The Linden Walk. Elizabeth Elgin

its magnanimity, lifted control on the manufacture of cutlery, fountain pens and jewellery. A small step towards normality, some said, but wouldn’t it have been better by far if food rationing had been done away with, or at least the present miserable rations doubled.

      In that month, too, a son was born to Princess Elizabeth, and if you wanted to put not too fine a point on it, another infant to help swell the baby boom, because that was what the amazingly large number of babies being born in the United Kingdom was called.

      But by far the most startling event, and the most startled teacher of mathematics ever, was the arrival home of Keth Purvis on the last Friday in November – he would never forget the day – to find the path at the side of his house blocked by a car, which gleamed in his headlights and was shiny black and very new.

      ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

      He got out of his own much less shiny motor and walked around the intruder, squinting inside to see gleaming upholstery – it couldn’t be leather, surely? And the thing, as far as he could see, had key ignition, indicator lights that flashed left and right and heaven only knew what else.

      The back door opened and Daisy stepped out with Mary, swaddled in a shawl, in her arms.

      ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ She took his hand, wrapping his fingers around a small key.

      ‘My birthday is in July,’ Keth said, dry-mouthed. ‘You know it is.’

      ‘Well then – Happy Christmas! You do like it? It’s a Morris Minor, the new model.’

      ‘Like it? Daisy Purvis, I don’t know what to say. I mean, where did you get it? How did you get it? I don’t believe it!’

      ‘Then you better had, because it’s yours. And I got it from Creesby Motors by writing out a cheque.’

      ‘But wife darling, what was the magic word, for heaven’s sake!’

      ‘The magic word was Purvis. I went to see them just before you and Drew went to London, and the man said there was no chance at all. Three new cars was all he’d ever had and they were gone straight away. So I asked him if he would put your name on his waiting list. And when I said Purvis, Mr Keth Purvis, he asked me if you were the schoolie who taught his boy maths at Creesby Grammar. And I said you were.

      ‘“Then in that case, Mrs Purvis, your husband has a fair old chance of getting one of the next new motors I get in,” he said. You see, darling, it seems his son is a bright enough lad, but had a mental blockage when it came to maths. Was making the boy’s life a misery. Then you started teaching there and his son came on in leaps and bounds, and all because of you. “Good at sums he is now,” I was told.’

      ‘It gets queerer by the minute,’ Keth laughed. ‘The boy isn’t called Colin Chambers, is he?’

      ‘Our Colin? Sounds like him.’

      ‘But Daisy love, schoolteachers – schoolies – don’t have the kind of money to buy new cars. At least, this one doesn’t.’

      ‘So are we going to get onto The Money subject?’

      ‘No, darling. No, of course not. But –’

      ‘No buts. Either you like it as much as I do, or it can go back to Creesby Motors. Keth – just think? When the better weather comes, you’ll be able to take your mother to Hampshire. She’s never seen your dad’s grave since we left there; only the photograph we took of it when we were on our honeymoon.’

      ‘But petrol is rationed. How am I to get to Hampshire and back?’

      Keth was laughing, now. With disbelief Daisy supposed, but laughing, for all that.

      ‘The nice man threw in a full tank of off-the-ration petrol. In gratitude it must have been.’

      ‘Daisy Purvis!’ He kissed her soundly. ‘You are a witch! Mary Natasha Purvis, your mother is a witch!’

      ‘Mm. Mummy’s got a magic name,’ Daisy laughed. ‘And Mary is getting hungry. Go on, then. Open it! Get inside!’

      ‘I love you,’ Keth whispered, but already the kitchen door had banged behind her.

      He ran his hand over the shiny, slippery bodywork, then said again, ‘I’ll be damned.’

      His hand shook as he pushed the key in the lock, then he sat in the unfamiliar seat, sniffing the newness smell, wondering how any one man could be so lucky. And not just car-lucky. Lucky to survive the war, to get out of France. Lucky to have Daisy and Mary Natasha. And of course he would take his mother to West Welby to see his father’s grave. Hampshire was a long way away, but somehow he would get petrol; on the black market, if he had to. But he would take her there, stay overnight, make a real outing of it – if you could call a visit to a grave an outing.

      He ran his hands round the steering wheel, then wiggled the gear lever. Tomorrow, he would take it on the road. He wondered what the boys at school would say on Monday when Sir arrived in a brand-new car; wondered what Drew and Bill would say. Drew would know whose money had paid for it; Bill would not. The Money. Daisy’s secret.

      And there was another grave he would visit. He had thought to do it for a long time; now it had become a must. He must go to France, to Clissy-sur-Mer and find the grave of a sixteen-year-old girl – if she’d been given a decent burial, that was. But at least he would go to Tante Clara’s house, perhaps see the lilies in the back garden, ask at the bread shop for news of Madame Piccard and a girl called Hannah Kominski who had become Elise Josef on a forged passport. Codename Natasha. He had called his daughter for her and for the people in Clissy-sur-Mer who had died so he could get a package back to the stone house, in deepest Argyll. He drew in his breath, tapping his forefingers on the wheel, remembering Castle McLeish and a submarine – the Selene. And a tipsy-winged plane called a Lysander that flew him and the package to safety, the night Natasha died. Daisy knew little about France. He had not been able to tell her. Signing the Official Secrets Act made sure he did not.

      ‘Why Natasha?’ she asked when he had chosen it as Mary’s second name, and all he had been able to tell her was that it belonged to a sixteen-year-old girl who had died.

      Well, he was going to France just as soon as the government lifted the ban on travel abroad, and if it meant telling Daisy every single word of what happened there, then he would and damn the trouble he might get himself into. Daisy would understand, once she knew. Knowing her as he did, she would insist that he make the sentimental journey that would help ease his conscience. When a man was as lucky as Keth Purvis, it was the only way he could tip his cap to Fate, and ask that he might be allowed to keep what was so precious to him. Nothing to do with the car. The car had only brought things to a head. Too much luck. He had to make amends.

      He got out of the car, locked it, then opened the kitchen door. Daisy was sitting there, Mary at her breast. It was a sight he never tired of because it made Daisy even more beautiful. She looked up, and smiled.

      ‘All right, now? Got over the shock?’

      ‘I think so. Thank you, darling.’

      He bent down to kiss her. Later, when Mary was asleep and they had eaten supper, would be the best time to talk.

      ‘Sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’m not supposed to, but I don’t care.’

      ‘About the war, Keth – your war?’

      ‘Yes. But you half knew, didn’t you, that I didn’t spend all the war code breaking.’

      ‘Sort of. France came into it, and someone called Natasha. That much you admitted to, and then you clammed up.’

      ‘I had to. I’m still bound by the Official Secrets Act. For thirty years, I was told. But let’s see Mary off to bed and have our supper. Then I’ll tell you.’

      ‘You don’t have to, Keth, though I would like to know; clear things up, kind of. And Mary’s finished, now. Can you get her wind