The pain in his shoulder had returned. He glanced at his watch and began to make the calculations that might distract him from the agony. If he cycled at full strength, he should be back at the house in four and a half minutes.
As he powered along Banbury Road, the wind rushing past his ears, he became conscious of a roaring appetite. A meagre four ounces: that was his entire bacon ration for the week. He could wolf all of that down this instant, in a single breakfast! And what good to anybody was one egg every three and a half days?
At last the turning for Parks Road was just ahead of him, a large black car parked on the corner, its engine humming.
Florence looked over at her son, sitting at the kitchen table, his chair piled high with cushions so that he could reach his plate, though his toast and margarine were barely touched. Harry was instead hunched over his drawing pad, a stubby red crayon in his hand.
Not long now, Harry, I promise. Yet again she opened, rummaged through and closed every drawer in the kitchen. Where the hell had it gone?
Everything else was ready: the suitcase, methodically packed, coats for the journey, sturdy shoes. She had been careful with the passport, deliberately placing it at the back of the second drawer in her dresser, tucked in among her underwear, a private realm James was unlikely to probe. And yet when she had checked for it nearly an hour ago it had not been there. It had been the first thing she had done, after a long time spent in bed, her eyes closed feigning sleep, as she heard James wash, dress and head out to the river. Unmoving, she had lain there listening to his routine, waiting for the sound of the front door closing behind him. She had waited another two minutes after that, timing it by the bedside clock, just in case he had forgotten something and turned back. Then, when the coast was clear, she had got out of bed, her mental checklist clear and straight. But when she opened the second drawer, there had been no sign of her passport. Had James somehow twigged, and hidden it from her? Had somebody revealed her secret? If her husband did know, why had he said nothing? What trap was he setting for her?
She glanced over at Harry again. His head was down, intent on his drawing. She moved to stand behind him, peering over his head, and abruptly felt a hardness in her throat. Whats that, darling?
Harry looked up, his eyes two round blue pools. Florence saw in them a terrible melancholy, before realizing it was a reflection of herself she had glimpsed in her sons eyes.
Its our house, Harry said, his voice low and husky, so different from other children his age and yet so like James. Inside, theres me, he said, pointing at a shape that vaguely resembled a window. His chubby finger pointed at another shape: And theres you and Daddy.
Florence felt her eyes smarting. Its lovely, Harry, she said, trying to sound jolly. Its lovely. It was the third house he had drawn in the last twenty minutes.
She resumed her search, trying not to think about Harry or his picture. She didnt want to dwell on anything that might corrode her resolve. Where in heavens name had she put the passport?
Perhaps in her panic she had missed it. Determined to be more methodical, she returned to the kitchen drawers for the third time, now removing the cutlery tray from the top one and then proceeding to the next. Tea cosies, napkins, a wooden spoon, a spare torch and a fresh set of batteries. Finally the bottom drawer, full of Jamess man things: screwdrivers, pliers, a spanner, a can of bicycle oil and more batteries for the torch. Since the war began, there seemed to be torches and batteries in every corner of the house. But it wasnt there.
Florence glanced at her watch. Six forty-five am. They had to be out of here by seven at the very latest. James was never back before seven fifteen. She just needed to keep her head.
She ran into his study. Such an awful mess, tottering piles of papers, books and what appeared to be a complete set of the Journal of Experimental Psychology. Lifting the biggest tower, she moved it gingerly onto the chair. Then she removed the February issue of the New Statesman, its cover marked by the ringed stains of multiple cups of coffee, a copy of Tribune underneath. More letters, a heavily dog-eared copy of Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell though her husband always referred to him as Eric, after meeting him in Spain a thick copy of Wisden, but no sign of the passport. A weeks-old clipping from the Daily Sketch: Conscription extended to age 36, read the headline. It was five minutes to seven.
Mummy! A shout from the kitchen.
Not now, Harry.
Mummy. More insistent.
Mummys busy. She worked her way through a desk drawer full of typewriter ribbons, paperclips and a spare blotter. Why dont you make sure Snowy is comfortable in your satchel?
Mummy. More insistent.
Mummys busy. She worked her way through a desk drawer full of typewriter ribbons, paperclips and a spare blotter. Why dont you make sure Snowy is comfortable in your satchel?
Theres a man at the door.
She froze. Could James be back already, so much earlier than usual? It made no sense; if he were here, he would let himself in. Why would he be standing outside? Unless he had left his keys behind. And he was refusing to ring the bell, lest he wake up Harry. Good God, what should she do?
She crept into the hall. Instantly, through the coloured glass at the top of the door, she could see that it was Leonard, the outline of him tall and taut. Her shoulders dropped with relief. She opened the door.
His brilliantined hair was still in place but his face was flushed with exertion. He finished early. I saw him just now.
What?
I came as fast as I could. James has stopped rowing: I think he must have been quicker than usual today. Or I timed it wrong. But hes finished. Hell be back here in ten minutes, fifteen at the most.
She grimaced and, as if he had misinterpreted her expression, he added sharply, Remember, there are too many people depending on this, Florence. Theres too much at stake.
Just wait there a minute.
Desperate, she tore at the rest of the desk drawers, foraging through the cigarette papers, used up matchboxes and foreign coins, most of them Spanish. She turned to the bookshelves, pulling out volume after volume, then whole blocks at a time, including the entire Left Book Club stretch in orange, throwing them to the floor. Still no passport.
Harry had begun to cry, maybe at the sight of Leonard, a stranger, at the front door. Or perhaps because of her barely-contained frustration. But she would have to ignore him. She ran back into the bedroom. Breaking one of the tacit taboos of their marriage, she had already peered inside Jamess wardrobe, but now she would do a thorough search. She swept past the two or three suits and dark cloth jackets hanging on the rail then sank to her knees, padding the hard wood at the base of the cupboard. She felt something and snatched at it.
A shoebox. She tore at it hopefully. But inside were just two black leather brogues, still wrapped in tissue paper, the ones, she realized with a stab of guilt, he had worn for their wedding or, rather, the wedding party they had had nearly six months later in England.
A shadow fell over her and she turned to find Harry, escaped from his chair, standing in the doorway trembling. Mummy? Tears streaked his cheeks.
She felt her own eyes pricking. Despite all her preparation, weeks of it, she was about to fail. Dont cry, darling. Everything will be all right.
One last chance. She grabbed the stool by the bathroom door, stood on it to look into the top shelf of her husbands clothes cupboard. Two thick sweaters sat, unworn, on the shelf. She pushed them apart. Nothing there. She was about to give up when a faint outline caught her eye. It was barely visible, brown against brown. She reached out and felt the touch of leather. Her heart sank: another damned book, with musty-smelling pages and no words on the cover. When she opened it a picture slipped out. Harry snatched it up, gazing at the handsome young man in uniform surrounded by pals, a rifle in every hand, before crying out with happy recog-nition: Daddy!
Florence felt defeat settle in her bones. James must have found the passport and taken it to the river with him. What a cruel trick.
Only desperation sent her back to the place where she had started her search: her underwear drawer. She emptied it of the remaining items one by one, as if in a final show of thoroughness. As she lifted up a pair of black stockings, her heart jumped. She pulled at the material and there, somehow caught inside, was the small, stiff, dark blue booklet. How on earth had she missed it? Her passport was there, exactly where she had left it, all along.
What did Mummy tell you, Harry? You see, everythings going to be all right. She could hear the crack in her own voice as she lifted her son in a single move, settling him onto her right hip. With her left hand she picked up the suitcase she had placed in the hallway, in readiness for this moment, nearly an hour ago. She walked out of the front door to join Leonard. There was no time to look back. In his small hand, Harry was still clutching the picture of his father.
Chapter Two
Barcelona, four years earlier
James saw more of Florences bare flesh the first time he laid eyes on her than he did until the day they were married. Which was not strictly true, but became a line he liked to use though rarely in mixed company.
They met in Barcelona, in the heat of July 1936. He had never been to Spain before. In truth, he had never been anywhere before. He walked around the city, along its gorgeous wide avenues, round-eyed, his chest tight with excitement and pride. Hanging from the buildings with their strangely-shaped, weeping-eye windows were banners and bunting welcoming him and some six thousand other foreigners to the Olimpiada Popular: the Peoples Olympiad. The events official flag depicted three heroic, muscular figures in red, yellow and black clutching a single standard. It took a while for James to realize that at least one of the notional athletes on the emblem was a woman; the second was a red-skinned man and a third figure was quite clearly negro.