Rachel's Secret

by Susan Sallis

  I took away my hand and swallowed deeply. ‘It’s OK. It’s perhaps getting too real. My friend and I do this, you know. Make up stories about people. And then we begin to believe them ourselves.’

  He hesitated, uncertain for a few seconds, then went on. ‘We’ve got the rope – that will impress the Gaffer. Now, supposing we went to the morgue and asked someone whether they were dressed in their day clothes . . . just in case they were? It all happened in the early hours of Monday morning, right? If they were using the stair-well as a shelter, they would still be in their night clothes. But if they had used the stairs as a – a – gibbet? Then they would not have got ready for bed.’ He looked at my face, and said quickly, ‘Look, it’s just another piece of information for the Gaffer. To show him we have done a proper job. That’s all.’

  I swallowed again; I was feeling a bit sick. The milkshake had been rich. I said, ‘OK.’

  We walked to the morgue near the docks, only to discover that the bodies had been taken to the infirmary. So we went there. The infirmary. Where yesterday Meriel and I had placed Mrs Smith so conveniently.

  Nobody wanted to tell us anything: not where to go, nor who to speak to. Tom was like a bloodhound: leading us from ward to ward, down steps, up steps, through swing doors, accosting anyone wearing a stethoscope or uniform. Nobody could tell us a thing – good job we didn’t have a body slung between us. We were directed eventually to the general enquiry office, where a woman with white hair, who was on the telephone and writing notes at the same time, stabbed her pencil in the direction of the outer door. We moved uncertainly towards it, not knowing whether we were meant to clear off or what; she nodded and jabbed her pencil up in a sort of congratulatory way, then went back to writing.

  I thought that was that, but Tom was still being a bloodhound, and once out in the grounds again, he stood back and looked hard and found another door, and, sure enough, steps going up.

  ‘That’s what she meant. Out and up.’ He was thrilled to bits. I trailed behind him, stone steps again, more like a prison than a hospital. At the top there were two doors, both masked by sheets that stank of disinfectant. He smiled. ‘We’re there.’

  He lifted one of the sheets and rapped hard on the door. We waited ages. He shrugged and went to the other door, lifted that sheet, and banged with the side of his fist. The door opened. A man stood there clothed from head to foot in green material. Just his eyes showed above a mask. The eyes looked at us and became incredulous.

  ‘What the hell are you kids doing here? For God’s sake – you shouldn’t be touching these sheets! Don’t you know anything? Clear off before you infect us and yourselves.’ He began to close the door, muttering something about the behaviour of kids these days.

  Tom said, ‘We’re actually from the Clarion. Just a very quick word. The bodies brought in from the raid on Spa Road on Monday morning . . . were they clothed?’

  The pathologist stopped closing the door and stared again; I thought his eyes would pop out if there was much more to shock him.

  ‘You want to know whether the bomb blast stripped them naked?’ He was absolutely incredulous. ‘What the hell is Gilbert Carfax doing, sending kids like you on a job like that?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Tom was suddenly very serious and grown-up. ‘It’s nothing like that. We’re following up a certain lead, and knowing about the clothing on the bodies would help us. We need to know whether they were wearing day or night clothes. That’s all.’

  The pathologist looked totally perplexed. He said, ‘Oh.’ And then his stare became less and less outraged as he thought about it. Then he said, ‘They were both wearing day clothes. Is that sufficient information for your needs?’

  We weren’t entirely forgiven, and if he knew Gilbert Carfax we guessed that he would report back to him – with some annoyance.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Tom added no more, no apology, nothing. He turned and indicated to me that we were going back down the steps. I half smiled and nodded at those eyes, and we left.

  I felt terrible. Tom said, ‘Let’s just cut across the park again and go into lower Eastgate.’

  ‘Why? We should be getting back. The Gaffer will wonder where we are.’

  ‘It cuts off a big corner – easier to walk and talk going over the grass – and . . .’ He looked at me sidelong. ‘Did you know that Silverman, that tailor in the Barton, had his shop window broken on Saturday night?’ I nodded. ‘Well, it’s another connection,’ he went on eagerly. ‘Silverman is also Austrian. An Austrian Jew. He came over after the Great War, back in 1918. He’s been a kind of clearing house for refugees ever since. I’ve been looking at the old files. I reckon he’s been helping Jews to escape from Germany since Hitler came to power.’ He had hold of my elbow and was turning me into Spa Road once again; I hung back.

  He said, ‘Come on, Rachel, don’t give up so easily. We know now where they did the dirty deed – we know they were fully dressed, so it was planned and nothing to do with the air raid. We’ve got some of the rope they used—’

  ‘We made it all up, Tom! We made it up!’

  ‘But it all fits. Rachel, we’re not going to be writing this up for the paper. We’re researchers and we’ve got some results. Let’s see what Silverman has to say about it. Let’s at least try, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘I can’t be long. I have to see my friend . . .’ But I let myself be pulled into the park, and through the gates where Meriel had been so sick, over the railway lines set in the road and through the subway where we’d gone last Friday on our bikes . . . turn left and then right . . . we were almost running . . . and there it was across the road, identifiable because of the boarding across the broken window.

  We were panting like greyhounds. Tom gasped, ‘Leave the talking to me,’ and plunged us both between a couple of wagons loaded with potatoes. I actually felt the breath of one of the cart horses on my neck, and glimpsed his enormous hoof, modestly covered in a veil of horsehair, right next to my sandal. I tried to ask Tom what the hurry was all about, but it needed breath. And he wouldn’t have heard, anyway.

  As we did a long leap on to the opposite pavement, Tom caught his toe in the kerb; and though I managed to hold him up, we went crashing into the boarding on Silverman’s window. I threw up my spare arm to protect my head, but Tom was still almost falling and hit the boarding face-on. The next thing I knew there was blood pumping out of his nose, and down his nice white shirt, and on to my dirndl, and just about everywhere. And two women detached themselves from the other shocked passers-by and came at us clucking, and telling us off, and whipping Tom’s shirt tails out of his trousers and up to his face. Phrases like ‘. . . watch where you put your feet . . .’ and ‘. . . no decorum, that’s the word, it’s all gone since the war . . . all gone . . .’ buzzed around our heads like bees, and Tom was apologizing and lifting his head back, and then choking on his own blood and leaning forward again.

  It stopped eventually. I always kept one of Dad’s big hankies in a pocket of my dirndl, and he held that to his nose and spoke through it. ‘Happens even when I don’t hit it,’ he explained to the women, who allowed themselves to be reassured because the crossing gates were opening. ‘Honestly, I’m quite all right. You’d better cross the railway while you can.’

  ‘Brunner’s have got cakes in today,’ one of the women reminded the other. ‘The queue will be a mile long . . .’ Thankfully they left us with adjurations about cold compresses ringing in our ears. Tom tried to smile.

  ‘What with Mavis and Doris and now those two . . .’ he said, in his new, stifled voice.

  ‘Now can we go home?’

  ‘We haven’t seen Mr Silverman. And we’re here.’

  ‘And we can’t get in. While you were bleeding to death I cast an eye around. The door to the shop is also boarded up. There’s no way in.’

  I wanted to get back to St John’s Lane, pick up my bike and pedal like mad till I got home. Never mind telling Meriel all that ha
d happened, never mind Hermione and Mrs Smith. I wanted the comfort of home, the waiting for Mum. I wanted to lay the table outside like we’d done yesterday and the day before, string the beans I’d picked only that morning . . .

  I said, ‘Come on. Let’s get back to the office. You can take in your notes and the rope. Uncle – the Gaffer – will be really pleased. I have to get back home. Seriously. They will be expecting me.’

  ‘You said you were going to your friend’s first.’

  ‘That was when I had the time to do that,’ I came back bitterly.

  He was leaning against the planking that covered the shop front, his head well back, wiping his nose and face with Dad’s blood-soaked handkerchief. He handed it back to me and, still standing to attention, began to tuck his blood-soaked shirt tails into his trousers. I found a clean corner of cloth and dabbed at a drip on his chin. It was what Mum would have done for me. It would have given me comfort as well as a sense of cleanliness. I didn’t realize that it gave her something too. A feeling of unbearable tenderness. I stopped doing it.

  He said, ‘Thank you, Rachel.’ He tried a smile but it was a tremulous one. ‘We’re not going to forget today, are we?’

  ‘No.’ I crooked an arm. ‘Need help?’

  ‘Not really.’ But he took my arm anyway, and we started to walk back to the level crossing. Very, very slowly.

  ‘What was all that rush about, for Pete’s sake? You could have broken your neck – we could have been trampled by that cart horse. I don’t get it.’

  He sighed right next to my ear; we were the same height and I was used to Meriel being well below me. This was really easy.

  ‘Nor me, not now, anyway. I felt as if we were catching a train. It was strange. Sorry, Rachel. God, I’m so glad it was me who took a toss. If anything had happened to you . . . don’t let me do that again.’

  ‘I don’t think I could have even slowed you down.’ I laughed and then stopped. Because we had come to a halt just next to the beginning of a dark tunnel of a passage leading to the backs of the houses and shops. I said, ‘Oh no! Tom, come on, please. We’ve both had enough of this.’

  Obviously he hadn’t. He released my arm, which more or less set me free to stay or go. He did not say a word; he just disappeared into the darkness. And I followed him. I whined loudly about this being a complete waste of time, as it was clear that Mr Silverman could not live in the shop. But he kept going and I followed him. It was my choice. No one to blame.

  The tunnel must have served other houses – it went straight on as far as you could see, but Tom turned right at the first opportunity and began to jump up and down as he walked so that he could see over the high wall and into the back yards of the buildings. We came to a door fitted into the wall and blocked with a dustbin. Tom lifted the lid of the bin and it was full of shards of glass. He moved the bin out of the gateway and tried the latch; the door was bolted. Before I could draw sufficient breath to sigh with relief, he put his shoulder to it. The door bent away from the bolt very easily. Ignoring my protests, he shoved again, then again. The bolt tore away from its screws and the door swung open.

  The back yard was full of piles of rubble neatly stacked against the side wall. To the left was the outside lavatory and wash house, and straight ahead were steps going up to the shop level and another set going down to a basement. Tom made for those. I followed him, but by this time I was whimpering. I hardly knew Tom, but I thought he wasn’t the sort of boy to break into someone’s house, especially when the house had already been stupidly vandalized. He was going to get into trouble. I didn’t want that. So I stayed with him.

  The door at the bottom of the steps had been mostly glass; it was all broken and we crunched on glass shards very gingerly in our summer sandals. This door was bolted, too, but Tom just stuck his hand carefully between the pieces of jagged glass and unbolted it.

  He still had difficulty in opening it over more glass. The sound of it grinding and snapping was beastly, literally beastly. And then we were through into yet another dark passage; the kitchen was on our left, it had that damp sink smell that was only a few sniffs away from being downright toxic. The next door was half-closed but it was dimly lit from another window so had to be right underneath the shop front. On our right a staircase led up to that level.

  Once past the glass, Tom absolutely barged along the passage to that half-closed door. He shoved it wide, and then stopped and completely blocked my way through. He, too, started to whimper, which shut me up completely; he hadn’t whimpered when he’d smashed his face against that planking. I was a yard away from him. I stooped low and looked under his spread arms.

  Mr Silverman was hanging by his neck from a rope fastened into a hook on the ceiling. Below him was a chair, upside down.

  Tom said sobbingly, ‘I had a horrible feeling this had happened . . .’

  I started to scream.

  Seven

  October 1945

  Rache, I’m here! The boat docked an hour ago and I’m waiting in the cabin for the queue to disappear. I absolutely refuse to be one of those desperate women waving frantically from the rail whether they can see their hubbie or not. Oh Lord, just listen to that! Hubbie, indeed! It’s being with this lot for a whole week. Do you know, Rache, I nearly turned back at the last minute – when I was actually on the gang plank and I looked back and realized Dad was actually crying! There were sailors helping us along, and I said to one of them was it too late to turn back? And he said, ‘’Course not, madam’ – I’m madam now, please note – ‘But your trunks can’t be unloaded, not now. All your worldly goods are going to end up in New York whether you’re there or not!’ And as I went on walking up that plank I realized it wasn’t that I wanted to go back, especially to Dad; what was putting me right off His Majesty’s good ship Albion were the other passengers. Most of them are ghastly, and the ones that aren’t are going right up to Detroit or California or somewhere I can’t get to. But I miss you already, and it’s not as if we’ve lived in each other’s pockets lately, what with me nobbling Rex and you getting your legs under the table at the Carfax Clarion. I know I’ve said this so often you must be sick of it, but I’m going to miss you, Rache, I really am. Anyway.

  I hope Rex’s parents, especially his ‘mom’, turn out to be mildly approachable, and not already cooking up a hatred of the English trollop who got herself pregnant by their son so she could shake the dust of Britain off her dinky little feet! I wonder whether Dad Robinson might have a bit of a bias too, as he teaches American Lit. Does that mean he hates Eng. Lit? But it does mean he’s busy at school or in his study (Rex’s words) so won’t be seeing much of me. Whatever happens, Rache, at least I’ll be away from this ex-troop ship with its six-berth cabins and no choice about who shares.

  I’d better go. One of the bearable girls is called Rachel and she says she just loves my bubble cut. I told her you’d done it. Rache . . . I’m scared.

  5 November 1945, Orion, New Hampshire

  Darling, guess what? They don’t have Guy Fawkes Night here, they don’t even know who he is! It’s such a waste because there are enough fallen leaves in our garden to make ten guys. Yes, I did say our garden! I naturally thought we’d have to live with Mom and Dad Robinson and it would be all awkward and they’d hate me, but shucks, that ain’t the case, little lady! We’re renting a gorgeous house; it’s made of wood and smells of pine and resin, a bit like the bluebell woods at home. It’s got a big living area – not even called a room because all the other rooms lead off it. I’m talking like them even when I don’t do it purposely. Can you imagine what Miss Hardwicke would say about my grammar there? Anyway, we’re renting it because Rex has put in for a job with the Space Agency. Sounds good, eh? We’d probably live in Florida. Not sure yet. Meanwhile I love it here, and Mom and Dad Robinson are great. They love me because I’m full of Rex’s baby – yes, they actually speak those words! In some ways Americans are really prim and proper but in others – wow, hang on to your hat, la
dy! Got to go. I’m doing fried chicken and potatoes. Doesn’t it sound American and grown-up and everything? Has Tom heard about his demob yet? I want to ask you what he’s like in bed, but I bet you don’t know yet! I discover I take after my father because I’m OK in that department. Very OK, actually. Actually, I often think I can understand poor old Dad so much better now. Wish I hadn’t been so hard on him.

  Honey, I know my handwriting is still pretty grim but use your imagination, won’t you. And another thing, I’m going to post these two bits off just in case the airmail plane gets to crash or something – I’ll never remember what I said. And one last thing, keep my scribbles, will you? When we’re old ladies we’ll read them together and laugh. I’ve got yours in a satin nightdress case Aunt Mabe gave me when I arrived. She is Mom Robinson’s sister and is an absolute hoot. And another last thing, but important, stop worrying about Tom. The bloody, bloody war is over!

  March 1946, Florida

  Did you get my Feb letter when I was on my way to hospital with pains every five bloody minutes? Somebody posted it for me, because it was gone from my night table when I got home three hours later. False alarm, Rache. Felt such a fool. And here I am a month later, looking so much like a football I’m expecting someone to kick me at any minute. Considering the wicked deed was done on VE night, as you well know, don’t you think Babe Ruth could put in an appearance like NOW! Honestly, Rache, I am so fed-up, can’t tell you and won’t even try, else I’ll put you off glorious motherhood for ever. But I’ve warned Rex that if it is a girl she will definitely be called Ruth. He thinks I’m joking.

  Anyway, honey, my silence since then has not been fed-upness but because we’ve actually moved, as you will see from the address. What a month it’s been, Rache. We had so much stuff. Only been here six months but people keep giving us presents, the Yanks really are the most generous people in the world and I have to say, Rache – this sounds pretty awful, I know – they think I’m the bees-bloody-knees! Honestly. When I get spellings wrong they laugh and hug me, when I swear they absolutely curl up, then hug me – I’ve even tried picking my nose at a dinner party and they loved that too. Put me right off, I haven’t done it again. Shame, really. But actually, Rex didn’t like it. Funny, eh? I wish he didn’t think I was so perfect, but he does, and I try to be because he’s such a wonderful man. I know I married him for all the wrong reasons, Rache, but it’s turning out OK. Honestly.