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Authors: Alison MacLeod
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postcard?’
‘Oswald Mosley, of course.’
‘Who?’
‘Hitler’s friend in England, and Lord Haw-Haw’s too. Hal has a phonograph of his speeches. On the postcard, it says: “Heil-o Hitler, Fine rally. Good turnout. Brighton is the business.” ’ He passed Philip the helmet. ‘Your turn.’
Philip excavated a clot of humbug from his back tooth and put the helmet on. ‘Hitler likes to go to the Pavilion Tea Room on sunny days. He likes England better than anywhere now because he has discovered warm scones with clotted cream and jam. Except he has to be careful to wipe his moustache when he’s finished or people will laugh and he will have to lose his temper and kill a few to set an example. As he eats, he smiles to himself because the other people at the tables have no idea that they’re sitting next to Hitler.’
‘Why not? He’s on all the newsreels. You have to at least make it believable, Beaumont.’
Beyond the room, the wind took hold of the elms.
8
The weekly Camp inspection, Geoffrey now understood, would never fail to be anything other than grim. Each Monday, he signed off the misery of men bewildered by circumstance and imprisoned out of view on top of a coastal cliff. The Camp had opened in early May, claiming the town’s racecourse, and although it was already his fifth inspection, he’d never grow accustomed.
In the old stables, new arrivals were housed like livestock, while those who had arrived in the early weeks were crammed into hot, airless barracks, the windows of which were painted over and covered in grilles. Buckets served for toilets, and standpipes for the ablutions of hundreds. The mission was cement. Day in, day out, under the tireless eyes of their guards, the prisoners produced cement. The dust of smashed limestone got everywhere – in their hair, their nostrils, their teeth, their food. No one was exempt from labour, except those ill enough to be confined to the flimsy hut that passed for an infirmary.
The Army ran the show, but the Home Department had required someone well regarded in the area to put his name to it all, to turn a blind eye, and Geoffrey had won the dubious honour. He could hardly speak of it, not to his colleagues at the Bank, not to Evelyn – least of all to Evelyn once he discovered the newest arrival.
‘Mr Beaumont!’
That afternoon, he’d flinched at the sight of his old tailor hunched on a metal bed in the regulation boiler suit. He’d wanted to turn, to run, to pretend he hadn’t heard his own name. His brain was reeling, but the old man had smiled, and he had no choice but to pause in his progress through the barracks. ‘Now, tell me, how is Mrs B eaumont?’
To hear him, Geoffrey could almost imagine they were simply passing the time at the bottom of Trafalgar Street. He couldn’t meet Mr Pirazzini’s eye. He felt too tall, too … well. Blood pounded in his ears and, as if from a distance, he heard himself reply. ‘Yes, she’s very well … Thank you.’ What a sickening charade.
After the first arrests, most of the German and Austrian tailors’ shops on Trafalgar Street had been looted, but Pirazzini and his wife endured in their premises until that morning, when Mussolini declared war on Britain, and the police arrived.
The tailor’s advanced age had guaranteed him a bed in the barracks at least, a bed no wider than he was, a bed that was screwed to the floor.
‘Please. Give her my best, will you?’
Geoffrey nodded. Impossible , he thought.
The old man had never failed to ask after Evelyn, not since the day nearly nine years ago when he’d spotted her, six months pregnant, carrying too many boxes and bags home from town. She had been a stranger to him then, but he’d insisted she come into the shop and take a seat with his wife before he went out again to find her a cab. He’d paid the driver before she realized, and the next day, through a mouthful of pins, he had refused Geoffrey’s efforts at repayment. ‘No,
‘Oswald Mosley, of course.’
‘Who?’
‘Hitler’s friend in England, and Lord Haw-Haw’s too. Hal has a phonograph of his speeches. On the postcard, it says: “Heil-o Hitler, Fine rally. Good turnout. Brighton is the business.” ’ He passed Philip the helmet. ‘Your turn.’
Philip excavated a clot of humbug from his back tooth and put the helmet on. ‘Hitler likes to go to the Pavilion Tea Room on sunny days. He likes England better than anywhere now because he has discovered warm scones with clotted cream and jam. Except he has to be careful to wipe his moustache when he’s finished or people will laugh and he will have to lose his temper and kill a few to set an example. As he eats, he smiles to himself because the other people at the tables have no idea that they’re sitting next to Hitler.’
‘Why not? He’s on all the newsreels. You have to at least make it believable, Beaumont.’
Beyond the room, the wind took hold of the elms.
8
The weekly Camp inspection, Geoffrey now understood, would never fail to be anything other than grim. Each Monday, he signed off the misery of men bewildered by circumstance and imprisoned out of view on top of a coastal cliff. The Camp had opened in early May, claiming the town’s racecourse, and although it was already his fifth inspection, he’d never grow accustomed.
In the old stables, new arrivals were housed like livestock, while those who had arrived in the early weeks were crammed into hot, airless barracks, the windows of which were painted over and covered in grilles. Buckets served for toilets, and standpipes for the ablutions of hundreds. The mission was cement. Day in, day out, under the tireless eyes of their guards, the prisoners produced cement. The dust of smashed limestone got everywhere – in their hair, their nostrils, their teeth, their food. No one was exempt from labour, except those ill enough to be confined to the flimsy hut that passed for an infirmary.
The Army ran the show, but the Home Department had required someone well regarded in the area to put his name to it all, to turn a blind eye, and Geoffrey had won the dubious honour. He could hardly speak of it, not to his colleagues at the Bank, not to Evelyn – least of all to Evelyn once he discovered the newest arrival.
‘Mr Beaumont!’
That afternoon, he’d flinched at the sight of his old tailor hunched on a metal bed in the regulation boiler suit. He’d wanted to turn, to run, to pretend he hadn’t heard his own name. His brain was reeling, but the old man had smiled, and he had no choice but to pause in his progress through the barracks. ‘Now, tell me, how is Mrs B eaumont?’
To hear him, Geoffrey could almost imagine they were simply passing the time at the bottom of Trafalgar Street. He couldn’t meet Mr Pirazzini’s eye. He felt too tall, too … well. Blood pounded in his ears and, as if from a distance, he heard himself reply. ‘Yes, she’s very well … Thank you.’ What a sickening charade.
After the first arrests, most of the German and Austrian tailors’ shops on Trafalgar Street had been looted, but Pirazzini and his wife endured in their premises until that morning, when Mussolini declared war on Britain, and the police arrived.
The tailor’s advanced age had guaranteed him a bed in the barracks at least, a bed no wider than he was, a bed that was screwed to the floor.
‘Please. Give her my best, will you?’
Geoffrey nodded. Impossible , he thought.
The old man had never failed to ask after Evelyn, not since the day nearly nine years ago when he’d spotted her, six months pregnant, carrying too many boxes and bags home from town. She had been a stranger to him then, but he’d insisted she come into the shop and take a seat with his wife before he went out again to find her a cab. He’d paid the driver before she realized, and the next day, through a mouthful of pins, he had refused Geoffrey’s efforts at repayment. ‘No,
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