And as they set off again a squadron of planes, perhaps Hurricanes, came screaming overhead, flying low, heading south.
Mary was oddly reluctant to leave Colchester, even for a couple of days. It was hardly a comfortable place; nowhere in England was, she imagined. But she was able to carry on her researches here, and she had her duties in the WVS, though they were less demanding now the bombing was reduced. And, only fifty miles or so from Gravesend, she was close to the Winston Line, the dreadful barrier that had cut the country in two, and so about as close as she could get to Gary.
But for the best part of a year she had been badgering Captain Mackie of MI-14 for an interview on the subject of Ben Kamen and his historical conundrums. She had come across Mackie when he sent her a letter after the invasion, offering his sympathy about Gary, whom he had met in those final hours before the cease-fire. It had occurred to her to write back, for Mackie's MI-14 seemed precisely the sort of organisation that might take seriously the mysteries she was uncovering, and figure out what to do about them. She could hardly be reluctant about taking up Mackie's invitation now, even if it did mean she would have to travel to the other end of the country.
She was nervous, though, about the hints of urgency in Mackie's note. Something had changed, and she doubted it was for the better.
The station at Cambridge was crowded. This was now the terminus of the east coast rail lines, King's Cross in London having been abandoned-indeed blown up, it was said, like the capital's other main-line stations. There were a few service personnel on the move from one posting to another, but mostly the crowds were a seepage of refugees from London, a flow still continuing after a year, women and children, old people and invalids, supervised by police and ARP wardens, all waiting for a train to the north.
The WAAF saw Mary to her compartment, making sure her reserved seat had not been taken. Mary would have to share with a mother and her three children, and a couple of older men. The children seemed happy enough, plump little creatures dressed in layers of clothing, each with a colourful gas-mask satchel in the rack above. To them this was an adventure, a day off school. They squealed as the locomotive chuffed into life, and clouds of steam billowed back the length of the train. They made Mary smile.
But the journey seemed long and slow, the overcrowded train hot. Mary peered out, trying to distract herself with a view of a country in the middle of its long war.
Close to London the autumn fields were littered with burned-out vehicles and wire loops, protection against paratrooper or glider landings. The Home Guard manned pillboxes and trenches at every junction and bridge and level crossing, waiting to destroy the rail line in case the Germans should start advancing again. There was a logic to the defence, with stop lines running parallel to the coasts in case the Germans attempted any secondary landings, and other lines cutting across the country to impede any advance out of the protectorate. But Mary felt nervous at the thought of the heaps of mines and explosives the train must be passing through.
In the stations where they stopped there were lots of uniforms, of the conventional services of Britain, the Commonwealth and the US, and of Britain's vast volunteer armies, like Mary's own WVS. Mary didn't like the transformation of Britain into a country of uniforms. It was as if the German way of thinking had infected everybody, as if the Germans had already won.
And the towns were scarred by the war. Though repair work was underway, you could see gaps in the terraced streets, holes colonised by weeds rather than people. There were defensive emplacements everywhere, anti-aircraft guns and barrage balloons. And factories were hastily being erected, relocated from London and the south. There was plenty of labour to do all this work; all of England's major towns had taken refugees from London, homeless and unemployed.
Outside the counties of the protectorate itself, it was the capital that had suffered most severely from the invasion. London was in English hands, but, bombed and oppressively threatened, it was slowly bleeding to death. Its people and factories were being shipped out, its docks barricaded or blown up, and its many state functions transplanted elsewhere: York was now the seat of government, Manchester was Britain's financial centre, the royal family had migrated to Holyrood in Edinburgh, and the seat of the Church of England had been moved to Liverpool. London's museums and galleries had been stripped, their precious contents scattered and hidden. The city itself was turning into an abandoned museum, with only its immovable architectural treasures remaining.
There were some commentators who said that London might never recover from this cruel shutting-down – George Orwell, for instance. 'Oh yes it will,' Mary had heard the old crusties say in the Colchester pubs. 'We'll ship the Cockney buggers back ourselves.'
So the journey passed. Everybody was quiet, save for the children. Mary thought she understood why people were subdued. All the adults in the carriage faced an uncertain future. And everybody in England had lost somebody in the war, even Mary, who didn't belong here at all.
It was a relief when the train pulled into Newcastle, and she was able to leave the stuffy compartment, to find another perky WAAF waiting for her on the platform.
XI
15 October
Wednesday morning at Birdoswald was clean and sharp, the start of a bright fall day. Tom Mackie had requisitioned the farmhouse here to serve as his base of operations, he told Mary as he welcomed her from her hotel. But as he escorted her around the site, Mary saw how the farmhouse nestled at the heart of much older ruins, the remains of a Roman fort set on a bluff of high ground.
'I can see why the Romans came here,' she said.
'Oh, yes, a military man would make the same decision again. Birdoswald – actually they called it Banna – was an integral part of the system of defence based around Hadrian's Wall. Housed a thousand troops at its peak. Seems they had to drain the land, clear a forest, and import the limestone to build it. Kept the peace for three hundred years – which, if you think about it, is longer than modern Britain has existed, since the Act of Union. We'll be doing well if we last so long, eh?'
They walked back to the farmhouse. 'Rather ugly, isn't it?' Its most recent renovation was Victorian. The architects had added crenellations, amid a general look that Mary thought of as 'Gothicised'. 'But they reused Roman stone. I can show you an altar of Jupiter that's been built into the wall of a stable. And there's evidence of occupation of the site before the Romans… But I apologise,' he said.
'For what?'
'For treading on your toes. You're the historian, after all.'
'Not at all, Captain. I'm impressed you know so much.'
'Well, history's always been something of a hobby of mine. I took nat sci at Cambridge – that is, natural sciences, specialising in physics. But I did do rather well at history at my school matriculation. And I've been somewhat keen to find out more about the history of this place since your researches directed me here.'
Something of a hobby. Somewhat keen. After so long in Britain Mary was used to decoding the circumlocutory language of upper-crust types like this Captain Mackie: the more self-deprecating the words, the deeper the passion. 'I'm flattered you took me so seriously. To open up a new Military Intelligence branch here, all on my say-so.'