Hari and Violet strolled together in the autumn sun; it was a hot day with the leaves beginning to turn red and gold, and the grass, in the open spaces, browned by the heat. Violet was pensive. At last she spoke. ‘Sorry, thinking about the war and all that. By the way, have you heard from your sister?’
‘Not a word—’ Hari’s voice was dull—‘I’m so afraid she’s been killed, she’s been leading a dangerous life, spying on the Germans, getting involved in goodness knows what. My independent Meryl was always up to something, was cheeky and lippy and so bloody courageous.’ Hari realized she was speaking about Meryl as though she were already dead.
As they neared the rows of sheds, Violet began to move away from Hari. ‘Shall I see you at break time? We could eat our spam sandwiches outside, it will give me a rest from that terrible stink of powder.’
‘OK. See you about five then, the sun will have cooled by then but it should still be nice to sit outside and get some air into our lungs.’
‘Aye, pity it’s not fresh air!’ Violet smiled. ‘Even if it’s gone misty by then I’ll still see you, will I?’
Hari looked round the site of the munitions factory; it was usually covered in mist and that helped conceal the buildings from the bombers but she hoped that at teatime it would still be fine and the skies clear of enemy aircraft.
‘I’ll see you,’ Hari said firmly.
The office was stuffy, the windows criss-crossed with tape. To one side hung a blackout curtain ready for the night workers to pull across when it grew dark. Hari longed to throw open the windows but even if she could the all-pervading dust would drift in and coat everything in malignant yellow powder.
She sat at her desk and listened for the Morse code to start chattering through her headphones but she couldn’t concentrate. Her heart was heavy, Michael was gone from her forever, killed at the hands of his own people. If it was Michael who had been shot down, how was the artillery to know that flying a German plane was a Welshman, brought up on a farm in Carmarthenshire, raised by a good Welsh woman who happened to have had a German husband?
Hari felt helpless tears run down her cheeks and she brushed them away as the familiar tip-tapping came through from her radio. Her heart lightened a little. There was important news: ‘Operation Overlord’ had been a success. The message from a careless, frightened German operator told of the rout, the bad news phrased as diplomatically as possible so as not to alarm his superiors, who would pass the message to Hitler.
Hitler would take no notice; it seemed he never took notice of what his intelligence told him unless it suited him. But what of Meryl—was she alive or dead? Somehow Hari had the premonition that ‘Overlord’ had involved Meryl in some way. But how could it? Meryl was probably tucked up safely in bed by now crying her eyes out for her lost husband. With that thought, Hari clenched her fists into a tight ball and cursed love and all it stood for.