Weaver

Irma said wearily, 'Oh, you're such a silly girl, Viv. And so selfish. Don't let your father hear you talking like that.'

Viv sniffed. 'I'll say what I like.'

Ernst touched Irma's arm. 'It is all right. She is young, after all-'

It was the wrong thing to say. 'I'm not young!' Viv turned and stormed out of the kitchen, and almost collided with her father. Fred walked in and glared at Ernst.

'Good evening, Fred.'

Fred scowled, the dirt rubbed deep into his lined face. 'Battle. I suppose you've heard.'

'What?'

'The auxiliaries blew up an ammo store there. It's on the German radio. There'll be reprisals, won't there?'

Ernst knew nothing about what had happened at Battle, but he was sure that this was another consequence of Hitler's declaration of war against the Americans. But the news was grave and depressing. In Albion resistance attacks had blossomed, bombs and assassinations and attacks on collaborators. And the reprisals had been harsh.

'They're taking one from every house, they say,' Fred said.

'It is best not to speak of this until necessary,' Ernst said stiffly.

Fred turned to his wife. 'And what's wrong with that empty-headed little bitch upstairs?'

'Don't speak of her that way.' Irma used a fork to test how the swedes were cooking. 'She's just fretting about her exchange trip, that's all.'

'She can't think she's still going to Berlin. Not after Alfie. And not after the way everything's blowing up.'

'You know what she's like, Fred.'

'Yes, I know what she's like, she's bloody selfish and she couldn't care less about her brother, and I know she's not going to Berlin.'

'Yes, well, you let her work that out for herself if that's how it's going to be. Don't go wading in and calling her names.'

He walked to the sink, his limp pronounced. He stepped over baby Myrtle as if she was no more than a heap of firewood. He never acknowledged the baby's existence, not even by a glance. He rolled up his sleeves. He dumped out washing from the sink, underwear and smalls, shoving aside the box of Rinso, and began to wash hands and arms grimy from the fields. 'I tell her the truth, that's all. You're too bloody soft.'

'I wish you'd wash in the yard,' Irma said. 'Look at the mess you're making. And never mind calling me soft. I'm just trying to protect Viv, is all.'

'Protect her? What about protecting Alfie, eh?' He glared over his shoulder at Ernst. 'How can it be right to call up a fourteen-year-old boy for forced labour?'

Irma opened the oven to draw out the roast. The air was filled with greasy steam, and the heat of the kitchen was oppressive. Ernst suddenly felt very weary. Fred had been just as angry this morning, when Alfie's call-up letter had come; Ernst imagined him raging all day, inwardly, taking it out on his family, and himself.

Ernst pulled out a chair and sat at the table. 'Look, Fred. You have to see the context. Since the declaration yesterday, we are at war with a power that already has military assets in position just the other side of the First Objective. Suddenly there is an enormous amount of defensive work that must be done, along the Objective, at the coasts. Airfields must be rebuilt, ports extended. And in Albion there is a shortage of young men of working age. There were the casualties of the invasion, the prisoners taken, the labour drafts for the continent-'

'If Hitler needs fourteen-year-old English boys to defend himself against the Americans he shouldn't have declared war on them. Alf's not even going to get paid, is he?' Wiping his hands, Fred jabbed his finger for emphasis. 'I let him join the Jugend because I thought it might spare him this sort of thing, but no.'

Irma snorted. 'I'm surprised you don't tell him it'll toughen him up. That's what you used to say to Jack. I had to do my time in the last lot and now it's your turn." You called him a girl, for wanting to go to technical college.' She laughed, bitter.

'You leave Jack out of this.'

'Fred, I understand,' Ernst said hastily. 'Truly I do. But I am an obergefreiter, a corporal. I have little influence on policy.'

'You're a bloody useless little prick, is what you are.'

Irma turned on him, suddenly furious. 'Oh, you're such a big man, aren't you? You sit here night after night beating up Ernst. Why don't you take on the Gestapo? No, you won't, because you're a coward and a bully, and you take it out on kids and women and-'

'Now see here, I won't be spoken to like that.' Fred's face was crimson, a vein in his neck bulging.

'I heard shouting.'

The three of them turned.

Alfie stood in the doorway. He was growing fast, but he was so thin his ill-fitting clothes hung off him, his cuffs and ankles showing. His face was blotchy, as if he had been crying. He actually had his letter from the Obligatory Work Service programme in his hand. Ernst imagined him carrying it around all day, as his father had his anger.

Fred made an obvious effort to calm down. 'It's all right, son. We weren't shouting.'

'Yes, you were. It's my fault, isn't it?'

Fred crossed to him and took his son in his massive arms, his sleeves still rolled up. 'Oh, no, son, it's not like that. We're upset about you having to go off to work, but it's not your fault, don't ever think that.'

Ernst couldn't meet Alfie's yearning eyes. They both knew that Alfie's best chance of being spared was to get a medical certificate, but such exemptions tended to favour the well-connected and wealthy. He said, 'Alfie, it is only work. It will not be so bad. You will be with others of your age, and older.'

'You see,' Fred said. He mock-punched Alfie on the chest, and pinched his arms. 'A bit of outdoor work. Better than school, eh?'

'Will we get more food?' Alfie asked Ernst.

'I do not know. I will try to find out.'

'Well, there's food now,' Irma said. She had the roast on a big serving plate; the crackling was golden brown. 'And that's enough fuss for now. Fred, come over here and carve. And Alfie, will you tell your sister to-'

There was a knock at the door.

They all froze. Fred caught Ernst's eye, and Ernst knew what he was thinking.

Viv came running down the stairs. She seemed excited, not alarmed. 'Was that a knock? Who is it?'

'Shut up.' Fred walked heavily to the door, and opened it.

The voice was a woman's, her English heavily accented. 'I am looking for Ernst Trojan. I – he used to lodge here-'

Ernst ran to the door, pushing past Fred. 'Claudine?'

XXII

She was dressed in a slim-fitting coat, stockings and black hat: a smart outfit but mud-splashed and torn. She looked exhausted. And an immense bruise marred one side of her face. 'My God, Claudine, what happened to you? Come in, come in out of the cold-' He took her arm and led her into the kitchen. In the light the bruise on her face looked even worse, and he could see how her stockings were snagged.

The Millers stood around staring.

'I'm sorry,' Ernst said in English. 'Fred, Irma, this is a friend. Her name is Claudine Rimmer, she is from France.'

'I didn't have anywhere else to go,' Claudine said in German. 'I couldn't think-'

Fred snapped, 'This is my house, and you'll speak English.'

'Yes,' said Ernst hastily. 'I am sorry. Of course.'

Irma got over her shock. 'Oh, never mind him. Come in. Let's get that coat off you. My, it's pretty.'

Claudine forced a smile. 'It is torn,' she said in English.

'Nothing that a bit of make do and mend won't see to.' Irma handed the coat and Claudine's hat to Viv. 'Here, love, hang these up.'

Viv took the clothes with a scowl and flounced out.

'Now you come and sit down. Fred, you put that roast back in the oven.'

Alfie stared at the meat. 'Aren't we going to eat?'

'There'll be time for that later. Fred, put a bit of paper on the meat so it doesn't dry out.' Irma bustled off to put the kettle on the range.

Ernst sat with Claudine. He had not seen her since that October day at Hastings, when he had fled from her. Seeing her now, in this condition, he felt ashamed. And it was very, very strange to have her sitting here now, the girl he had fallen in love with in sunny Boulogne, a year and a world away. But that was the war for you, the endless, overpowering, abhuman war, mixing everything up.