Hari tugged Violet’s arm. ‘You’re getting very friendly with Georgie Porgy.’ They were on their way home from work and Hari noticed that Violet had taken to putting cream on her face to prevent the yellow powder sinking into her skin. Just like Kate used to do. Hari felt a sudden pain squeeze her heart.
Violet grimaced. ‘Don’t call him that, he’s a grown man now, not a little kid.’ Her tone was even but Hari could see Violet was rattled.
‘Sorry!’ she said, ‘it’s just that I’ve known George since he was a little boy. He used to bully Meryl unmercifully.’
‘Well, from what I hear of Meryl she could well look after herself.’ Violet’s good humour reasserted itself. ‘Sounds as if your sister could take on the whole German army and beat them to death.’
Hari closed her eyes for a moment. ‘She might have to.’ Her voice was quiet.
‘It’s my turn to say sorry now, I didn’t mean it nastily,’ Violet said, ‘but don’t worry, your Meryl will be all right. Anyway, changing the subject, what were you doing up at the German camp?’
Hari was startled. She wasn’t aware that she’d been seen near the camp. ‘I just went to look at the men—the Germans—to see if they were the monsters the papers make them out to be.’
‘And?’
‘And they were ordinary men, like ours, but foreign. I felt quite sorry for them really.’
‘And did you see that special one, the one who made your face turn pale when they all marched past us that day? Handsome bloke he was too, looked more Welsh than German.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Hari said. ‘Yes, I looked, I’ve got blood in my veins and with no men of our own around of course I looked.’
‘All right, all right, don’t get so heated about it, I’m only teasing. You can dish it out about George but you can’t take it, Hari, where’s your sense of humour gone these days?’
‘I think I lost it somewhere in the war,’ Hari murmured.
‘Ta-ta for now then, I’m making tea for George.’ Violet smiled happily. ‘See you tomorrow.’
That night Georgie didn’t come back at all. Hari didn’t mind, let him make Violet happy while he could. George would always be the fat little boy who teased Meryl but Hari recognized he was much changed. Discharged from the army because of wounds he sustained in the last battle at the front, he worked in Swansea now, in the munitions factory making the shell cases that were sent to Bridgend for filling; his job was dangerous if only because the German bombers saw Richard Thomas and Baldwins as a factory in need of blowing up.
It was a relief to settle to a new day of work in the quietness of her office; to listen to the messages being sent across the airwaves and try to decipher them. By now she could tell the difference between various German signallers: they all seemed to have their own ‘signature’ their own hesitancies, their own rapidity, all different and identifiable. Some Germans were careless, believing no one would be listening or at least understanding the messages they sent. At Bletchley they had been just as careless, not realizing that their codes could be broken.
Once she thought she recognized a woman’s hand, the staccato beat of the Morse seemed to be handled less forcefully, but there was no message from Meryl, no Welsh language words mixed in with the coded message.
When she returned home that night, it was to find Violet and George sitting snugly together on the sofa. There was no sound from the kitchen, no boiling kettle on the stove.
‘Where’s Jessie?’
Violet giggled. Your dad’s taken her to the pictures. They’ve gone to the Plaza to see some sentimental picture or something.’
I didn’t know Jessie was sentimental, or Father either.’ Hari sank into the armchair. ‘How about a cuppa for a working girl then, Vi, you’ve had the day off remember?’
Violet obligingly made tea but she treated herself and George to some home-made wine. It looked and smelled revolting.
‘Come on then, George, I thought you were taking me for a walk,’ Violet said. George responded with alacrity, putting down his unfinished drink and trying to wipe the grimace of disgust from his face at the taste.
‘See you later then.’ Violet grasped George’s arm, winked at Hari and then they were gone, leaving Hari sitting alone in a cold, empty and unfriendly house.
She had the fire glowing in the grate and a pile of toast and jam ready when Jessie came bustling into the house with Father in tow.
‘Something smells good.’ She beamed at Hari. ‘How did you know what time we’d be back?’
‘I made a guess,’ Hari said dryly. ‘Actually I consulted the paper and read what time the show was ending.’
‘Duw, I haven’t been to the pictures in years—well you don’t, stuck out on a farm in the country, do you?’
Hari saw Jessie glance at Father with a look of affection and felt a wash of something very much like envy. Everyone had someone to care for except her. She made a fresh pot of tea and then went up to her bedroom. She washed in cold water and climbed into bed and hugged herself, feeling lonely and unloved.
The Sunday bells were ringing when she woke. The sun was shining into the bedroom and with renewed energy Hari got up to face the day and dressed quickly. After breakfast she would take her bike and ride to Bridgend and watch the prison camp. Some of the German prisoners went to St Mary’s church for Sunday worship and if Michael was alive he would most certainly go with them.
It was a fine day, the autumn sun warming her back as she rode towards Bridgend. Questions reeled through her head: could Michael have survived? Was it another pilot who bore a resemblance to him? But no, it was Michael she’d seen, she was sure of it, but he’d looked at her without recognition. Had he lost his memory when his plane crashed on to Welsh soil? She wished all her questions could be answered. But today she would make sure she saw Michael even if she had to question every guard in Island Farm.
When she arrived at Bridgend she parked her bike and waited outside the church, glad to sit down on the warm stone wall. Her legs ached and her head ached through tension. And then it began to rain.
Hari unpacked her cape from the saddlebag and draped it around her shoulders. Soon her red hair curled into damp tendrils but, doggedly, she waited until the church bells rang out at the end of the service.
The Germans came filtering out of the church, the senior officers first and then a few non-commissioned men. There was one pilot at the rear of the trail of men and behind him a British guard. Hari recognized him.
‘Morning, James, been to morning worship I see?’ He stopped, but the pilot walked on without looking at her. ‘Is that the man who came down in the German plane?’ she asked.
‘Aye, that’s the bastard who came to bomb us trying to send the munitions and the whole of Bridgend up in flames, pardon my French.’ He stared at her bedraggled appearance. ‘What you doin’ here, work on a Sunday do you?’
Hari improvised. ‘No, but it was a lovely morning when I started out, I thought I needed some exercise and fresh air after being cooped up in an office all week and then it started to rain on me.’ She pushed back her wet hair.
‘Anyway, I can see the prisoners are allowed to attend church, that’s very good.’
‘Aye, more than they’d do for us I dare say.’
Hari ignored James’s hostility. ‘How did that pilot survive the crash? I surveyed the site of the crash—no one could have got out of that.’
‘He baled out, what do you think? Cowards all of them. But at least he’d got rid of his bombs before he came down. We’re just lucky they fell before they got to us.’
Hari’s eyes followed the party of prisoners and, as if Michael sensed her gaze, he turned briefly and looked at her. His hand moved in a small gesture and she felt a rush of joy, her heart began to race. He knew her, it was Michael—he was well and strong and, hopefully, he would live out the rest of the war in the safety of Island Farm prison camp.