The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  ‘ . . . but this is bloody ludicrous! You can’t expect my wife to travel like this. We’ve first class tickets!’

  It was a young Englishman, a few years older than Alfred perhaps, talking to the train conductor in a tone of authority that belied his age. He wore a stiff grey homburg and a charcoal-grey gabardine suit beneath an expensive-looking wool overcoat, and was visibly annoyed. In the corridor on the other side of the door stood a woman, as elegantly dressed as the man, looking into the compartment.

  ‘I shall be putting in an official complaint,’ the man continued to the conductor. He glanced into the compartment and pulled a face. ‘At least get us a compartment of our own.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the conductor said, ‘but as I’ve explained, I’m afraid the train’s full. I apologise if this is inconvenient, but it cannae be helped.’

  ‘Stop making such a fuss, Samuel,’ the woman said. She pushed past him and sat down in the empty seat opposite Alfred, carefully smoothing down the back of her skirt beforehand. On her head, she wore a dark-green felt hat, the same colour as her coat, that swept up at a slant into an oversized bow.

  Her husband stood for a moment at the door, but the conductor went to slide it shut and he quickly took a step back into the compartment. He eyed the padded bench seat with some suspicion, but then sat down next to his wife. The smell of his hair cream mingled unpleasantly with the smoke and sweat.

  ‘Bloody ludicrous,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you’ve already said that,’ his wife answered. She looked around the compartment and gave her fellow passengers a tight-mouthed but polite smile. It looked rehearsed, the kind of smile one bestows on others below one’s class. But her eyes, which were very dark, almost black, like her hair, suggested a flash of playfulness. Alfred smiled back.

  ‘First-class bloody tickets,’ her husband continued. ‘This place truly is the backwater of Britain. Can’t even get their trains to run properly.’

  ‘Oh darling, stop being such a bore,’ she snapped. ‘It’s only a couple of hours to Dumfries. It won’t kill us.’

  The man shut up and removed his hat, resting his head on the backrest, but appeared anything but relaxed. He tapped his fingers restlessly on his leg. After ten minutes or so, the train gave a sudden jolt and pulled to a standstill. Alfred looked up from his book and out of the window. The sun had broken through the low-lying band of cloud; the fields he was looking out at stretched in a sheet of mauve and purple towards the horizon and merged into the sky.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ the man said. He got to his feet. ‘I’m going to find out what the hell is wrong with this train. No decent compartments, and now this.’

  His wife gave a short sigh of impatience as he left. Alfred went back to his book. The little girl beside him had fallen asleep and her head was now resting against his upper arm. It was unexpectedly, but pleasantly, heavy and Alfred tried to turn the pages of his book as carefully as he could so as not to disturb her.

  ‘Ah, Mr Middleton,’ the woman opposite said presently.

  Alfred looked up and saw that she was addressing him. ‘Excuse me?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

  She pointed at his book. ‘Mr Middleton,’ she said. ‘I remember listening to him on the wireless during the war. “Dig for Victory” and all that.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Alfred said. He knew about the gardening campaign, but had, of course, never heard any of Mr Middleton’s broadcasts.

  The woman smiled at him again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading. Do please carry on.’

  Alfred gave her a small smile in return. She was undoubtedly a very attractive woman, more handsome than pretty, with pale, immaculately powdered skin and her lips painted ruby red – and the thought momentarily unsettled him. There were different types of attractiveness, he told himself, and Isobel had enough natural beauty not to need powder and lipstick. He lowered his head and continued reading. For some time now, ever since he and Isobel had put their name down on the council housing list, he had been planning their garden. The space would be tiny, naturally, but he had aspirations of a small vegetable and herb garden, set close to the house, and perhaps a climber or two, perhaps a passiflora caerulea or a hardy clematis alpine. And of course, his favourite, lavender.

  Then: ‘Are you a keen gardener?’ It was the woman again.

  ‘Aye,’ Alfred answered. ‘I know a little about it.’ He could have added that he was a garden labourer, not quite a gardener, but didn’t.

  ‘Oh really? Then may I ask you a question? I don’t mean to intrude, but perhaps I may have your opinion. You see, I have gardens – nothing too grand, but large enough – but I have an awfully conservative head gardener. These English gardens, they all seem to be just lawn and herbaceous borders – there’s no . . . architecture!’ She spoke with passion. ‘And I do so believe in experimentation in the garden. Not that I’m an expert, more of a keen amateur.’

  Amateur meets labourer, tee hee. What’s your opinion then, Alfie dear?

  Alfred ignored the voice and cleared his throat. ‘You might consider adding dimension – horizontally, I mean – by growing climbers and roses up into the trees. If you have trees, that is. Depending on the budget, you could try albertine, or mulliganii, it all depends. And, well, I don’t know your garden, but it can be quite effective to cram several varieties of shrubs in one space and echo them individually in other areas of the garden.’ He began hesitantly, but soon found himself describing the kind of garden he longed to own, ignoring the calls of Ooh, listen to him! Now he’s showing off! inside his head.

  The woman listened carefully, nodding from time to time, and when Alfred realised he’d rattled on for too long, he finished by saying, ‘Aye, well, that just an idea.’

  ‘That was quite impressive!’ she said. ‘I shall bear it in mind. Thank you for your advice, Mr . . . ’

  ‘Warner,’ Alfred said, ‘Alfred Warner.’ He tried, but failed, to suppress a grin at the ease with which this new name rolled off his tongue.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Warner,’ she replied and held out a gloved hand. ‘Alice Singer-Cohen.’

  With a small jerk, the train began to move again, picking up speed rapidly until the heather fields outside became a blur of purple once again. Alfred leaned forward and shook her hand. It was an unusually firm handshake for a woman, he thought.

  A Jewess, now fancy that. Are you going to admit it? That you’re German?

  ‘No,’ he answered firmly, in his head. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Mrs Singer-Cohen put her head to one side and looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly. ‘I don’t suppose you’re in need of a job?’ she asked. ‘Ever since we moved up from London to what Samuel so charmingly calls “the Potteries”, I’ve been going spare trying to find a decent assistant to Mr Claxton, our head gardener. Someone who actually cares about the gardens. The chap we have now couldn’t recognise a rhododendron, let alone spell the word.’

  ‘Well,’ Alfred said, shifting in his seat. He glanced around the compartment self-consciously. He felt a little uncomfortable at her openness, yet she seemed perfectly at ease, as though it were only the two of them sitting here and the most natural thing in the world for a woman to be offering a stranger a job.

  ‘Actually – ’ he hesitated, not knowing whether he should address her as ‘Madam’, ‘actually, I’m, um, really quite settled here, thank you.’

  She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Well, there’s no harm in asking,’ she said lightly. Then she opened the clasp of her handbag and began rummaging through it. ‘By the way, you have a most unusual accent, Mr Warner.’ She gave him a peculiar look and Alfred’s heart sank. Then she smiled, open-mouthed. ‘But then again, I can’t tell the Highlands from the Lowlands – or even the Midlands, come to think of it.’ At this she laughed – an open, untidy laugh that was at odds with her polished appearance. She continued to rifle through her bag. ‘Blast,’ she said finally, ‘he hasn’t left me with a single cigarette.�
� She gave Alfred a questioning look.

  It took him a second to catch on. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t smoke.’ For some odd reason, he felt himself blushing.

  ‘Well bully for you,’ she said, getting to her feet. Alfred looked for some trace of irony in her face, but she just gave the same unreadable smile she’d given him earlier and said, ‘Very nice to meet you, Mr Warner.’

  She and her husband didn’t return by the time the train pulled into Mauchline; perhaps they had found a more preferable compartment. In any case, Alfred had almost completely forgotten about her when he arrived home with his new name, and it was quite some time before he had reason to recall their meeting.

  The summer that year was dry and unseasonably hot. By the time July arrived, bringing nightly thunderstorms and much needed rain, Alfred and Isobel’s marriage, though not as passionate as it had been, had regained the warmth he had so longed for after their daughter’s death. Isobel was not yet ready to consider another pregnancy, but they shared a bed again, and for the moment, this was enough for Alfred. She had reacted with surprise and delight at the news of the name change; in fact, they decided to have a small celebration with Drummond and Harding and his wife. Harding, after a drink too many, inadvertently soured the evening by suggesting that they should try for a couple of boys: the ‘Warner Bros.’.

  The following Sunday, Drummond called Alfred into his study after the service, for ‘a quick word’. Isobel was in the kitchen preparing lunch.

  ‘Come in, Alfred, and please shut the door,’ he said, gesturing for Alfred to sit down.

  Noting the look of concern on Drummond’s face, Alfred assumed it might be about the police enquiry into the arson attack.

  ‘Any news?’ he asked, but Drummond gave him an uncomprehending look. ‘About the fire?’

  Drummond shook his head. ‘No. There’s some talk about the new tenants, in the council estate, but that’s idle gossip. Without a proper description of the men, there’s precious little the police can do.’ He sat down heavily behind his own desk and took some papers out of his jacket pocket. ‘This is what I called you in for,’ he said, and placed the papers on the desk.

  Alfred could see immediately what they were.

  ‘From the collection box,’ Drummond continued. ‘Enough clothing coupons for you and Isobel to replace what you lost in the fire.’

  Alfred picked up the coupons. He didn’t quite know what to say. ‘This is – ’ he began, but saw Drummond frowning heavily. Surely he should be pleased? ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  Drummond sighed and reached into his other breast pocket. ‘There was something else in the collection box,’ he said slowly. ‘I thought long and hard about whether or not to show you this, but I decided you must know. Here.’

  He handed Alfred a folded scrap of paper. Alfred took it from him and unfolded it, feeling Drummond’s eyes on him. The handwriting was crude, and the message was written in angular capital letters:

  BITCH BRIDE OF ADOLF

  Alfred looked up at Drummond, who just shook his head and said, ‘Human good and human evil so close together.’ He rose from his chair. ‘I shall pass it on to the police, of course. I just cannae imagine who would do this . . . ’

  Alfred got up and left the study with Drummond. In the hall, Drummond lay his hand on Alfred’s arm. ‘I think it best if we keep this from Isobel. For now.’

  Alfred nodded. ‘Aye, of course.’

  ‘And let’s hope this is the last of it.’

  Sadly, that wasn’t the last of it. Although the hot sunny weather kept most villagers’ spirits high, it became clear that the police were no closer to identifying the arsonists, or the author of the note. Isobel was also troubled about her father’s impending departure, and although she hadn’t spoken much about it, Alfred could tell it was causing her a great deal of anxiety. Thus, he wasn’t surprised to return home one evening to find her in tears in the kitchen. She was at the sink, vigorously scraping the burnt bottom of a pan. ‘I left the potatoes for all of five minutes, to fetch the washing in,’ she said, sobbing loudly. ‘And the kitchen was full of smoke.’

  Alfred, still filthy from work, made her put down the pan and took her in his arms. She continued to cry. ‘It’s no bother,’ he said gently. ‘Potatoes are nothing to cry over.’

  She sniffed loudly. ‘No, Alfie. It’s not that. It’s – ’

  ‘Shhh, I know, I know,’ he said, relieved that she was no longer keeping her unhappiness bottled up.

  She looked up at him with tear-reddened eyes. ‘So – so you’ve seen it, then? The door?’

  ‘What door?’

  ‘Oh Alfie, it’s awful,’ she said, putting a hand to her mouth and bursting into fresh tears.

  ‘Isobel, for god’s sake, what is it?’

  ‘Here,’ she said, taking his hand and leading him out through the kitchen door to the garden. She turned slowly, almost reluctantly, to face the cottage. There was no need to point out what had upset her. It was graffiti, scratched into the green paint of the kitchen door:

  JERRY GO HOME !

  And beneath it:

  #

  NAZI WHORE

  Alfred glanced around the garden, but there was no one in sight. It was likely that this had been done during the night under the cover of darkness, but the thought that Isobel might have been on her own at home when it happened alarmed him. He tightened his grip on her hand. ‘Go back inside,’ he said.

  She hurried back into the cottage, while he took a closer look. The scratches were fresh, as far as he could tell, and made perhaps with a key, or a screwdriver. There was no other clue as to who might be responsible. It unsettled him. He wasn’t so much frightened for himself, but for Isobel. Since the fire, it had been bad enough to witness her growing nervousness – flinching when she heard a door slamming or the telephone ringing – but if something were ever to happen to her . . .

  That evening, he held Isobel until she fell asleep, then turned onto his back. He was too restless for sleep. If it were up to him, he thought, he would leave the village. As much as he’d been welcomed here over the past several years, as much as he now almost felt, in Harding’s words, ‘a local lad’, it would not seem such a hardship to leave. But where would he go? He couldn’t go back home, surely. Isobel would never cope, and neither, he thought, would he. He closed his eyes to try and stop the dizzying swirl of thoughts in his head.

  A fresh start, Alfred. That’s what you and Isobel need.

  You’re both young, you’ll settle in wherever you go. As long as you have each other.

  ‘But this is her home,’ he argued. ‘She was born here. She knows no other place. It would be like uprooting a flower.’

  She’s a hardier flower than you give her credit for. Nothing ventured, Alfred, nothing gained.

  ‘It is not that easy,’ he said, and must have mumbled it out loud because next to him, Isobel stirred.

  ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Shh, darling, go back to sleep,’ he said softly.

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping. I cannae sleep. I’ve been lying here, thinking.’

  ‘That won’t do you any good.’

  ‘But you cannae sleep either! Tossing and turning, it’s like being on a ship. It’s all I can do not to feel seasick.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ach, don’t be. Like I said, I was awake anyway. Alfie?’

  Alfred turned onto his side to face her. Her hair was carefully put up in curls and fastened with hairgrips and her breath, which he could feel on his face, smelled minty. ‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, I do know, but –’ she blinked a couple of times, ‘Alfie, I’m frightened.’

  He put out his hand and stroked her face. ‘I know,’ he said.

  Isobel closed her eyes at his touch and they lay in silence for a while.

  ‘Have you – have you ever thought about leaving?’ he asked finally.

  She opened her e
yes. They were as round and vulnerable as ever.

  ‘I’m serious, Isobel,’ he continued. ‘I’m afraid too. For your safety. The fire, the back door today. And there was something else . . . ’

  He told her about the note in the collection box. She continued to stare at him with a look he couldn’t interpret. So he pressed on. ‘With your father leaving, tell me Isobel, what is there here for you?’

  ‘You want me to leave my home.’ She spoke in a whisper. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. Almost an accusation.

  ‘No – ’ he began. He withdrew his hand and propped himself up on his elbow. ‘I mean, yes. I think we should leave. Isobel, darling, don’t you think we can make a home somewhere else?’

  She dropped her gaze and remained silent for so long that he thought she might have fallen asleep again. But then she blinked again.

  He pressed on. ‘I had an offer of a job a while back. When I was on the train back from Kilmarnock. An Englishwoman – she said she’s looking for a gardener.’

  ‘And what did ye tell her?’

  ‘What d’ye think? That I’m settled here, thank you very much.’

  At that, they both fell into a brief silence.

  Isobel teased a strand of hair from the hair grips and began twirling it around her finger. ‘But now you want to leave.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave, Isobel. But – ’ He paused, struggling for the right words. ‘It might be a way to make a fresh start.’

  ‘And this Englishwoman,’ she said quietly, ‘what was she like?’

  ‘Friendly, very polite,’ he responded, recalling the woman’s pale skin and her untidy laugh. ‘Alice Singer-Cohen, she said her name was.’ He was surprised at how easily he’d remembered it.

  ‘Sounds posh,’ said Isobel, ‘and a wee bit foreign.’

  ‘No, it’s Jewish.’

  ‘Aye, but still – ’

  ‘It’s Jewish, not foreign,’ Alfred said, a little firmer than intended. He added in a softer tone, ‘But you’re right, that should make it easier to trace her.’ The more he spoke, the more determined he became. The woman had seemed sincere, hadn’t she? And he had surely learned from experience to trust his instincts – and his voices.