Not that last night would be a secret. Everyone in the pub had seen Nancy’s reaction to the cocktails and the loud jukebox. Cara flushed again, recalling how humiliated she felt.
Mr. Fletcher measured the sweets out onto the scales. Cara knew without a doubt that he had thrown in a few extra. That was something else you couldn’t get at the mini-market. All the sweets there were pre-wrapped and by the time you took the packaging off there were very few left. They did not taste the same either.
Taking her sweets, Cara walked along the main street, chewing on a Black Jack. They were not the healthiest of breakfasts, but they did taste good. The delicious aniseed flavouring coated her tongue black. As she passed some children on their way to school, she poked it out at them, making them burst out laughing. She was not surprised when she looked back and saw them running into Mr. Fletcher’s shop. They would want to play the same trick on everyone else.
She wandered up to her mum’s house. Cara opened the gate and walked around to the back of the house where Martha Potter was putting clothes on the line. “Hello, love, you’re out early.”
“Mum.” Clutching her sweets in her hand, Cara’s eyes filled with tears. She realised she must look just like a child, especially with running home to mummy. “Mum…”
“What, sweetheart, what is it?” Martha held open loving arms to her daughter. “Has someone been saying something to you?”
Cara nodded, and then shook her head. “Yes, no, I don’t know. I packed in my job then Nancy sacked me anyway.”
“Herbie told me what happened in the pub last night. I don’t know what’s come over Nancy.” She took Cara by the arm. “Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on. And you can put those sweets away, young lady. I’ll make you a proper breakfast.”
Ten minutes later Cara sat at the small Formica table in the cluttered kitchen, whilst the aroma of bacon frying on the Baby Belling cooker filled the air. “Do you want an egg, love?” asked Martha.
“I don’t know if I can eat anything.”
“You managed a Black Jack,” her mother said, disapprovingly. “This will be much better for you.” Martha cracked an egg into the pan where it sizzled and spat. This was how Cara always remembered it. If anything went wrong, even during the war when there was rationing, Martha would cook up a filling meal. Their favourite comfort food had been bread pudding. Cara wished she had some of that now.
“Hello, what’s this?” said Herbie, coming into the kitchen. He was on his rounds, but as Len Simpson had told everyone at the pub, he always stopped off at home for a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich.
“Cara hasn’t got a job anymore, love. It means she’ll have to come home.”
“Oh, I see.”
“No!” Cara protested. She had not even thought of that. She wanted to be an independent young woman. She could not do that with her mum fussing over her. “I don’t want to intrude on you and Herbie.” She could tell from Herbie’s look that he agreed with her, but then he looked at her mother’s resolute face.
“Of course she should come home if that’s what you want, love,” he said. “You’re family, Cara.”
“Thank you, Herbie, but you don’t really want me around.”
“Now, we’ll not have that talk,” he said. “I’ve known you since you were a baby. You might not be my flesh and blood, but as far as I’m concerned you’re my daughter. So what’s happened with Nancy?”
Cara was reluctant to say, knowing that as the local postman, Herbie could gossip just as much as Mr. Fletcher in the sweet shop.
“I was in the pub last night,” he said. “I know what went on then, with all the cocktails and Nancy turning up and shouting at everyone.”
“It was awful.”
“That’s what it’s all about. I thought she’d have got over that by this morning.”
“Well she didn’t,” said Cara. “So I lost my temper and told her I was leaving.” She felt the tears rising again. “Then she said it was just as well and she was sacking me anyway. I’ll have to go and look for another job.”
Martha put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. “You’re not leaving here until you’ve eaten that breakfast.”
“Any bacon left for me, love?” Herbie looked hopeful.
“No, you’ll just have to have an egg sandwich this morning.”
“Oh.” Herbie sat opposite Cara, eying her bacon longingly. When her mother had put an egg sandwich in front of Herbie, then went off to do some housework, Cara took one of her slices of bacon and put it in his sandwich.
“Thanks, petal. A sandwich just isn’t right without a bit of bacon.”
“I won’t impose on you, Herbie, I promise. It didn’t work the last time I lived at home.” As Cara had gotten older, the little house had suffocated her. She was ashamed to remember that she had taken it out on Herbie. For a while their relationship had been very strained.
She felt an added pang remembering that she had turned up on Nancy’s doorstep, crying and saying she had nowhere to live. The pub landlady had taken her in and given her a job. She had thanked Nancy by storming out because they had run out of milk.
But that was not all of it. Nancy had never been so angry with her, not even in the first few weeks of Cara’s employment when she dropped enough glasses and bottles to stock the entire pub. Something had happened to her friend, and Cara’s only response was to run away, instead of sticking around to see if she could help. She despised herself for letting Nancy down.
Herbie took a deep breath. “I’m not going to see you out on the street, lass. Besides, you’re grown up now, and I’m not as finicky as I used to be.” He put up his hand to halt her protests. “No, I admit, I like things a certain way, but I soon realised that it was putting too much strain on your mother. I don’t want her to think I’m a tyrant.”
“You’re not a tyrant, Herbie. You never have been. You’ve been good to all of us.”
Cara ate what she could of her breakfast, and then went to find her mother. In the middle of dusting, Martha had sat down in one of the big armchairs to read a book, with the duster still in one hand. “Oh, I was just finishing this off,” she said, smiling up at her daughter. “She thinks he hates her, but of course he doesn’t. He’s just trying to look out for his brother, who’s the black sheep of the family.”
Cara sat in the other armchair and curled her legs under her. The room was as she always remembered it, with every surface piled high with books. Most of them were romances, but there were also dozens of classics. Some of the books were stained with the brown rings of a thousand cups of tea. When Herbie first moved in with them, he had tried to restore order, even alphabetising the bookcase. But neither Martha nor her children were used to putting them back, so he admitted defeat. Cara pulled the first book from the nearest pile and opened it.
As she and her mother read their books, Cara realised how much she missed being home, despite her longing to be independent. There was no pressure to be anything other than herself. It would be nice to be back, but she also knew that after a while she would get the wanderlust again. It was in her blood.
Herbie called to say he was going back to work. An hour passed with Cara and Martha reading in comfortable silence.
Then there was a light knock on the sitting room door. “Hello, sorry.” It was Guy, dressed in black trousers and a thick Astrakhan coat. It was open a little at the top, revealing a tie-dyed shirt.
He was the last person she had expected to see in this house. Cara jumped up, dropping her book on the floor. She looked around, immediately wishing that her mum could be a little bit tidier. “I did knock the back door,” said Guy, “but there was no answer. It was open so…”
“Oh that’s fine,” said Cara. “People just tend to come and go as they please in this house.”
“I went to the pub to find you, but Nancy said…”
Cara nodded. Lost in her book, she had almost forgotten her problems. “I quit. I think. It’s all a bit confusing.”
“Cara, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.”
“No, it isn’t.” Cara realised her mum was watching them both, questioningly. “Oh… sorry, you’ve met my mum, haven’t you?”
“I have indeed. It’s nice to meet you again, Mrs. Baker.”
“Potter.”
“Of course, I apologise.”
“That’s alright, Mr. Sullivan. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Actually I was wondering if I could borrow Cara for a while. I thought she might be able to help me with something.”
“Is it to do with your sister?” Cara asked.
Guy nodded. “Yep, I want to try and find out what Anderson knew.”
“Oh,” said Martha Potter. “That reminds me. I’m very sorry for my behaviour the other night, Mr. Sullivan. The slanging match with Mrs. Simpson wasn’t right with that poor man bleeding to death in the street.”
“Please, forget about it. I can tell from your lovely daughter that you’re a decent woman.”
Martha smiled and seemed to grow several inches. “Well, you will have to excuse the mess. I was busy with housework, and then Cara turned up needing breakfast.”
Cara was about to protest, because the housework would not have been finished, breakfast or not, but decided against it. It would explain why the room was so untidy.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Guy. “Actually this makes me feel a homesick. Our house in Australia was always piled high with books. There was little room for anything else. There’s nothing better in life than a well-loved, well-used book with tea-stains on the cover.”
Whether he told the truth or not, Cara blessed him for not making her mother feel embarrassed about the mess, though she inwardly cringed because he had noticed the tea-stains.
She gave herself a mental slap across the face. Why should she feel ashamed of her mother and her home? Martha Potter was the very best of women, regardless of the state of her house. If Guy could not see that, then quite frankly it was his problem.
“I really like your mum,” he said, a few minutes later as they walked through Midchester.
“So do I,” said Cara, with a smile.
“I meant what I said about my house, you know. We had loads of books.”
“Really? You weren’t just being kind?”
“Not at all. It really did remind me of home. I’d have liked to stay longer, but I didn’t want to intrude on your mum’s reading schedule.”
“Now you’re just teasing.”
“A little, maybe. But I still think she’s great. She gave birth to you for a start, and that already raises her high in my estimation.”
Cara did not know how to respond to that. “So what do you want to do? About finding Greta?”
“I’ve been trying to retrace Carl Anderson’s steps. I’ve been in touch with his office and they tell me that he visited Shrewsbury library. Do you have any idea why he might do that?”
“They keep all the local history books there, and old newspapers. They’ve got old some family records too.”
“But my family wouldn’t be recorded there.”
“No, but perhaps Greta’s husband is listed on the electoral register.”
“I never thought of that. But he’d hardly use his real name. Not around here, and not just after the war ended.”
“Maybe he used a name that was very similar and Carl Anderson made the connection.”
“I knew you’d be good at this.”
“Oh come on, Guy, you don’t really need my help.”
He took her hand in his. “Actually I do. I like having you around. Is that okay with you?”
She beamed up at him. “It’s absolutely okay with me.”
“Good, so we’ll go into Shrewsbury and then we’ll go to dinner at Mr. Black’s place tonight. Unless you’re sick of me by then.”
“I won’t be. Besides, while I’m in Shrewsbury I can look in the labour exchange for another job.”
“I will pay you.”
“What?” Cara glared at him.
“I didn’t mean in that way. I meant as a researcher. You must be good at that, with being a journalist. You did your research on me well.”
She did not want to admit that all she had really done was remembered every single thing she had read about him in magazines over the years. “I suppose so,” she said instead.
“Good, then I’ll pay you for your time while you help me. I was paying Anderson fifteen pounds a day. Is that enough?”
“Fifteen pounds a day!” She gaped at him incredulously. “I didn’t earn that in a week at the pub.”
“Well, I can’t pay you less than I paid him. It wouldn’t be right.”
“But the difference is that you’ll be with me, so I’d only really be doing half the work, if that. Look, I’ll accept fifteen pounds a week, and that’s it.” It was a few pounds more than she earned at the pub, but she figured that being a researcher was a little higher up the employment scale than a barmaid.
Guy still seemed unhappy about it. “You’re never going to be rich this way, Cara.”
“I don’t care about being rich. I just care about doing an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”
“Okay, fifteen pounds a week it is. Plus expenses.”
“But…”
“No, buts, Cara. I’ll pay all the out of pocket expenses. Agreed.”
“Agreed.” He held out his hand and she shook it.
Cara could not help feeling excited about working with Guy. She prayed that she could help him find his sister. In reality she believed that after twenty years the trail might have gone cold. Any news Anderson might have had would not be good and that was perhaps what cost him his life.
She gave Guy’s hand a comforting squeeze.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. He kissed her on the forehead, sending a frisson of excitement through her. “I’m not going to get the happy reunion I’d like, but at least I’ll know for sure and then my family can move on.”
She squeezed his hand again, relishing the feel of his skin against hers. “We’ll find her, Guy, I know we will.”
Whether they would find Greta alive was a different matter.
Chapter Eight
1946
Now the time has come I’m not sure if I can do it. She arrives to see me, so trusting, so loving; never seeing the danger that lies ahead. I’m struck again by how lovely she is. We used to dream about the time we could be together always. After all the planning, dreams and schemes, it tears at my heart to know that I’m going to have to make the rest of my journey through life without her.
“So this is where you live,” she says, looking around. “Who would have imagined all those years ago in Berlin that we both would have come so far?” She seems suddenly shy. “At least you’ve done well. I couldn’t get decent work in Australia. I saved all I could to come and find you. Then I had to work on that awful ship, cleaning up other people’s vomit. It was worth it to come here. I feared I’d never see you again.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” I tell her savagely. “You should have stayed with your daughter.” I can see the words are like a knife to her heart, but I want her to be angry with me; to fight back. It will make things easier.
“I know you’re angry about Brigitte,” she says, “but I thought I’d explained it to you at the time. I did what I had to do.”
“Why? Were you raped?”
She slumps down onto the sofa. “You know exactly what I mean and don’t pretend you don’t. It was your idea! You said it was the only way I could escape from Germany with my family. Don’t you remember?”
I remember, but I didn’t think she would actually go through with it. It was a test of her love, and she failed me.
“You can be so cruel sometimes,” she tells me. “Maybe it’s better if I go away. I can’t see you ever taking to Brigitte and I can’t just abandon her.”
I strike another blow to her heart. “You already abandoned her
to come here.”
She puts her head in her hands. “Don’t you think I know that? If I didn’t love you so much, I wouldn’t have done it. Isn’t that enough for you? Isn’t it proof of my love that I left my daughter in the care of my elderly mother and teenage brother for months upon end?”
“How is young Hans nowadays? He can’t have been more than eight years old the last time I saw him.” I’d rather talk about him than Brigitte. The child reminds me too much of the betrayal.
She smiles indulgently. Her brother has always been her pride and joy. “He’s tall, handsome and easily passes for an Australian amongst people who don’t know any different. He’s picked up the accent very quickly. He’s clever too. He could be anything he wanted to be, if only they would let him. Instead he has to work menial jobs, cleaning out public conveniences and helping to unload ships at the docks in Sidney. He’s a good boy. A hard worker.”
“He should have been in Germany, fighting for the cause.”
She snorts. “There’s no way Papa would have let Hans join the Hitler Youth. Not everyone loves the Fuhrer as you did.”
“Do.”
“What?”
“Not everyone loves him as I do.”
“So you still believe in him? After all that’s happened. Can’t you see that he was just an evil little man who caused untold suffering? Not just to the Jews and the gypsies and others he considered undesirable, but to his own people. No one was safe whilst he was alive.”
I lean over and grab her by the shoulders. “You’re traitors, all of you.” For God’s sake, get angry, I silently scream at her. Shout at me. Attack me. Make this easier. “You, your father, your ridiculous mother and your brother. But I can forgive him. He was just a child. You all brainwashed him.”
“If you hate me so much, I should just go.”
But I can’t let her go. Not with what she knows. She’ll return to Australia and tell her mother and brother that she found me. She’ll tell them what I’ve been doing. If she doesn’t betray me again they will. They never liked me very much as it was. Especially her mother. Frau Mueller hated me. “I’m sorry,” I say, stroking her cheek. “Let me make you a drink and we’ll forget about it all for a while.”
Bonfire Memories Page 7