by Anna Jacobs
After the years of nursing her mother, Phoebe wanted only to lead a quiet, restful life. One day she’d look for more, but not yet.
Two years later Phoebe was sent to buy a few groceries for her employers because their housemaid had left them abruptly a day or two ago. She was happy to do this instead of working in the shop, since the errand took her out into the fresh air.
As she walked along the narrow streets of Swindon’s Old Town, she lifted her face to the early morning sunshine of what promised to be a glorious summer’s day. She’d turned twenty-one a couple of weeks ago, and was now officially an adult, but hadn’t told anyone it was her birthday. She smiled wryly. It always felt as if she’d grown up when her mother fell ill.
The Steins were such good employers, she wondered as she walked why the maid who’d been with them for several years would just up and leave without giving proper notice. Perhaps the poor woman had family problems, but she could have explained, surely?
Phoebe enjoyed the bustle and didn’t mind queuing in the shops after the quiet of the countryside. She’d recently come back from her annual holiday week, which she’d spent quietly with Horace and Janet on the farm. She’d helped out, because there was always work to be done, and anyway, she’d enjoyed the change of scene and the different tasks.
Janet said Frank had a new job, buying and selling things at the markets, but she didn’t know any details, just that her son seemed to be making a better living from it. She wished he’d marry and settle down, was sad to have no grandchildren, and him twenty-five.
Phoebe passed Frank in the street in Swindon sometimes, but did no more than nod to him. He still made her feel uncomfortable because his eyes always lingered where they shouldn’t. She’d never seen him at the markets, though, and wondered why he’d told his mother he worked there.
As she went from the brilliance of the sunshine into the dimness of the shop, she sighed. By afternoon, the row of shops was in the shadow of some taller buildings and they had to light the big gasolier that hung from the centre of the ceiling.
Mr Stein was polishing the inside of the shop window. He was very fussy about that sort of thing, insisting everything must look sparkling clean and inviting. He stopped work to smile at her.
‘Guten Tag, Phoebe.’
‘Guten Tag, Herr Stein. Wie geht es Ihnen?’ She always tried to answer him in his own language, and he was teaching her a few words of German every day.
‘Sehr gut, danke.’
He always said he was well, but he was past sixty and not in the best of health, and she could see how tired he became by the end of the day. The Steins had fled from Austria to live in England a few years ago, she didn’t quite understand why. It must have been difficult for them to change languages as well as countries. They didn’t have children or close family, but some good friends had helped them settle into their new country.
Phoebe went through to the rear workroom, where they did the cutting and sewing, to tell Mrs Stein she’d finished the errands. She handed over their house key. ‘I’ve left the things in the kitchen and pantry, as you asked.’
‘Thank you, dear. You can make a start in the workroom now. Edith is very late today. I hope she’s not ill.’
Phoebe nipped up to the second floor and hung up her coat and beret, then hurried down to the shop. She was surprised not to see her co-worker yet. Edith had been there for years and was always at work long before this time. They had several orders for curtains waiting to be filled and customers didn’t like to be kept waiting.
Phoebe put on a clean overall, more to protect the curtains than herself, and continued hemming a set of drops she’d started work on the previous day. She could handle the sewing machine now and do the straight seams and simpler hand finishing, but some of the draping and curtain headings were complicated, and beyond her skill. Mrs Stein and Edith usually did those together.
The materials came in such a lovely range of colours that she often leafed through the sample book, rubbing her fingertips over the rich velvets and heavy silks, loving the feel of them.
Half an hour later, Edith came hurrying in, looking as if she’d been crying. Mr Stein followed her in from the shop, his face crumpled with concern, and Mrs Stein went to put an arm round her employee, which made Edith start sobbing loudly.
‘Vat is wrong, Edith, dear?’
‘Dad says I have to give notice.’
Everyone stared at her in shock.
‘I don’t want to, but he says he’s not having me working for Germans and if I don’t leave here, he’ll throw me out of home. I can’t give up my family, I just can’t.’
‘But ve aren’t Germans; ve’re Austrians,’ Mrs Stein protested.
‘Dad says it’s the same thing. He wanted me to finish today, but I persuaded him to let me stay on till the end of the week. I’m so sorry, Mrs Stein. I really hate letting you down. I’ve loved working here. I’ll work twice as hard to finish the orders before I leave.’
‘Thenk you.’ Mrs Stein’s accent had become more marked, as always when she was upset. ‘Ve vill give you an excellent reference, of course.’
Edith hesitated. ‘Could you sign it “Stone”, do you think? That’s what Stein means, isn’t it, so you won’t be telling a lie, exactly. Only, well, people won’t want a reference from someone with a German name, not the way things are looking.’
She took a deep breath and added, ‘You should change your name and put Stone on the shop front, too. Do it quickly. This week if you can.’
Phoebe stared at her in astonishment. She’d read about people acting nastily towards Germans living in England, but couldn’t see why anyone would attack the Steins. They were well known and liked in Old Town, and their curtains were beautifully made. All their neighbours knew they were Austrian and had had to leave their country to take refuge here.
Only … Edith’s father hadn’t accepted that Austrian was different from German, even though his daughter had been working for the Steins for several years. If he thought like that, others might not realise the difference, either.
Or they might not want to admit there was a difference.
People everywhere were talking about the prospect of Britain going to war with Germany and many were upset, especially those who’d lost family members in the Boer Wars at the turn of the century. Phoebe had heard talk of the possibility of war in the shop, at the market and on the streets.
Wars were terrible things. But what good would it do for people to take their anger out on innocent people like the Steins?
She shivered. She’d seen mobs in action when she was a child. Her family had lived in Northumberland, where her father had been born, and there had been unrest in the mines. She’d been terrified by the crowds of men with dirty, angry faces who’d shouted and broken windows.
Later, her father had been killed in a mine accident. The owner had paid her mother some money in compensation and they’d moved south to Wiltshire, to be near her mother’s family, especially Cousin Horace.
But money couldn’t compensate you for losing a much-loved husband and father. Phoebe still dreamt about her dad and her mother had turned down two offers of marriage, saying no one could replace her dearest Rick.
And the money hadn’t lasted, had it? Not after her mother fell ill.
After Edith left, business slowed down dramatically at the Steins’ shop, and Phoebe was terrified it would have to close down. What would she do then?
What would the Steins do?
She heard her employers discussing closing it once or twice, trying to calculate whether they would have enough money to manage on. She couldn’t help overhearing them because Mr Stein spoke rather loudly, which she’d noticed sometimes with other older people who were a bit deaf.
She didn’t know what to think, only that she didn’t want her life to change. If the shop closed, she would not only lose her job but her home, and it wasn’t easy to live on women’s wages, which were much lower than men’s, nor were cl
ean jobs like this one easy to find.
To her surprise, Frank stopped her in the street the next time he saw her.
‘You should look for another job and get out of that place you’re living in, Phoebe.’
‘I like working there and I’ve still got a lot to learn about making curtains.’
He gave a scornful snort. ‘Curtains! There’s going to be a war, you fool. Who’s going to care about new curtains then? And it’ll be a war with Germany. This is not the time to be working for Germans.’
‘They aren’t Germans; they’re Austrians.’
‘What’s the difference? They speak the same language, don’t they?’
‘The Steins had to leave their country because they were being persecuted, so they’re on our side now.’
‘No, they’re not, and they never will be. They’re probably spies. And even if they’re not, everyone says people like them should go back to where they came from while they can, or else go and settle in America, out of the way. I’m warning you, Phoebe. You need to get out of that shop while you can, for your own safety.’
‘I’m not leaving them. They’re good employers. Anyway, I live over the shop. Where would I go?’
He grinned and put an arm round her. ‘I could always put you up. I have a nice double bed.’
She shoved him away. ‘I don’t think that’s funny!’
‘Oh well, suit yourself. Your loss. But don’t say I didn’t warn you: you are in danger there.’ He turned to walk away, then stopped and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, scribbling on it with a pencil stub and thrusting it into her hand.
She looked at it in puzzlement.
‘It’s my address. If you need help suddenly, you’d better come to me. And no, you don’t have to share my bed to get help. My mother would go mad if I let anything happen to you.’ He grinned. ‘What she’d really like, Horace too, would be for me to marry you.’
Phoebe gaped at him.
‘I’d like that too. But not yet. I’m too busy making money. I’ll definitely start courting you later. Who’d have thought you’d grow up to be so pretty?’
‘Will you stop going on like that? I don’t like such talk. I’m not interested in lads.’
He gave her a long scrutiny. ‘No. And I bet you’re still a virgin.’
She felt herself blushing and turned away.
He grabbed her arm, not hurting her, just keeping her beside him. ‘Look at that blush. Mind you, that’s not a bad thing. Save your assets till you can get a good price for them, I always say. And you can save them for me.’
He let go of her arm and stepped back. ‘Anyway, you get out of that shop. You know where I live if you need help moving your things.’
She walked slowly back to work, shivering at the way he’d looked at her. She’d felt as if she had no clothes on. As for marrying him, she’d never do that. She didn’t even like him to touch her.
He hadn’t meant it … had he? No, he was just teasing. But his teasing was usually … nasty. Not friendly.
Frank worried about Phoebe as he walked away. She’d got her head in the sand, like a lot of other folk. They’d wake up with a shock one day soon. He wasn’t surprised that she was still a virgin. She was that sort of person.
His mother said he’d be happy with someone like Phoebe. He grinned. He agreed with her. Phoebe was lovely, with that softly rounded body and that wavy, auburn hair which had gold glints sparkling in it when the sun shone.
He was fond of his ma, even if she was another naïve idiot. She was a good cook and he liked going to the farm for the occasional Sunday lunch. It was a run-down place. He was doing so much better than them. Strangely enough, though, he now needed the farm he’d despised for his business.
When the war started, he reckoned all sorts of things were going to be in short supply, especially luxury goods, cigarettes and booze. He had been making preparations for a while now, buying bits and pieces when he saw an opportunity, using up his savings. He’d sell them for a lot more than he’d paid one day.
Very useful having parents with a spare barn. He’d told them his employer needed somewhere to store things and would pay them for the use of the barn. They mustn’t touch anything, though, or he’d get in trouble and lose his job.
That same ‘employer’ was paying them a pound a month for the storage, and they were delighted with that extra income for doing nothing, especially as Frank had repaired the roof of the barn for them and put on new doors with good locks. He had conveniently ‘forgotten’ to give them a key.
He was going to get rich, and he didn’t care how he did it, but he wasn’t going to volunteer for the army once the war started. He didn’t intend to get himself shot.
If they started conscripting men, he’d have to work out how to avoid that. He didn’t want to do anything drastic to prevent passing his medical, like damaging his trigger finger, but he wasn’t giving his life for his country. He was keeping it for himself.
He’d find a way. He always did when he wanted something.
A couple of weeks after Phoebe’s encounter with Frank, another shop in Swindon owned by Germans had its windows broken. She decided, very reluctantly, that she’d better be prepared to move. Just in case.
She didn’t say anything to the Steins, but packed her spare clothes and a few bits and pieces in an old Gladstone bag, in case she had to get out quickly. She couldn’t afford to lose everything she owned.
She also memorised Frank’s address and found out where the house was. Not in a part of the town where she felt comfortable. Why did he live there? He could surely afford to move somewhere decent. He looked so well fed and his clothes were good sturdy garments, not worn … Unless his business was more suited to that sort of run-down area. That wouldn’t surprise her.
As the days passed, she didn’t say anything to her employers, either about Frank or about her precautions. But she didn’t unpack the bag of clothes, either.
Just in case, she told herself. Trouble might never happen, but you had to think ahead.
Chapter Three
Two weeks after his father’s funeral, the post brought Joseph a black-edged envelope addressed in his mother’s handwriting. He picked it up and stared at it in shock. ‘Who’s dead now?’
‘You won’t find out till you open it,’ Harriet said.
He read it and gasped. ‘It’s Richard’s wife … and the child. Both died in childbirth.’ He covered his eyes with one hand for a moment and confessed, ‘I was so afraid each time you were expecting a child. I’d have been lost without you and your quiet strength, my darling.’
‘I’d be lost without you, too.’ She slipped her hand into his for a moment and they stood looking at one another fondly.
Love was wonderful, he thought, and she really did love him. Then he looked back at the black-bordered letter. ‘What can I say to my brother? Richard and Diana might not have married for love, but they seemed to grow very fond of one another. I’m not close to him and yet … I want to offer him my sympathy, of course I do.’
‘There is no comfort when a loved one dies suddenly, especially when they’re so young, but you must write to him.’
He understood instantly what she was thinking. ‘Like when your father died.’
She nodded.
‘I’ll write immediately, to Richard and Mother.’
It wasn’t till he was signing the letter to his brother that he said thoughtfully, ‘Unless Richard remarries, that leaves Selwyn or Thomas to provide an heir. I hope it’s Thomas who does that. Selwyn’s rotten to the core. He might have got married, but he didn’t father a child, did he?’
Another letter arrived from his mother a few days later saying the same thing and complaining that Selwyn refused to listen to sense and reunite with his wife, for the sake of the family. Richard had, it seemed, vanished into the maws of the army immediately after the funeral, leaving his mother to close down his house.
‘You never know what’s going to happen to
you, do you?’ Harriet said that night in bed. ‘Look at your family, torn apart in so many ways. Look at us, with the house we love full of strangers and most of it out of our control. You just never know.’
The late summer seemed to pass slowly at Greyladies. They received the occasional letter from Joseph’s mother, telling them about her ‘bijou apartment’ and her new social life in London, which was far less restricted than it would normally have been for a widow.
‘She sounds almost cheerful,’ Harriet said thoughtfully.
‘Mother will be all right,’ Joseph told her. ‘She’s tougher than she looks. It’s Selwyn I worry about. I had another letter from Thomas telling me our damned brother’s contracted some new gambling debts. He’ll throw our old home away before he’s through.’
‘There’s nothing you can do about that. I’m glad you pay such close attention to the Latimer Trust. There are going to be a lot of widows needing help if war really does break out with Germany.’
Like a lot of other people in Britain, the Latimers were disturbed over their morning cup of tea on 5th August by their paperboy banging on the door and yelling at the top of his voice, ‘We’re at war, Mr Latimer. Britain’s at war.’
Joseph hurried to the back door, now their main entrance, and found Jim from the village brandishing their Guardian newspaper.
‘We’re at war,’ he repeated, jigging about in excitement. ‘Britain’s at war, Mr Latimer.’
Joseph took the newspaper from him and shook it open, reading it aloud. ‘Great Britain declared war on Germany at eleven o’clock last night.’
He paused to look at Harriet, who had followed him, seeing tears well up in her eyes. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’