that. They wouldn’t be interested. They don’t really want me in the department. I’ve known that for a while.’ Frank’s face spasmed into
his smiling rictus.
They had reached the door of the main building. ‘I’m going to be working on your ward for a while,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe I could help with finding someone to help
ye.’
‘There’s nobody.’
‘What about people you knew at school? Or at university? You must have gone to university.’
An image of David Fitzgerald came into Frank’s head; an autumn evening sitting with him in their rooms at Oxford, talking about Hitler and appeasement. His astonished realization that for
the first time in his life someone was actually interested in what he was saying. As this attendant Ben seemed to be, for some reason Frank couldn’t fathom. He hadn’t been in touch with
David properly for years, but at one time he had been closer to him than anyone. ‘There might be someone,’ he said, cautiously.
Chapter Six
T HE FOLLOWING T HURSDAY David left for work at eight as usual, walking up the street to Kenton Station in his bowler, black
jacket and pinstripe trousers. Opposite the house was a little park, no more than a small lawned area with flowerbeds; at the far end there still stood one of the square concrete shelters that had
been built in 1939 in anticipation of the air raids that never came, squat and ugly and abandoned now. Children went in there to smoke sometimes; there had been a petition to the Council. He nodded
to neighbours, other men dressed in similar uniform, also heading for the station. The weather was bright and clear, cold for mid-November. His breath formed a cloud in front of him, like the
exhaust of an old Austin Seven sputtering by.
The tube was crowded, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Hanging on to the strap he read
The Times
. There was a bold headline: ‘
Beaverbrook and Butler fly to Berlin today for
economic talks
’
.
That was sudden – there had been nothing on the news last night. ‘
Optimism on new German trade links
’, the article continued. He wondered
what the Germans would want in return.
Victoria Station was heaving, thousands of commuters walking through the great vestibule, steam and smoke from the trains belching up to the high ceiling. A group of grey-uniformed German
soldiers stood by a platform gate, probably on their way to the base on the Isle of Wight. They were very young, laughing and joking. They had probably been on leave in London. Those with an Isle
of Wight posting were the lucky ones; the endless mincing machine of the Russian front had been killing boys like these for eleven years, would probably take these ones too in the end. David felt
an unexpected stab of pity for them.
He walked down Victoria Street to Parliament Square, then up Whitehall to the Dominions Office. Sykes was on duty again behind the desk. ‘Morning, Mr Fitzgerald. Another cold day,
sir.’
The lift was full, clanking painfully as it rose. David stood next to Daniel Brightman from the Economic Department, who had joined the service at the same time. Like David he was a
grammar-school boy, but over the years Brightman had adopted an upper-class drawl. ‘Another day in the salt mines,’ he said.
‘Yes. Keeping busy?’
‘Meeting with the Aussies on wheat tariffs today.’ He sighed. ‘I expect they’ll be shouting as usual. The trials of Empire.’
David got out on the second floor and passed the Registry. The clerks were all in. From behind the counter Carol, at her desk, gave him a quick smile and a wave. He smiled back, guiltily
remembering what he had done on Sunday.
Old Dabb, checking a card index at the counter, looked up. ‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘A brief word, if I may.’
‘Of course.’ David noticed dandruff on the old man’s collar.
‘I was concerned, sir,’ the Registrar said in his slow sad voice, ‘to observe you left the High Commissioners’ meeting file on the counter
his smiling rictus.
They had reached the door of the main building. ‘I’m going to be working on your ward for a while,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe I could help with finding someone to help
ye.’
‘There’s nobody.’
‘What about people you knew at school? Or at university? You must have gone to university.’
An image of David Fitzgerald came into Frank’s head; an autumn evening sitting with him in their rooms at Oxford, talking about Hitler and appeasement. His astonished realization that for
the first time in his life someone was actually interested in what he was saying. As this attendant Ben seemed to be, for some reason Frank couldn’t fathom. He hadn’t been in touch with
David properly for years, but at one time he had been closer to him than anyone. ‘There might be someone,’ he said, cautiously.
Chapter Six
T HE FOLLOWING T HURSDAY David left for work at eight as usual, walking up the street to Kenton Station in his bowler, black
jacket and pinstripe trousers. Opposite the house was a little park, no more than a small lawned area with flowerbeds; at the far end there still stood one of the square concrete shelters that had
been built in 1939 in anticipation of the air raids that never came, squat and ugly and abandoned now. Children went in there to smoke sometimes; there had been a petition to the Council. He nodded
to neighbours, other men dressed in similar uniform, also heading for the station. The weather was bright and clear, cold for mid-November. His breath formed a cloud in front of him, like the
exhaust of an old Austin Seven sputtering by.
The tube was crowded, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Hanging on to the strap he read
The Times
. There was a bold headline: ‘
Beaverbrook and Butler fly to Berlin today for
economic talks
’
.
That was sudden – there had been nothing on the news last night. ‘
Optimism on new German trade links
’, the article continued. He wondered
what the Germans would want in return.
Victoria Station was heaving, thousands of commuters walking through the great vestibule, steam and smoke from the trains belching up to the high ceiling. A group of grey-uniformed German
soldiers stood by a platform gate, probably on their way to the base on the Isle of Wight. They were very young, laughing and joking. They had probably been on leave in London. Those with an Isle
of Wight posting were the lucky ones; the endless mincing machine of the Russian front had been killing boys like these for eleven years, would probably take these ones too in the end. David felt
an unexpected stab of pity for them.
He walked down Victoria Street to Parliament Square, then up Whitehall to the Dominions Office. Sykes was on duty again behind the desk. ‘Morning, Mr Fitzgerald. Another cold day,
sir.’
The lift was full, clanking painfully as it rose. David stood next to Daniel Brightman from the Economic Department, who had joined the service at the same time. Like David he was a
grammar-school boy, but over the years Brightman had adopted an upper-class drawl. ‘Another day in the salt mines,’ he said.
‘Yes. Keeping busy?’
‘Meeting with the Aussies on wheat tariffs today.’ He sighed. ‘I expect they’ll be shouting as usual. The trials of Empire.’
David got out on the second floor and passed the Registry. The clerks were all in. From behind the counter Carol, at her desk, gave him a quick smile and a wave. He smiled back, guiltily
remembering what he had done on Sunday.
Old Dabb, checking a card index at the counter, looked up. ‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘A brief word, if I may.’
‘Of course.’ David noticed dandruff on the old man’s collar.
‘I was concerned, sir,’ the Registrar said in his slow sad voice, ‘to observe you left the High Commissioners’ meeting file on the counter
Similar Books
