photograph found in the flat of Edith Donnithorne, after her disappearance last
Roberts first day at Cambridge was almost her last; she suffered food
poisoning after being invited to supper by a fellow undergraduate, consequently
she spent most of Freshers Week in bed, wishing I was
dead. (Times, 1970)
I was at Cambridge
during the strangest and most unpleasant of times; when idealism and optimism
were wiped out by bombs and bullets, and when England lost all that was decent
and good about her. There was so much potential amongst my contemporaries, but
most of them either made a pact with the Devil or disappeared into obscurity,
there were a brave few who did make a stand but sooner or later they were woken
by a knock on the door at midnight and never seen again. I am not sure which of
these categories Margaret Hilda Roberts, later to be Prime Minister, fell into,
perhaps a bit of all three, but she was bravest than the rest of us, and
certainly braver than me.
We met on our first
day at Cambridge, at an event organised by the University Conservative Party,
and got talking over sherry and dry biscuits. I was not particularly political,
but Anna, who I shared my rooms with was, and so I went with her, seeing it as
a good chance to make friends and get a free drink. Anna swiftly disappeared
into the throng, but Margaret and I were introduced and hit it off
immediately, spending most of the evening chatting, and she eventually came to
my rooms where I almost killed her off with reheated stew that I had made the
previous night and left out too long. Despite this she remained one of my
closest friends throughout our time at Cambridge, and when she became famous, I
could not but help feel a glow of pride, although we had long lost touch by
It was June 1942,
and we were walking down Cambridge high street; it was extremely hot, and I
could feel sweat dripping down my back, and I was wishing that I had worn a
lighter dress. The war had been over for almost a year, and we were talking of
Hitler, as so many people were at the time, we were both despondent, Margaret
had lost her fiancée a few days before Neville Chamberlain gave into to
what seemed the inevitable, and surrendered to the Germans. Margaret held onto
my arm for support as we walked aimlessly through the city streets, we barely
talked, both too wretched to do so.
I became aware that
coming towards us was a young woman who was causing a commotion, in fact I
noticed the people around her before I noticed her; the ostentatious stares,
and a couple of young men shouting obscenities from a safe distance.
Oh, she is a
Jew murmured Margaret softly, and then I noticed the yellow star on her
breast; I had heard about the new law, but she was the first person I had
actually seen wearing one. She stared straight ahead as she walked towards us,
and as she drew nearer I gazed at her intently, wondering if she could be a
relation; a second cousin, a distant aunt, even a sister.
She was blonde and
rather beautiful and was wearing a lovely blue and green headscarf, even the
yellow star at her left breast looked distinguished and somehow defiant.
Margaret let go of my arm and walked towards the young woman, who was probably
a year or two older than us, they stood opposite each other for a moment, and
then Margaret held her arms out and embraced her, and kissed her soft cheek. I
heard her say clearly.
intertwined for a few moments, there was the smell of cigarettes from the young
woman, and she looked fragile in Margarets arms, and then she made a
slight movement and then left her arms and, without a backwards glance,
continued walking down the road, whilst the two of us carried on towards Girton
(now long gone with all the other women only colleges), I heard a sniff and
noticed that Margaret was crying, the first time I had seen her do so since she
had heard about the death of her fiancée.
That was almost
forty years ago now, but now when I think of Margaret, I think of that moment,
the embrace, almost passionate, and then the tears and the quiet tea
afterwards. I wonder if the young woman escaped; or was she put in the
new housing and then later on sent to the camps on the Ruhr, where
many were chosen Jews, Gypsies, sexual deviants, socialists
and anyone else the powers that be took a dislike to and none
I dont know
why, but I never told Margaret that I was Jewish even though it became more and
more important as the war ended and the new regime began, more important than
anything. However a couple of men I knew a little from the University
were taken away, and I decided that I could not trust anyone, not even my
closest friends, something I have kept to, and which probably explains why I am
My father was a
member of the landed gentry, but my mother was from the East End of
Londons Jewish community. She had become a nurse in France during the
First World War which is where she met my father, a professional soldier, who
was wounded at Verdun. They fell in love and returned to England already
married and settled down in Surrey where I was born a few months later. Shortly
after I turned four my mother died of flu leaving me with only a few vague
memories and a box of photographs that daddy let me have when I was a little
older, and quite often I would sit and gaze at them; trying to understand her
and perhaps see myself in the slim young woman, looking confidently at the
camera, as she stood next to my father who looked happier than I have ever seen
If it hadnt
been for my mothers sister, my Aunt Miriam, I would not have known about
my mothers (and my) Jewishness, their parents had died shortly before my
mother but throughout my childhood Miriam would often come down from London to
see me, and when I was eleven I spent a week during the summer at her house,
meeting distant relatives, and taking part in the Sabbath meal, and learning a
little about my people.
My Aunt continued to
meet me and write letters, until just before the war ended, and then she
disappeared completely and I never heard from her again; perhaps she saw the
way the wind was blowing and escaped somewhere safe, or perhaps she was one of
the many who were murdered even before we allowed the Nazis in, the English
showing that they were happy to do their dirty work for them. If she had
escaped it would have been to Russia (America had already closed its borders to
Europe by then), where she would have worked in a factory and lived in a hostel
and hopefully been safe. As there was no communication between us and
Russia it is possible they she tried to contact me, and even now when I get
post, I still get a moment of excitement, in case there is a letter with her
beautiful handwriting, saying come and join me, but there never is,
well not yet.
I used to dream of
her; she was walking just ahead me, wearing a long black coat, her red hair
dangling out behind, and however much I called her name, she carried on
walking, and then there was mist, which got thicker and thicker and she
disappeared, and I was left cold and alone. But even the dreams have stopped
and if it wasnt for a couple of photographs my memories of my Aunt would
have also disappeared.
Margaret and I sat
together in a History lecture; she was studying one of the sciences, but had a
variety of interests, and quite often attended lectures on the most abstruse
subjects. Seeing me in the lecture hall, she had sat down next to me and soon
commenced furiously making notes. Doctor Gregson was taking the lecture, a
young man, only a few years older than us, but who had already acquired the
mannerisms of a university don. His specialism was Medieval England and he was
talking about the Blood Libel massacres that haunted Medieval Europe; Jewish
people being accused of the sacrificial murders of Christian boys to use their
blood for Passover, and who were then slaughtered or sent into exile, by way of
course, Gregson continued, there is plenty of evidence that the so
called Blood Libel was no such thing, that our Hebrew Brethren
(snigger) actually did use the blood of Christian children for their rituals,
and that in fact, there is a strong possibility that they still use them
He paused for a
moment, a pathetic attempt at effect, beside me I felt Margaret stiffen, and
then she stood up, she looked striking with her poise and blonde hair which
shone brightly under the light which was directly above us. She said not a word
as she carefully walked towards the front of the lecture theatre, all eyes were
upon her, as she stood still for a moment and glared directly at Doctor
Gregson, before walking out, the door swinging heavily behind her. The
sound of her heavy shoes echoed heavily away down the corridor, as Doctor
Gregson tried to resume the lecture. He looked round at us all, and then at me
in particular, as if daring me to follow my friend, but I did not have the
courage; I sank as deeply into my seat as I could, paralysed and absolutely
Even after all that
has happened, I still get the letters at the beginning of each month, addressed
to Miss E. Donnithorne, with a cheque from the (I presume)
fictional Journal of Arcadian Studies. I have been getting them since the early
1950s when I met Pete Shields at the British Library where we both worked, Pete
has long gone, as has the Library of course, but the money keeps coming.
Whoever sends them is scrupulously honest, making sure that the amount goes up
according to the rate of inflation, and I cash the cheques with no untoward
consequences, and they never bounce.
receiving the letters I feel a touch of guilt and try and find something useful
to send to the old address in Petty France, London, although the building looks
even more dilapidated and uninhabited than it used to and I no longer have a
clear idea what they are looking for, but it helps me spend the money with a
clear conscience. But even the months that I do not send them anything, the
cheque still arrives; perhaps it is for past services rendered, or perhaps even
an apology, although I am not sure what for.
I started working at
the British Library in 1944, shortly after I graduated. Fortunately daddy knew
somebody high up within the new Civil Service, and so the interview was a
formality a cosy chat with a family friend - and I avoided the questions
about my ancestry and racial purity; it is possible that Sir Cedric
knew about my mother and was trying to help me, whatever his motives were, I
was offered the job the same afternoon as the interview and the following week
found myself working in the economic section of the library, where I was to
remain for the rest of my working life.
Every day, apart
from weekends, for over thirty years, I walked to Bloomsbury Square, entered
through the ornate doorway and set to work; finding information, compiling
bibliographies and cataloguing new items. It was not taxing, especially for
someone who was bright, fairly fit and who loved books, and although I
tried not to draw attention to myself and of course am only a woman, I did well
at my job, and as a consequence was promoted a couple of times. And the
fact that I remained in one of the more sensitive departments of the library,
where members of the governing elite, official and unofficial, often came for
information, showed that I was trusted.
I was nervous at
first of course; with so many people being dragged away, and
uncovered as being Jewish, or of having Jewish ancestry as
well as for other crimes - and here I was working for the
government, but I assumed nobody ever thought that the only child of General,
Sir John Donnithorne could be anyone who would give cause for concern. And
occasionally when the head of the civil service, Sir Clive Powell was flirting
with me or a member of the Cabinet thanked me profusely for doing the simplest
of tasks, I laughed to myself, at the thought of their horror if they knew it
was a Jew that they were lewdly smiling at, or offering a sweet.
Pete Shields was for
a short time my line-manager a kind and generous man, and after he moved to
another department we remained friends and used to go to concerts together, so
that when I think of him now there is always the sound of Beethovens
Ghost Trio playing somewhere in the background. Effortless in all he did,
including love-making, he was tall, well-dressed and smelt of eau de
What do you
think of Russia? he asked me one evening, as we lay together in my bed,
The Times says they are suffering severe famine, and that the government
is on the verge of collapse.
Russia was the enemy
of course; even now that Stalin was dead (suicide after Russias
humiliating defeat) and Czar Nicholas III was now on the throne, it was not to
be talked of except with fear and loathing.
Uhm, do you
believe what you read in the newspapers?
Of course, how
could I not, his tone with definitely satirical, and we both laughed
before resuming our previous activity.
This was typical of
the oblique conversations that we had when on our own; nothing given away
exactly, just hints and sarcasm so that we both understood that the other was
deeply unsympathetic to the present regime and wished it ill. A few times I had
been asked by a senior member of the library what I thought of a particular
colleague, and whether they had ever said anything treasonable,
although I was never asked about Pete, clearly there were spies at work and I
assumed that my colleagues were also questioned about my attitude and
behaviour, so we all learned to be circumspect even in our most intimate
A few days after our
conversation about Russia Pete invited me to meet a man in the Petty France
area of London, on the third floor of an old office building; an older man who
smelt of cinnamon and did not give me his name, but if he had, I think it would
have been Russian. We sat together in an empty room and he told me the
kind of information that he wanted; regular articles from newspapers about
economics and politics, and also what any members of the government or civil
service requested from the Library.
take unnecessary risks he told me, but anything you find would be
useful. Anything at all, just send it.
I did not even have
to think about it; it felt good to be acting, even in a small way, against the
evil that ruled our country.
Over the next few
months I found enough material to post to The Journal of Arcadian
Studies and the cheques began to arrive; the same handwriting on the
envelope and cheque as now all these years later. I was as careful as
Ivan suggested; I have a good memory, so when I got home I would
jot down all that anyone at all powerful had requested, and any articles that I
had come across that might be useful, I remembered and copied when it was
quiet. I have no idea what the information was used for, and sometimes I wished
that I could do more, but hopefully it was something, and helpful to
Pete disappeared one
day; he was not at the library canteen at lunchtime on Wednesday not
necessarily unusual as he often had meetings but he was not there on
Thursday and Friday either, and when I telephoned him in the evenings, the
telephone just rang and rang. I was tempted to go up to his department, but I
did not want to call attention to myself or appear like a love-sick fool,
particularly as we both had taken great pains to hide our relationship from our
growing quite concerned, I took a tram to Highgate where he lived in a first
floor flat; he had taken me there a couple of times after attending concerts;
it was rather expensive and had made me feel a little intimidated when I had
walked in, because of its style and the fact that the owner was clearly
wealthy. A quick glance up to the first floor of the building told me
that the curtains were closed, I walked past hurriedly, as if on my way
elsewhere, and noticed that there were two men in a grey car watching the door
to the building (members of the new secret service, the AGU I guessed). Once of
them caught my eye briefly as I walked past, and stared hard at me, as if
memorising my face.
I kept going, my
legs shaking and tensed for a word of command or a hand on my shoulder, but
there was nothing and once out of the neighbourhood I caught the next tram back
home to Dagenham. I had an open fire, and I swiftly burnt everything that
might link me to Pete; the photograph of him on my dresser, a couple of
handwritten notes he had posted through my door, a tie that he had left one
night and even a couple of records that he had bought me for my birthday.
I watched them blacken and melt, and wondered if I was on a list and if there
would soon be a knock on my door.
I never heard
anything more of Pete; he was never mentioned again in work, not even in the
darkest corners, where whispered gossip was exchanged, and I never dared return
to his flat. I hope that he got away, that someone warned him and he was able
to flee, but realistically the best I could wish for him was a quick death and
that he maintained his dignity to the end; but even that I am not hopeful
Pete disappeared in
1960, and by then my old University friend Margaret Roberts was beginning to
make a name for herself, being mentioned in the newspapers and on television as
a possible future Prime Minister, or at least leader of the opposition, even
many of my colleagues spoke about her and were impressed that I had been to
University with her, and had been my friend, albeit for only a short time.
disappeared from my life after university; we had shaken hands at the Summer
Ball at the end of our final year and I had wished her well. She told me that
she had a job with the government but was vague about what it entailed and she
was clearly embarrassed about it; she was attractive and clever in those days,
but there was an underlying sadness about her, which remained, even years
later, and even before she became well-known I often thought of her and
wondered where she was and whether she was happy.
When I first met
her, she was engaged to a tall, elegant young man, who I met one morning as I
returned a book to her rooms early on in my first term, they were obviously
just getting up, despite it being almost midday, and they both seemed happy and
relaxed. But after he died she was never the same again, and I was never aware
of another man in her life.
After his death she
only mentioned him once to me.
Perhaps he was
too good for this world. He was not one for compromises.
You must miss
him dreadfully, I am so sorry.
looking vulnerable, her skin almost translucent, he was a good man, and I
am lucky to have met him. Now I have to get on with my life, make the best of
And after that she
seemed stronger, and worked harder, always at lectures and tutorials, whether
they were relevant to her subject or not.
In 1955 she had
become an M.P. for the Conservative Party; those were the days when the Fascist
Party were continually in government and the Conservatives, despite being the
only legal opposition, feeble and unpopular. But Margaret was part of a new
group of M.P.s who made her party more appealing and not just
fascist-light, and who took advantage of the increasing
incompetence and age of the Fascist leader Sir William Perrin, and who were
gradually transforming the party.
I began to see her
regularly on television; still recognisably the same person I had known at
University, she had kept the ability to be centre of attention without
appearing to try, and her voice was strong but effortless. Some of my
colleagues professed to be half in love with her, and certainly there was an
erotic charge about her, all the more powerful for being, I am sure, completely
unintended. Whatever the reason, she was a charismatic figure, contrasting
strongly with the quislings and thugs on the government benches.
leader of the Conservative Party in 1970 and led her party to their first
General Election victory since the war two years after that; we had all learnt
to be discrete by then but there was a feeling of happiness; the fascists had
been defeated and there was a sense of hope. I remember walking into the
city, the morning after the election victory, Union Jacks had appeared over
night and there were people walking about smiling and saying hello, something
we had seen very little of over the last few years. One young man hugged me
without a word; he smelt of drink, but I didnt care, he was happy and so
Even though the
Fascists were technically out of power, the new government was limited in what
they could do, held back by a strict constitution and a very pro-fascist media
and Civil Service, but Margaret and her party did their best, and managed to at
least alleviate some of the stricter legislation of the post-war government and
cut many of the ties with Germany; it was nothing radical but it made a
difference. By then all the Jews and Gypsies had long gone, but Margaret and
her government eased the restrictions on other minorities who were still here,
and a couple of caustic comments in public made us aware what she felt about
the work of her predecessors. At the time many were disappointed that she did
not do more, but in retrospect it actually proved to be too much.
And then it all came
crashing down, and nothing was left. I remember the day very clearly,
Monday June 13th 1978; the day that so many of my friends and colleagues died,
and also thanks to me the day that marked the beginning of the
end of Margarets career, and the fading away of that faint optimism that
had slowly begun to permeate throughout the whole country.
The bombing of the
British Library was by no means the first terrorist outrage since the end of
the war, and there had been an increase since Margaret Roberts government
took power; a pub frequented by politicians annihilated a few months earlier,
the soldiers barrack fired upon from a nearby flat and the assassination
attempt on Prince Philip which left him in a wheelchair. But this was worst due
to the number of people dead (almost three hundred) and the extensive
devastation in the heart of London and to a historic landmark, so that even a
hardened and cynical population were shocked.
It was estimated
that six bombs had been left in various parts of the library, all timed to go
off at midday when the library was at its busiest, crowded with the public and
members of staff; the bombs were large and deadly, and almost completely
destroyed the place, and it was said that the sound of the bomb could be heard
as far away as Brighton in the South and Watford in the North.
We never knew who
did it; the newspapers inevitably blamed the Russians, or the
Zionists (harder to countenance now that Israel had been wiped out by her
Nazi-backed neighbours), and four foreign-looking men were subsequently dragged
into court a couple of months later, and within a week their bodies were
hanging from the gates of Buckingham Palace, but only the most gullible
actually believed that they were anything but useful scapegoats.
I had booked the
thirteenth off a week earlier, so that I could go down to Surrey to see daddy
for a long weekend; since my mother had died he had had a succession of
companions but nobody permanent, and now that he had been forced to
retire from the army, he was bored and lonely and seemed to appreciate and need
my company more and more, and as I had nobody close since Pete, I would often
spend my free time with him.
We were sitting
eating lunch and watching television that Monday, when the dramatic news of the
bombing of the British Library came on; without a word we watched in silence
the smoking ruins and shocked survivors and passers-by walking through the
smoke and bricks. I thought that there must be a mistake; this was nothing like
the British Library I knew, and then I started to cry, hunched up in my
armchair, and I only stopped crying after throwing up violently in the
I had caught the
train to daddys, but I knew that they would cancel all public transport
after the bombing, so daddy lent me his car he rarely used it now
and I drove back to London, where two members of the AGU were waiting for me
with their car door open and without giving me chance to even get into my house
they drove me down to Croydon where their headquarters is. I sat in the back in
the back of the usual grey car, in shock whilst the two men one German,
one English spoke to each other and to the radio, ignoring me.
The AGU headquarters
was commonly known as the Flower Pot because of its round shape
getting wider as it got higher, and the myriad aerials sticking out of the roof
like dead flowers, however despite its cosy nickname it was a dreaded place
whose cellars were popularly supposed to be filled with so many of those who
disappeared, whilst at night the ashes of the luckier ones were said to blow
out over South London, fertilising parks and gardens.
They sat me alone in
a dark cell for two days and then judging that I was ripe for questioning, took
me to the top of the building the window left wide open as a tacit
threat where two uniformed men told me what they knew, and what they
knew was a lot. They knew that I was Jewish, they knew about Dave Shields and
they also knew plenty of things that were not true, although for some reason
they did not know about the Journal of Arcadian Studies.
For the next week or
two (possibly longer, possibly shorter) a team of five took it in turns to try
and get information from me; they hit me in the tummy and chest, threatened me
with deportation to the death camps in Germany, and for days at a time deprived
me of food and the toilet. It does not take long to become less than human when
you are dirty, desperate for food, aching all over and helpless.
Why was I off
planned the bombing?
Was it the
Why did you do
Was it the
Was it the
In the end,
desperate to give them something, anything to please them, I gave them
Margaret, which I later realised is what they wanted all along.
Margaret Roberts at University; her lover was Jewish and he had all these left
That is not
She was Jewish
as well; she told me because she knew that I was too. But she had secret
writings, Jewish writings. We wanted one of us in power, that is why she has
become Prime Minister, it is a Zionist Plot.
One of them smiled;
perhaps they actually believed in Jewish plots, that they had become so
paranoid and evil, that their imaginings became real.
They took me to an
office a floor down, to sign a confession; repeating all that I had said about
Margaret with a few embellishments, but I was happy to sign anything if it
meant my release and the possibility of food. Early the next morning, when it
was still dark, I was dragged out of bed by a soldier and left on the street
outside cold, sore and very hungry. I had been given back my wallet and
although some money had been taken from it, there was still enough for coffee
and a pastry from a café on Croydon high street.
The owner looked at
me closely for a moment; he probably knew where I had come from, I doubt that I
was the first who had sat in his dimly-lit café, shivering and hungrily
bolting down food. I stayed there for several hours, drinking more and more
coffee until it was light and other people came in, presumably on their way to
work, and so after a quick trip to the toilet I caught the tram home.
They may have let me
go, but I no longer had a job; there was a letter waiting for me when I got
home from the head of the Civil Service saying that because of the change in my
ethnic status I was no longer eligible to work for them, and a day
or two later I was told to go to my local police station where my Identity Card
and Badge were taken off me, and I received a new one with a brown
A on the top right corner (for Alien), and suddenly I was no longer
allowed to work for anything to do with the government (not only the Civil
Service but all schools, colleges and even the church), I could no longer
travel abroad and was liable for arrest at any time.
For the next few
weeks I stayed in my house; I had enough savings for the time being and I knew
that daddy would give me an allowance the moment I asked, but whilst I was not
worried about money, I dreaded that my house could be taken away from me and
that I could be re-arrested and this time for good. I shivered every time a
shadow passed my curtain, but nobody ever knocked, nobody ever called, or they
havent so far.
And so for the next
few weeks I sat and listened to the radio, and heard all about the fall of Mrs
Roberts; the usual pattern, the rumours in the press about foreign
ancestry, jokes that she was mean, and earnest discussion of the
lack of patriotism in her government. There was no military coup or
arrest; one morning she appeared before the cameras looking tired and ill and
announced her resignation, due to a recent illness. As she stood
there, outside the Prime Ministerial residence of 20 Godolphin Street, she
looked at the cameras, and there was a flash of anger but also of resignation;
she had done her best, but she had been betrayed and had to step aside.
I had thought I
might be called to testify against her, but clearly my confession
was enough, and perhaps the confessions of others who had been
brought in to testify against the Prime Minister. I am glad that I did not have
to go in court and face the woman who was once my friend, but it did make me
feel even more pathetic; I wished I had been braver, had refused to speak, but
I am no hero; and I know that I was always going to give them what they wanted,
that I had been happy to do so, in exchange for my freedom and for food.
swiftly collapsed; several M.P.s also resigned, and there were arrests, and a
new election was called, which the fascists won, but with only a tiny majority,
and, amidst rumours that the result had been fixed, there were riots for a few
days before everything calmed down and we went back living under a fascist
government. But even the fascists kept some of their predecessors
legislation, so perhaps the United Kingdom had improved slightly for the better
as a result of Margarets time as Prime Minister, and it hadnt been
all in vain.
As for Margaret
Roberts, she was allowed to retire to the North of Scotland, and remarkably
soon she was forgotten about, or spoken about as if her time as Prime Minister
had been many years ago. She did make the headlines five years later though,
when she was found dead in bed by her maid. We were told that it was natural
causes and the newspapers were polite and at times laudatory now that she was
safely dead, but I doubt many believed that she had died peacefully. I wept
after I heard, long and hard, not just for her, but also over my weakness and
My father had also
died the same week, he lived alone and it was only when I could not get through
to him for two days in row, that I telephoned one of his neighbours and they
found him lying dead in the orchard, slumped against a tree, a coronary
apparently. There were not many mourners at his funeral, he had died out of
favour with the powers that be, an embarrassment to admit to having known, let
alone having been his friend. Only a few neighbours, too old or unambitious to
care about what the authorities thought, attended, even the vicar handed over
the duty to his curate, who got through the service with a haste and distaste,
that he did not bother to conceal.
Back in London I sit
stony-faced with the radio on. Financially I am secure for the rest of my
life, but that is unimportant. I think of my father who had protected me all my
life, and who had seen his old world destroyed, and I think of my erstwhile
fellow student and friend, who had been brave and strong, and I hope that when
they killed her, they were kind and quick, as befitted someone who had been
Prime Minister. And then I think, as I continually do, what will they be like
when they come for me, as they surely will, will they be merciful, or is mercy
too much to expect from the likes of them?
She sat on my bed as
we discussed A Tale of Two Cities, a book which we both hugely
fiancée is due here next week, isnt he?
She nodded with a
shy smile, and then he is off to fight. I dont mind telling
you that I am quite nervous.
I reached over and
gave her a quick hug, and for a brief moment we held each other awkwardly, but
then she disengaged herself and adjusted her hair.
I am sure it
will be okay she said, her voice quavering slightly, we are on the
right side, and we must triumph in the end, good always does.
We sat in silence
for a few moments, I could sense her anxiety.
I have got
some leftover stew downstairs in the kitchen, would you like some?
that would be lovely.
It should be
safe to eat, I only made it last night.
She held my hand
briefly and then we walked down to the kitchen to heat up our supper, and to