ALSO BY GRAHAM RAWLE

Diary of an Amateur Photographer

Woman’s World

The Card

title page for Overland

for Margaret

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Epub ISBN: 9781473547377

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VINTAGE

20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

London SW1V 2SA

Vintage is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

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Copyright © Graham Rawle 2018

Cover design © Graham Rawle

Book designed by Graham Rawle

Graham Rawle has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published by Chatto & Windus in 2018

penguin.co.uk/vintage

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ONE

A LOCKHEED P-38 fighter-bomber flew low over the ocean. The sun glinted off the aircraft’s streamlined shape silhouetted against the shimmering aquamarine water below.

Presently, the plane crossed the California coastline, marked by a foaming frill where the breaking waves met the pale sands of Santa Monica beach. Confident, and in control, the pilot headed inland, the high, wide bubble canopy affording him a panoramic view.

From a height of three thousand feet, Santa Monica appeared as an intricate two-dimensional mosaic of pale grays and browns, the buildings conforming to a tightly gridded network of intersecting roads. An occasional patch of green indicated an area of parkland or a sports field. The pilot ran a gloved finger over the chart on his knee, picking up the long diagonal thread of Santa Monica Boulevard, which cut across the grid, pointing like an arrow in a north-easterly direction towards the Hollywood Hills.

Climbing above the peaks, he glanced down at the blocky white letters of the Hollywoodland sign, then flew north over the extensive network of sound stages and back lots that together formed the Warner Bros. Studios estate on one side, and the new Walt Disney Studios on the other. From here, he headed on towards the residential area of Burbank.

He consulted his flight chart, checking for landmark reference points and then took the plane down to two thousand feet. From here, cars were clearly visible: tiny dotted lines threading their way along thin gray roads. The pilot shook his head. He checked his compass again, and rolled the plane first left and then right, seemingly unable to find what he was looking for.

It was gone nine when George emerged from Shangri-La Cottage. He was by nature an early riser and would have been up a couple of hours ago, but instead had lain awake considering things. He found this the most valuable time to think, while the residue of recent dreams—often a source of inspiration—still lingered on the pillow. Among the things he had given thought to that Monday morning were a statue of a man on horseback sitting atop a heavy-looking plinth; a couple of cream-colored removal trucks, big and boxy with something like Atlas Removals painted on the side; and a red windmill with latticework cross sails—the traditional kind most commonly seen in Holland or on the lid of a chocolate box.

He stood on the porch, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the light. Residents were already up and about, enjoying the glorious sunshine. Everyone seemed so nicely turned out, as though today they had chosen to wear something special: men in casual shirts and summer slacks, women in cotton dresses with extravagant wide-brimmed hats they might normally save for a garden party or wedding.

Closing the door behind him he sauntered down the garden path, stopping to admire the tree that stood in the middle of his garden. Even for those who know about such things, he imagined that this particular botanical variety, with its vivid moss-green foliage and tight lilac blooms, would have been difficult to identify: some kind of hybrid flowering maple maybe, or a rare ornamental sycamore? Naturally, he couldn’t say.

Out on the sidewalk a woman passed by pushing a baby buggy. He’d spoken to her several times before, but could never quite remember her name. Joyce, was it? She was usually in nurse’s uniform, but today she wore a gray-taupe dress with a brown tilt hat and matching gloves. The dark tangerine scarf at her throat brought out the bronze notes in her hair. It was a great color combination; one that George thought might translate well to a building facade or storefront.

She paused at his garden gate.

“Good morning. Another glorious day.” She cinched her gloves tighter as she gazed up at the sky.

George nodded in agreement. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back his head, taking in the wide, seamless expanse of blue. He’d never realized there was so much of it.

“What have we done to deserve it?” he said.

Joyce—if that was her name—didn’t know. “Beats me,” she said.

George let out a contented sigh. They both took a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun on their faces.

“How’s the baby today?” he said.

The woman glanced at her buggy. “A whole lot better than the one I got yesterday. He looked like Edward G. Robinson.”

George winced sympathetically.

She told him she had to run a couple of errands so, releasing the brake on the buggy, bid him farewell and continued along the street.

It was reassuring to watch the Residents going about their business. Near the entrance to the bank building a man in a charcoal blazer with a cheerful yellow vest, and another wearing a checked frock coat and top hat that might have come from a different century, were erecting a wooden flagpole. In the shade of a garden umbrella nearby, a red-faced man sat on the grass huffing into the nozzle of a candy-striped beach ball.

Someone yelled good morning. George looked up to see Jimmy standing astride the pitched apex of his roof, painting its surface brick-red with a wide roller attached to a pole. It seemed a couple of shades too dark, but it would dry lighter.

George signaled his approval with a thumbs-up. “Much better.”

“Thanks. Sid told me you weren’t so keen on the other color?”

“Too bright. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, do we?”

Jimmy shrugged agreeably and continued painting. “You’re the boss.”

George idly watched him work for a while. Perhaps sensing this, Jimmy turned to resume the conversation.

“Hey, you want to buy a motorcycle, Mr Godfrey?”

The question caught him off guard. It took a moment for him to think about it. Slowly he shook his head. “Motorcycle? Me? No thanks. Too dangerous. A feller could kill himself on one of those things.”

“Well, if you hear of anyone who’s feeling suicidal …”

George nodded.

At the gate, he noticed that the corner of his lawn had folded over to reveal the bare plywood underneath. He flipped it back over with the toe of his wingtip.

A dove-gray automobile rolled quietly by. Following in its path at the same leisurely pace was a long white bus with a red stripe painted along its side. At the wheel was a kid wearing a bow tie and soda jerk hat. The hand-painted destination sign above his head read OVERLAND. Once the bus had passed, George crossed to the other side of the street. Here, behind the houses, an area of shrubs bordered lush green fields populated by lazily grazing sheep. On a hillside some distance away, a farmer drove a tractor steadily up and down, tilling the land—or whatever it was that farmers did.

George stood there in the warm breeze surveying the surroundings. A feeling of well-being swelled his chest. No runny nose, no itchy eyes, no sneezing. In fact he didn’t remember having sneezed once since he came to Overland. At home—what he used to call home—long bouts of repetitive sneezing, particularly in the mornings, had become the norm. Muriel had been less than sympathetic.

“For Christ’s sake, George, would you give it a rest with the sneezing?”

When he reminded her of his allergy, explaining that he couldn’t help it, she accused him of putting it on just to annoy her.

He supposed he could have made more effort to stifle them; it wasn’t entirely necessary to bark out big explosive Arrashoos every time, but the truth of it was he enjoyed seeing her flinch. In the aftermath of each sneeze George would groan with a dopey look on his face to convey the extent of his suffering as he reached for his hanky, hot and damp from repeated use. This would cause Muriel to stare at the floor, shaking her vexed head and muttering Jesus under her breath.

Back then, it was in the early mornings that he suffered most. While Muriel slept heavily beside him George would lie awake, growing increasingly aware of the dreadful cloying scent she had doused herself in the night before. It was always the same one, Affaire de Coeur, a syrupy, dime-store favorite reminiscent of cheap candy and week-old gardenias. It clung like a virus, seeming to gain strength overnight until it permeated everything in the room. He would turn his face away from her on the pillow, trying to ignore it, but before long he would feel his nose start to prickle and fizz in the build-up to the onslaught that would soon follow. Putting Muriel and the awful Affaire de Coeur out of his mind, George wandered back towards Shangri-La. Jimmy had all but finished painting his roof when he accidentally kicked the corner of his paint tray and sent it sliding gently down the slope. He pounced, attempting to trap it with his roller, but skidded on a slick patch of wet paint, falling onto his rear end. With nothing to grab hold of, he slid helplessly down the roof; dumped by his own momentum, along with roller and paint tray, off the edge and onto his garden lawn. He clambered to his feet to inspect the damage. Though unhurt there was a big smear of red paint down the back of his pants. He turned his hands palm upwards and saw that they too were covered in paint. George stifled a chuckle.

The automobiles in Parking Lot F were flecked with dappled light filtering down through the greenery above. The factory’s morning shift was well underway so the lot was largely deserted of people.

A Jack Russell terrier sat alone on the back seat of a brand new 1942 Plymouth, minding its own business, when suddenly there was a soft slap on the concrete. Immediately recognizing the sound, the dog’s ears shot up and, with a squirming little wriggle of excitement, he launched himself through the car’s open window. He darted between the other vehicles and across the yard, leaping gracefully into the air to snatch a tennis ball, mid bounce. With the ball clamped in his eager jaws, he scurried back to the Plymouth and jumped in through the window. There he lay, contented and proud, gnawing on the new acquisition. A row of other balls just like it lay beside him on the seat.

The trees that lined the Overland sidewalk were wide but short, perhaps no more than twenty feet tall, as though not yet fully grown. It could get pretty windy at times so their trunks were tethered to the ground by piano wire. Beside one of them, a man up a stepladder was handling a large square of green fishing net, attached to which were a couple of dozen orange plastic balls. He cast the net so that it draped over the tree’s greenery. George saw that the branches of all the other trees on the street had been similarly festooned. He wandered over.

“Perfect. What better way to start the day than a glass of freshly squeezed California orange juice?”

He picked a succulent-looking orange from a basket on the ground. When he squeezed it, the thin plastic dented with a click and he had to tease it back into shape with his thumbs.

“Where did these come from?” said George.

“Left over from some publicity shoot. Esther Williams was supposed to be swimming in a lake of orange juice.”

“How come they didn’t they use real oranges? You’d think they’d have enough of them here.”

“That’s Hollywood for you. Why use the real thing when you can fake it and be just as convincing? They’ve got two thousand of them sitting in a warehouse out in Glendale.”

“Brother, that’s a lot of juice. Tell them we’ll take five hundred, they take too long to hang. Nice touch though. Cheers the place up.”

“Is anyone really going to see these, Mr Godfrey?”

“You never know, Walter. Attention to detail. That’s the key.”

Across the street, a fire hydrant spouted not water but smoke.

TWO

IN A RUN-DOWN suburb of Los Angeles—shabby houses with peeling paint—where sprawling middle-aged women sit out on the front stoop and grubby kids run loose, a youth leaned over the rail of an apartment building fire escape, spitting onto the passers-by below. The sun beat down, but this neighborhood looked exhausted by it, slumped into a state of fatigue. Somewhere overhead, ignored by the locals, was the steady, rasping drone of an airplane.

In the front yard of a once smart Victorian family house, a wooden sign on a post had been hammered into a scratchy patch of dry lawn: The Rosary Hall Residence. Below it, in smaller letters: Hospitality—Friendliness—Just Like Home.

Queenie struggled awkwardly on high heels carrying two bulky suitcases, with a tartan purse slung over her shoulder, a vanity case tucked under one arm and a ratty fur coat under the other. Halfway down the front path she dumped her luggage on the ground and stomped determinedly back towards the house. Before she got there, the sour-faced Mrs Snaith appeared in the open doorway and slung out her portfolio with as much force as she could muster. Queenie made a lunge for it, hoping to catch it before it fell, but she was too late; it landed smack on its spine and split open, sending its contents skidding across the path.

The front door slammed shut and Queenie was left alone—furious and humiliated. Becoming aware of passers-by on the street who had witnessed the commotion, she picked on a middle-aged bluenose in a business suit and stared him down.

“What’s eating you, pal?”

The man sheepishly bowed his head and continued on his way.

Queenie stooped to gather her scattered belongings: eight-by-ten glossy portraits of herself in a range of poses—demure, dramatic, cheesecake. At the window of the house behind her, Mrs Snaith looked on for a moment before propping up a sign against the glass: Vacancy. Furnished room for rent.

Queenie dusted herself off, picked up her bags and strode out onto the street. She glared bitterly back at the Rosary Hall Residence.

Just like home.

In another part of town, a spacious kitchen with clean, tidy surfaces boasted a modern Magic Chef gas range in off-white with matching cupboards set against cheerful floral wallpaper. On the kitchen table was a cardboard box sealed with gummed strip, stamped and labeled for mailing. The recipient, Mrs Ishi, stood over it, her eyes sparkling with quiet anticipation. She fetched a short knife from her kitchen drawer and carefully sliced through the tape. Lifting the flaps and folding them back against the sides of the box, she revealed two dozen neatly packed cans of sardines. She nodded, pleased at the sight, and ran her hand over the top layer.

Watching with interest from the edge of the sink was a green conure parakeet.

“Oh, no,” it said. “What’s this?” The bird’s voice was small and scratchy as if down the line of a long-distance telephone call.

“It’s fish,” explained Mrs Ishi.

The bird studied the cans carefully as if considering this before asking again, “What’s this?”

“It’s fish,” said Mrs Ishi.

The bird began bobbing its head rhythmically as if counting the cans then paused before repeating the question a third time.

“It’s fish,” said Mrs Ishi patiently. She stroked the feathers of the conure’s chest with the back of her forefinger, which seemed to break the loop of inquiry. She then opened the wall cupboard.

Inside, stacked in neat rows like a food-mart display, were several dozen identical cans.

The bird gave a high, swooping whistle.

In the women’s accessories section of a small department store shoppers milled about, inspecting the goods. Two ladies were trying on hats, while at the cosmetics counter an attentive salesgirl assisted a customer in choosing the right lipstick.

The store manager, Mr De Silva, a middle-aged man with a flower in his buttonhole, stood behind a glass-topped counter bearing a display stand of perfumes. Facing him was Kay, perfectly turned out in a smart gray suit with a matching pillbox hat, looking a little like an air stewardess.

“I don’t understand, Mr De Silva. When I spoke to you on the telephone yesterday you told me the job was practically mine, that an interview would be a mere formality.”

“Yes, but that was before …”

“Before you saw me?”

Mr De Silva looked away. He tapped at some paperwork on the counter with his pen. “On the phone you said your surname was Ashborough.”

“Ashborough? No, I didn’t. It’s not Ashborough, it’s Nashimura.”

“Well it sounded like Ashborough when you said it. That’s what I have written down here.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr De Silva, you were mistaken.”

“Apparently so. Very much so,” He set down his pen. “Nashimura? The name is er … Japanese, isn’t it?”

“Irish, actually.”

Mr De Silva looked up, regarding her blankly. “Irish?” He quickly realized she was being perverse.

A nosy customer who had been eavesdropping sidled up to an adjacent counter on the pretext of inspecting the goods on display. The woman looked Kay up and down. She lifted a perfume bottle and brought its glass stopper to her nose. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she set the bottle firmly back down. She shuddered, fanning the air in front of her face while uttering a sound expressing her repugnance. Mr De Silva clocked it; he wanted Kay out of his store. He smiled obsequiously at the customer and waited until she had wandered out of earshot. He lowered his voice discreetly to resume their conversation.

“Look. I have nothing personally against your people, but it is my understanding that families of your … er … origin, Miss Nashimura, are to be relocated in the very near future so even if I were to offer you the position, within a couple of weeks you’d be sent away to your new home, wherever that is, and frankly, I’d be back to square one looking for a new sales assistant.”

“I was born right here in California. So were my parents. We’ve never even been to Japan. I’m as American as you are, Mr De Silva, so I very much doubt that I’ll be relocated anywhere.”

Mr De Silva did not agree, but was reluctant to prolong the debate; a florid-faced woman at a nearby display stand was inspecting a tin of face powder. He turned his attention to her with an unctuous smile.

“Ah yes, madam. The new Cashmere Bouquet: nature’s aid to loveliness. Perfect for the cream rose complexion.”

After the interview, Kay headed through the busy shopping streets in West Hollywood, replaying the conversation over in her head. Among the thriving businesses on Wilshire Boulevard, she noticed that Yamamoto’s Invisible Shoe Repair had boarded up its windows. Scrawled on one of the wood panels were the words Closed for good—to which someone else had added an extra Good! A little further along, Salzman’s Family Restaurant informed its customers that they were Famous for Steaks, Seafood, Real Spaghetti and Sandwiches. It also assured them, as if as further testimony to the quality of their food, that they were Not Hiring Japs.

Next door was a camera store, outside which stood an Asian woman with three big looping curls set stiffly on top of her head. She wore a button on the lapel of her dress that said I am Chinese, not Japanese. Their eyes met for a second before the woman looked guiltily away, presumably afraid that Kay might be better positioned than most to see through her deception.

THREE

THE LONG SHADOW cast by the Overland Church steeple pointed like a compass needle towards a tennis court, which overlooked the gently sloping green pasture of a nearby farm. Two Residents in tennis whites sat, ankles crossed, on the ground with their backs against a wall, leisurely sunning themselves and chatting.

George was coming from the shower block when he happened to spot them and decided to go over.

“What gives? Why aren’t you playing?”

“We lost all our balls,” the man whined. “Every time they go out of play at that end, they roll down the slope and drop over the edge. We must have lost a dozen balls down there. Now we’re left without a single one.”

George was cheerfully cajoling. “That’s no excuse. You can pretend.”

“Pretend?”

“Sure. Swing your racquets, run around a little. You know what a game of tennis looks like. No one’s going to notice if there’s a ball or not.”

“Kinda pointless, isn’t it? Playing tennis without a ball?”

George sighed inwardly. “This isn’t a recreational park, created for your amusement. You’ve got a job to do.”

The tennis players turned up their noses at the idea, but George wouldn’t be defeated. “Come on. Snap to it. Let’s see some fancy rallying. Show us what you can do.”

Reluctantly, the couple hauled themselves to their feet and took their positions either side of the net. The man got things going with an apathetically mimed serve. The woman, feeling self-conscious, couldn’t bring herself to join in the charade.

George tut-tutted as the imaginary ball bounced past her. “That was a gift. You could have gotten that one easy. Fifteen love.”

Play continued. This time, the woman returned the serve with a languid backhand volley. Her opponent countered with a cross-court forehand, and so they went on, stepping from side to side and swinging their rackets through the air. As the rally progressed, their mimed strokes became increasingly athletic and graceful. The players realized that without the ball to spoil things, they were able to execute each shot faultlessly. They quickly became match-perfect professionals.

“That’s the idea. Keep it moving.”

Finally, the “ball” went out of play.

“Excellent. Fifteen all.”

The man still had a gripe to air. “If you had put a fence round the edge, we’d still have a real ball to play with.”

“Ah, quit bellyaching. This is a good test of your acting skills. As a matter of fact, I think I like it better without a ball. You’re much more convincing as tennis players.”

The woman registered the jibe just as she was poised to serve. She took out her annoyance on the make-believe ball and with a powerful swipe aimed it straight at George. He “saw” it coming and dodged smartly to the side. He gave her a look, pretending to feel affronted; she glared back with playful defiance. Stepping towards the edge, he peered down the slope to where the ball would have landed. He turned back to face them, wagging a reproachful finger.

“See? That’s why you keep losing your balls.” George turned to the man. “You gotta teach Babe Ruth here a little self-control.”

Over at the visitors parking lot, Jimmy kick-started his motorcycle. Using his feet to maneuver it, he carefully eased the chugging machine towards the exit

where a series of

descending ramps

and transitional platforms

of varying lengths and gradients

zig-zagged a path

to

the—

—ground. At the far end of the final slope was a border fence and gate where a young soldier raised a red-and-white-striped rising-arm barrier to let him through.

As the bike picked up speed, Jimmy noticed that to his left, several tanker trucks were parked haphazardly on a wide area of tarmac. A giant hose hung from one of them like an elephant’s trunk, its end supported by a man in coveralls who guided the nozzle as it spewed green paint all over the ground. Other men were walking up and down spreading the liquid with big wide brooms and squeegees.

George was at the bus stop, checking his watch. A Roman centurion on a red bicycle sailed leisurely by, raising his hand in greeting. George returned his salute.

Up on the hill next to the church was the tennis court where the game he had just instigated was hotting up. The play itself was silent, but he could just make out the players calling out the score. He turned to watch them for a moment, then noticed the bus approaching. It didn’t make the scheduled stop, as buses are supposed to do, but George was unfazed; he ran alongside it, opened the door and leapt inside. The driver’s seat was vacant, but he chose to sit in one of the passenger seats, settling down to enjoy the journey.

The bus ran, like all the other vehicles, on a track like on a scenic railway or a fairground ride, its route predetermined by the metal rail on which it traveled and its speed regulated by the mechanism that drove it. It was a two-way street so vehicles were approaching from the opposite direction, always perfectly in line, yet randomly spaced so that groups of vehicles might move together to simulate natural traffic flow. George watched as cars, taxis and trucks idled by, punctuated by the occasional motorcycle and dummy rider.

The traffic ahead curved to the right—past the library, past Kaiser’s corner drugstore, where two men with ladders were fitting smart new green awnings over the windows. George’s heart sank a little; they were supposed to be red, not green. How had they managed to get it so wrong? He wondered if the new Vanguard color chart was to blame and took out the concertina-folded sheet from his breast pocket to inspect it.

In an attempt to make their color range sound more exotic, they had named their colors with reference to faraway places: Zanzibar Storm, Oxford, Havana, Belgian Mist. He’d never visited any of these places, and he suspected that his painters hadn’t either. Without the swatches they’d be clueless to guess which hues these names represented. Color names, in George’s view, depended on a shared point of reference: charcoal, peach, blood, buttercup—most people would be familiar with the inherent colors of these things. But what was the predominant color in Oxford? Only the dons could be expected to know.

As for the awnings, the painters appeared to have mistaken Geneva (which was green) for Genoa (which, for some reason, was red).

George didn’t want to make the men feel bad about their mistake, but the green wasn’t right. Kaiser’s was based on the drugstore he knew as a boy and those awnings had always been red. He resolved to leave a note for them later.

The bus rolled along past other stores with sporadically populated parking lots. Nearer the Orpheum movie theater, clusters of Residents gathered to chat; some of them, including a pair of middle-aged twins dressed as banjo-playing minstrels, saw George on the bus and greeted him with a theatrical wave.

Catching sight of a military uniform George realized too late that he’d also been spotted by First Lieutenant Franks who was on the sidewalk, trying to catch his attention. The military presence in Overland was a niggling element that had the potential to curdle the cream. It was important to keep it at bay.

“Mr Godfrey!” The lieutenant started to trot alongside the bus to keep up. “Can I have a quick word about Major Lund’s visit?”

George talked to him through the open window. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Can’t stop now. I’m late for an important meeting.”

“You haven’t forgotten he’s coming on Friday?” The lieutenant’s voice shuddered in rhythm with his footfall. “The thing is, we’ve just heard that Colonel Wagner may also be visiting. It’s very important that we make sure everything is in order.”

“Look around you, Lieutenant. Everything’s perfect. We’re in Paradise.”

“Yes, but—”

George turned a deaf ear and faced cheerfully ahead, relaxing back in his seat to resume his journey in peace. The lieutenant gave up the chase and was left stranded on the sidewalk.

MEANWHILE At a news kiosk at Sepulveda and 11th, a string of true detective mags dangled by their corners from a string above the vendor’s head. Lust, violence, revenge and greed seemed to be the major motivators of the crimes within. Other magazine covers: Fighting fit with Barbara Stanwyk; on the road with Dorothy Lamour; behind the scenes with Claudette Colbert. Stabbed 78 times by her jealous lover. Grow your own mushrooms. Build muscles in just 3 weeks and be a REAL he-man. A stack of newspapers announced the latest war news from the pacific: Bataan Collapses.

The bus passed a newly wooded area of parkland, its trees constructed from vertical wooden poles, each with an armature of cross-beam branches draped with netting and covered with painted burlap strips or dyed chicken feathers. Care had been taken to use a range of green shades and hues—deep emerald, celadon, fruity yellow-green, jade, mint, malachite, moss—according to their designated varieties. Further along, on a patch of open ground, a handful of men in workwear were using ropes to hoist the timber studwork frame that would form the gabled end wall of the new schoolhouse.

Very nice, thought George. He hoped one day to have children, though in hindsight it was just as well he and Muriel had never got round to it.

The sneezing put paid to the morning affections that had once played a part in their marriage, and for George this became something of a blessing. An enthusiastic yet demanding lover, Muriel always somehow made him feel that whatever he was doing, he wasn’t quite doing it right. During what he came to think of as “the preliminaries” she often seemed irritated by his advances and once even repositioned his hand, with an impatient “Not there. There.” It was the same way she dealt with Fuffy if he misbehaved; a firm jerk of his leash would bring him in line.

Muriel was skeptical of medical opinion, however sound, always thinking she knew better.

“Allergic? Baloney! Allergic to what, for instance?”

“Dr Kowalski said it could be anything in the home. Pet hair, dust mites. He actually suggested it might be your perfume.”

She stared at him indignantly. “What’s wrong with my perfume?”

“Nothing. It’s lovely, but I may be allergic to it, that’s all. And well, it is quite strong.”

Dr Kowalski had not in fact mentioned perfume at all in his list of possible triggers for his symptoms; this was more George’s diagnosis. Muriel suspected as much.

“No one else has a problem with it, George. I’ve had many compliments about my perfume. Other people can’t get enough of it.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Muriel caught the snide edge to his remark.

“It’s just you, George. You’re peculiar.”

At the next bend he jumped down from the moving bus and continued on foot. In the town-square gardens the ground was covered by lengths of rough undyed burlap. A man wearing a metal backpack tank with a hose attached was spraying the area in a wide sweeping motion, transforming it into a luxuriant green lawn.

George headed for an adjacent building that had a painted sign over the door. The Overland Diner wasn’t a fancy place, but it was cosy; popular with the Residents—somewhere they could hang out and chat over coffee. Outside tables with cheerful umbrellas gave the establishment a Continental feel, like the “Gay Paree” cafes George had seen in pictures. At one table a man reading a newspaper sat with a woman holding a shopping basket.

She looked up. “Morning, Mr Godfrey.”

The man felt the need to justify their presence. “We’re on our break.”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“We’re allowed a break: fifteen minutes in the morning.”

George laughed, halting the argument with outstretched hands. “I know. I know. Please. Relax. Enjoy your breakfast.”

A Negro man, elegantly dressed in a splendid check suit and bowtie was perched on the edge of a barrel of plastic flowers at the diner entrance. George touched his shoulder warmly. “Hey, Tommy.”

“How’s it going, Mr Godfrey?”

“I think we’re getting there.”

“Did you do anything nice and relaxing at the weekend?”

“Sure did. There’s still a lot more work to do, but hey, you know. A guy’s gotta take a little time off now and again, hasn’t he, sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor? I mean … even God took Sunday off.”

“You got that right. Good for you to get out of town.”

“Oh, I didn’t leave town. I stayed right here in Overland.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not? It’s beautiful here. Travel is very overrated.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I had the place to myself so I sat around, enjoying the scenery. Did a little fishing down by the lake.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m guessing you didn’t catch nothing?”

“Not yet, Tommy. But I’m hopeful.”

“Well, let me know when you do.”

George nodded. “You bet.”

Inside the Overland Diner was distinctly less Continental: a long tiled counter with a row of stools in front of it. It was kitted out with the usual stuff: a cash register, napkin dispensers, sugar shakers. A few of the Overland Residents sat at the counter drinking coffee or reading newspapers; other customers occupied the tables and chairs. Some had lunch pails in front of them and were busy eating.

A woman in her sixties wearing a little cardboard hat stood beside a big metal coffee urn and a tray of donuts.

“Morning, Effie.” George approached the counter, studying the extensive list of “breakfast suggestions” on the painted menu board behind her. “Now then. What will it be today? My, my. It all looks so good. Hot meatloaf platter? The blue plate special? Pork chops? Hmm. No, bacon and eggs, I think. Yes. Two eggs over easy.”

Effie distractedly straightened her uniform. “Uh-huh.”

“Not too easy mind.”

Effie nodded, humoring him. “Uh-huh.”

“And … let’s see … how about some buttermilk pancakes? Are the pancakes specially light and fluffy?”

“Pancakes are off today. Sorry.”

“Oh. Well, that’s OK. I’ll just—”

“Oh, and you know what? We’re all out of bacon too.”

“Gee. No bacon, huh? How about the—”

“Uh-uh. Chickens stopped laying. Must have gotten spooked or something.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Poor things.”

She stared back at him for a moment before pointing to the tray on the counter. “I’ve got donuts,” she said brightly.

“Ah. Donuts! Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“And coffee?”

“Perfect.”

The guy sitting at the next stool glanced up from his own coffee, snorting a little chuckle. He enjoyed this daily routine as much as George did.

George took a donut while Effie poured coffee into a paper cup.

“You oughta eat something proper once in a while,” she said.

“I would if you ever had anything else on offer.”

“Can’t live on donuts. No good for your digestion. You need to keep yourself regular.”

“I’m here three times a day, Eff. Can’t get more regular than that.”

“Hm. Smart Alec. How about an apple?”

“Apple?”

“Sure,” she said. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

He checked the counter. “I didn’t know you had apples.”

“I don’t. This is one I brought from home.”

She ducked below the counter, reappearing holding a shiny red apple.

“Take it. You’ll feel the benefit.”

“Apple, huh? OK, Effie. You win.”

George tossed it up into the air, letting it land with a satisfying slap in his palm. He studied the apple, admiring its bright color.

“I was thinking of putting in an apple orchard behind the library. You think that would look nice—the red against the green of the leaves?”

Effie rolled her eyes.

“You know,” he said, “Delacroix loved using red and green.”

“Della who?”

“Never mind.”

Effie’s attention lingered absently on the apple; it was the perfect opportunity for George to practice his sleight of hand. He pretended to snatch it from his open palm while secretly retaining it in the original hand. He showed her his empty hand with a hey presto flourish. He’d gotten pretty good at this maneuver, but Effie must have glimpsed the apple in his hidden hand. She pointed at it with a discerning finger. Palming such a large object was hard—unlike a coin or matchbook, which could be easily ditched in a pocket or up a sleeve.

Muriel had never been keen on the art of illusion and misdirection. When he was first practising the basic coin vanish he had tried to use her as his audience. Having deftly made the pass, he would offer both fists for her to guess which of them contained the coin, but she would never play along. She thought magic was ‘silly’. By her reckoning, the coin was bound to be in one hand or the other and she frankly didn’t care which.

He had once seen an amazing trick performed by a magician hired to mingle with guests at one of the MGM parties. With dazzling dexterity, he had vanished a coin from George’s open palm without ever touching it. George neither saw nor felt it go. The magician turned over both of his own hands and tugged back his sleeves one by one to show that the coin was not hidden there. It was the most astonishing thing George had ever seen. Even Muriel was impressed.

Keen to know the secret, George asked him to perform the trick again so that he might take a closer look, but he wasn’t prepared to do that. I bet you’re using some kind of magnet, aren’t you? George had suggested. There was no evidence of any such device, but it was the only explanation he could think of.

The magician shook his head slowly, dismissing George’s pitiful line of inquiry.

“ I haven’t got the coin,” he said. “You saw. I didn’t even touch it.”

“Where did it go then?”

“That’s just it. It didn’t go anywhere.”

George was perplexed.

The magician explained. “You’re thinking of it all wrong. I didn’t make the coin disappear; I merely made it so that you can’t see it anymore. It’s still there in your hand.”

It was obviously just a line of patter that went with the trick, but the idea stayed with George for days. From time to time he would find himself fingering the palm of his hand, trying to detect some trace of the vanished coin.

Though only a short walk from the busy town center, the area surrounding Overland Lake was a secluded haven of calm. George sat enjoying the view from one second he thought he caught a whiff of Muriel’s perfume. He had assumed the Overland air had eradicated his clothes of it completely, but somehow it seemed to linger. He sniffed his sleeve. Nothing. Perhaps he was imagining it.

George took off his sports coat, folding it neatly and placing it on the ground behind him for a pillow. Satisfied, he lay down and closed his eyes.

A deep, thrumming drone, at first reassuringly hypnotic, began to pervade the peace. The sound built in intensity to a reverberating roar until the huge dark form of a B-17 bomber suddenly burst through the horizon, like a monster emerging from the depths of the earth. The plane climbed, banking to its left, away from the lake, the sound from its engines opening into a thick, throaty snarl before gradually fading to nothing.

George sat up, troubled, not by the plane but by something lumpy his head had detected in the improvised pillow. Rummaging through the folds of the fabric for the pocket opening, he produced the apple that Effie had given him. Again he went through the motions of the illusion, trying to figure how he could more convincingly hide it. He would have to practice more in front of a mirror.

He pulled a switchblade from his pants pocket, pressed the button to release the blade and prepared to cut himself a slice, but as the knife made contact, the apple slipped from his grasp and tumbled towards the lake. Once it reached the water’s edge there was nothing to stop it. George scrambled to his feet, but he was too late. He looked on helplessly as the apple rolled across the smooth rubber-coated surface of the lake, heading towards the drainage aperture at its center where it was sucked into a spiraling rotation of ever decreasing circles before finally disappearing from view.

FOUR

INSIDE A VAST factory building, the busy commotion of the construction industry was underway. Some parts were taking a familiar shape—a wing or a section of fuselage—but the majority of the work was carried out on vital but unidentifiable components of a yet-to-be assembled aircraft. Many of the workers were women—dressed in industrial workwear with their hair bundled up in headscarves, some wore thick leather-rimmed safety goggles. Crane operators high in the rafters hoisted sections of skeletal framework over assembly lines of punch presses, lathes, sheet-metal-forming benches. The din was relentless—clanking, popping, screeching drills, buzzing grinders and hissing hydraulics.

One young woman had squeezed herself into the cramped space inside the shell of a half-completed aircraft wing. Another woman shot rivets through the skin of the wing while she held her bucking bar to flatten out the tail on the inside.

It was grueling work, but everyone seemed motivated, not just to meet their targets but to exceed them. It was a scene that could have been created for a recruitment propaganda film, but here the workers’ commitment was genuine. A banner stretched high above them reflected their determined spirit: Production—Let’s step it up!

Through the factory came a small truck loaded with machine parts, driven by a skinny guy wearing a cap with a long peak like a mallard’s bill. He weaved his way between the production lines, spinning his wheel to turn a tight corner into the yard outside. Bathed in a cool blue light filtered from above was a row of parked trucks and forklifts. The driver tootled past them, the contents of his trailer rattling and shaking as the rear wheels shimmied on the uneven ground. He turned sharply again and disappeared round the corner of the building.

There was a moment of stillness before, out of nowhere, something dropped from high above and exploded with a sudden smack on the ground. Like an asteroid striking an uninhabited part of the earth’s surface, there was no one around to witness the event. The missile was, or at least had until that moment been, an apple. Collision with earth had pulverized its flesh into a pale yellow pulp. As evidence there were scattered seeds and shiny red fragments of skin, its juices still fizzing from the impact.

FIVE

QUEENIE HAD BAGGED herself a window seat halfway along the bus. Above her on the luggage rack were the two suitcases, her fur coat and portfolio, the latter now held together with a makeshift luggage strap made from a dress belt. On the vacant seat beside her sat her Royal Stewart tartan box purse with a cut-steel clasp and rope-leather handles. It looked like something for transporting small consignments of Scottish shortbread.

A magazine lay open across her knees at a feature charting Myrna Loy’s rise to stardom. Inspired by the star’s success story, Queenie unconsciously nodded with quiet determination.

Queenie had modeled her look on a variety of film stars. Her hair was styled the way Betty Grable might wear it: swept up and perched on top of her head in a neatly coiffed nest of curls. Her lips were full and slick with crimson—influenced by Hedy Lamarr—her eyelashes were darkly mascaraed and she had Garbo-esque eyebrows penciled in high, arched wings. Her skirt, cinched by a wasp-waist patent leather belt, was worn with a white blouse—perky and neat with puffed short sleeves and a low-fronted flounce of frills.

She touched her hair and ran her finger over her front teeth to check for lipstick. Taking a powder compact from her bag, she flipped open the mirrored lid and held it in front of her, checking first her lips and teeth and then, turning her head this way and that, took in the rest of her face for a general survey. She deftly snapped the lid shut and returned the compact to her bag with the practiced hand of someone who carried out this inspection routine a hundred times a day.

A man in the seat opposite was ogling her. She attempted to curb his enthusiasm with a dismissive glance, but it didn’t take. He removed his hat and laid it on the vacant seat beside him. Leaning a little in her direction, he gestured at the magazine she was reading.

“You in the movie business?”

Queenie didn’t look up. “I’m working on it.”

“Are you a movie actress?”

“No, I’m a welder, but like I said, I’m working on it.”

“You? A welder? Don’t make me laugh.”

She replied dully: “OK. I’ll try not to.”

With that, she coolly flicked over a page in her magazine and returned her attention to it. The man was left high and dry.

On a long, straight road, Kay stood at a bus stop, peering into the distance in anticipation of the bus’s arrival. Up ahead a young man was nailing a piece of paper to a telegraph pole. She watched distractedly. He put the hammer back into his shoulder bag and mounted a motorcycle parked at the roadside. The engine growled into life and the bike dawdled towards her, the rider’s feet hovering above the surface of the road, like training wheels. The bike slowed again, drawing into the curb beside her.

The man wore thick denim work pants and an open-neck shirt, sleeves rolled high on his tanned, sinewy arms. He dismounted and flipped the kickstand, then approached the telegraph pole beside Kay, pulling his hammer and a flyer from his bag. She stepped aside to allow him clear access to the pole and they exchanged courteous smiles as strangers sometimes do. He grabbed a handful of tacks from his back pocket and quickly secured the flyer. She noticed the seat of his pants was stained with red paint. He returned to his motorcycle, kicked the starter and coasted along to his next port of call.

Curious, Kay stepped forward to take a look. The flyer announced the sale of a motorcycle, a 1936 Harley Davidson EL—presumably the one he had been riding. Her eye was drawn to the poster displayed above it, this one bigger, sturdier and more emphatic in its proclamation. Heavy block type set the tone: Instructions to All Persons of Japanese Ancestry.

She had, of course, seen the sign before. It had been posted at various locations across the city and for the past month the announcement had regularly appeared in all the local newspapers. She edged uneasily closer, in the futile hope of discovering some overlooked loophole, some detail that would make her exempt. She anxiously skimmed over the paragraph outlining the exclusion area, her eyes flitting between sections of text.

The Civil Control Station is equipped to assist the Japanese population … provide temporary residence elsewhere … transport persons and a limited amount of clothing and equipment to their new residence … Evacuees must carry with them on departure for the Assembly Center … bedding and linens (no mattress) for each member of the family … Toilet articles … No pets of any kind … No personal items and no household goods … All persons of Japanese ancestry, whether citizens or non-citizens, will be evacuated from the above area by twelve o’clock noon, Sunday, May 10th, 1942 … Instructions Must Be Observed … The head of the family, or the person in whose name most of the property is held, and each individual living alone, will report to the Civil Control Station to receive further instructions. This must be done between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday, May 5th, 1942.

Her stomach churned. The 5th was tomorrow.

MEANWHILE In the garden of a bungalow on Overland Main Street two limp shirts pegged by their cuffs to a washing line swayed in the breeze like lazy trapeze artists.