1944
1
Every time Viv and her father came out of the prison they had to stop for a minute or two so that Mr Pearce could rest, could get out his handkerchief and wipe his face. It was as though the visits knocked the breath from him. He''d gaze back at the quaint, grey, medieval-looking gate like a man who''d just been punched. ''If I''d ever thought,'' he''d say, or, ''If someone had told me.''
''Thank God your mother''s not here, Vivien, to have to see this,'' he said today.
Viv took his arm. ''At least it''s not for much longer.'' She spoke clearly, so that he would hear. ''Remember what we said, at the start? We said, "It''s not for ever."''
He blew his nose. ''That''s right. That''s true.''
They started to walk. He insisted on carrying her satchel for her, but she might as well have been holding it herself: he seemed to lean against her with all his weight, and every so often he let out his breath in a little puff. He could have been her grandfather, she thought. All this business with Duncan had made an old man of him.
The February day had been cold, but bright. Now it was quarter to five and the sun was setting: there were a couple of barrage balloons up and they were the only things that still caught the light, drifting pinkly, vividly, in the darkening sky. Viv and her father walked along towards Wood Lane. There was a café, close to the station, where they usually stopped. When they reached it today, however, they found women there, whose faces they recognised: the girlfriends and wives of men in other parts of the prison. They were freshening up their make-up, peering into compacts; laughing their heads off. Viv and her father walked on to another place. They went in, and bought cups of tea.