by Anna Jacobs
‘Terrible!’ Jim exclaimed. ‘It’s exciting, that’s what it is, Mr Latimer. I hope it doesn’t end before I’m old enough to join up. I want to see a bit of the world before I settle down on the farm and going to war is the only way Da will let me do it.’ Whistling cheerfully, he cycled off to deliver the other newspapers.
Joseph put an arm round his wife.
‘I pray the war ends before Jim’s old enough to join the army,’ she said quietly. ‘It would destroy his mother to lose her only son.’
‘He’s not eighteen for another year or so, is he?’
‘He looks eighteen now. Still, everyone says the war will be over in a few months.’
‘But will it? We’ve discussed that a few times and Thomas has written to me about it. He doesn’t think the Germans will be as easy to defeat as people believe. There are a lot of them and they’ve already invaded Belgium.’
She shivered. ‘Where will they go next, do you think?’
‘France, I suppose, but they won’t capture Britain. I’m certain of that.’
‘How can you be certain, Joseph?’
‘Because there isn’t a man, woman or child in our village, and every other village and town, who wouldn’t fight against an invader. Even I would find a way to do something. Only it won’t come to that. Thank heavens this is an island. You can’t march an invading army across the English Channel, and enemies would be vulnerable when they tried to disembark and unload their ships. No, being an island has saved us before and it’ll save us again.’
‘But people from the village will die. Young people like Jim will have to fight.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s call the others, then you can read the rest of the article to us.’
So they waited till their two maids and the children had joined them, then Joseph read out the grim announcement from the Guardian newspaper.
The Foreign Office issued the following official statement: Owing to the summary rejection by the German Government of the request made by His Majesty’s Government for assurances that the neutrality of Belgium will be respected, His Majesty’s Ambassador to Berlin has received his passports, and His Majesty’s Government declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from 11 p.m. on August 4, 1914.
‘So,’ Joseph ended, ‘I’m afraid we’re at war now.’
The maids said very little but both looked upset. Harriet knew that Phyllis’s sweetheart was of an age to fight, and that their new cook, a spinster called Mary Cox, had a nephew of twenty, on whom she doted.
The two Latimer children stared from one parent to the other, wide-eyed.
‘War’s bad, isn’t it?’ Jody asked as the silence continued.
‘Yes, son. It’s a terrible thing,’ his father told him.
‘Miss Bowers has been telling us about it. People kill one another in wars. I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t like watching Tim’s father kill hens, even.’
‘You could fight someone if he was attacking you,’ Joseph pointed out. ‘Or if he was going to kill Mal or your mother. Only wicked people want to kill anyone, but we all defend those we love.’
‘I suppose.’
Heaven help her, Harriet thought, she was glad Joseph wouldn’t have to fight, and just as glad that her own sons were too young to go to war. You couldn’t help being selfish when danger threatened those you loved.
Two hours later, they heard voices arguing in the new house, just outside the connecting door and tiptoed across to listen.
‘I can’t do it, miss. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘That’s Martin’s voice,’ Harriet whispered.
Matron’s voice came to them loud and clear, so shrill they could imagine her furious expression. ‘You’ve been given a job and you must do it. This is for the War Office.’
‘Well, I still can’t do it, whoever it’s for. Mr and Mrs Latimer would throw a fit if you had that old door destroyed, and I wouldn’t blame them, neither. Bin there for hundreds of years, that door has, and it’ll serve for another few hundred, too. Good wood, that were made from, even if it is a bit rough-looking.’
‘We’re at war and I order you to remove this door and replace it with a wooden barrier.’
‘I ent doing it. It won’t help the war none to pull that door out.’
Joseph opened the door in question. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘There!’ Matron exclaimed dramatically, taking a prudent step backwards and pointing at him. ‘This is exactly why we need the door removing, to stop people walking into the convalescent home uninvited.’
As Harriet moved forward, Joseph raised his voice. ‘I thought we’d discussed that little matter already, Matron. No one from the old house has come through this door since we last closed it in your presence, not even the children.’
‘That was before war was declared. The matter is now urgent. I will not have you able to wander in and out of here when the patients start arriving. They’ll need peace and quiet and I am not—’
‘Sorry about all this, Mr Latimer.’ Martin threw Matron a disgusted look. ‘I dint know what her wanted when her asked me to do a job, or I’d never have said yes. Everyone in the village knows you have a paper from the War Office saying the house ent to be damaged. Miss Bowers told us ‘bout that.’
Matron turned on her heel and stalked off, words puncturing the air behind her. ‘Mark my words, I shall find a way to get rid of that door and secure these premises, if I have to chop the thing down myself.’
Martin blew out his breath. ‘Proper old tartar, ent she? I don’t think I’ll do any more jobs here while she’s in charge.’
‘Don’t lose the chance to earn extra money,’ Joseph advised. ‘You’ve a growing family to feed.’
He grinned. ‘I don’t think she’ll even ask me after this.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea, Martin?’ Harriet asked in a low voice.
‘Thanks anyway, Mrs Latimer, but I reckon it’ll be better if I go back out through the front, the way I come in.’
Joseph closed the door. ‘She’ll try again to get rid of this.’ He patted the dark wood panels affectionately. ‘I wouldn’t put an axe attack past her. The trouble is, we can’t keep an eye on it all the time. Perhaps we should remove it for the duration of the war and board up the opening?’
‘What? Give in at her first thrust? Certainly not. If she wins this time, she’ll expect to walk all over us afterwards.’
The incident left her on edge, wondering what would happen next, and whether she would be able to protect the old house.
Phoebe woke up on 5th August to hear voices shouting in the streets and a paper seller calling, ‘Read all about it. Britain declares war.’
‘War!’
‘We’re at war!’
‘Come and read this.’
The news was repeated, shouted, cried out by different voices and their words seemed to echo in her brain.
She got dressed quickly and nipped out to buy a newspaper. Passers-by were showing each other the front page, discussing the war. She took her paper into the building through the kitchen door, and grabbed a piece of bread and jam. She didn’t even stop to make a pot of tea, but gobbled the food down as she read.
Setting the newspaper aside, she rested her head on her hands, worrying about her possessions. She had to do something. Trouble was coming to this shop. What if people set it on fire?
Going upstairs, she crammed more of her clothes into the big carpet bag and then carried it downstairs. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to hide it in the coalhouse. No one would look for it there, surely.
One thing was certain: Mr and Mrs Stein mustn’t open up the shop today. It was still early, so she decided to go and tell them to stay at home.
When she got to their house, however, she was horrified to see a group of people milling about outside it, shouting and gesticulating. She didn’t dare push her way through them, so went round to the back alley, and since the gate was locked, climbed over the w
all into their garden. She hitched up her skirts as she’d done when much younger, not caring how much leg she showed. To her relief no one seemed to have thought of this way of getting into the house yet and the alley remained empty.
When she heard the sound of breaking glass from the front of the house, she ran to the kitchen door. It wasn’t even locked. They should have locked it. Flinging it open, she went inside, to hear Mrs Stein sobbing.
‘Hello!’
They swung round.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Mr Stein said at once. ‘You’re putting yourself in danger, child.’
‘I came to warn you not to open the shop today. There are crowds out in the streets.’
‘And here too,’ he said sadly.
Mrs Stein sobbed and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth as if trying to hold back her tears.
‘What are we going to do?’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’m not an enemy of this country, Phoebe.’
‘I know that, Mr Stein. I think you need to get away.’
But even as she spoke, someone knocked on the front door and a voice called, ‘Police! Open up.’
‘Go quickly, Phoebe,’ Mr Stein said. ‘Stay away from us. Wait.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Give it to her. It’ll be safer.’
She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a wad of money. ‘Take this, dear girl. Keep it safe for us. Or if anything bad happens to us, keep it for yourself.’
Phoebe stared at them in horror at the implications of this.
Mrs Stein thrust the money into her hand. ‘Go on now. Run!’
‘Come and lock the back door after me.’
But someone was hammering on the front door again and they’d already turned towards it, so after a moment’s hesitation, Phoebe stuffed the money down the front of her dress and left the way she’d come.
Desperate to find out what was happening, she went round to the front again and asked a woman why the crowd had gathered. As if she didn’t know!
‘There are some Germans living there. The police are going to lock them up. Stein, they’re called.’
‘I’ve heard of them. They’re Austrians not Germans.’
‘Same thing, as far as I’m concerned.’ She swung round to stare at Phoebe. ‘You’re not one of ’em, are you? You don’t sound as if you come from round here.’
‘Me? Course I’m not a German. I’m English, born and bred. I grew up in Northumberland, in the north.’
‘You don’t sound like a foreigner, I must admit, but you do talk funny.’
‘Of course I’m not a foreigner. I’d better get to work now, though. Don’t want them docking my pay, do I?’
Phoebe walked away and when she peeped back over her shoulder, the woman seemed to have forgotten her. The two policemen had disappeared inside the house.
She stopped again at the corner, watching from a distance, not speaking to anyone. She wouldn’t dare try to defend the poor Steins again. You couldn’t reason with hysterical people.
After a while, she saw the policemen come out of the house again, escorting her poor employers, who looked pale, terrified and suddenly much older.
A few stones whizzed in their direction and the crowd pressed in on them. One policeman roared at the bystanders to get back. ‘This is England. We don’t tolerate mobs causing trouble here. We leave that to foreigners.’
For a moment all hung in the balance, then a woman said calmly, but in an equally carrying voice, ‘He’s right. We’re English and should act like it. Let the law take them away.’
The Steins tottered off with their two blue-clad protectors. Phoebe could only hope the poor dears would be safe.
They weren’t her employers now, were they? They wouldn’t dare open the shop again, even if they were released. She’d better find another job and somewhere else to live.
With nothing more to see, the crowd started dispersing. She realised she was wasting valuable time. Another mob was bound to turn on the Steins’ shop at some stage, if they hadn’t done so already. She hurried away to pick up her bag of clothes and as much else as she could carry.
At the shop she found that the violence had started. A policeman was guarding the premises, but the big shop window was broken. Stones and shards of glass littered the pavement. She stared at the damage in dismay, then went up to him.
‘Stay back, miss, h’if you please.’
‘Can I go inside and get my things?’ She gestured to the shop. ‘I work there. Or I used to. I’ve been living above the shop, so I need to get my clothes out.’
‘How do I know you’re not a looter?’
‘I’m not! I’ve come here openly, haven’t I?’
‘I suppose so. What’s your name? Right. Wait there.’ He went to the next shop and yelled inside. ‘Police! Can someone come out here, please?’
Mrs Harby peeped out of the door.
‘Do you know this young lady?’
‘Yes, Constable. She’s called Phoebe Sinclair and she works – I mean used to work for them.’ She jerked one thumb in the direction of the Steins’ shop.
‘I’m definitely not working there any more, Mrs Harby, but I need to get my clothes and my other bits and pieces.’ Thinking of the Steins and how afraid they must be made tears come into her eyes and she let them fall, squeezing out others on purpose. ‘All I have in the world is in there.’
‘I can’t let you go inside on your own,’ the policeman said, ‘and I can’t leave my post. If I do, people will break in.’
‘How about I go in with her?’ Mrs Harby offered. ‘I can check she’s not taking anything that’s not hers – not that I think she would anyway. She’s a nice lass and I’ve always found her very helpful and willing, I must say.’
He frowned, seeming uncertain still.
‘Oh, go on, Constable. You can’t let that poor lass lose all she owns as well as her job. It’s not her fault they’re foreigners. She’s as English as you and me.’
‘All right. Get your things, miss. But nothing else. And hurry.’
Inside the shop, Mrs Harby stared round, clearly enjoying the drama. ‘What a waste! Look at how the broken glass has torn that lovely material.’
Phoebe couldn’t bear to look at the destruction and led the way quickly to the rear. ‘I packed some things this morning and put a bag in the coalhouse. I wonder if it’s still there.’
‘Let’s go and look.’
They retrieved the bag, then Phoebe said, ‘The furniture upstairs is mine, and there are all sorts of bits and pieces I don’t want to lose.’
‘Well, you can’t carry everything. You can leave some of your stuff with us, if you like, though, just till you find somewhere else to live.’
‘Can I? That’s very kind of you. I know I can trust you.’
‘You definitely can. I haven’t forgotten you getting my washing off the line when it came on to rain, and more than once, too.’
‘We should all help neighbours.’
When they’d finished gathering together Phoebe’s bits and pieces of crockery from the kitchen downstairs, Mrs Harby asked, ‘Do they – um, keep money on the premises?’
‘No. Well, only the petty cash for buying milk and tea.’
‘You should take that with you. It’ll just get stolen otherwise.’
‘I can’t do that. It’d feel like stealing. Anyway the tin’s locked and it’s quite big.’
‘Leave it with us, then. Me and Mr Harby will look after it for them.’
Phoebe had a feeling that the Steins would never see the money again, but she didn’t say so. And better the neighbours had it than a mob. She packed the rest of her things rapidly, bundling her bedding into a sheet.
‘I suppose these were your mother’s,’ Mrs Harby commented. ‘It’s sad you lost her so young. Do you have any relatives to go to now?’
‘Yes. A cousin of my mother. He has a farm. I’ll go to them till I can get another job, but I’ll have to find someone to take all my stuff there.’
> When Phoebe had finished packing, Mrs Harby brought her husband and son to help carry the boxes of smaller things next door.
The policeman checked everything. ‘You’re sure she’s not stealing these?’
‘Of course she isn’t!’
A police sergeant came up just then, and the bundles had to be explained to him. He nodded. ‘Take your things, Miss Sinclair, and don’t work for foreigners again, if you can help it. We’re keeping order here, and it’s only property that’s been damaged, but there are other towns where people have been harmed and buildings set on fire. Foreigners bring trouble with them.’
She answered with a slight nod because she wanted to get her things away. She didn’t agree with him about foreigners, though, not when they were as nice as the Steins.
When they’d got Phoebe’s bags inside her house, Mrs Harby filled the kettle. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, then you’d better go and look for someone to take you and your things out to your cousin’s. We haven’t got a spare bedroom, though if you’re desperate, you can sleep on the sofa tonight.’
‘I think I’d better go and see my cousin’s son. He works in Swindon. He might know someone.’ She didn’t like asking Frank, but there was no one else.
‘Good idea.’
‘Thank you for your help. I’m very grateful.’
Mrs Harby had said nothing about the petty cash, either to the police or her family. Phoebe didn’t mention it, either. She thought it a small price to pay for the neighbour’s help.
Chapter Four
Phoebe walked to the address Frank had given her, not liking the mood of the people she met in the streets. She passed quite a few small groups talking and gesticulating, and felt there was a hard, angry edge to them. She didn’t feel comfortable near them, was sure the slightest thing would set them off like roasting chestnuts exploding near a fire.
Frank’s home was in a very seedy street, and people there stared at her strangely, as if assessing what she had in her pockets.
She didn’t expect to find him home at this hour of the day, but hoped someone would know where he was. To her relief, the woman who answered the door yelled over her shoulder, ‘Frank! It’s for you.’