mrs Templeman on the forehead. She gave a little moan and fell backwards, her hat and the fox-fur stole falling off onto the road. She lay quite still, her arms flung out backwards, blood spilling from a huge gash on her forehead and dripping, shockingly red, onto the grey tarmac. Her eyes were as still and glassy as Charlie’s had been that terrible day, and Sarah realized with horror that she was dead. The demonstrators and the Auxies both looked at the bucking horse; somehow amid the mayhem, the young policeman managed to bring it under control.

On the kerb Sarah froze. All the instincts of self-preservation made her want to do what the young man with the violin case had done, turn and walk away. An image of David flashed into her mind, of home and safety. Then something firm and cold rose up in her and she gripped her handbag tightly and strode into the road. As soon as she stepped off the pavement she thought, quite coolly, there, that’s it, everything’s over. Two Auxies had grabbed the white-haired musician under the arms and were hauling him to the pavement. He was shouting and struggling furiously. Sarah went over to where Mrs Templeman lay sprawled on the street in that awful indignity, and sat down beside her body. She looked over at the pavement, hoping desperately that others would follow her example. A thin young man in a muffler stepped out and sat down with them, sweating with fear. Four more Auxies ran forward. Sarah stared at them, her heart pounding so fast it made her gasp.

The Jews stood huddled together, terrified, though some of the younger ones were looking around them now, perhaps wondering if they could run. The remaining Auxies pulled out their pistols, covering the prisoners. The old musician had been pushed roughly down onto the pavement but was still struggling, shouting and swearing. The other Auxies began hauling the demonstrators to their feet. Sarah felt hard, strong hands grip her under the arms and pull her up. One of the musicians tried to resist and was hit over the head with a truncheon, slumping forward unconscious. As Sarah was lifted up she realized she might never see David again and thought, how I love him.

Then she heard more shouts. Glancing round, she saw half a dozen Jive Boys rushing down the street towards them, quiffs bouncing absurdly, the tails of their long coats flapping behind. They looked the worse for wear, unshaven. One had a black eye, another carried a near-empty whisky bottle. They were probably on their way home from a long night out, drawn by the noise. One shouted, ‘It’s a ruck! Pig down! Get the fuckers!’ The whisky bottle sailed up and out, just missing the sergeant, as the Jivers pitched into the Auxies who were moving the demonstrators. The one who was lifting Sarah said, ‘Shit!’ as one of the boys went for him. Sarah saw the flash of a blade in the Jiver’s hand. The Auxie let her go and she fell sideways into the road. The sergeant pulled out his pistol and fired into the air. It was too much for the nervous horse. It reared right up on its hind legs, throwing the young policeman into the road. He lay there, screaming and clutching his leg, as the horse turned and ran off down the empty road, hooves clattering. The sergeant’s horse was uneasy now too, trying to turn in a circle. It was pandemonium. Sarah looked wildly round, and saw a glimpse of Mrs Templeman’s dead face, her bloodied head.

Then the group of Jewish prisoners seemed to surge outwards, like a wave, as some began to run. Others, the older ones mostly, huddled closer together. The woman with the pram leaned protectively over her baby. Half a dozen of the younger Jews ran into the fight. A shot was fired and one of the Jive Boys pitched forward, his chest gushing blood. There were screams, another shot.

Sarah felt herself being picked up again and hauled to the pavement. She lunged out and an angry Yorkshire voice shouted in her ear, ‘We’re trying to get you out of here, you stupid cow!’ She turned and saw it was the boy with the university scarf and duffel coat she had noticed earlier, the girl beside him. Sarah scrambled to her feet and joined them, running for the pavement. Other Jews were fleeing all round them now, making for a little alleyway that ran down the side of a pub. There were more shots, loud cracks. Beside her Sarah saw the old Jew in the bowler hat tumble over. On the other side of the road the shop assistant who had been putting up Christmas decorations could be seen cowering behind a counter. A long piece of tinsel hung forlornly in the window.

Sarah followed the young couple into another alley. Then the boy ran into the open door of some flats, leading them into a dark, smelly hallway. They stopped, taking long whooping breaths. Other people ran past, feet pounding on the paving stones. In the distance Sarah heard more shots, then the sound of a police whistle being blown, over and over again.

‘Joe,’ the girl said breathlessly. ‘We’ve got to run!’ She had a middle-class accent like Sarah’s.

The boy shook his head impatiently. ‘No. There’ll be dozens of them here in a minute. Hide under here.’ He pushed his way into a dank alcove under the stairs. The girl followed. ‘Come on, lady,’ he said impatiently to Sarah. She squeezed in beside them, feeling the warmth of their bodies. There was a big metal dustbin there, stinking of rotten vegetables. Sarah felt cold and clammy, though strangely calm.

‘Bloody hell,’ Joe said. ‘I thought we were stuffed.’

The long wail of a police siren sounded in the distance. The girl began to cry. ‘They shot people, they’ve killed people.’ Her voice was rising hysterically. Sarah grasped her shoulders. ‘Please, please,’ she said. ‘We have to keep quiet.’

The girl took a couple of heaving sobs, then looked past Sarah at the boy. ‘What are we going to do, Joe? Where can we go?’

‘Wait till dark, then we’ll head out to Mark’s friend in Watford.’ He raised a hand to the yellow badge on the front of his coat. ‘I’m getting rid of this fookin’ thing. The identity cards can go too.’ He pulled at the badge but his fingers were shaking and he couldn’t get it off. The girl, calmer now, laid a hand on his. ‘No Joe, unpin it. If they see you with a tear on your coat they’ll realize you’ve pulled something off.’

‘Okay. Can you do it, Ruth? I – I can’t seem to manage.’

They worked together to remove their badges, then pulled out their identity cards, yellow stars prominent on the front, tore them up and dropped the pieces into the fetid bin. Sarah listened, frightened someone might come out of one of the flats and find them. But the people who lived there had probably heard the shots and were cowering indoors. She turned to the young man. ‘Thank you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Thank you for rescuing me.’

Joe smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dark space. ‘That’s all right.’ Though it was hard to tell in the dimness Sarah sensed he blushed. They’re just children, she thought with a desperate ache.

Ruth said, ‘You helped us. You and your friend.’

Sarah felt a catch at her throat. ‘My friend’s dead.’

‘I know. I saw.’ The girl began to cry again.

Joe peered cautiously out of the alcove. ‘There’s a good few dead out there now.’ His voice was trembling.

‘What happened to you?’ Sarah asked Ruth. ‘Where were they taking you?’

‘They’re taking every registered Jew in London out of the city. We don’t know where. I live at the university halls of residence, they came for us at seven this morning.’ She put her head in her hands.

‘I thought Jews weren’t allowed in the universities any more.’

Joe said, ‘We started just before the law came into force. There’s still a few of us third years left.’ He looked at his girlfriend. ‘You were right, you said they’d come for us one day.’ He turned back to Sarah, his face working with emotion. ‘I thought we were safe, I thought our government wouldn’t let us be shipped off. Offence to national pride, against British fair play,’ he added bitterly. ‘Though they might kick us out of our jobs and businesses, I thought they’d stop short of handing us over to the Germans. But that’s what they’re doing now, it has to be.’

Ruth spoke quietly. ‘Beaverbrook must have agreed this with the Nazis in Berlin.’

Joe shook his head. ‘This must have been planned for some time.’

‘Maybe there was a contingency plan,’ Sarah said. ‘And now the Germans have forced them to implement it. The Civil Service are always making contingency plans, my husband’s a civil servant—’

Joe’s look became instantly hostile. ‘Is he?’

‘He’s in the Dominions Office, they’re not involved in anything like this—’

‘They’re all involved, everyone who works for Beaverbrook and Mosley.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Ruth urged him.

Joe went on, quietly now, but his voice was still savage. ‘Well, now we know what British fair play’s worth when the chips are down. From the moment we were picked up people just stood watching, drove past in their cars. Kept their heads down.’

‘Except that old man,’ Ruth said. She looked at Sarah. ‘And your friend.’

‘What really turned it was those Jive Boys.’ Joe smiled sadly. ‘Not that they’d care what happened to us, I’ve heard plenty of stories of them beating Jews up. They just saw a fight and joined in.’

Sarah found thoughts rushing through her head. It was because of her that Mrs Templeman came that way. She’d thought her just a bossy old woman. Then she did that incredible act of bravery. Sarah shivered as she realized she could have been killed too. She had feared David might abandon her but it was she who would have abandoned him had she been shot.

The boy took her arm, jolting her back to reality. He said, ‘It’s quiet out there now. It won’t stay that way for long. I’d get out of here while you can. You’ve got your ID card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Kenton. Out towards Pinner.’

Ruth said, ‘You shouldn’t wear that coat, it stands out. You sat down in the street, they’ll be looking for a fair-haired woman your age in a grey coat.’

Sarah said, ‘Swap coats with me. Lots of people wear duffel coats.’

They stepped out of the alcove, and while Joe watched the entrance the two women switched coats. Ruth’s duffel coat was tight on Sarah. She picked up her handbag and took out her purse. ‘Here, take my money.’ She held out two ten-shilling notes, a handful of silver. ‘Please. I’ve got a return ticket, I don’t need money for anything else.’

Joe looked reluctant but Ruth took the money. ‘Thank you.’

Sarah asked, ‘Where do your families live?’

Ruth said, ‘Mine live in Highgate, they’ll have been picked up too.’ She blushed. ‘I was spending the night with Joe.’

‘Mine are in Bradford. They’re probably rounding up Jews there too.’ Joe’s voice cracked, and Sarah could see he was at the end of his tether. ‘Go now, lady,’ he said roughly. ‘Go on.’

Ruth took her arm. Sarah’s grey coat looked big on her. She said, ‘We’ll never forget what you and your friend did.’

Sarah smiled. ‘Good luck,’ she said, then took a deep breath and stepped outside. Everything was quiet now, nobody in sight. She adjusted her bag on her arm and walked away, in the opposite direction to Tottenham Court Road. More sirens sounded in the distance. Her legs shook like jelly but she made herself walk on, towards the tube station and home.