The Girl With No Name

by Diney Costeloe

  Nikolaus drove them the three or four miles to the nursing home. He seemed more relaxed now that there were just the three of them and he spoke more easily.

  ‘Your poor mother made contact with us through the Red Cross just before the surrender,’ he said. ‘We’d heard nothing of any of them before that. I arranged for her to be brought here, but she was in a far worse state than I’d expected.’ He sighed. ‘We couldn’t look after her at home, Lisa. Anna, my wife....’ His voice faltered to embarrassed silence.

  ‘I’m know you did all you could,’ Charlotte assured him. ‘Thank you for taking care of her and for sending for me.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll find her very changed,’ Nikolaus said sadly.

  ‘Did she say anything about Papa or Martin?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Does she know where they are?’

  Nikolaus sighed again. ‘I will tell you what she said.’ He pulled up into the car park of a large house, cut the engine and turned to face her. ‘It is not good news, I’m afraid. Franz was arrested and we have no news of him. Martin lived with your mother for a while and then they came and took him away. Because he was blind they sent him to a home for the handicapped somewhere in Bavaria, but he died.’

  ‘How?’ whispered Charlotte.

  ‘We don’t know. Your mother simply got a card saying he was dead.’

  ‘What did she do? Where did she go?’

  ‘She was helped by one of your father’s old patients. He had saved the life of her son after the Great War, and she’d never forgotten. She wasn’t Jewish, but she took your mother in and hid her. She kept her hidden until someone betrayed them to the Gestapo. They were both arrested and sent to a camp. I don’t know what happened to the other woman, but your mother managed to survive until the Americans came.’ Nikolaus fell silent for a moment and then added, ‘I thought you should know all these things before you see her. Those that survived the camps... It explains how she is.’ He gestured to the house. ‘Go in and ask for her. I will wait for you here.’

  They had been speaking German and Billy had listened to the flow of conversation without understanding it, not the words, but he understood the import, from their voices and the way the colour drained from Charlotte’s face and her jaw set as she battled with unshed tears. He was holding her hand and her grip had tightened as she sat, ramrod-straight in the back of the car, and listened to what Nikolaus was telling her.

  When at last he fell silent, the air in the car seemed stifling. Charlotte opened the door and got out. Billy followed her and waited as she leaned back into the car and said something else. Then she said, ‘Come on, Billy. She’s in here.’ And turning, she walked resolutely up to the front door and rang the bell.

  A nurse led them along a corridor and stopped outside one of the doors. ‘She’s in here. She’s a little weak, today.’ She opened the door and said brightly, ‘Now then, Marta. Here’s your daughter come to see you.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ Billy said, but Charlotte shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Come in with me. Please?’

  Together they walked into the room. It was small, but it was filled with sunlight that streamed through a window overlooking the garden. The bed stood in the middle, a chair on either side, and on it lay an emaciated figure, scarcely bigger than a child. If Charlotte hadn’t known it was her mother, she wouldn’t have recognised her. Her limbs were skeletal, her face no more than a skin-covered skull. Wisps of thin grey hair clung to her head and her eyes, though open, were glazed and unseeing.

  Charlotte stared at her for a long moment, stunned by what she saw, unable to take it in. Cousin Nikolaus had warned her that her mother was ill, but she wasn’t prepared for this. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away. She had to be strong. She’d found her mother and she had to be strong for her.

  She moved to the bedside and reached for the bony hand that lay above the covers.

  ‘Mutti?’ she whispered. ‘Mutti? It’s me, Lisa.’ Sitting down on the chair, she stroked her mother’s hand. There was no reaction from the tiny figure on the bed, but Lisa continued to speak to her, her voice soft and gentle. ‘Mutti, I’m here. It’s Lisa. I’ve come from London to find you and when you’re better, I’ll take you home.’

  She continued to talk to her, just in case Mutti was somewhere inside this husk of a woman and could hear her. Softly, she told her about her life in England, about the Federmans, how they’d looked after her, how she’d been evacuated to Wynsdown, about Miss Edie’s kindness, how she was working in a children’s home. Once, just once, she felt a returning pressure from the hand she held. She looked into her mother’s face and saw a flicker behind the eyes.

  ‘Billy’s here with me,’ Charlotte told her. ‘He’s come all the way with me, to see you.’ She glanced across at Billy, who was standing by the window, the sun striking his fair hair, creating a halo round his head. ‘He’s been my good angel, Mutti.’

  There was a movement from the bed and Charlotte looked back, just in time to see a moment of lucidity in her mother’s eyes and to hear the breathed word, ‘Lisa!’ And then the light went out. Marta Becker was gone.

  Charlotte knew at once. Her mother had recognised her, and knowing she was alive, had simply let go, slipping away into merciful oblivion. Charlotte saw Marta’s face relax, the pain smoothed away in death, and caught a glimpse of the mother she’d last seen over six years ago. She sat dry-eyed, still holding Mutti’s hand for a long while before she gently released it and stood up. She held out her arms to Billy, standing so silently by the window, and he gathered her to him, his face resting against her hair.

  The sun still streamed through the window, bathing the silent room in light and warmth, and for a long moment they stood together, before Charlotte looked up into Billy’s face and said, ‘Let’s go, Billy. It’s time to go home.’

  Epilogue

  The whole village had turned out to see them, to help celebrate the first Wynsdown wedding since the end of the war. The church, brilliant with dahlias and chrysanthemums, was full of excited, happy people. The autumn sun shone through the stained glass, casting patterns on the flagged floor, and there was an excited buzz of conversation in the congregation.

  Billy stood nervously beside his best man, Malcolm, waiting for Charlotte to arrive. Behind him sat his parents and Jane. His mother beamed at everyone from under the brim of her new straw hat, his father, crammed rather uncomfortably into a suit, ran his finger round the collar of his new shirt and wished he didn’t have to wear a tie, but both were proud as Punch of their tall, handsome son, standing, waiting for his bride.

  There was a stir at the back of the church as Naomi Federman came in, walking down the aisle to take her place in the front pew. Everyone wanted to see Charlotte’s foster mother, come all the way from Suffolk. As mother of the bride, she had been at Blackdown House, helping Charlotte into her wedding dress, the wedding dress Miss Edie had made so lovingly over twenty-five years earlier.

  When she’d come down to Wynsdown on her return from Switzerland, Charlotte had unpacked it from the trunk and tried it on, and with a few alterations it fitted her perfectly.

  ‘Do you think she’d mind me wearing it?’ she’d asked Avril anxiously. ‘Miss Edie?’

  ‘No,’ Avril assured her with a smile. ‘I think she’d be delighted.’

  ‘You are lucky,’ Clare said enviously as she helped Naomi to arrange the veil over her dark hair. ‘No one has proper wedding dresses these days.’

  ‘You look beautiful, Lisa,’ Naomi said, tears in her eyes. ‘We’re all so proud of you. Your parents and Miss Edie would be, too. Your Billy’s a lucky man.’

  Charlotte walked into the church on the arm of her foster father, Uncle Dan. As she paused at the door to greet the vicar, Clare straightened the skirt of her dress and, taking Nicky’s hand stood him in front of Charlotte.

  ‘Remember,’ she whispered, ‘just walk in front of Charlotte... Lisa, I mean... till she gets to the steps
and then go and sit with your mum.’

  Nicky nodded seriously, conscious of his special part in Lisa’s wedding. He was a page and that made him special. He’d even had new shoes for the occasion. He looked down at them, brown shining sandals on his feet, and beamed with delight.

  The organ began to play and Billy turned to see his Charlotte walking slowly down the aisle on her uncle Dan’s arm, coming to be married, to him. Tears of joy filled his eyes and as Charlotte reached him and threw back her veil, he saw his own joy reflected in her face. Charlotte handed her bouquet to Clare, then turning back to Billy, she took his outstretched hand and they both stepped forward, ready to begin their life together.

  ~

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  Diney Costeloe’s next book is coming in spring 2017

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  Read on for a preview of

  Gritty, heartrending and unputdownable – the story of two sisters sent first to an English, then an Australian orphanage in the aftermath of World War 2.

  Rita and Rosie Stevens are only nine and five years old when their widowed mother marries a violent bully called Jimmy Randall and has a baby boy by him. Under pressure from her new husband, she is persuaded to send the girls to an orphanage – not knowing that the papers she has signed will entitle them to do what they like with the children.

  And it is not long before the powers that be decide to send a consignment of orphans to their sister institution in Australia. Among them – without their family’s consent or knowledge – are Rita and Rosie, the throwaway children.

  Can’t wait? Buy it here now!

  1

  Belcaster 1948

  Raised voices again. Rita could hear them through the floor; her mother’s, a querulous wail, the man’s an angry roar. For a moment she lay still in bed, listening. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that they were arguing.

  Rosie, her sister, was peacefully asleep at the other end of their shared single bed, the stray cat, Felix, curled against her. She never seemed to wake up however loud the shouting downstairs. Rita slid out from under the bedclothes and tip-toeing across the room, crept out onto the landing. Limpid green light from a street lamp shone through the small landing window, lighting the narrow staircase. A shaft of dull yellow light, shining through the half-open kitchen door, lit the cracked brown lino and cast shadows in the hall. The voices came from the kitchen, still loud, still angry. Rita crouched against the banister, her face pressed to its bars. From here she could actually hear some of what was being said.

  ‘...my children from me.’ Her mother’s voice.

  ‘...another man’s brats!’ His voice.

  Rita shivered at the sound of his voice. Uncle Jimmy, Mum’s new friend. Then Mum began to cry, a pitiful wailing that echoed into the hall.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ His voice again. ‘Cut the caterwauling, woman... or I’ll leave right now.’

  A chair crashed over, and the shaft of light broadened as the kitchen door was pushed wider. Rita dived back into her bedroom, making the door creak loudly. She leaped into bed, kicking a protesting Felix off the covers and pulling the sheet up over her head. She tried to calm her breathing so that it matched Rosie’s, the peaceful breathing of undisturbed sleep, but her heart was pounding, the blood hammering in her ears as she heard the heavy tread of feet on the stairs. He was coming up.

  ‘Rita! Was you out of bed?’ His voice was harsh. He had not put on the landing light, and as he reached the top stair, Felix materialized at his feet, almost tripping him over.

  ‘Bloody cat!’ snarled the man, aiming a kick at him, but Felix had already streaked downstairs.

  Jimmy Randall paused on the landing, listening. All was quiet in the girls’ room. Softly he crossed to the half-open door and peered in, but it was too dark to see anything, and all he could hear was the steady breathing of two little girls asleep.

  Must have been the damned cat, he thought. Don’t know why Mavis gives it houseroom, dirty stray. If it was my house...

  It wasn’t. Not yet. But it would be, Jimmy was determined about that. A neat little house in Ship Street, a terrace of other neat little houses; well, not so neat most of them, unrepaired from the bombing, cracked windows, scarred paintwork, rubble in the tiny gardens, but basically sound enough. Jimmy wouldn’t mind doing a bit of repair work himself, provided the house was his at the end of it. His and Mavis’s, but not full of squalling kids. All he had to do was get his name on the rent book, then he’d be laughing.

  Rita heard him close the door but lay quite still in case it was a trick, in case he was standing silently inside the room waiting to catch her out. It was a full two minutes before she allowed herself to open her eyes into the darkness of her room. She could see nothing. Straining her ears she heard his voice again, not so loud this time, and definitely downstairs.

  For a while she lay in the dark, thinking about Uncle Jimmy. He had come into their lives about two months ago, visiting occasionally at first, smiling a lot, once bringing chocolate. It was for Mum really, but she’d let Rita and Rosie have one piece every day until it had gone. But Rita was afraid of him all the same. He had a loud voice and got cross easily.

  Rita wasn’t used to having a man in her life. She hardly remembered her daddy. Mum said he had gone to the war and hadn’t come home. He had gone before Rosie was even born, fighting the Germans. Rita knew he had been in the air force, flying in a plane high over Germany, and that one night his plane hadn’t come back. There was a picture of her daddy in a silver-coloured frame on the kitchen shelf. He was wearing his uniform and smiling. Wherever you moved in the kitchen, his eyes followed you, so that wherever she sat, Rita knew he was smiling at her. She loved his face, his smile making crinkles round his eyes and his curly fair hair half-covered with his air force cap. Rosie had the same sort of hair, thick and fair, curling round her face. Rita’s own hair was like Mum’s, dark, thin and straight, and she always wished she had hair like Rosie’s... and Daddy’s.

  Then, a while ago, the photo had disappeared.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Rita demanded one morning when she sat down and noticed the photo had gone. ‘Where’s Daddy gone?’

  Without looking up Mum said, ‘Oh, I took him down for now. I need to clean the frame.’

  Daddy had not reappeared on the shelf, and Rita missed him. ‘I could clean the frame,’ she offered. ‘I’m good at cleaning.’

  ‘It’s being mended,’ explained her mother. ‘When I came to clean it I found it was broken, so I’ve took it to be mended.’

  Rita didn’t ask again, but she somehow knew that the photo wasn’t coming back and that this had something to do with the arrival of Jimmy Randall.

  Jimmy Randall had changed everything. He was often there when Rita and Rosie came home from school. Mum used to meet them at the school gate, but since Uncle Jimmy, as they were to call him, had become part of their lives, Mum was too busy, and it became Rita’s job to bring Rosie home safely.

  ‘You must hold her hand all the way,’ Mum said, ‘and come straight home.’

  So every school day, except Thursdays, Rita took Rosie’s hand and crossing the street very carefully, walked them home; almost every day when they got home, Uncle Jimmy would already be in the kitchen with Mum.

  On Thursdays Gran met them at the school gate and gave them tea. Sometimes she let them play in the park they passed on the way.

  ‘I don’t like Uncle Jimmy,’ Rita confided to her grandmother one Thursday when they were having tea. ‘He shouts. I dropped a cup yesterday, and he sent me upstairs with no tea. It didn’t even break
, Gran. It’s not fair.’

  Gran gave her a hug. ‘Never mind, love,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he won’t be around for long.’ But Lily didn’t like him either.

  Lily Sharples was Mavis’s mother. A widow herself, she still lived in the small brick house in Hampton Road, where she had lived all her married life. It had been spared by the Luftwaffe, when others in the vicinity had been flattened, and despite further raids, Lily remained, stubbornly, in occupation.

  ‘It’s been my home for nigh on thirty years,’ Lily told Mavis, ‘and when I leave it’ll be feet first.’

  Lily was worried about Mavis and her family. Mavis had been on her own for five years now, and Lily wasn’t surprised that she had found herself another man, it was only natural, and anyway, the girls needed a father. It was just that she wished that the man wasn’t Jimmy Randall. She could see why Rita was afraid of him. He wasn’t used to children and his temper was short. On one occasion, Lily had seen him slap Rita across the face. The child had run to her, burying her burning cheek against her grandmother, and, holding her close, Lily turned on him, saying, ‘There was no need for that!’

  Jimmy glowered at her and snarled, ‘They need a bit of discipline. They’ve got to learn their place.’

  ‘This is their place,’ Lily had snapped. ‘It’s not yours!’ But Lily was increasingly afraid that it was going to be. She decided to speak to Mavis. ‘You know the girls are scared stiff of that Jimmy, don’t you?’ she said. ‘It’s not right that they should be afraid in their own home.’

  ‘What about me?’ complained Mavis. ‘I need someone. Now Don’s gone, have I got to stay on my own for the rest of my life?’

  ‘No, of course you ain’t,’ replied her mother, ‘but you do have to think about yer kids. If they’re scared of Jimmy, is he really the right bloke for you?’