'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.

Ben was eager to speak to Mary, and he stepped forward. 'Mary, Hilda said you found out something?'

Mary glanced at Gary and Hilda. 'We can talk about it later. But, briefly, I dug up a lot of stuff in Colchester, following the lead you gave me about Geoffrey Cotesford. Take a look at this.' She handed him her sheaf of documents, some copied from the archive she'd visited at Colchester, some her own notes.

Ben read hastily: "Time's Tapestry: As mapped by myself; in which the long warp threads are the history of the whole world; and the wefts which run from selvedge to selvedge are distortions of that history, deflected by a Weaver unknown; be he human, divine or satanic… Oh, my.'

'This is getting very strange,' Mary said. 'We need to talk.'

'Yeah, but not right now, Mom, Jeez,' Gary said, breaking his silence at last. 'Look – we don't have much time. You know I'm being mobilised today. We want to give you time to get used to the idea before, well, before we all go off to our separate duties.'

George looked baffled. 'What idea?'

Gary hesitated, the silence stretching. Mary's heart pulsed with pride to see him standing there in his crisp uniform with his crimson-haired girl at his side, even if she ached to think of the damage this war had already done to him.

And Mary suddenly knew why she had been brought here. 'You've gone and done it, haven't you?'

Ben was grinning. 'Gary, you dog.'

George snapped, 'Done what? Will somebody tell me-'

Hilda lifted her left hand. The ring on her finger was a simple gold band. 'It was my mother's,' she said. She faced her father defiantly. 'Look, Dad, it was all a rush. We didn't even decide to do it until last Friday, when Gary's orders came through, and we knew we were running out of time. And then we went to the town hall, and found a registrar who was prepared to see to us on the spot-'

'See to you,' Ben said mockingly.

'Shut up, Ben,' Gary said mildly.

Hilda said, 'Dad, we wanted you there, of course we did. And you, Mary. But we didn't want to lose this chance before – you know. In case we didn't get another go. And besides-'

'And besides,' Mary said drily, 'you thought if you told us in advance we might have said no. Well, you're not the only wartime bride, are you?'

Gary looked at her uncertainly. 'Are you happy for us?'

'Oh, love, of course I am.' She crossed to him and hugged him, smelling the pungent scent of his new khaki uniform. 'It's a shock. But we live in a world of shocks, don't we?'

Hilda turned to her father. 'Dad? What about you?'

George's face was hard. 'Well, you haven't given me much choice in the matter, have you? Gary, you're a good boy, anybody can see that. But, Hilda – your mother's ring – and you didn't even tell me!'

Hilda's face was set. 'Yes, well, this is why, I knew how you'd be.'

As tempers soured, Ben shrank back, dismayed.

The telephone rang in the hall. It made George jump. It had only been installed a few weeks earlier, for his job; he hadn't owned a phone before. 'Excuse me.' He walked out stiffly, retreating into his role, more uniform than man.

'He'll come around,' Mary said.'

'Yes,' Ben said. 'It's just a shock, that's all. I'm shocked.'

Gary grinned. 'We'll do something about it when we get the time – after the war, if we have to wait that long. We'll have a reception – maybe we'll try to have a church ceremony, if we can find a tame padre to do it.'

'You'll be a war hero by then,' Ben said. 'Um, do you think you could stand a Jewish best man?…' He had a complicated look on his face, Mary thought, as if he was trying too hard to be pleased. She knew he was close to Gary; she wondered if he was somehow jealous.

George came back into the room. His face was grey; he looked old. 'Cromwell,' he said simply.

Ben flinched. Hilda grabbed Gary's hand.

Mary asked, 'What does that mean?'

Ben said to her, 'It's a code word. The invasion.'

Mary took a moment to absorb this. In these last minutes, somehow she had forgotten the war, and now here it was intruding. 'I thought it wasn't going to happen,' she found herself saying. 'It's too late in the season for the weather. The RAF and the Navy are too strong. That's what they've been saying on the BBC. Could it be a mistake?'

Gary said, 'We have to get out of here.'

George faced his daughter. 'Hilda-'

'Later, Dad,' she snapped, still angry. 'I think you've said all there is to say for now.' And she stalked out of the room. Gary hugged his mother quickly, then he hurried out after Hilda. George and Ben followed.

Only Mary had no post to man, no obvious duty to fulfil, nowhere to go. She stood in the empty room, marvelling at how her whole world could be turned upside down by a single word.

She was still holding the postcard. It had got crumpled when she had hugged Gary. She turned it over dully. It was from Doris Keeler, the young ARP warden who had been so kind to her during the air raid back in August. They had stayed in touch since, with cards and a couple of letters, sharing their experiences. Now, Mary read, Doris had had a letter from the headquarters of the Children's Overseas Reception Bureau. On Tuesday evening the SS City of Benares, carrying refugee children bound for North America, had been torpedoed. 'Forgive me for writing like this out of the blue as they say with such an awful shock and I know you never knew Jenny but I'm writing to tell everybody I can think of…' Mary imagined her, alone in her home without her POW husband and lost child, scribbling card after card, obsessively.