by Isabel Wolff
‘At that time,’ she went on, ‘the weather was still cold.’ She shivered, involuntarily. ‘Although it was late spring I was still wearing my blue coat. And all the time I was wondering where Monique could have gone, and why she and her family had left so suddenly. But my parents wouldn’t discuss it with me. Then, in my selfish child’s way, I realised that there was a silver lining to the situation. No doubt Monique would return, if not now then when the war was over – but in her absence maybe Jean-Luc might notice me. I remember doing what I could to try and make him. I had just turned fourteen and I began to steal a little of my mother’s lipstick; I’d put curling papers in my hair at night, like she did, and I’d darken my pale lashes with a little boot polish – sometimes with comical results: I’d pinch my cheeks to make them rosy. Marcel, who was two years younger than me, began to notice these things and would tease me mercilessly.
‘Then one warm Saturday morning I had a row with Marcel – he was goading me so much, I couldn’t stand it. I ran out of the house, slamming the door. And I’d walked for perhaps an hour or so when I came to the old broken-down barn. I went inside, and sat down on the floor in a patch of sunlight with my back to a hay bale, listening to the swifts chattering in the eaves above me, and the distant rumble of trains. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed with sadness. I started crying and couldn’t stop. And as I sat there, my face bathed in tears, I heard a faint rustling sound from behind. I thought it might be a rat; I was scared. But then curiosity overwhelmed me. I got up and went to the back of the barn, and there, behind a stack of hay bales, lying on the ground beneath a coarse grey blanket was … Monique.’ Mrs Bell looked at me, bewildered. ‘I was astounded. I couldn’t understand why she was there. I gently called her name, but she didn’t respond. I began to panic. I clapped my hands by her ear, then I knelt down and gently shook her …’
‘Did she wake up?’ I asked. My heart was pounding. ‘Did she wake up?’
Mrs Bell looked at me curiously. ‘She did wake up – thank God. But I will never forget her expression when she did so. Because even as she recognised me, her eyes were straying over my shoulder: her look of terror then changed to one of relief mingled with bewilderment. Then she told me, in this tiny whisper, that she had not heard me come in because she had been asleep, because she found it so hard to sleep at night and was exhausted. Then she got up, very stiffly, and stood there just looking at me; she put her arms round me and clung to me, gripping me so tightly while I tried to comfort her …’ Mrs Bell paused, her eyes shimmering with tears. ‘We sat down together on a bale of hay. Monique told me that she had been in the barn for eight days. In fact it was ten. I knew this because she said that on April 19th the Gestapo had come to her house while she was out getting bread, and that they had taken her parents and her brothers, but that their neighbours, the Antignacs, had seen her returning and had headed her off. They’d kept her in their attic, then at nightfall they’d brought her here to this disused barn – by chance the barn where Monique had first revealed to me her true identity. She said that Monsieur Antignac had told her to stay there until it was safe. He’d said that he had no idea how long that would be and that she would have to be patient and brave. He’d told her not to make a sound, and never leave the barn, except to creep the few metres to the stream when it was dark to collect water in the pitcher that he’d given her.’
Mrs Bell’s mouth was trembling. ‘My heart broke for Monique, that she was all alone, separated from her family, with no idea where they were, and with the terrible thought of their abduction tormenting her every waking moment. I tried to imagine how I would cope in such a terrible situation. Now I truly understood the dreadfulness of this war.’ Mrs Bell looked at me, her eyes ablaze. ‘How could it be that people guilty of no crime, men and women – and children,’ she added vehemently. ‘Children…’ Her pale blue eyes were shining with tears. ‘How could it be,’ she went on, ‘that they could just be taken from their homes – like that – and bundled on to trains bound for … “New horizons”,’ she enunciated scornfully. ‘That was the euphemism we learned afterwards – and “work camps in the east”.’ Her voice had caught. ‘“Destinations unknown”,’ she croaked. ‘That was another …’ Her hands sprang to her face.
I could hear the ticking of the clock. ‘Are you sure you want to go on?’ I asked her gently.
Mrs Bell nodded. ‘I do want to.’ She reached into the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a hanky. ‘I need to …’ She pressed the hanky to her eyes, blinked a few times, then continued, her voice fracturing now with effort and emotion. ‘Monique already looked gaunt and thin. Her hair was tangled and her clothes and face were dirty. But round her neck was a beautiful Venetian glass necklace that her mother had given her for her thirteenth birthday. The beads were large and rectangular, with a swirling pattern of pink and bronze. Monique fingered it constantly as she spoke, as though it consoled her just to touch it. She told me that she was desperate to find her family but she understood that for now she had to stay where she was. She said that the Antignacs were very kind, but that they weren’t able to bring her food every day.
‘So then I said that I would. Monique said that I mustn’t, because I would be putting myself in danger. “No one will see me,” I protested. “I’ll pretend that I’m picking wild strawberries – who’s going to care what I do?” For the second time in that place, Monique swore me to secrecy. She told me to tell no one that I had seen her – not even my parents or brother. I vowed to say nothing, then I ran home, my head spinning. I went into the kitchen and took some bread from my ration and put a little butter on it, then I cut a piece of cheese from my meagre allowance: I found an apple and I put all this, such as it was, into a basket. Then I told my mother that I was going out again because I wanted to pick some irises that grow wild at that time of year. She made some comment about my having lots of energy and told me not to go too far. Then I ran to the barn, slipped in very quietly, and gave Monique the food. She ate half of it, ravenously, saying that she would have to make the other half last for the next two days. She said that she was worried about rats, so she put the rest of the provisions under an old pot. I told her that I would come again, soon, with more. I asked her if there was anything else that she needed. She replied that although she was warm enough in the day, she was cold at night – so cold that she couldn’t sleep. All she had was the cotton dress and the cardigan she was wearing, and that thin grey blanket. ‘You need a coat,’ I said. ‘A really warm coat – you need …’ And then I knew. ‘I will bring you mine,’ I promised, ‘tomorrow, in the late afternoon. But I’d better go now or my parents will miss me.’ I kissed her on the cheek and left.
‘That night I could hardly sleep. I was tortured by thoughts of Monique, all alone in the barn, starting at the sound of rats and mice and the hooting of owls, and having to endure cold so biting that she would wake in the morning aching from the physical exertion of shivering. Then I thought about the coat, and how warm it would make her, and I felt elated at the thought of giving it to her. Monique was my friend’ – Mrs Bell’s mouth was quivering – ‘and I was going to look after her.’
I looked away, almost unable to bear this story with its painful echoes of my own.
Mrs Bell was stroking the coat again now, as if to soothe it. ‘I planned all the wonderful things I would take to Monique – this coat; some pencils and paper to pass the time; a few books, a bar of soap and some toothpaste. And of course food – lots of it…’ From somewhere far away I thought I could hear ringing. ‘I went to sleep dreaming of the feast that I would lay before Monique.’ Mrs Bell tapped her chest again. ‘But I didn’t do that. Instead, I let her down – terribly. In fact, catastrophically –’
Drrrrrrring.
Mrs Bell looked up, startled, as the front door bell registered now. Then she got to her feet, carefully laid the coat over the back of her chair, and left the room, smoothing down her hair as she went. I heard her steps in the hallway, then a woman’s voi
ce.
‘Mrs Bell? … district nurse … just a chat … sorry, didn’t your surgery tell you? … about half an hour … sure it’s convenient?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I whispered. As Mrs Bell came back into the sitting room, followed by the nurse, a fair-haired woman in her fifties, she quickly swept up the coat and took it back into the bedroom.
The nurse smiled at me. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting.’ I fought the urge to tell her that she was. ‘Are you a friend of Mrs Bell’s?’
‘Yes. We were just having a … chat.’ I stood up and looked at Mrs Bell, who had now returned. The emotion of the story was still etched on her face. ‘I’ll go now, Mrs Bell – but I’ll ring you soon.’
She laid her hand on my arm, gazing at me intently. ‘Yes, Phoebe,’ she said quietly. ‘Please do.’
I walked down the stairs feeling weighed down, though not by the two suitcases, which I barely noticed. As I drove the short distance back home I thought about Mrs Bell’s story and felt sad for her that she was still so distressed about events that had happened such a long time ago.
At home I separated those clothes of hers that would go to Val – I thought with a shiver of my private sitting; then I put the others ready to be washed or dry-cleaned.
On the way back to the shop I called in at Oxfam. I handed the bag of Mrs Bell’s things to the volunteer, a woman in her early seventies who I’ve often seen in there. She can be a bit grumpy. ‘These are all Jaeger and in excellent condition,’ I explained. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the calico curtain that was pulled across the changing cubicle twitch. I took out the aquamarine suit. ‘This would have cost £250 new – it’s only two years old.’
‘It’s quite a nice colour,’ said the woman.
‘Yes – it’s subtle, isn’t it?’
Now the curtain was drawn back and there was Dan, in a bright turquoise corduroy jacket and crimson trousers. I felt like reaching for my sunglasses.
‘Hi, Phoebe. I thought it was you.’ He looked at himself in the mirror. ‘What do you think of the jacket?’
‘What do I think of the jacket?’ What could I say? ‘The cut’s okay, but the colour’s … ghastly.’ His face fell. ‘Sorry, but you did ask.’
‘I like this colour,’ Dan protested. ‘It’s … well … how would you describe it?’
‘Peacock blue,’ I suggested. ‘No – “cyan”.’
‘Oh.’ He squinted at himself. ‘As in cyanide?’
‘Exactly. And it is a bit … toxic.’ I grimaced at the volunteer. ‘Sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry – I think it’s vile too. Mind you, he can almost carry it off.’ She nodded at him. ‘He’s got a lovely face under all that hair.’ I looked at Dan, who was smiling gratefully at the woman. He did have a lovely face, I realised; a strong straight nose, nice lips that dimpled slightly at the corners; a clear, grey-eyed gaze. Who was it he reminded me of? ‘But what will that jacket go with?’ the volunteer demanded. ‘You’ve got to think about that. As you’re a valued customer, I feel I should give you that advice.’
‘Ooh, it’ll go with lots of things,’ Dan replied amiably. ‘These trousers for a start.’
‘I’m not sure that they do go,’ I said. Dan’s approach to clothes seemed to be mix’n’don’t match.
He took the jacket off. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said happily. ‘And the books.’ He nodded at the pile of hardbacks on the counter. The top one was a biography of Greta Garbo. Dan tapped it, then looked at me. ‘Did you know that Louis B. Mayer wanted her to drop the name Garbo because he thought it sounded too much like “garbage”?’
‘Erm … no, I didn’t.’ I gazed at the beautiful face on the cover. ‘I love Garbo’s films. Not that I’ve seen one for ages,’ I added as Dan handed the volunteer the cash.
Dan looked at me. ‘Then you’re in luck. The Greenwich Picturehouse is doing a “Mother Russia” season later this month and they’re showing Anna Karenina.’ He accepted his change. ‘We’ll go.’
I stared at Dan. ‘I’m not … sure.’
‘Why not?’ He slotted the coins into the collection tin by the till. ‘Don’t tell me – you vont to be alone.’
‘No – it’s just that … I’d like to think about it.’
‘I don’t know why,’ the volunteer said as she tore off Dan’s receipt. ‘It sounds marvellous to me – going to see a Greta Garbo film with a nice young man.’
‘Yes – but …’ I didn’t want to say that, apart from objecting to the presumptuous way in which I’d been invited, I’d only ever met Dan twice. ‘I don’t know whether I … can.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Dan had opened his bag. ‘I’ve got the Picturehouse leaflet right here.’ He took it out and looked at it. ‘The screening’s on … Wednesday 24th at seven thirty. Is that okay for you?’ He was looking at me expectantly.
‘Well …’
The volunteer heaved a sigh. ‘If you don’t go with him, I will. I haven’t been to the pictures for five years,’ she added. ‘Not since my husband died – we used to go every Friday; there’s no one to go with now; I’d give anything for an invitation like that.’ She shook her head as if disbelieving of my churlishness, then handed Dan his bags with a consoling smile. ‘Here you go, sweetheart. See you again soon.’
‘You will,’ said Dan. Then he and I left the shop together. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked as we strolled down Tranquil Vale.
‘I’ve got to go up to the bank – I meant to do it earlier.’
‘I’m going that way too – I’ll walk with you. And how’s the shop doing?’
‘It’s …good,’ I replied. ‘Thanks, largely, to your article,’ I added, feeling a little guilty now at my irritability: but as usual Dan had thrown me off balance with his …spontaneity. ‘And what about the paper?’
‘It’s going okay,’ he replied judiciously. ‘The circulation’s gone up to eleven thousand, from ten thousand at launch, which is good. But we could do with more advertising – a lot of the local advertisers still aren’t aware of us.’
We went down the hill then crossed over at the junction. Suddenly Dan stopped outside the Age Exchange Reminiscence Centre. ‘Well I’m going in here.’
I looked at its maroon-painted shop front. ‘Why?’
‘I’m planning a feature on it, so I need to do a recce.’
‘I haven’t been in here for years,’ I mused as I gazed into the window.
‘Come in with me now then,’ I heard Dan say.
‘Well … I’m not sure I’ve got time, so I don’t think I will, Dan. I’ll just …’ Why was I refusing, I wondered? Annie was minding the shop – there was no particular time pressure on me. ‘All right, then. Just for a minute.’
Going into the Age Exchange was like stepping back in time. The interior was done in the style of an old-fashioned general store, the shelves stocked with prewar packaging for Sunlight soap, Brown & Polson custard, Eggo dried egg and Player’s Senior Service cigar ettes. There was an ornate brass till like an old typewriter, a Bakelite wireless and some Brownie box cameras; there was also a wooden chest, the little drawers of which had been left open to reveal an assortment of old medals, crochet hooks, knitted dolls and cotton reels – the bric-à-brac of times gone by.
Dan and I walked through to the gallery at the back of the centre where there were some black-and-white photos forming part of an exhibition about life in the East End in the 1930s and 40s. One of the figures, a little girl playing in a bombed-out street in Stepney, was circled because, now in her eighties, she lived in Blackheath.
‘So this place is a kind of museum,’ I said.
‘It’s more of a community centre,’ Dan replied, ‘where the elderly can reminisce about their lives. There’s a theatre at the back and a café. In fact …’ He nodded at the kitchen counter. ‘I’m in need of a coffee – will you have one?’
As we sat at a table Dan got out his pad and pencil, which he began to sharpen.
‘So you fo
und it then.’ I nodded at the sharpener.
‘Yes – thank goodness.’
‘Is it special?’
Dan put it on the table. ‘My grandmother left it to me. She died three years ago.’
‘She left you a pencil sharpener?’ He nodded. ‘Is that all she left you?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘No.’ Dan blew on the sharpened tip. ‘She also left me a rather hideous painting. I did feel a tad … disappointed,’ he concluded delicately. ‘But I like the sharpener.’
As Dan began to scribble a few notes on his pad in his odd shorthand, I asked him how long he’d been a journalist.
‘Only a few months,’ he replied. ‘I’m a novice.’ So that explained his inept interviewing technique.
‘What did you do before?’
‘I worked for a marketing agency, designing product promotions – mostly tailor-made rewards schemes, voucher giveaways, loyalty cards, cashback incentives, buy-one-get-one-free offers –’
‘Five per cent off everything for the first week?’ I interjected wryly.
‘Yes.’ Dan had blushed. ‘That sort of thing.’
‘So why did you give it up?’
He hesitated. ‘I’d been doing the same thing for ten years and was looking for a change. And my old school friend Matt had just left the Guardian, where he’d been business editor, to set up his own paper – a long-held dream; and he said he needed… help,’ Dan went on. ‘So I had a little think then decided to go for it.’