‘I asked you a question! Who is ’e?’
‘Leave off, Grace.’ Reg Lewis spoke without emerging from behind his newspaper. ‘It’s none of our business.’
Gracie hated to be contradicted. ‘If she comes ’ome at eight o’clock at night, it is our business!’ Then she swung her anger back at Helen. ‘What ’appens if yer get accosted by some man in the street? What ’appens if there’s an air-raid?’
Helen sighed, and took off her coat. ‘I won’t get accosted in the street, Mum. And we don’t get air-raids any more. The war’s nearly over.’
‘You tell that ter those people who got blown up in that rocket up near the Archway the uvver week. You mark my words, it ain’t over yet – not by a long way.’
Helen knew it was no use arguing. She sat down at the other end of the table, which had been laid for her supper and when she took off the plate covering it, it hardly looked very appetising: cold spam fritters, pickle, and two chunks of bread thinly spread with margarine. Helen sighed, but hoping to put Gracie in a better mood, tucked in to it as though it was a feast. Forces’ Favourites was still bellowing out from the wireless on the dresser.
‘You still ’aven’t said.’ Gracie, arms crossed, was glaring at her daughter. ‘Who’s this bloke then?’
‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ replied Helen, mouth full of spam fritter. ‘I don’t know anyfin’ about ’im. ‘’E’s a pal of Ivy’s.’
‘Oh yes? Then what’s that pitture doin’ under yer pillow?’
Helen tried not to sound flustered. ‘I don’t know ’ow it got there. It probably fell out of my dress pocket when I was makin’ my bed. Is there any tea?’
Although she didn’t believe a word of what Helen had said, Gracie was momentarily distracted. Using an iron-cloth, she picked up her old flat iron and took it out to the scullery for re-heating on the gas-stove. Just when Helen thought she was getting a moment’s peace, her mother’s shrill voice called: ‘Are you sure yer didn’t see this bloke over the weekend?’
Helen looked up with a start to find her father watching her carefully over the top of his newspaper.
‘’Elen! Did you ’ear what I said?’ Gracie’s voice could be heard above the sound of her filling the kettle at the scullery sink. ‘Did you go off wiv this bloke at the weekend?’
Helen’s frantic eyes were fixed on her father who was trying to say something to her, without actually saying it.
‘Wot’s the matter wiv yer!’ Gracie, kettle in hand, was peering round the scullery door. ‘Don’t I speak the King’s English or somefin’?’
Now Helen was really flustered. She just couldn’t say anything to her mother. How could she tell Gracie that she had indeed spent the weekend away with a soldier she had only known for a few short weeks? How could she tell her that she was madly in love with Eric Sibley, and that her heart was breaking because he had already been called away on active duty, and he might be killed, and she might never see him again?
To her amazement, it was her father who came to her rescue.
‘Leave the gel alone, Gracie!’ he said, sharply.
Reg Lewis was dimly aware that he had not been a good father to his kids, mainly because he didn’t know how to create a good family life. When he was eight his parents had split up and, as neither had wanted him, he was put into a Children’s Home at Bethnal Green.
‘She’s already told yer,’ he snapped, slamming down his newspaper. ‘She went ter Essex with Ivy and Joyce and their people.’
On the wireless, Jean Metcalfe was playing a record for a girl in the East End of London from her sailor husband on active duty. It was Bing Crosby singing Always. Gracie had to shout to be heard. ‘Oh yes? And ’ow do we know that?’
Suddenly, Reg got up from his seat, slammed down his newspaper on to his chair, and angrily turned off the wireless. ‘Because Ivy’s old man came inter the barfs last night, and ’e told me. Ivy’s old man and woman went wiv ’em. Is that good enuff for yer, Grace? Is it?’
Gracie was completely taken aback by Reg’s energetic vehemence. For a moment she could say nothing. So she quickly retreated back into the scullery.
Helen could hardly believe what she had just heard. Her father had lied for her! He had deliberately lied. As she watched him turn and leave the room without looking at her, she realised that he knew about her weekend away with Eric. She picked up a slice of bread, and took a bite of it, but it stuck in her throat. Someone had betrayed her. And the only other person who knew her secret was Frankie . . .
Frankie didn’t know what had hit him. He had only gone to Elsa’s shop to return her book, and now here he was helping her to move boxes and books. He had even been given the jobs of dusting the shelves, and sweeping behind the counter, and getting rid of the cobwebs around the lights. But for some reason he didn’t mind. In fact, for the past hour he had been thoroughly enjoying himself. Winston, too, was having a whale of a time. Not only was he full of apple-cake and bread and cheese, he was allowed to stretch out on a moth-eaten Persian rug. Apart from him, the shop was a hive of activity, with Elsa very firmly at the helm.
‘Winston is a good name to be given, my friend.’ The way Elsa was talking made it clear to Frankie that Elsa thought he was far more important than a dog. ‘After all, Winston Churchill is one of the greatest human beings this century. He is the defender of truth, the hope and inspiration of all mankind. We Jewish people have much to thank Mister Winston Churchill for.’
‘Are you really a Jew?’ called Frankie from the top of a stepladder.
Elsa’s back straightened proudly. ‘Yes, I am Jewish!’ She eyed him warily. ‘What makes you ask?’
‘Nuffink, really. I just fawt you was a German, that’s all.’
‘One can be German and Jewish, and one can also be English and Jewish.’ There was an air of indignation in Elsa’s response.
Frankie was beginning to feel the effects of all the dust and he was now quite hoarse. ‘But you ain’t got a big nose. My dad says all Jews are greedy, an’ they’ve got big noses.’
Elsa flinched. ‘Then your father is either ignorant or stupid. I suspect he is both.’ She glanced up quickly to see Frankie balancing precariously from the top of the ladder. ‘Please come down from that ladder. You are making me and Winston very nervous.’
Frankie came down from the ladder and leant it against the wall. ‘I’ve heard your old man got killed at Dunkirk. Is that right?’
Elsa shivered and went very quiet. She was taken aback by the boy’s bluntness.
Frankie perched on a trunk in front of her. ‘’Ow’d he get it, then?’
Elsa turned on him and snapped, ‘Mein Gott, it’s none of your business!’
Frankie was shocked. Although Elsa had been bossy with him, he had actually started to like her. But this outburst was different. ‘Sorry, miss.’ His eyes widened with puzzlement, for he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.
Elsa glared at him for a moment, then realised how foolish she’d been. How could she expect a boy of Frankie’s age to understand the pain of losing someone you love so much. Without saying anything, she slowly pulled a dust cover over the rail of secondhand dresses, then started a slow, methodical tour of the shop. Frankie and Winston watched her in awed fascination, for it was an extraordinary spectacle, as she appeared to glide from one display to another, as though in slow motion, touching objects with the tips of her fingers, caressing them as though they were living things. For a few fleeting moments Frankie thought Elsa looked quite beautiful, like an angel floating on air. Finally, she reached the electric light switch, and turned it off. For a brief moment there was total darkness but, before Frankie had had time to grow accustomed to the dark, Elsa had raised the blackout blind, to allow a great shaft of moonlight through the window, bathing everything within in a ghostly white colour.
Elsa sat on a stool by the window, staring up at the almost full moon, her voice low and gentle. ‘Yes, Frankie. My husband was killed at Dunkirk. His nam
e was Robert. Major Robert Michael Barclay, Royal Parachute Regiment!’
There was an anguished smile on Elsa’s face as she started to relive her life all over again. ‘We met in 1923 when Robert was on holiday in Germany and we fell in love and married despite the differences in our race, our religion . . .’ She smiled sadly. ‘My parents were not happy – but they liked Robert and they knew that I would never give him up.’ She laughed. ‘I was always the strong-willed one of their children . . . Robert was a career officer and so we lived mostly abroad or in army accommodation. Then –’ her voice faltered. ‘Then Hitler came to power in Germany and suddenly Jewish people were outcasts in their own country. It all happened so quickly. One day, when I was holidaying with them and was spending the day with my dearest friend, I came home to find that my entire family had disappeared – my mother and father, two brothers and their wives and children, my sister . . . Even my dog, Greta, had gone. I – I never saw them again . . .’ She swallowed hard, then continued. ‘I knew that if I was to survive, even though I had a British passport, I had to get out of Germany at once. My friend Gertrude, also.’
She turned to look at Frankie. ‘Do you know what we did?’
Frankie shook his head, enthralled. All he could see was a silhouette sitting at the window.
Elsa chuckled to herself. ‘We dyed our hair blonde and we took all the money and jewellery we could, and made our way very slowly, very dangerously to England. We even got a lift from a Nazi officer at one point! I tell you, that was quite a ride!’ She shook her head. She had almost forgotten about Frankie . . . ‘The first time I saw Robert, you know, was in a Jewish restaurant in Berlin. All the tables were full, so he asked if he could join me and Gertrude. He told us that even though he wasn’t a Jew, it was his favourite restaurant. The food he liked best in the whole world was veal stew with dumplings – and apple cake. Can you imagine it!’ She chuckled to herself, and then sighed. ‘I thought he was so handsome . . . Anyway, we got talking, and – well, six months later, we were married.’
Winston whimpered a little in his sleep.
‘The closer this country came to war with Nazi Germany, the more I dreaded every time Robert went away. To give me something else to think about we moved into the house in Hadleigh Villas which had been his parents’ and which he’d rented out for most of his army career, when he didn’t need a base. And he bought me the shop.’ Elsa was absolutely motionless, her eyes staring up through the window. In the eerie shaft of light her skin was fair and clear like that of a young girl. ‘The last time I saw him alive was on the steps of number 19. He had a taxi waiting for him and he wouldn’t let me go with him to King’s Cross Railway Station. As the taxi was leaving, I ran after it along the Seven Sisters Road – but there were so many other cars and it disappeared so very quickly . . .’
There was another long pause, but when she continued, her voice was calm and firm. ‘They didn’t tell me until the end of June 1940. The telegram just said . . . We regret to inform you.. . . Captain Robert Michael Barclay, 2nd Division, Royal Parachute Regiment . . . killed in Action.’ She dabbed her lips with her handkerchief again, so that her words were slightly muffled. ‘God forgive Adolf Hitler, Frankie, for I never shall.’
Frankie watched her in silence for a moment before speaking. ‘I fink I’d better be gettin’ ’ome.’ He stood up, and patted Winston on the head. ‘Come on Winnie.’ The two of them slowly made their way to the door, but Frankie suddenly stopped at the side of a pile of old books. ‘Please, miss. Could I take anuvver book?’
Elsa turned and, although Frankie couldn’t quite see her, he thought there was a wisp of a smile on her face. ‘Help yourself.’
Frankie couldn’t see what he was taking, so he just picked up the first book he came to. Then he paused briefly and turned to Elsa, who was still standing at the window. ‘Please? Could I come again termorrer?’
‘I’ll be expecting you,’ she said quietly. ‘Good night, Frankie.’
When Frankie got home his parents and Helen were in the kitchen listening to Appointment with Fear on the wireless, so he sneaked in quietly and went straight to his room. The first thing he did when he got into bed was to look at the book he had just borrowed from Elsa. It wasn’t quite what he had been expecting: The History of the Steam Traction Engine.
Nonetheless, he started to read it . . .
Chapter Five
Frankie was fast asleep when his sister Helen came into her part of the bedroom. He had managed five and a half pages of the History of the Steam Traction Engine, but by the time he’d got to the part about poppet-valves and coupling rods, his eyelids flickered and very soon he joined Winston in a chorus of snores. But not for long.
‘Wake up, yer little tyke! Wake up!’
Winston woke in a panic and Frankie, still half asleep, leapt out of bed. ‘Wot’s up! Wot’s goin’ on!’ His sister picked up one of his pillows and threw it at him. ‘Stop it, ’Elen! Wot’s up wiv yer!’
‘I’ll tell yer wot’s up wiv me, yer treacherous little pig! Yer caved in on me, din yer? Din yer?’ Helen, usually the most placid member of the family, was making no attempt to keep her voice down, for her parents had decided to sleep the night in the air-raid shelter.
‘Wot yer talkin’ about!’ Frankie’s back was pinned helplessly against the wall and the pocket of his old brown and white striped pyjama jacket was half ripped off. ‘I dunno wot yer talkin’ about!’
‘You know wot I’m talkin’ about, you stinkin’ git!’ Helen was now towering above her young brother, for she was standing on his bed. ‘You told dad about my weekend away wiv Eric!’
‘I din’t!’
‘You bloody did!’
This was the first time Frankie had ever heard his sister use a swear word. So he saw nothing wrong in doing the same. ‘I bloody din’t!’
As Helen got down from the bed, she trod directly onto The History of the Steam Traction Engine, which had fallen on to the floor. ‘Then ’ow come dad knew all about it? ’E didn’t say so, but ’e knows all right!’
‘Well, I din’t tell ’im!’ Frankie was now yelling at Helen.
‘Then who did?’
‘Why don’t you ask him, yer stupid cow!’ Frankie was now so angry, he pushed his sister with both hands, sending her reeling back on to his bed.
Helen quickly pulled herself up and made a lunge at Frankie, dragging him back with her on to the bed. For the next moment or so they pushed and punched at each other in the kind of furious, wrestling match they’d often had since they were tiny. ‘’Ow could yer do such a fing! ’Ow could yer! Yer knew I didn’t want mum and dad ter know. I’ll never tell yer a secret again – never!’ And with that, Helen walloped him hard on the top of his head with the flat of her hand.
Frankie squealed and grabbed hold of Helen’s hair. ‘I din’t tell him! I din’t tell no one!’ And with that, he grabbed hold of her shoulder-length hair and tugged hard.
The battle only came to an end when Winston decided to intervene. Leaping up on to the bed, he barked and barked at them both, and eventually, exhausted, both Helen and Frankie fell back on to their respective beds, having pulled the dividing curtain down in their furious antics. For a moment or so, both just lay without saying anything, trying to get their breath back. Winston made a brief yowling sound, settled down at the foot of Frankie’s bed again, yawned, and fell asleep immediately.
Although she was still breathing heavily, Helen, lying flat on her bed staring up at the ceiling, was first to speak. ‘Dad covered up fer me. ’E could only of done that if ’e knew.’ She turned her head and looked at Frankie, who was staring up at the ceiling. ‘Yer must ’ave told ’im, Frank.’ Her voice had calmed down, and she was trying to sound more reasonable. ‘You and Ivy were the only ones I told. It was you, wasn’t it?’
Frankie turned his head and looked at her. ‘No. I swear ter God, I never said a word.’ Then he sat up, and propped himself up on his elbows. ‘But you’re right. ’E di
d know. When I went fer my barf on Friday night, ’e said ’e knew you’d gorn off fer a dirty weekend wiv some feller.’
Helen covered her face with both hands.
‘If yer ask me, it was ’er downstairs. Yer know wot that old cow’s like.’
Helen uncovered her face. ‘If mum had known she’d ’ave killed me stone dead by now. She only suspects because she found Eric’s picture under my pillow.’
‘She’s an interferin’ old cow!’ Frankie said gloomily.
Helen sat up quickly, also propping herself on her elbows. ‘No, Frank! That’s not fair. Mum’s a good woman—’
Frankie let out a sarcastic grunt.
‘She is, underneath it all, and you treat ’er very badly at times.’
‘An’ wot about ’er?’ he complained bitterly. ‘’Ow d’yer fink she treats me? She resents everyfin’ I do. I only ’ave ter open my mouf, and she yells at me.’
‘That’ not true, Frank.’
‘It is! Mum don’t care if I live or die.’
Helen gasped. ‘Frankie Lewis! ’Ow can you say such a thing? I know this is not easy, but old people always find it difficult ter get on wiv young people. Deep down inside, of course mum loves yer. She loves both ’er kids. But love is a two-way fing. If yer don’t give ’er a chance ter love you, she’ll always fink yer ’ate ’er.’
Frankie grunted and dropped his head down to the pillow again. He couldn’t understand the way Helen kept defending their mother. It seemed to him that she was nothing like his pals’ mums. They took notice of their kids, gave them a kiss when they went off to school and when they came back in the evening. But if he was to ever try and kiss his mum, she’d turn her cheek the other way as though he’d got leprosy or something. And as for his father – well, he wasn’t much better. After Helen had turned the light off, Frankie lay in the dark for a long time pondering on just why he had to have a father who couldn’t even buy his own son a Raleigh sports bike . . .
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