by Molly Green
Resolutely she began to write.
Dear Murray,
First I want to say how pleased I was to see you in hospital and that you are on the way to recovery.
June set the pen down a moment. That was the easy bit. She sighed and took up her pen.
Just before we left you mentioned Chas. I’d hoped I’d never have to explain that time, but you deserve to know. I expect he told you I was in his hotel room, on his bed. But what he may not have told you was that when I bumped into him in Oxford Street I was in shock. I’d just had a terrible visit to my father’s and I’d ended up throwing a vase at his head. It sounds melodramatic but I honestly thought I’d killed him. I’ll tell you why I did this when or if I see you again. It doesn’t matter at this moment. What matters is that Chas was kind at the time and made me go back to my father’s flat. They’d called an ambulance and we went to the hospital and found out he was all right. I didn’t go and see him. Chas invited me to his hotel for a cup of tea to calm down as I was still in a state, and because the foyer was crowded he invited me to his room. We had our tea, but I was exhausted. He suggested I have a nap on his bed and I lay on the top of the cover with my clothes on, not thinking anything of it, and actually fell asleep.
The next thing I knew was Chas begging me to let him make love. I screamed out but a bomb went off and the hotel’s alarm straight after. Chas grabbed me and we ran down the stairs, but I ran back to the room to get a little toy dog for Lizzie’s birthday that Chas had generously paid for when I didn’t have enough money. I got hit by a piece of falling timber and luckily Chas had rushed up the stairs after me. He was angry and rightly so as another bomb went off and I could have got us both killed.
That’s what happened, Murray. Then Chas got a taxi and we went to Aunt Ada’s. He didn’t even stop for a cup of tea – I think he was too annoyed with me and probably in a state of shock himself when he realised how close that bomb had been. I haven’t heard anything more from him since he rang to tell me you’d been found and I don’t want to. I don’t think he’s a bad man – it was just the heat of the moment.
I hope after reading this you will find it in your heart to for—
She crossed out the last three letters and instead wrote:
… believe me as I never intended, nor did I ever do, anything wrong.
Your friend always,
Junie
She’d decide in the morning whether she would put it in the letterbox.
She didn’t post the letter. It didn’t read right when she skimmed it over the next morning. It was almost as though she was trying too hard to defend herself. She thought about making it shorter but in the end she felt it was pointless. She put it in the drawer next to the little winged brooch that Murray had given her. She was utterly drained. If only her real father had been alive and she could have talked it over with him. She needed his presence – needed him to tell her what she should do.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mr Clarke came to Bingham Hall three weeks after June returned.
‘We’ll go in the library, if you don’t mind,’ he told her. ‘Mrs Pherson’s office still smells of cigarette smoke. Quite turns my stomach. Give me a pipe any day.’
Once they were settled in two easy chairs facing each other, and Mr Clarke had lit his pipe, he leaned forward.
‘Did Mrs Pherson ever call a meeting with the staff about the name-calling?’
‘No,’ June said. ‘She kept saying she would but nothing happened.’
‘Hmm. I thought as much, as I would have expected her to send me in a report as to any outcome.’
‘In all honesty she wasn’t keen to have a German boy here. She said the others would be upset too. We all protested but she wouldn’t have it, though she didn’t call him anything nasty as far as I know and we’re all thrilled he’s been chosen to go to the music academy. It’s given him a real boost.’
‘Well, Mrs Pherson was always a bit anti,’ Mr Clarke said. ‘It took some persuading for her to have the boy. And from what I’ve heard, I’m not at all sure about Mr Gilbert, though I admit we’ve never found any concrete evidence of his leanings. But I do know he’s not the right person to uphold Dr Barnardo’s creed, and, like Mrs Pherson, he’s at retiring age anyway.’ He cleared his throat. ‘To change the subject, have you found everything you need until we get a replacement for her?’
‘I’ve had to go into her office a few times,’ June admitted, ‘but the filing cabinet is locked so I haven’t always found what I needed. I was wondering if you had the key.’
Mr Clarke dipped into his pocket and handed her a small key, and another larger one. ‘That one’s for the office door,’ he said. ‘It should be kept locked at all times – Mrs Pherson was always meticulous about locking up, and rightly so.’
June put them in her overall pocket.
‘Has she actually gone?’ she asked. ‘Because several of her personal things are there still.’
‘She left in a hurry,’ Mr Clarke said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Seems she couldn’t wait to retire. Can you see that her personal belongings are packed up and sent off to her? She’s gone to her sister’s. I have her address if you should need it.’
‘I have it, thank you,’ June said, mindful that she needed to get back to her job.
‘Just one more thing.’ Mr Clarke leaned forward in his chair. ‘We need a matron, of course. And with this war on they don’t come two a penny. We’ve been discussing the situation at Stepney Causeway, and decided the best thing is to offer you the job.’
June gave a start. This was not at all what she expected.
‘Of course we’ll give you a week to think about it,’ Mr Clarke said, smiling. ‘But we think you’d do a sterling job for us. We’ve had excellent reports about your work.’
‘From Matron?’ June couldn’t stop the incredulous tone.
‘No, not from Matron. I believe that would be more than she could bear to do. But from Mr Cannon and the two other teachers, from both nurses, and we even had a quiet word with Mrs Bertram.’
‘Cook?’
Mr Clarke nodded. ‘We don’t offer these things lightly, you know. We realise you’re very young, but you’re a hard worker with the children’s interests close to your heart. And that’s the kind of person we’re looking for – relying on. We’d give you a full job description and of course there would be a generous salary increase. As a newly appointed matron you would earn twelve guineas a month, all in, and Mrs Pherson’s old cottage. So what do you think, eh?’
‘I don’t need a week to think about it,’ June said, her face relaxing into a grateful smile. ‘I feel honoured and I’d love to do it.’ And then an idea struck her. The most wonderful idea. Her smile turned into a beam. It was what Mr Clarke had said about her having Matron’s cottage.
‘That’s excellent news, Miss Lavender.’
‘But I’d like to ask you just one thing.’
Mr Clarke nodded for her to carry on.
‘You mentioned I would have Matron’s old cottage.’
‘That’s right. Goes with the job.’
‘I know animals are not allowed in the home and I understand why, but would you, or would Dr Barnardo’s, object if I had a small, extremely well-behaved dog living with me in the cottage?’ June’s heart practically stopped as she waited for Mr Clarke’s answer.
Mr Clarke took his glasses off and removed the handkerchief which peeped from the top pocket of his suit. He opened his mouth and blew on each lens with a short ‘Huh’, then polished each one. He held them up in front of him, gave a final polish, then a nod of satisfaction, and put them back on the rim of his nose, all the while not catching her eye.
Had she gone too far? Had she ruined this wonderful opportunity? She could have kicked herself.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’
‘Shouldn’t have what, Miss Lavender?’ He raised a thin eyebrow.
‘Asked you if I could break the rules. It was
impertinent.’
Mr Clarke smiled. ‘I’ve made a decision. So long as the dog has a proper pen in your bit of garden and can’t run wild, I don’t see a problem. Are you talking about the puppy that Mrs Pherson reported to me?’
‘Yes. He’s really Lizzie’s and she loves him so much. It was Freddie who got her talking again. She’s been terribly upset since Matron made me send him back to the RAF camp and she’ll be thrilled she can come and visit him sometimes.’
‘Well, you know our creed,’ Mr Clarke said, throwing her a sly smile. ‘If anyone needs a home, we at Dr Barnardo’s will provide it. And you’ve persuaded me that this little chap Freddie is obviously an orphan and needs a home.’ He stood up and put his hat on. ‘I don’t think we need to discuss it any further, Miss Lavender, only for me to say congratulations on your promotion. I’ll get the paperwork sorted out right away. All you have to do is read it carefully, sign it and post it back to me.’
‘Thank you, Mr Clarke.’ June gulped, not quite believing what had just taken place in the library. ‘I promise I won’t let you down.’
‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that,’ he said with a smile. ‘And, Miss Lavender, keep an eye on Gilbert, won’t you? If he does or says anything out of turn I give you full permission to handle it, however you see fit. And that means giving him his marching orders if you deem it necessary.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’ll be off now. I’ve another Dr Barnardo’s home to see in town.’
‘Thank you for everything.’ June rose to her feet. She held out her hand and Mr Clarke took it in his thin bony one and shook it lightly.
He picked up his briefcase. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Lavender – I’ll see myself out. Good day to you.’ He touched the rim of his hat and this time his gaunt face actually split in two as he smiled broadly at her before he let himself out of the library door, closing it behind him with a determined click.
As soon as Mr Clarke left, June hurried to Matron’s old office, giving a wry grin as she glanced at the sign saying ‘Matron’ on the door. She threw wide the window, welcoming the warm summer air.
First job was something she’d wanted to do ever since she first arrived at Bingham Hall – examine the backgrounds of the children. She unlocked the filing cabinet and took out half a dozen files marked with the names of individual children. She sat at the desk and slowly went through them, making notes of their backgrounds. There was so much to take in that she’d need to spend several mornings reading each child’s notes carefully.
June had been sitting at the desk for almost an hour trying to decipher Matron’s brief scrawled notes. Several of the case notes provided little detail on where the children had come from and what they’d been through. Thank goodness Iris and the previous nurses had kept updated details of the children’s health and vaccinations. She toyed with the idea of having the older ones come into the office and maybe persuading them to tell her about themselves in their own words. They’d have to be carefully handled so as not to upset them, but, as well as the past, she needed to know what they hoped to achieve in the future so they could be steered towards such goals with the teachers. Also, it was important to note any improvements in their behaviour or, heaven forbid, any deterioration.
‘Cup of coffee for you, hen?’ Bertie poked her head round the door. ‘And one of my pieces of shortbread, just out of the oven.’
‘Oh, yes please, Bertie, that would be lovely.’
The cook was back just as she was reading about Lenny and Beth, brother and sister. Their mother had left them for another man, and their father couldn’t cope and had committed suicide.
‘Oh, Bertie, poor little Lenny and Beth.’
‘Wait until you get to Betsy’s file. That would make a grown man cry.’
June braced herself. ‘Have you time to sit for a minute or two and tell me what happened to her?’
‘She’d been beaten black and blue, though it was hard to tell all of them, being coloured.’ Bertie shook her head as though she was remembering the day Betsy came to the home. ‘She had cuts and lesions on her face, she was full of nits, she’d soiled her pants, she was as thin as a rake, and she had no shoes. When we took her dress off she screamed. There were weals and scars all over her back. If I ever found out who did that to her I’d kill him with my bare hands.’
June fell silent at Bertie’s story. Poor little Betsy. But now she seemed a happy child although occasionally she had a bad tantrum. June had long decided the best way to pull her out of them was to talk gently and calmly to the child, not tell her off as Matron used to do, but simply ask what was the matter. Ask her why was she so angry. And sooner or later Betsy would say what was troubling her.
‘Yes, there are some gruesome cases,’ Bertie said, putting her hands on the arms of the chair. ‘But at least we can provide a good home for some of them.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Well, I must be off. Let me know if I can be of any more help. I’ve probably been here the longest so I might be able to answer your questions.’
When the cook had shut the door behind her, June slid the children’s files back into the cabinet, knowing she couldn’t put Gilbert off any longer. She walked over to the window and saw him taking the rubbish to the bonfire. She watched him for a few moments before coming back to the filing cabinet. What could she give as her reason? He’d simply deny saying anything to Joachim and say the boy was lying to get rid of him.
She sighed. She might have to call David in as a witness, as he’d heard Gilbert mutter the same name-calling under his breath. It would be good to have David’s support. And then she changed her mind. She’d deal with this herself.
She was about to lock the cabinet when she saw a label sticking up from one of the files saying PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. Curiously, she lifted out a thick file and laid it on the desk. Maybe it was Matron’s personal file and she should pack it up and post it on to her. But something made her open it. There was a small stack of newscuttings. She picked up the top one.
A man stared back at her though the photograph was indistinct. She racked her brain. There was something about him that gave her the creeps. She picked up the next cutting to find a photograph of a crowd of people, all with their arms raised in a Hitler salute. Her blood thickened in her veins. The same man was marching with his troops. He was taller than most of the other men around him and there was something sinister about the way he was dressed – all in black, even his shirt. She’d seen this kind of rally in Germany on the news at the cinema. Then she remembered who it was. Oswald Mosley, the British Fascist and admirer of Hitler. Black Shirts, they called them, though she thought they’d disappeared at the beginning of the war.
There was an envelope tucked into the next page. June opened it and a photograph fell out. She immediately recognised him. Unmistakeably Gilbert.
Gilbert. In his black shirt. Giving the Nazi salute. Iris had noticed he always dressed in black. How had a man like this ended up in a Dr Barnardo’s home? June put the photograph face down on the desk, loathing the sight of it, and looked through the file again. There was a pile of leaflets advertising a Fascist meeting with a scrap of paper pinned to the top one. She recognised the scrawling writing immediately. G – we should attend this one.
June gazed at the note, her eyes wide. There was no signature but it didn’t need one. She wondered why it was still in Matron’s desk drawer. She must have forgotten to give it to him. But there was no doubting the message. They were Fascists, the pair of them.
Twenty minutes later she opened the office door and caught Rose scurrying past with an armful of ironed linen.
‘Rose, could you please ask Gilbert to come to Matron’s office immediately.’
‘It weren’t illegal to be in the BUF,’ Gilbert said, an angry gleam in eyes as black as his shirt.
‘Maybe not in the early days,’ June said, swallowing her contempt, ‘but when the war started any known Fascists in this country were arrested and put straight into jail, and there they’ll
stay until this war’s over. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’
Gilbert paled. ‘I ain’t done nothing with them since I’ve been at Bingham.’
‘Perhaps because they disbanded,’ June returned coolly, though her heart was hammering. ‘And you have done harm with your name-calling’ – she half rose from the desk – ‘even though you knew perfectly well when you applied for this job that Dr Barnardo’s creed was that every child of any colour or religion was accepted, and they would all be cared for and treated exactly the same. The poor man would turn in his grave if he knew we had a Fascist amongst us.’
‘Poor man indeed.’ Moving quickly for an older man, Gilbert shot to his feet. ‘He made plenty of money out of it.’
‘I don’t care if he was a millionaire at the end,’ June said. ‘He was a wonderful man and thousands of children have had a chance for a normal life in his homes. As for you, I would like you to pack your things and be gone by Friday – earlier if you have somewhere immediately to go to. Harold will take you to the station at ten o’clock Friday morning – not a moment later. If you leave me your address I will see that your wages are paid up to date including the rest of this week. Now, please leave my office.’
‘What d’yer mean, your office? You’re only here till Mrs Pherson’s back.’
‘You must have missed the announcements. Mrs Pherson isn’t coming back. Mr Clarke has promoted me in her place. And as Matron, I order you to be packed up and gone by Friday, ten o’clock, as I’ve just told you.’
Throwing June another furious look, Gilbert swung out of the door, slamming it behind him.
June sat down, her heart still thumping away. She wouldn’t rest until Harold’s motorcar, with Gilbert and his case in the back, had disappeared down the drive.
She opened one of the desk drawers and found an empty lozenge tin. When she lifted the lid, a waft of eucalyptus rose to her nostrils. She dropped the key to the cabinet inside with a rattle and shut Matron’s drawer – or rather hers, now – though it still felt strange, as though she were intruding.