Weaver

Hilda approached the work party. Ben was working alongside an older man of maybe fifty. The other Home Guard men leaned on their shovels and wolf-whistled and larked about, showing off their puny muscles, calling in their ripe Sussex accents, 'Oi, WAAF! That uniform fits you pretty nice.' 'Hey, WAAF, what's he got that I haven't got?' 'Tell you what he hasn't got. A bit of skin on the end of his knob…'

She acknowledged it all with a tight grin and kept walking. The older man waved them silent. 'Stop drooling, you lot.' He had a faint Irish burr, and big hands, a farmer's hands, the biggest hands Hilda had ever seen.

Ben stuck his spade in the ground, wiped his hands on his trousers, and faced Hilda. 'It's lovely to see you. You came all the way out here for me?'

'Well, I've got a couple of messages for you.'

He asked intently, 'From Mary Wooler?'

'Yes, and from Gary too. Me and Gary actually.' She held herself straight, and hoped she wasn't blushing.

'Well, well. Look, I'd give you a hug if I wasn't sweating like a good'un. Tom, do you mind?'

'You take a break, don't mind me.' Tom continued to scrape at the ground.

Ben took his jacket from a heap of stakes, spread it on the ground and gestured for Hilda to sit. He squatted easily on the ground himself. He took a swig from a milk bottle full of water, and offered it to Hilda; she refused.

'Fun, is it, digging holes in the ground?'

'Oh, the glamour,' Ben said. 'But you know the theory. We're just trying to muck up every field and open space to stop planes and gliders landing.'

'It's no ruddy fun,' Tom growled. 'The ground's baked hard as concrete. You can see what we're up to, though.' He pointed to a row of completed installations; they were simple tripods of scaffolding, like the frames of teepees. 'I grow my peas and beans up poles set like that.'

Hilda called, 'Wouldn't you rather be digging your garden – um, Tom?'

'Given half a chance,' he said with a grin. 'But I'll tell you what, sooner this than route marching. First time we went marching, our Home Guard platoon, a quarter of a century just fell away in a flash. I'll swear I could smell the cordite and the mud. I was in Flanders, see. Never thought I'd be back marching again, not in my lifetime. Well, well.' He sighed, and continued to ram his spade into the reluctant ground.

'Tom's been a good mate,' Ben said. 'Keeps the other lads off a bit.'

'Give you a hard time, do they?'

'Nothing I can't handle. Funny, though, they bait me for being a German and a Jew.'

'But sooner here than that internment camp, from what Gary told me from your letters.'

'Oh, yes.' In late June Ben Kamen's name had come up on a list of potentially enemy aliens. While waiting for his tribunal, he had been taken off to an internment camp in Liverpool. 'It was a half-finished council estate in a place called Huyton. What a hole. But the tribunal eventually classed me as a C.' Category A were considered hostile to the war effort; B were for some reason doubtful; C were friendly and no threat. 'But even then, when I joined the Home Guard, they kept me away from the guns and handed me a shovel instead. Funny, that.'

'Well, it's behind you now.'

'I hope so,' he said fervently. 'How's your war? I think I expected to see you up there by now.' He glanced at the sky. 'In a Spit or a Hurricane. I hear they are planning to send women to the front line.'

'So they are, but I've no training. I'm working at an observation station on the coast.' She had picked up the habit of not using the word 'radar' unless it was necessary.

He looked at her. 'It's coming, isn't it?'

'What?'

'The invasion.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Just looking around. Piecing bits together. I mean, the work we've been doing, you can see the logic.' He mimed an enclosure with his hands. 'You have this crust around the coast – tank blocks, barbed wire, ditches, mines. Then further back we've been building what they call the stop lines. Natural barriers like rivers and canals and forests, but reinforced with tank traps and pillboxes. Defence in depth. You can see it taking shape.'

'I don't think they'll come,' Hilda said. 'For one thing they haven't been able to knock out the RAF. Those Me109s of theirs are too short-range. The Hurricanes and Spits can always retreat to fields in the north of England. The Luftwaffe can't win.' That was the official line. But, Hilda had heard it said at work, all the Germans actually needed to do was to beat the RAF back from the skies of southern England, and achieve 'local air superiority'. And Hilda knew from her own experience that if they kept battering at the airfields and radar stations and sector stations of the south-east, the delicate system of command and control behind the RAF's operations could soon crumble. It would actually be better for Britain's prospects in the war if the Luftwaffe turned on London again. But she said firmly: 'No, they won't come. And all your digging will be for nothing!'

'So where's Gary now?'

'Well, he's recovered. He's been reposted, a lot of the BEF veterans have. Now he's to be with an international unit in the Twenty-ninth Brigade. He's due to join it on Friday.' She hesitated. 'They're stationed north of Eastbourne. I was hoping he'd be sent to the Twenty-first. A lot of the veterans are with them, north of London.'

'They're reserves up there, the Twenty-first?'

'Yes. But they're short of front-line troops.' Hilda had heard rumours about the troops in the field – eight divisions, something like a hundred and fifty thousand men, with another forty thousand north of the Thames. It might have been twice that if not for the loss of the BEF. It was thought the Germans could muster a force outnumbering the British by at least two to one. 'We shouldn't talk like this,' Hilda said. 'Spreading rumours.'

'But don't you feel the need to talk?' Ben said, and he laughed nervously. 'I'm cursed with an active brain, Hilda. I'm an academic, for pity's sake, I worked with Godel himself. Now they've got me digging a hole in the ground.' He made a spinning motion by his temple. 'I can't help thinking, thinking, working it all out.'

'Yes, and you yak and yak about it,' Tom said sensibly. 'My advice to you is to enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.' He stuck his spade into the earth again.

Ben said, 'I think that was a hint. You said you had messages for me?'

'Can you come into town on Friday, in the morning? Meet us at the house. Gary's got something to say to you before he gets posted – we both have.'

Ben nodded. After the way he had helped Gary after the return from Dunkirk, the two of them had stayed close.

Hilda went on, 'And I know Mary Wooler has some material for you. History stuff.'

Ben's eyes gleamed. 'I expect the war effort can spare me for a couple of hours. I'll see you then, Hilda.'

'Good. All right-'

'Holy Mother of God.' Tom had stopped digging, and was staring south.

Over Hastings, one of the barrage balloons had been set alight. Subsiding gently, deforming, it was drifting down the sky, a brilliant teardrop.

IX

20 September

So they gathered, on a dull Friday morning, in the stuffy parlour of George Tanner's little terraced house in the Old Town of Hastings.

When Mary came downstairs, a sheaf of her research papers under her arm, she found George, Ben Kamen, Gary and Hilda standing side by side. They all held cups of tea in saucers, rather stiffly. The windows were taped, and buckets of sand stood in the corners. Everybody was in uniform save Mary, George in his copper's jacket, Gary and Hilda in the colours of the British Army and Air Force respectively, and even Ben Kamen, a bit crumpled, in the Army-like khaki of the Home Guard. It would have made a good group portrait, Mary reflected, thinking like a journalist.

Gary and Hilda hung back, shyly. 'Oh, a card came for you today, Mary.' George picked it off the mantelpiece and handed it to her. She glanced at it; it was a postcard, addressed to her in a round, unfamiliar handwriting.