Hari handed James an apple she’d stolen from Jessie’s store, the orchard behind the farm in Carmarthen, which, though neglected now, had still yielded some fine apples. She and Jessie had brought them to Swansea and Jessie had ‘set them down’ in the cool larder in the back kitchen of Hari’s house.

‘A little treat for you James.’ Hari wished she could give it to Michael but of course that was impossible, especially now. Hari bit back a sigh. Where was Michael? Was he still alive or had he been shot attempting to escape? Fear was like a cold knife in her heart but she tried to smile as James took the apple, his features softening.

‘You’re like that there Eve in the Bible, girl,’ he said softly, ‘but I don’t need any tempting, see?’

Hari moved away from him. ‘I’d better not stay too long, don’t want to lose my reputation now, do I?’

‘You won’t do that, Hari, everyone can see you’re respectable. We only been inside the camp once and then we weren’t alone, like. No, you won’t lose your reputation as a nice girl, don’t you worry.’

Hari walked back to the munitions gate and settled down to wait for the next bus. She missed Violet’s company but Vi was on her honeymoon, enjoying life as a new bride.

As she waited, Hari remembered the way George had fought with Meryl. But they were children then and war had changed George: he’d seen violence and death on the streets; he’d done dangerous work; he was honed now into a good man. Violet had done well for herself.

When Hari at last got home, she saw her father sprawled in a chair, a steaming meal of hot pie on a tray on his lap. Jessie as usual was fussing over him. To be fair, with Violet and George away, Father was the only one Jessie had left to fuss over.

‘Jess has made us a delicious pie for our dinner, Angharad.’ Her father put down his knife and fork. ‘It will put some meat on those thin bones of yours.’

‘Precious little meat in that pie,’ Jessie said, in her usual blunt way, but her eyes gleamed at the praise. ‘Mostly veg from the farm and a bit of offcuts of lamb, bits and pieces, and pastry mostly made from lard.’

‘Still, it’s delicious.’ Father was in a good mood though lines of pain from his leg etched his face. He caught Jessie’s hand and held it for a long moment. She blushed and Hari hid a smile; her father and Jessie were clearly very fond of each other. She supposed they weren’t really that old. Father was fifty-two and Jessie was an indeterminate age, perhaps fifty, maybe younger, but her hair was white and long and always coiled into a bun which might make her look older. Anyway, they both appeared transformed, happy. Could there be love in the air?

Suddenly, Hari felt upset. She went outside into the tiny back garden, planted now with vegetables which were tended mainly by Jessie, and forced back the tears. Everyone had a loved one: Violet, even Father, and of course Meryl, who had the best love of all, married to dear darling Michael, who had once loved her, had lain with her, made a woman of her.

‘Don’t be so melodramatic!’ she said aloud. ‘You’re acting like a Victorian maid. Grow up, Angharad Jones, for God’s sake.’ She felt ashamed of herself, her little sister might be dead for all she knew.

‘Taking the Lord’s name in vain now, then, girl?’ Jessie stood beside her, her voice was anxious. ‘You’re upset. Is it me and your father? We’re not rushing into anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I just find I care for him.’ She was pleading for Hari to understand.

‘No, it’s not that.’ Hari decided it was time to tell Jessie the truth. ‘It’s about Michael.’

‘What about Michael—has anything happened to him?’ Jessie clutched her arm. ‘There’s me thinking about myself, acting like a girl again, and not thinking about my son.’

‘It’s all right, Jessie, at least I think Michael is all right, but you’ve heard the news about the escaped prisoners from Bridgend?’

Jessie shook her head. ‘Of course, but I didn’t think too much about it. But what’s that got to do with my Michael?’

‘He crashed as you know, Jessie, but he lived and was a prisoner in Island Farm. I wasn’t sure at first if it was him then he looked at me and gave me a sort of signal.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He escaped but they’ve got him again. God knows what state he’ll be in when they fetch him back.’

‘No love, you’re mistaken, Michael is dead, you’re dreaming, wanting him to be alive. Don’t fool yourself girl, what would Michael be doing in a prison with a lot of Germans? You’re just being plain daft.’

Jessie hugged her. ‘Forget my Michael, Hari, he was never for you; find another man; you’re young, beautiful and you’re alive. Michael is dead; dead; do you understand?’

Hari nodded. ‘I understand Jessie, go back to Father, he needs you. I’ll just calm myself before I come in.’ But how could she be calm when her thoughts were a confusion of doubts and hopes and her every sinew yearned for one man only, and that man was Michael Euler?

Seventy

The days and nights passed without incident, that is until Fritz got us near the coast. We were emerging from a small forest when suddenly shots were fired, whizzing overhead like a swarm of bees. German voices shouted the order to ‘halt’ and Fritz accelerated away into another group of trees. He stopped among thick brush.

‘You get out,’ he said, almost gently, ‘for your sake and for ours. I’ll try to come back to pick you up. If I don’t, you’re on your own.’ He drove away and I wished him luck with all my heart.

I must have waited hidden in the trees for hours but no one came for me. At last, as it was growing dark, I knew Fritz wasn’t coming back and I began to walk. I was so tired I wanted to cry, to give myself up to the Germans, tell them everything and let them shoot me. And then I thought of the baby, my baby—Michael’s baby—and I knew I had to make an effort to escape.

My legs were aching and my belly grumbled with hunger by the time I saw the lights of a dockyard. I knew it was dangerous to go any further but I had to bluff my way back home, live by my wits as I’d done since I left British shores.

I could see German uniforms everywhere. I dug out my German papers. They were all in order, German and Irish, thanks to my dear father-in-law.

I walked into the dockyard and my heart lightened. I might get a passage to Ireland from here if I was lucky. It didn’t occur to me I didn’t know where ‘here’ was. Head high, I was stopped at a barrier and showed my German papers.

‘What is your business at the docks?’ The guard spoke in heavily accented German and I barely understood him.

‘I think I’m lost.’ It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment.

‘From Berlin, eh?’ He looked me up and down.

‘Hamburg,’ I said at once.

‘Berlin has been attacked again by the British and the Americans.’ He stumbled for the right words. ‘Soon be burned like Dresden.’ I could swear there was a touch of glee in his voice; he must be Belgian or Dutch I decided.

‘Why you leave Hamburg?’ He almost shouted the question and I jumped.

I am leaving for Ireland,’ I said, in German, ‘Sick mother to visit.’ I patted my rounded stomach. ‘Tell her about my baby, too.’

‘No ship from this port to Ireland. You go somewhere else.’

I stood there with my little bag in my hand feeling abandoned. ‘I don’t know where to go or what to do, my husband, a pilot, is lost over enemy territory.’

That was as much of the truth as I wanted to tell him. I hoped he wouldn’t probe too deeply. If he did he might discover who I really was and he’d soon find out I had been wanted in Germany as a spy. He looked at my bag and I held it out to him. He shook his head.

‘Please help me.’ I perched uncomfortably on a bollard and put my case on the ground.

He was silent for a long time and then he sighed in resignation. ‘Wait here.’ He disappeared.

I sat uncomfortably on the uneven surface feeling the cold from the pewter, oily water of the docks chill my bones. I sat there for at least an hour unnoticed. Then he was back.

‘You stubborn.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Must be Irish in you. Show papers again.’

I showed him my papers and he nodded hesitantly. ‘You Catolic, then?’ It seemed to please him. ‘I speak to wife Ella, she Catolic as well, say you can stay in my house.’

I didn’t bother to tell him I was Welsh Baptist down to the bone. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I said, just to be polite.

‘No trouble, it is all right.’ He took me to the edge of the dock and pointed to the house.

‘Oh, thank you.’ I stepped from one foot to the other not knowing what to do.

‘You sit on bench,’ he said, pointing. ‘I relieved of duty in only few minutes. I am Freddie, I take you.’

Relieved, I sat on the bench; it seemed if you were small, young, pregnant and alone every man wanted to take care of you.

About an hour later I was seated near a warm fire with Freddie’s wife, Ella. She was Belgian too and brought me a hot drink of chocolate. It was a treat and though I knew that the tin of powdered chocolate was probably pinched from one of the ships on the dock, I drank with relish.

I slept on the sofa tucked into a warm blanket, the fire burned low in the grate but the embers gleamed comfortingly and out of sheer fatigue I fell asleep almost at once.

In the morning, Freddie had to go to work and Ella and I poured over a map. I wondered if I could hitch a lift into France which, to my delight, had been liberated some months ago by the British army. It was miles away, but if I could hitch a lift to Calais I would surely find a way to go to Ireland and from there to Britain.