Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham

wants us to go, but he also wants us to take something to him that a man will bring, if we agree.’
    Helen picked up the letter taking it from the envelope but it was in German.
    ‘Something has happened to my father. He has changed but he has to be careful with his words.’ Heine took her hands in his, crushing the letter as he did so. His voice was slow. ‘He has, he says, realised the meaning of my words on our last visit. That he hopes my leg has healed as well as his sight and his hearing. He wants us to take a camera, my love. He doesn’t say so but I know what he means, and I know which one he wants. It has a wide aperture lens which takes photographs indoors without flash. Ideal for working inside courtrooms, at meetings.’
    ‘But won’t we be stopped at the border? Photography is allowed only with a permit, isn’t it?’
    Heine did not answer and there was only the sound of the clock. They had fifteen minutes and then Helen realised what Herr Weber had meant and she sat down, her hands cold. The camera was for secret work. His sight was better and his hearing. Of course she knew what he meant.
    ‘You see what I mean when I say I cannot promise to keep you safe – but I need you with me. You are English, they have to be more careful with foreigners. We are not yet at war.’
    Helen picked the white cotton thread off her apron, curled it round and round her finger, watching her fingertip turn to purple. It was four o’clock.
    ‘But most of all I need you because you will give me courage.’
    She walked alone to the school and stood at the railings waiting for Christoph. The children called him Chris and thought his father was Dutch. He ran towards her, past the white-chalked hopscotch squares, his cap on the back of his head, his blond hair too long. His smile was wide and his eyes were her father’s: dark brown.
    ‘Did you bake the conkers today?’ she shouted as he reached her but did not kiss her cheek because none of the other children did and, after all, he was nearly six. She laughed and nodded and they walked back through the park. Other children trailed in front and behind with their mothers. Helen held his sandwich tin which smelt of Marmite when she opened it. They stopped by the swings with their rusted chains. He ran to one and pushed off with both his feet.
    ‘So you ate everything today then,’ she called as he swung himself high, his socks down at his ankles, his knee black. Onedark woman pushed her son on the swing next to Helen and turned and smiled.
    ‘Said I would if you baked ’em for me.’ He was slowing now. ‘Hey, I bashed a tenner today, so now mine’s the king. It’s got sixteen so far. Is Dad home? Did he get any good shots today? Did you?’ But he wasn’t listening, he was scraping his shoe along the ground as he slowed the swing, ready to jump from it before rushing to the roundabout.
    ‘Chris, for goodness sake, don’t do that and come on now. It’s time to get home.’
    ‘Man and boy, they’re all alike,’ the other woman said and laughed. Helen smiled, the tin was cold against her skin. She put out her hand to steady the swing after Chris ran off. The chain links stained her hand.
    ‘Yes, man and boy,’ she echoed and added silently, German and English too; we’re all alike. She waved to the woman. ‘See you again,’ she called and hoped that she would.
    They walked down the path which ran alongside beds which held no flowers now that summer was gone, just heaped dark earth. Chris kicked a stone, scratching his toe-cap but Helen said nothing, just breathed in the smoke from the bonfire that the greensman was fanning by the tennis courts. There were hardly any leaves left on the trees and the sun seemed to have been sucked from the face of the earth.
    ‘How would you like Grandma to come and stay with you for a bit? Daddy and I have to go away, just for a while.’
    There had been no decision to make really, she had known from the start she would go