The girls were behaving better than usual, which was a relief. Recently they had been arguing over what was black and what was white and if the moon was made of cheese. Elaine hadn’t slept a wink. She didn’t think she could handle it if they kicked off, not today.
She was hardly able to keep herself together, never mind them.
The girls laughed over breakfast. Barbara pretended her crumpet was a grizzly bear named Tony, who was afraid of jam. They giggled in the bathroom when Shirley got toothpaste down her Peter Pan collar, then they laughed all the way down the road.
They were under strict instructions to ‘be good or else’ but that never made much difference when they were in one of their moods: perhaps they were more chirpy than usual because they had been outdoors so much yesterday. Elaine knew she didn’t take them outside enough. She remembered her mother used to say that children needed fresh air same as puppies. She did try, but so often life got in the way.
Not now though. They were on holiday, and the girls skipped, their long legs flashing under their simple smocks and their socks sparkling white. Shirley had insisted on plaits; helpfully, Barbara had obliged. Then Barbara had tied her own hair in a simple ponytail, but it was better than her usual efforts. Elaine approved. They looked clean, fresh and forgiving. It probably wouldn’t last, it never did, but for now Elaine couldn’t help but feel proud of them.
He was already there, waiting, at the agreed time and place. His camera was round his neck, his shirt was open at the throat, he was in casual clothes. Different but the same. Same but different.
They talked about the boat first. They just dived in, like they’d been talking about the damn boat every day for the last ten years. He had it for a few days, it belonged to a friend of a friend. He’d always had friends everywhere. It was one of his things. Effortlessly popular. They really were polar opposites, Elaine reminded herself.
The boat was called Omaha Beach.
The girls were thrilled to look inside, but Elaine stood apart on the bank. Although she had thought she was prepared for this – hadn’t it been weeks in the planning? – it still felt like she was in shock. Emotionally she was right back in those years after the Blitz when everyone was neither here nor there.
Nothing had changed. This wouldn’t change anything.
The girls came back out, clamouring to swim in the canal. Barbara went to the municipal pool with school – she had her 25-metres badge – and Shirley would go next year. It wasn’t cheap, but Elaine thought it was just about worth it.
Elaine thought of all the bother a swim would entail, and she lied – she said it wasn’t allowed.
He started to say, ‘Oh, but it is—’ but when he saw her expression, he agreed. ‘You never know what’s in there, girls.’
In a lower voice, he said to Elaine, ‘They can dip their feet in though, can’t they?’
‘Pur-lease!’ the girls begged like their lives depended on it. ‘Can we, Mother?’
Elaine would normally say no, they knew that, she knew that. She couldn’t say it now though, not in front of him, so she nodded just the once and they pulled off their shoes and peeled off their socks, rapidly, afraid she’d change her mind.
They paddled, got muddy, and Barbara’s hair got messy, but Elaine refrained from saying anything. She wouldn’t get wound up today.
They walked. The girls carried their shoes and socks and their feet got gritty. Elaine just about resisted saying, ‘I told you so’.
While the girls stood ahead of them, he took a photograph of them. Elaine laughed. He couldn’t just take a photo of them from the front like everyone else would.
‘I’ll send it to you,’ he said.
‘No, send it to Annie,’ she replied, and he nodded. He understood.
He seemed very foreign here in Norfolk, more than he ever had in London. Maybe he was, or maybe she just hadn’t noticed back then.
He showed them wispy dandelions and plump buttercups. ‘Who likes butter?’
‘Everyone in the world,’ answered Barbara, making him laugh. Elaine blushed. Shirley shook her head, looking to Elaine for approval. ‘Butter makes you fat.’
They were still on the ration, but he had packed bread, cheese and chocolate for the girls.
The girls started arguing over ladybugs and caterpillars and which were better. He told them to try to collect one of each and they ran off squealing.
‘Stay where I can see you,’ Elaine commanded, but they didn’t know what she could see, or else they actually believed she had eyes in the back of her head – well, she’d told them that often enough.
Elaine was both petrified and delighted to be alone with him at last. Not until the girls were properly occupied collecting insects did she let him take her hand in his. It felt like a homecoming. Did he feel like that too?
Those dark eyes on her again after all this time. They were filled with tears. He always cried so easily, unlike her.
Did he know what she was thinking? Did she know what he was thinking?
‘I miss Marty,’ he said.
‘Robert Capa’s in town.’
Despite the Keep Calm and Carry On poster right over their heads, Elaine’s usually placid workmates were in a tizz. They were supposed to be typing up prisoner of war letters smuggled out from Asia, but Annie set down her papers and stalked between the desks making sure everyone had got the message.
‘I thought he was in El Alamein?’ said Felicity.
‘Nope, he’s definitely here,’ said Annie.
‘Really? NOW?’
‘Yes, now. Well, tonight-now.’
‘He’ll be at the George?’
‘Absolutely.’
Elaine stopped typing but left her fingers suspended over the keys, each one poised for activity. The E, the H and the N were fading fast due to overuse. As a young girl, Elaine had dreamed of playing the piano. Sometimes when she was in full flow, she imagined the typewriter keys were piano keys, the clatter, clatter was a symphony and the girls around her were the orchestra.
Listlessly, she poked the keys a few more times as Annie buzzed around the room, and then she too succumbed.
‘What is Robert Capa then?’
Everyone laughed.
‘What is Robert Capa?’ repeated Annie incredulously. She stopped prowling and went back to her home-chair. Annie and Elaine’s desks were so close, Elaine could swipe pencils from Annie’s glass ashtray without her noticing. Annie rubbed her hands together, delighted at her best friend’s naivety. ‘Have you been living in a cave, Elaine? Robert Capa is the most agreeable man in all of London.’
The George was the public house on the corner of Wardour Street and everyone was going to meet there at five. Elaine demurred, ‘I should get this letter done…’ but her heart wasn’t in work and it seemed like no one else’s was either.
The thing was they hadn’t needed to get anything done for months. During the Blitz, their vast office had found itself a headquarters for the war effort. The clerical girls were charged with marking on great maps where the bombs fell, and sometimes they didn’t leave their positions until the sun was rising over the city, bleak, orange and shamefaced.
From six in the evening, the calls came from emergency centres across the city and the clerical girls started plotting them. Sometimes, you could hear the German planes coming over and the actual bombs going off. Sometimes you heard the name of an area where you knew someone lived or where someone’s mother lived, and you just had to cross your fingers and hope they’d got down to the shelters in time.
There was nine months of that, nine long months of autumn through to summer 1941. Sometimes it felt like Elaine was holding her breath the whole while. It was a relentless time – and she would never say it aloud, but it was an exciting time too. Exciting and terrible. Straight out of secretarial college, thrust into that crazy new world, she wouldn’t have believed it was possible if she hadn’t been there.
Clerical girls catnapped in the day, ate on the move, and mostly talked about fires and numbers of casualties. It soon became horribly apparent that twenty dead was not too bad a night. On the way home – those early mornings – Elaine might see the fruits of the devastation that she had been assiduously logging: the shock of the newly homeless, the bravery of firemen still picking up burning timber, the unforgettable sight of a bewildered family dog.
Since the worst of the bombings was over, the girls had been moved up to the third floor, and they could stand outside the office in the open air. Yes, there were still doodlebugs to worry about – doodlebugs was the pretty name for the latest horror, the V-2 bomber. But with the doodlebugs, there was no escape, no warning, no logic and because it was so random, it bizarrely didn’t affect morale quite so much. It was a different threat to the actual Blitz. Now, the clerical girls could smoke leisurely cigarettes in their own time. They could walk unfettered in the daytime, they could sleep (almost) untraumatised at night in their own beds, they could chat with friends in the street, but the trouble was: there was some slight uncertainty at work about what exactly they were all there for.
Correction: great uncertainty.
Every day, Elaine’s uncertainty fattened up like a goose approaching Christmas. She’d worked so hard to get into clerical, they couldn’t just let her go. It wouldn’t be fair. The other clerical girls had come across to government from studying degrees in philosophy or English at Cambridge or Oxford. Even Annie had come from a great position managing a department at Selfridges. They had talents and successes, or three languages, they had places to go on to. Whatever way they went, they would advance. Elaine, by contrast, felt like she had crawled her way up out of the mud. And she didn’t want to go back.
‘C’mon, you’ve got to meet Robert Capa.’
Felicity, who usually made it her business to disagree with most things that came out of Annie’s mouth, and had a bronze trophy for debating, surprisingly agreed.
‘Oh, Elaine, I can’t believe you haven’t met him before.’
Before she could reply, Annie called out: ‘She was ill when he was here, remember?’
Felicity didn’t. Why would she keep tabs on Elaine’s constitution? But two months after the Blitz, Elaine had gone down with a bout of appendicitis. It must have been around that time.
‘You will love him, Elaine.’
‘All the ladies love him.’
Felicity winked at Annie, who retorted, ‘And the not-so-ladies.’
‘Elaine’s only got eyes for Justin,’ said Myra gently. Elaine smiled at her. Myra was such a sweetheart (and proficient in English, French and Mandarin).
‘No harm in making new friends, right, girls?’ said Annie chirpily. Myra lowered her eyes, chastened.
‘Mr Capa is actually a very agreeable man,’ Mrs Dill joined in – this too was unnerving, for Mrs Dill (office manager and accomplished flautist) rarely had a good word to say about anyone. Indeed, ‘agreeable’ was a great compliment from her permanently pursed lips. However, all this anticipation about the prodigal mystery man, all this insistence was making Elaine less, rather than more, keen to meet him. She wasn’t just being contrary – although that was maybe some of it. Everything about this Robert Capa felt over-egged: it reminded her of that film Mrs. Miniver – posters for it everywhere, yet when you saw it, you were left completely flat. And another thing, Annie had a history of introducing Elaine to people she was certain Elaine would love and she had a dubious track record.
‘Will Marty be there?’ asked Felicity.
‘Robert Capa is never without Marty,’ said Annie knowingly. ‘You know that, Fee.’
‘So, who’s Marty then?’ Elaine’s interest was reluctantly piqued again. She had always been a fan of the underdog and she had a feeling this was what Marty was.
‘Marty is Robert Capa’s best friend. He’s his loyal sidekick.’
Robert Capa got the accolades, yet Marty barely got a mention? It was a state of affairs Elaine felt familiar with.
‘You make him sound like a puppy.’
‘Marty is like a puppy, a greyhound maybe.’
‘What does Mr Robert Capa do anyway?’
Other than send otherwise sane women into a tizzy.
‘You don’t know?’
‘Nope!’
Elaine had always hated the emphasis on what one does. What does it tell us about the human heart? But she had learned a lot in her time in clerical. This was how society ranked. For the middle-class, it was the fastest way to establish who and who was not people like us. Anyway, she was intrigued. Most men had been conscripted by now.
Annie wore her incredulous expression again. ‘He’s a war photographer, Elaine… the war photographer. You have heard of him, surely?’
‘Honestly, I never have,’ Elaine protested, although come to think of it, a pea-sized bell was jangling in the back of her head.
‘There isn’t a conflict anywhere in the world he hasn’t covered. The Spanish Civil War, the Japanese invasion of Manchuria… he was living in the Philippine jungles for a while.’
‘Now you’re making him sound like Tarzan.’
Tarzan hadn’t been a disappointment. Elaine knew Johnny Weissmuller was one of Annie’s crushes. Not her biggest, that honour was reserved for James Cagney, but he was top-five material.
‘Funny you should say that, he is a bit like him.’
Elaine laughed, but Annie was being serious as she pencilled in her lips. ‘But don’t be getting ideas, Elaine.’
‘Ideas?’
‘You know.’
There was nothing you could say to Annie when she was like this, so Elaine got back to her letters.
The government office was three doors down from the building that hosted Life magazine, which was part of the bigger American company Life Corporation International. They were both tall, narrow red-brick buildings. The kind of building you would stand outside and think, wow.
The government office had a black double-fronted imposing door and once you were through there, you still had to get past the even more imposing Vera on reception. Vera pretended she couldn’t hear anything and had an ear trumpet from the last century, but she also had an uncanny knack of overhearing anything controversial.
Everything in the government office was hush-hush, ask no questions, tell no lies. Best to creep in quietly, look around before you take off your coat, look around before you shake out your umbrella, but don’t look around too much. Focus, focus. Clerical girls especially should be seen and not heard.
At Life Corporation International, by contrast, it was like they wanted people to know they were there. They even had a dark blue advertising sign out in the street, for heaven’s sake. The journalists clipped up the steps two at a time, with worn-down shoes and wide-open mackintoshes, and sometimes a famous person would pull up in a chauffeured car while you stood there on the pavement trying to figure them out. Fact: famous people were all so much smaller than they seemed in the magazines or in the cinema. Annie always said she could fit Ginger Rogers in her handbag and President Eisenhower in her pocket. If necessary.
Elaine asked her when that would ever be necessary.
Annie said, you never know.
One time, Elaine and Annie came upon two worn copy-editors smoking cigars in the street. After they had whistled appreciatively, and done the obligatory ‘Hello, ladies!’, they said importantly, ‘Do you want to know something really exciting? Churchill’s just dropped by!’
Churchill wouldn’t fit in anybody’s pocket.
They told Annie and Elaine to go in, take a look, but sadly, Churchill had already hotfooted it out the back door by the time the girls got up to the news room.
At Life Corp. everything was out there, offered up to you like a fancy dessert on a fancy plate. This must be what America is like, Elaine imagined longingly: Freedom. Openness. Fish tanks in the hall. A meritocracy. A discussion where all voices were welcomed, no one shunned because they had the wrong accent, the wrong address, or the wrong kind of figure.
Life Corp. had revolving doors. You could keep going round like a three-year-old for ages and ages and no one would even stop you.
Elaine and Annie had done it. (Sixteen times, if you want to know. They only stopped because Annie thought she might be sick.)
Every corner of the George was strung with cobwebs like paper chains. It had boarded-up windows and on one of the outside walls was a daubed ‘Fascists Out’ from the Mosley days.
The reason it was popular was simple. It was the last pub standing. Most of the pubs in Soho had closed: either the drinkers had been conscripted, or they had been blown up. During the Blitz, most of the George’s windows had been blown in, but it was the neighbouring King’s Arms that took the brunt of it. Elaine remembered, the morning after a particularly heavy night’s bombing, seeing Bessie, the landlady of the George, trying to console Bertha, the landlady of the King’s Arms. Both were sitting amid the rubble, drinking tea out of bone china cups on saucers.
As always on a Friday evening, there were lots of people from Life Corp. and lots of people from the government offices at the George, but there was no sign of this guy Annie and the girls were making such a song and dance about.
Annie and the girls looked around them disappointedly. They were all polished up, eking out their make-up rations.
‘Tarzan stood you up then?’ Elaine whispered. Annie’s face fell, but she refused to believe it.
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘He’s far too agreeable,’ said Elaine sarcastically.
But then he was spied, helping Bessie with the barrels. He was lugging them up from the cellar for her; he’d built up a sweat in that white shirt, brown leather flying jacket and the high-waisted trousers that all the civilian fellas wore now.
Annie and the girls clapped when they saw him and called out. He unloaded the barrels on his back, went down to hump up another, then slumped into the space they’d saved for him on the velvet banquette. He grinned around at everyone delightedly, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief that Elaine, who had an eye for detail, saw was pale pink and monogrammed.
‘Either those barrels are getting heavier or I’m getting weaker.’
To Elaine’s surprise, Annie plumped fat kisses on his cheeks. ‘Weaker? You? Never!’
Usually Annie was an advocate of the treat-them-mean, keep-them-keen school. Shocking to see her capitulate like this.
Robert Capa gave out compliments freely – the rare sort, the noticing sort. Oh, he was an agreeable man, that was obvious.
He observed the heels on Myra’s shoes.
‘What do they call those? Kitten heels?’
‘Blister heels,’ Myra retorted shyly.
‘Brilliant!’ He roared like he’d never heard anything funnier. Shy Myra, who no one ever joked with, gave him an appreciative smile.
He enquired about Mrs Dill’s stepchildren, who had been evacuated to Wales.
She said, ‘I can’t understand them… Their accents are so strong now.’
‘Dim rhaid i chi ddweud caws ond mae’n helpu,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ Everyone leaned forward.
‘You don’t have to say cheese, but it helps.’ He laughed. ‘It’s the only Welsh I know!’
He asked about Felicity’s younger sister. ‘Still learning the violin?’
‘For my sins, yes.’
‘Better than the recorder, no?’
‘Every night it sounds like a cat being strangled… I reckon if the Jerrys heard, they’d turn their planes back.’
Elaine watched her colleagues having fun and it was like she was watching from somewhere far away. She felt that she was learning more about them in those few minutes than she had in all the years they’d been working together. She hadn’t known anything about Felicity’s sister’s violin, or Mrs Dill’s stepchildren’s accents. She didn’t know that trembling Myra had a sense of humour. She thought suddenly that she should ask them more questions, but whenever she tried, everyone seemed to think she was prying.
Everyone opened up to Robert Capa like blooming oysters.
A quarter of an hour passed, and Elaine found that, try as she might, she simply couldn’t dislike him. She would have just been cutting off her nose to spite her face. But also he really was exceedingly nice and Elaine was never good at being haughty.
He had a slight accent: what was it? Austrian, Bulgarian, Italian, American, Canadian, French? He had a winning smile, just as Annie had said, and now Annie was nudging her triumphantly.
‘Close your mouth, there’s a double-decker coming.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I told you he was darling, didn’t I?’ she said knowingly.
Always had to have the last word, that was Annie all over.
‘Well done, Leon. Still a full head of hair, I see…’ Robert Capa said to old Leon Harper, their postman.
‘I’m hanging onto it gamely – unlike you, Mr Capa!’
‘With a face like this?’ Robert Capa grinned broadly, part self-effacingly, part glowing with confidence – ‘who needs hair?!’
‘I don’t think we’ve met before,’ Elaine said when it was her turn to take his attention. She held out her gloved hand and as she did so, she felt what a peculiarly old-fashioned and English gesture it was, while he was so fresh and exotic.
‘I’d definitely recall if we had.’ His hand was warm and hung onto hers for longer than necessary.
Elaine laughed. His eyes were dark, long-lashed and compelling, even in the smoke-fug. She had to force herself to look away.
He said he liked her gloves.
‘They’re beautiful quality.’
Of all the things he could have said! Elaine blushed. Looking expensive was a preoccupation of hers. She didn’t shout it from the rooftops but another of the joys of being clerical – apart from the contribution to the war effort, of course – was dressing for the job. Even through the Blitz – when clothes were supposed to be the last things on your mind – she had kept up appearances: Elaine Parker always looked the part. It was more important to her than it was to the other girls, but then they had all those other things going for them too.
‘They suit you.’
Clive had got them for her. There was no need to tell Robert Capa that carefully stitched inside the gloves was the name of their previous owner: ‘Mildred Cousins’.
Here he came, Marty the faithful greyhound. He arrived by Robert Capa’s side, with a tray of glasses filled to the brim with gin, and they all had to shove up. Older, blonder, paler, smaller… no, he wasn’t smaller, he just seemed smaller. Definitely narrower in the shoulder department, but actually way taller. Six foot two or even three. Deceptively built. Rectangular wire glasses. Fragile-looking. Less energy. More Cheetah than Tarzan. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. No wonder he rarely got a mention.
More and more people gathered around their banquette. Girls – pretty girls from Life Corp., all coming to have a look. Elaine was introduced to some of them: Hello Faye and Merry. Elaine didn’t like the way Merry looked at Robert Capa with those eyes. And what on earth was the girl using for blusher? She felt strangely protective of her new friend.
‘We’re going dancing,’ Robert Capa said. ‘Won’t you join us?’
He looked directly at Elaine as he said it. She gazed back at the twin peaks of his tanned, slightly shiny forehead. He wasn’t typically attractive – he certainly wasn’t her type – and yet… The big smile, the twinkle in the eyes, it all added up to something.
She shouldn’t go. Absolutely not.
‘Come on, Elaine, you know you love a party,’ said Annie, nudging her.
Gazing at her, Robert Capa seemed to be asking even bigger questions with his puppy eyes. ‘It won’t be a party without you,’ he said finally.
Unfortunately, her brother Clive was outside the pub as they left. Elaine tried to sneak by, but you could never sneak by Clive, especially when he was calling out, ‘Elaine, over here, ELAINE!’ She and Annie exchanged looks. She’d told Clive a hundred times not to come here, and definitely not to speak to her if he did.
Now Clive sat kerbside, still in his fish-stained overalls, his club foot stretched out into the road, plaintively asking people to bring him out a pint. Most ignored him, but as he often said, you only needed one sucker to feel sorry for you. (He’d inherited that piece of wisdom from their dad.)
‘What are you doing here?’ Elaine tried not to sound as accusing as she felt. Not because Clive didn’t deserve it – he was generally up to no good – but because no one likes a woman who scolds. Everyone had left the pub now and was crowded in the street, debating whether to go on or not. Robert Capa was looking over at her curiously, more than curiously. She couldn’t help knowing he was interested, even though she’d deny it to Felicity and Myra. That’s what you do, if you don’t want to be arrogant.
People talked about Elaine’s body as though it were a thing separate from her– the way you might admire a cute kitten in the street. ‘Curvaceous,’ they said, or ‘should be in the films’. It was a body that sent out a message, apparently – a veritable postal service – but it was mainly men between the ages of sixteen and sixty who felt obliged to reply. The fuss was silly. It was amusing while at the same time it could be repulsive. Sometimes, though, it had its uses. Robert Capa hadn’t taken his eyes off her and it felt good. Hands on hips, Elaine turned back to her co-workers. ‘Go ahead. I’ll join you in a minute.’
‘Don’t worry, Elaine always manages to catch us up,’ Annie called out.
Elaine couldn’t help but think, one day, I mightn’t be able to.
Clive was only eighteen but he had the cunning of a gangland boss twice his age, and looks many women bizarrely seemed to find appealing. He’ll go far or to jail, their mother used to say. His club foot didn’t stop him doing anything – he was so adept with a stick that he played goal for Tooting football club when they were desperate and had only missed three Charlton Athletic home matches in his life, but it had stopped him getting called up. Now, he was reaping the benefits of the lack of male competition not just for sports, or for women, but for everything.
While the Blitz was in full swing, Clive’s foot didn’t hold him back from breaking into houses, riffling through jewellery boxes, trampling through allotments, then ‘comforting’ anxious women in the underground. It was Clive who got their family the wireless and a gramophone during the Blitz and even a garden bench for Mrs Perry to sit out on downstairs, which was taken from the Devonshire pub’s gardens and which the police had put up signs about.
‘Where’s Justin?’ Curiously, Clive liked Justin, despite Justin never giving him the time of day.
Why did he have to have such a loud voice?
‘Not here,’ whispered Elaine. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Got any dosh?’
‘I’ll give you some later, at home.’
‘I need it now, Elaine.’
If Elaine asked Clive for a saucepan, there would be four on the stove within the hour. Ask him for the moon and he would find you a ladder. He was very generous. Clive kept them going after Dad left. If it weren’t for him there would have been no The Quick Brown Fox Jumped Over the Lazy Dog books, there would have been no secretarial college. There would certainly have been no clerical work in a government department – there’d have been no future for her at all. Elaine owed him. She handed over a shilling, but he looked so despondent that she dug in her purse for a second.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ he said.
He never did.
Annie was right. Elaine never could resist a party, even on a work night, especially on a work night. And somehow, in a way that seemed too easy, too filmic, she was through the doors, and in a basement room, and there was Robert Capa. He was waiting for her. He was surrounded by women, all preening and smiling at him, but he had eyes only for her. She found herself next to him and they started dancing. The only thing that wasn’t like being in a film was that Robert Capa turned out to be a truly terrible dancer! Who would have thought it? He was verging on the diabolical. Somehow, Elaine found herself teaching him moves. It was a mystery how he got them so wrong. It was like he found it hard to connect the music with his body, like he had no idea that that was the point.
‘All right, put your arm round me here.’
‘Here?’
‘No.’
At first, she thought he couldn’t possibly be that clumsy and that he was just pretending – and then she realised that, yes, actually, he was that clumsy.
It wasn’t that Elaine was a different person when she was dancing, it was just that she felt as if she had been sleeping and then suddenly she was awake. All her senses were suddenly alive, alert and aware. Elaine lost herself to the music, the moves. If she had only known adult life could be like this, she was sure she could have had a better childhood. She would certainly have had something to look forward to and having something to look forward to would have made all the difference in the world. When she danced, she felt energised, plugged in, switched on, alight.
In a world that was dreary with sudden deaths, rationings, bad news on the wireless, dancing was the perfect antidote.
‘Are you American?’ It wasn’t the first question she wanted to ask Robert Capa, bu
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