An Orphan's War

by Molly Green

  ‘My throat’s still sore, Nurse.’

  ‘Open your mouth and say “Ahh”.’

  ‘Ahh.’

  ‘Yes, it looks red, but I’m not surprised with all that coughing.’ Maxine poured out a full teaspoon. ‘Here, take this.’ She put the spoon in his open mouth. ‘You’re the only patient I’ve got now, Reggie,’ she said, ‘so you need to get well soon.’

  ‘If I do, you won’t have a job.’ Reggie gave her a cheeky wink.

  She pretended to cuff him and made a note on his record sheet for Kathleen.

  ‘Are you okay for a bit?’ she asked him. ‘Because I need to go upstairs for half an hour, so Hilda will come and stay with you.’

  Reggie grinned. ‘Is she babysitting me?’

  ‘You don’t need a babysitter, Reggie. Just someone to make sure you don’t get into any mischief.’

  ‘I don’t mind getting into a spot of mischief with our Hilda.’

  ‘You behave.’ She wagged her finger at him, then tucked in the sheet which was dangling on the floor. ‘Do you need anything before I go?’

  ‘Orangeade, please, Nurse.’

  Maxine made him his drink and left him reading. Sighing heavily with the thought of her next job, she rang upstairs to ask if Hilda would come down.

  Hilda, for once, came in with a smile, but it did nothing to reassure Maxine that she was a capable girl who had the children’s interests at heart. There was something about Hilda that worried her deeply.

  ‘I’ll only be a half an hour, Hilda,’ she said. ‘You can make yourself a cup of tea and there’re biscuits in the tin by the caddy. Keep an eye on Reggie and make sure he has plenty to drink to get his temperature down.’ She gave the girl a sharp look. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Course I will. Why don’t you just go?’ Hilda’s stare was challenging.

  ‘Excuse me, Hilda, but that’s not the way to address me, or any of your elders, in such a rude manner.’

  I shall have a word later with that saucy young miss, Maxine thought crossly as she went up the stairs just in time to see Peter leaving the dining room after his tea break.

  ‘Peter, I’d like to see you for a few minutes.’

  He didn’t answer but just stood silently watching her.

  ‘We’ll go to the turret room,’ she said, ‘where we can talk in private.’

  The turret room was reached internally through a long corridor leading from the Great Hall. It had been converted into a small chapel, complete with beautiful stained-glass windows. Immediately as they entered, Maxine felt a kind of peace steal over her and she hoped the boy might feel it too, though when she glanced at him she saw the same stubborn set of his mouth that he constantly wore. It was a little cooler than the main house, but not too cold, she noticed, as she guided him towards a small table and chairs to the right-hand side of the entrance.

  ‘How are you getting along here, Peter?’ she asked.

  ‘All right.’ Peter’s lips clamped together immediately he’d spoken the two words.

  ‘I’m sure it still seems very strange to you,’ Maxine said, ‘and I know you must miss your mother and grandmother terribly. I’m so sorry you’ve lost them, but they’d want you to be happy – as we do.’

  ‘I didn’t lose them – they died.’ Peter stared at her, the blue eyes unblinking.

  Her heart turned over at his words. ‘Do you feel ready to talk about them?’ she asked. ‘Anything you want to tell me is completely private between the two of us, and it might help to tell someone.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t have anything to tell you about them.’

  ‘Peter, you mustn’t bottle things up or you’ll never start to feel better. Even grown-ups talk to their friends or the vicar if they have a bad problem. And then they feel much better afterwards.’

  He kept his lips tightly shut. She needed to change the subject quickly.

  ‘What lessons do you like best?’

  ‘I don’t like any of them.’

  ‘You must like one more than the others. What about English?’

  Peter snorted. ‘I already know English. I don’t need lessons.’

  ‘It’s not just the language,’ Maxine said, desperately wanting to pierce Peter’s barrier. ‘It’s English literature as well as grammar.’ She tried again. ‘What book are you reading in class?’

  ‘Great Expectations.’

  ‘Ah, Charles Dickens. Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve not read enough yet to make a decision.’ Maxine tried to smile but it was difficult when she looked at the stony-faced boy. ‘Have you made any friends yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a pity. It’s always nice to have a friend.’

  ‘I don’t want to be friends with any of them. My friends are in Berlin.’

  Maxine’s shoulders sagged. How was she going to approach such a sensitive issue as warning the boy not to mention having lived in Germany when he gave her no proper response to her simple questions about school?

  ‘Is that all you want me for?’ Peter suddenly said, half rising from the table.

  ‘Peter, please sit down. I have something important to discuss with you. I only hope you will understand what I want to say.’

  Peter slumped back down on the chair.

  ‘Peter, you’re in England now, and you know there’s a war between England and Germany, don’t you?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘It must be very difficult for you with an English mother and grandmother and a German father. It’s putting you in an awkward position. But the good thing is that you speak excellent English, which I expect your mother taught you.’

  Her heart went out to him as she saw his eyes brim with tears.

  ‘I know you must miss her terribly, but we’re trying to help you. While you’re in England you must make friends here. English friends.’ He sat watching her. ‘Peter,’ she went on, desperate to make him understand, ‘before we came to Bingham Hall – you know I came here the same day as you – there was another German boy, also from Berlin, I believe, who came to England on the Kindertransport.’ She caught his eye. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘It’s the train to help Jewish children escape from Germany and Joachim’s parents sent him to England on it. He went to live with foster parents like you, and eventually came here. But when the older children found out Joachim was German – apparently his English was not so good as yours – the children called him the enemy and made his life miserable. No one wanted to be friends with him.’

  Peter shrugged.

  ‘Matron had to explain to them that being a Jew in Germany was different. The Germans are treating the Jews badly because of their religion, and that’s why the Jewish parents want their children to have a better and safer life in England. But coming on the train from Germany to England was very hard and upsetting for a little boy leaving his family behind.’ She drew in a breath. ‘It was only when the children realised that being a Jew made him a good German that they made a fuss of him and wanted to be his friend.’

  She had no idea what the child was thinking.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ she asked him, wishing he would say something.

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘I want you to keep it a secret from the other children that you used to live in Germany. Don’t tell them about your friends or your father you left behind in Berlin. I want you to pretend you’re as English as they are. Do you think you can do that?’

  Peter’s eyes never left her face. For a split second she felt he was wiser than her. That he knew things she couldn’t possibly know. And then he shot up and rushed out of the chapel.

  How could she have said things differently? However many times Maxine went over the scene with Peter, she never came up with an answer.

  But we’re doing it for his own good, she kept telling herself. His life at Bingham Hall wouldn’t be worth li
ving if the children found out his background. Children could be so cruel at times. And these children had worse problems than those who were part of a loving, stable family with two parents, and often took delight in being cruel to the others. Only yesterday she’d had to stop Arthur, an evacuee, from tormenting one of the little girls, an orphan, that she didn’t have parents and he did. It was no wonder fights and arguments erupted almost daily.

  ‘We only ever had a dozen or so evacuees,’ June told her when Maxine mentioned Arthur’s behaviour. ‘Most evacuees have gone back to their parents now the worst is over – we hope. But some cases are just not straightforward and I don’t think Arthur will be going just yet.’

  Maxine kept a close watch on Peter. The boy was lonely and scared. She’d seen it in the children’s ward at the Infirmary often enough when they were ill and calling for their mothers and fathers who were not always able to see them regularly because of transport difficulties and the fathers often being away, what with the war on. The kiddies would play up, craving attention and love. Maxine and the other nurses would do their best, but it was naturally not the same as having their parents. Such was the case with Peter. He’d had to leave his father and his friends and everything he knew in Berlin, and just when he must have begun to get used to living in England, first his mother and then his grandmother had been snatched away from him. All his security and stability had gone.

  It wasn’t much, but she was glad that this afternoon the children would gather together for their first rehearsal. Their singing would cheer everyone up.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘I’ve had a letter from Mr Clarke,’ June said, smiling broadly. ‘He’s quite happy for me to advertise for a full-time nurse if you’ll do the dual role we discussed. And the best news is that he will pay you an extra ten shillings a week.’

  ‘That will come in handy,’ Maxine said, immediately thinking of Teddy. If only she was allowed to write to him – send him a gift on his birthday and Christmas. She knew his adoptive parents came from Scotland, but she wasn’t permitted to know any other details. There was to be no contact at all. She swallowed hard.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ June asked, sounding concerned. ‘You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Maxine smiled, fighting back the telltale tears, and hoping June wouldn’t probe further. She changed the subject. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing the children sing this afternoon.’

  Athena was sitting at the piano in the library flicking through some sheets of music and frowning.

  ‘I can’t really read music this complicated,’ she owned up. ‘I think I’ll stick to playing by ear.’

  ‘I’m sure the children won’t notice.’ Maxine grinned. ‘Did you make a list of songs?’

  ‘I jotted these down.’ Athena handed a sheet of paper to Maxine who quickly glanced over it.

  ‘They’re a nice mix,’ she said. ‘Something for everyone. Nursery rhymes, English folk songs and even one or two American ones.’

  ‘I thought I should include them,’ Athena said, ‘seeing as the Americans are helping our boys.’

  The children filed in, the boys shoving and calling out to one another and working up the girls. There were some excited voices amongst them, although Maxine noticed Peter’s face was devoid of expression. He was only there on sufferance, she suspected.

  June clapped her hands. ‘Children. Quieten down, please. This is the library and you know better. Now, if you’re eight years or older stand to the right, all the younger ones to their left.’

  There was more shuffling – Barbara making sure the younger children were in the right place. They all gazed expectantly at June.

  ‘We told you we were all going to sing together this afternoon,’ June began, ‘and we hope you’ll enjoy it so we can do this every week. The songs will be different from the hymns in the morning and if you know them, sing out, and if you don’t, you’ll soon learn. But all you children on the right, please let the young ones sing the nursery songs on their own. We’ll start with them.’

  Athena turned from the piano. ‘Let’s begin with “Teddy Bears’ Picnic”.’

  Soon the library was filled with the sound of a dozen small children’s voices. It was a happy sound and Maxine caught June’s eye and smiled. If the older ones enjoyed this half as much, it should be a great success.

  ‘Lovely,’ Athena said when they’d finished ‘Ring a Ring of Roses’. ‘Shall we let the older children sing one of their songs?’

  ‘Yes,’ chorused the little ones.

  ‘No,’ Lizzie shouted. ‘I want to sing all the songs.’

  June beamed. ‘Just wait your turn, Lizzie, and listen to the grown-up songs. Then when you’re a big girl you can sing them too.’

  Lizzie pressed her little rosebud mouth tight.

  ‘So,’ Athena said, ‘I’ll start this one and see if any of you know it. It’s an American song that the American children love, but we sing it here, too.’

  She played a few notes, then began: ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes …’

  ‘… when she comes,’ Arthur and Reggie threw in gustily.

  ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes,’ Athena began the second line. ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain, coming round the mountain—’

  Maxine kept her eyes focused on Peter, willing him to know the song, to join in. There was nothing like singing for bringing people together, she thought. And it would be the same for children. The boy looked as though he was taking it all in even if he wasn’t mouthing the words.

  Then, to her horror, Peter violently broke from the line and rushed from the room, sobbing as though his heart would break.

  Maxine stood for one shocked second and then she dashed after him.

  ‘Crybaby,’ she heard Bobby shout as she shot out of the door.

  She caught him up as he was about to race up the stairs. ‘Peter, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t want to be in any stupid concert.’

  ‘Is it because you don’t know the songs? I’ll teach them to you. Then you’ll be able to join in.’

  He turned on her, his eyes flashing. ‘I don’t want to join in – ever.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Maxine was just changing her apron in her room one Monday afternoon – little Daisy had been sick over it – when there was a strange scuffling and then a beating on her bedroom door. Frowning, she opened it to find Peter, red-faced and sobbing, and clutching his raincoat. He pushed the coat into her arms as he shot in. She closed the door after him, her heart hammering, wondering what on earth was the matter. Was someone hurt? It must be something awful as the children were under strict instructions never to go into any of the staff rooms, let alone their bedrooms, and Peter’s habit was always to flee from her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Peter?’ She dropped his coat on the bed and turned to him, and he flung himself into her, almost knocking her over. Alarmed, she held him close for a few moments, feeling his body tremble, then gently led him to her bed and sat next to him, her arm still around him.

  ‘Take your time, love,’ she said. ‘But tell me what’s happened?’

  ‘H-Hil-Hilda took my raincoat,’ he stuttered. ‘She s-said the pocket inside was t-torn and she had to m-mend it.’ He cried fresh tears.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Maxine said. ‘Why is that so terrible?’

  ‘She took it away and when she g-gave it back to m-me’ – he looked up at Maxine, tears streaming down his cheeks – ‘it was g-gone.’

  ‘What was gone? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I put it underneath my raincoat … but it’s gone. She took it.’

  Maxine went to fetch him a handkerchief. Nothing he said made any sense. She waited until he blew his nose. Then he reached for his raincoat and held it out to her.

  ‘Inside,’ he said. ‘Turn it the other way. Look inside. It’s empty.’

  She turned
the raincoat inside out and saw the lining had been torn to pieces.

  ‘I thought you said only the pocket was torn and Hilda said she would mend it,’ Maxine said, still puzzled.

  ‘Yes, she mended the p-pocket, but when she gave it back it was gone.’

  ‘What was gone?’

  ‘The photograph.’

  ‘What photograph?’

  ‘The one of my father.’

  Oh, dear God. It dawned on her what had happened. He must have had a photograph of his father – by the sounds of it, his only one – and put it in the lining of his raincoat for safety so no one would discover it. But Hilda had found it and removed it. And when the girl had given the coat back to him, Peter must have felt for the photograph and torn the lining open in a frenzy trying to find it. But why would Hilda have taken it out? Or if she had, why hadn’t she given it back to Peter when she’d mended the hole in the pocket?

  ‘Peter, dry your tears. Hilda must have forgotten to return it to you, but I’ll get it back, don’t worry.’

  ‘Do you promise?’ He gave her such a beseeching look, her insides melted.

  ‘I promise,’ she replied. ‘Has your father written to you since you’ve been in England?’ she asked, dreading the answer but, knowing she needed to keep the conversation alive, she would press on, no matter how painful.

  ‘When my mother was … alive, he wrote to her and to me. But nothing when I went to my grandmother’s.’ He sniffed hard.

  Maxine swallowed. Could he have been sent to one of those dreadful camps?

  ‘Did you write back to your father?’

  ‘He doesn’t receive my letters. They were all returned to my grandmother’s address.’ At that he burst into tears again.

  ‘But he would have been notified about your mother’s illness and your grandmother’s accident,’ Maxine said very gently, ‘and told that you’d come here.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He brushed the tears away with the back of his jacket sleeve. ‘He can’t know I’m here or he’d write to me.’ Peter’s voice trembled. ‘And now I’ve lost his picture,’ he sobbed.