smoke as high as the picture rail.
‘Along a strip of land six miles deep, the British are still trying to cover the retreat of their forces across the Channel. On Wednesday, sixty British ships were hit by bombs and thirty-one were sunk, and today comes the news of still further British losses. The number of British and French prisoners taken is at present beyond computation.’
Evelyn crossed and recrossed her ankles. On the street outside, a woman’s heels clicked past, and somewhere on the Crescent, a door slammed heavily shut.
‘As you listened to the British radio a week ago, did you get the impression that there was going to be any withdrawal at all? Did you think that the necessity for a rearguard action was being contemplated by the dictator of Britain? Is it not a slightly novel experience to see the British people being treated as congenital imbeciles? And now, as the bloody and battered fragments of what was once the British Expeditionary Force drift back to the shores of England, the likelihood of invasion grows by the hour.’
Evelyn turned sharply. ‘Geoffrey, I think we’ve heard enough.’ But she knew her words were pointless. Who could turn off Lord Haw-Haw? Who in the country did not feel compelled to listen for the facts the BBC would not report?
‘Is it not a little amusing to think of the trumpetings with which Churchill became Prime Minister of Britain. He was the man to frighten Hitler! He was the providential leader who was going to lead Britain to victory. Look at him today, unclean and miserable figure that he is. When Germany threw off the shackles of Jewish gold, this darling of Jewish finance resolved upon her destruction. But thanks to God and the Führer , it is not Germany that is confronted with destruction today!’
Another voice spoke: ‘That is the end of our talk. Our next regular transmission of news will take place at 11:15.’
‘Philip, my love, it’s late …’ His mother’s hand was ruffling his hair. He hauled himself to his feet, clutching his pencil and sketchpad. Then he approached his father’s chair and waited for him to bend so he could offer his hug goodnight. Sometimes his father reciprocated with a whisker-rub. Not tonight. ‘Father?’
Geoffrey looked up and blinked himself back into the moment.
‘Doesn’t Mr Churchill wash?’
‘Of course he washes, Philip.’
‘Lord Haw-Haw said he was unclean.’
‘Lord Haw-Haw made a mistake.’
‘Is Mr Churchill a Jew?’
His mother started to lead him up the stairs. ‘See, Geoffrey. He really should have been in bed long ago.’
‘He’s not an infant, Evvie.’ The hinge in his jaw flexed. ‘No, Philip. Mr Churchill is not a Jew.’
‘Mr Feldman our baker is a Jew.’
‘Yes …’ Geoffrey nodded gravely. ‘Mr Feldman our baker is a Jew.’
‘Does he have much gold?’
‘Not much, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’
Geoffrey motioned him on his way. ‘Yes, nothing to worry about there, old bean.’
7
That spring, the news spread like Spanish flu through the Grammar: Hitler had chosen the Royal Pavilion for his English HQ.
Although no boy could say which boy had actually heard the broadcast, word had it that Lord Haw-Haw had made the announcement himself. It was the most thrilling news of the war so far.
Like its neighbour Park Crescent, Hanover Crescent was an elegant anomaly in the jumble of Brighton housing. Its Georgian townhouses were compositions of pilasters, pediments, arches, bow-fronts and balconies. Its position overlooking The Level declared it a place of privilege and privacy, and Orson’s house, Philip discovered, was even quieter than his own because Orson’s brother, Hal, was off being a hero in the war, and Ivy the housekeeper never seemed to speak, and Orson’s parents were old and so rarely seen in his house that Orson sometimes seemed like an orphan.
That day after school, he asked Philip if he wanted to know a
‘Along a strip of land six miles deep, the British are still trying to cover the retreat of their forces across the Channel. On Wednesday, sixty British ships were hit by bombs and thirty-one were sunk, and today comes the news of still further British losses. The number of British and French prisoners taken is at present beyond computation.’
Evelyn crossed and recrossed her ankles. On the street outside, a woman’s heels clicked past, and somewhere on the Crescent, a door slammed heavily shut.
‘As you listened to the British radio a week ago, did you get the impression that there was going to be any withdrawal at all? Did you think that the necessity for a rearguard action was being contemplated by the dictator of Britain? Is it not a slightly novel experience to see the British people being treated as congenital imbeciles? And now, as the bloody and battered fragments of what was once the British Expeditionary Force drift back to the shores of England, the likelihood of invasion grows by the hour.’
Evelyn turned sharply. ‘Geoffrey, I think we’ve heard enough.’ But she knew her words were pointless. Who could turn off Lord Haw-Haw? Who in the country did not feel compelled to listen for the facts the BBC would not report?
‘Is it not a little amusing to think of the trumpetings with which Churchill became Prime Minister of Britain. He was the man to frighten Hitler! He was the providential leader who was going to lead Britain to victory. Look at him today, unclean and miserable figure that he is. When Germany threw off the shackles of Jewish gold, this darling of Jewish finance resolved upon her destruction. But thanks to God and the Führer , it is not Germany that is confronted with destruction today!’
Another voice spoke: ‘That is the end of our talk. Our next regular transmission of news will take place at 11:15.’
‘Philip, my love, it’s late …’ His mother’s hand was ruffling his hair. He hauled himself to his feet, clutching his pencil and sketchpad. Then he approached his father’s chair and waited for him to bend so he could offer his hug goodnight. Sometimes his father reciprocated with a whisker-rub. Not tonight. ‘Father?’
Geoffrey looked up and blinked himself back into the moment.
‘Doesn’t Mr Churchill wash?’
‘Of course he washes, Philip.’
‘Lord Haw-Haw said he was unclean.’
‘Lord Haw-Haw made a mistake.’
‘Is Mr Churchill a Jew?’
His mother started to lead him up the stairs. ‘See, Geoffrey. He really should have been in bed long ago.’
‘He’s not an infant, Evvie.’ The hinge in his jaw flexed. ‘No, Philip. Mr Churchill is not a Jew.’
‘Mr Feldman our baker is a Jew.’
‘Yes …’ Geoffrey nodded gravely. ‘Mr Feldman our baker is a Jew.’
‘Does he have much gold?’
‘Not much, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’
Geoffrey motioned him on his way. ‘Yes, nothing to worry about there, old bean.’
7
That spring, the news spread like Spanish flu through the Grammar: Hitler had chosen the Royal Pavilion for his English HQ.
Although no boy could say which boy had actually heard the broadcast, word had it that Lord Haw-Haw had made the announcement himself. It was the most thrilling news of the war so far.
Like its neighbour Park Crescent, Hanover Crescent was an elegant anomaly in the jumble of Brighton housing. Its Georgian townhouses were compositions of pilasters, pediments, arches, bow-fronts and balconies. Its position overlooking The Level declared it a place of privilege and privacy, and Orson’s house, Philip discovered, was even quieter than his own because Orson’s brother, Hal, was off being a hero in the war, and Ivy the housekeeper never seemed to speak, and Orson’s parents were old and so rarely seen in his house that Orson sometimes seemed like an orphan.
That day after school, he asked Philip if he wanted to know a
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