Weaver

'Thanks.' She hurried back to her car.

In her rear-view mirror she could see him stand there and watch her pull out. She reminded herself that she was at the besieged coast of a country where there was a strong suspicion that the enemy wasn't just coming but might already be here, in one disguise or another. He fixed his helmet and continued his patrol along the sea front.

It was a straightforward drive east, though the coast road was crowded with trucks and buses and other transports, and, ominously, ambulances.

She came into another town. She saw a pier, with boats clustered around its great feet. The pier had been severed so it couldn't be used by invading Germans. She kept pushing forward until the road passed the base of a hill, a stratified cliff on which sprawled the ruins of a castle. This was a seaside town, with hotels and a bandstand. She saw no children around on this summer Saturday. All evacuated inland, no doubt, because of the invasion scare. Still, it was eerie. And ahead of her an unlikely sight loomed, a school of tremendous silvery fish straining on tense cables into the air. They were barrage balloons; evidently air attacks were expected.

Soon she saw a harbour wall jutting out to sea. But she wasn't able to reach the harbour itself, for the coast road was blocked. Uniforms swarmed everywhere. Once more at a loss she turned inland, scanning for information points and police officers.

She passed an open space that seemed to have been set up as a medical triage centre for refugees, where bewildered-looking civilians were tended to by kindly nurses and other volunteers. A white-coated doctor sat with one woman, gently trying to prise something from her. As she drove past, Mary saw that it was an arm, the severed arm of a child, blackened and burned. The sight bewildered Mary. She was supposed to be a journalist, at least pro tem. How could she write about this?

She came to yet another hold-up, ahead of a piece of wasteland. This was the anchor point for one of the barrage balloons. The steel-grey monster, an envelope of hydrogen sixty feet long, loomed quite low over the rooftops, in the middle of being deployed. It was tethered to the ground by thick steel cables, and its crew was struggling to control the cables' release from massive winches. Most of them were women, straining and sweating, in the colours of the ATS, the Wrens, and a few WAAFs, the Women's Auxiliary Air Force. An officer, male, stood by, steadily counting to give the crew rhythm as they heaved. Mary stared, amazed at the sight of this miniature zeppelin rising up from the streets of this seaside town.

One of the WAAFs lost her hat as Mary watched, and bright red hair tumbled loose. Mary thought she knew who she was. She parked hastily, ignoring the shouts of yet another ARP warden, and she got out of the car and ran forward. 'Hilda! Hilda Tanner!'

The young WAAF turned. Mary waved, still pushing forward. The WAAF had a word with the officer, and he released her from the crew with a brisk nod. Hilda picked up her cap, crammed her red hair beneath it, and hurried towards Mary.

Mary felt relief gush. It wasn't Gary, but it was one step closer. 'Hilda? Look, you don't know me. We haven't met. I only knew you from the photographs-'

Hearing her accent, Hilda evidently guessed who Mary was. 'You're Gary's mother.'

'He did speak of you, and how he'd met you here – I was stuck in London, you see – and then the embarkation came-' Unaccountably her vision blurred.

The girl took her arms. 'Here, don't take on so. Come with me. Here, sit down.' She led Mary to a bench; some of its slats had been removed, maybe for firewood, but it was possible to perch on it. Sitting there, in the sharp sunlight, Mary felt the last of her energy drain out of her.

Hilda was as pretty as her photographs had suggested, but with a long, rather serious face, a strong nose, and a determined set to her chin. She didn't seem to be wearing any make-up; that bright red hair, struggling to escape from her cap, was the most colourful thing about her. 'What are you doing here, Mrs Wooler?'

'Mary. Call me Mary, for God's sake.'

'It's Gary, isn't it?' Her voice rose. 'Has something happened to him? I've had no news since-'

'There's nothing bad, that I know of.' She told her what she had learned from the War Office.

'And so you came.'

'Yeah. The trouble is I don't know what to do now I'm here.'

'Then it's lucky you found me,' Hilda said firmly. 'We'll ask my dad.'

'Your dad?'

'You'll see.' Hilda took Mary's hand, stood, and led Mary away from the sea front and into the town. But as they walked she glanced across at the work unit still labouring at the balloon.

Mary asked, 'Are you sure you can get away?'

'Oh, they can manage without me. Tricky job, mind. If the wind changes you get a bag of hydrogen coming down in the middle of town, and one fag-end and it's blammo. Of course we WAAFs could manage it alone, but the men would never admit to that.' She turned her palm to show what looked like rope bums. 'They call us "amazons, you know. In the papers.' She laughed, quite gaily.

'I'm partly responsible for that, I suppose. I'm a journalist of sorts, a stringer for the Boston Traveller.'

Her eyes widened. 'You are? Gary says you're a historian.'

'A historian by profession. I, we, happened to be here when the war broke out. I looked for something more useful to do.'

'Just as Gary did.'

'To tell you the truth, I tried to stop him joining up. I mean, America isn't in this war.'

'Do you wish you'd tried harder now?'

'No,' Mary said, thinking that over. 'No, I'm proud of him. He did what he thought was right.'

Hilda nodded. 'Look, here's my dad.'

Her father turned out to be a policeman, a constable in uniform. Today, complete with his gas-mask slung over his shoulder, he was on duty outside the town hall. With various uniforms hurrying to and fro, the building was evidently serving as some kind of information station for the evacuation operation.

'Dad!' Hilda broke into a run for the last couple of steps, and, suddenly girlish, let him give her a quick uniformed hug.

'Hello, love.' The father took off his heavy bobby's helmet, to reveal a square, deeply lined face, greying hair cut short and smoothed flat with pomade. He must have been in his late forties. Mary thought she could see something of his daughter in him; he must have been a looker once. 'What's up? Lost your toy balloon?'

'It's Gary. Dad, he's back-'

'He might be,' Mary put in.

The father eyed her, surprised by her accent. 'And you are?'

Hilda introduced her quickly.

The father shook her hand; his grip was warm, firm and sure. 'Call me George.'

'Mary.'

'I saw little enough of your son before he was shipped away. But he went off to fight for a good cause. And now you say he's back?'

'It's possible. All I really know is that elements of his division should have been brought back here. What I don't know is where I might find him.'

George Tanner rubbed his chin. 'The evacuation's being going on for about six days already. There are shot-up soldiers all over town – I don't mean to alarm you, Mary – not enough of them by half, things have gone badly over there. Look, I have contacts of my own. Wait while I nip inside.' He tucked his helmet under his arm and went into the town hall.

With her father gone Hilda asked solicitously, 'How are you bearing up? Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Maybe later,' Mary said. 'I'm glad I found you, Hilda. Without you I don't know what I would have done.'

'Somebody would have helped you. People are like that. Besides, we haven't done anything yet.' She was staring at the town hall door. 'Come on, Dad.'

George came hurrying out of the hall, fixing his helmet hastily on his head. He carried a slip of paper in his hand. 'Look, we need to go to the hospital. It's that way.' He pointed. 'It's only half a mile. I could get a car but it's going to be quicker to walk it.' He eyed Mary, uncertain. 'Are you up to that?'