It took a great deal of self-control, but Hannah somehow managed it. “Me? Mrs. D. treats me just like she treats her own granddaughter,” she said, and flashed a smile at Mrs. Devenish, who ignored it. Verity allowed herself a sly grin at Hannah’s cleverness.
Mrs. Devenish demanded (and got) the money from Smedley to pay off the taxi driver, and then rang the police station from Mrs. Lewis’ phone. Alex walked back across the fields and retrieved the dog from the bush. Constable Ellsworth’s sergeant arrived in a police car soon afterward, and the two officers removed Smedley and Mrs. Smith for questioning.
“What do you reckon he’ll be charged with?” Simmons asked Mrs. Devenish afterward, as they sat in Mrs. Smith’s front room.
“I should imagine some charge of abusing his official powers to sell children into servitude,” she replied. “I hope they throw the book at him.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Simmons, shaking his head, “is Mrs. Smith. Her conduct seems so unwomanly to me.”
“Not all women are motherly, Mr. Simmons, especially when they have no children of their own. I suppose she thought she would need the help,” said Mrs. Devenish. “She must have had a jolly hard life as a widow of limited means.” She walked over to the window and gazed out thoughtfully for a moment, before turning back to Simmons. “But that’s not an excuse. There is no excuse for this ghastly cruelty, and especially not to children.”
As George Braithwaite sat quietly on the sofa next to Hannah, she wondered briefly how Smedley could ever have confused him with Brandon. But then she realized that he had probably not seen George for over a year, and that in a place where there were so few black people, he probably saw blackness first, and individual people second.
George told them of how Smedley had removed him from his last billet in Bedfordshire, telling him that he was a bad kid, a troublemaker.
“He said that to us, too,” said Hannah, thoughtfully. “I guess he thinks you’re less likely to argue that way.”
George continued, explaining that Smedley had brought him to Mrs. Smith, and told him that he would have to stay with her until he had redeemed himself for his bad behavior. He was not allowed to go to school, and the only time he was permitted to leave the house was to help Mrs. Smith with cleaning Mrs. Lewis’ house.
“Didn’t you think that was kind of weird?” Hannah asked him.
“No,” said George, shaking his head. “My dad always says I should do as adults tell me.”
“Wow,” said Hannah, looking meaningfully at Mrs. Devenish. “Maybe that isn’t such good advice. Right, Mrs. D?”
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, Hannah Day,” said Mrs. Devenish sternly. “What has been done to George is evil. And you would do well to learn why that makes a difference.”
Simmons, sitting with his knees apart, and hands clasped in front of him, slowly shook his head. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mrs. Devenish,” he said sorrowfully. “I should have paid more attention.”
“Mr. Simmons, this was not our doing. Anyone could say that we at the WVS could have been more assiduous, and that the government could have paid closer attention to Mr. Smedley’s activities. But there is a war on, and these things will happen. I receive reports from a friend at WVS in London, and she has made it very plain to me that we cannot keep up with every evacuee. We can but try. I am only glad that we found George before things deteriorated even further.”
“All thanks to us meddling kids!” said Hannah cheerfully, to blank looks from everyone except Alex, who put his hands over his eyes.
“Hannah, do be quiet,” said Mrs. Devenish irritably.
After some discussion, Mr. Simmons agreed that George would stay with Mrs. Devenish until a suitable new billet was found. As they left the house, Mrs. Devenish walked silently ahead, holding George’s hand, while the others trailed behind, Alex walking the happy terrier on its improvised leash.
“Has Granny said anything to any of you about what we were doing in Mrs. Smith’s house?” asked Verity, worried.
“No,” said Hannah, perplexed. “She’s kinda quiet, isn’t she? Not even the usual threats. That’s a good sign, huh?”
“You must be jokin’,” said Eric, kicking disconsolately at a stone in the road.
“Eric’s right. Quite the reverse, in fact,” Verity said. “It’s a very, very bad sign. I think we had all better prepare ourselves for the worst. Well, no, Eric, not your idea of the worst, which is just silly. And Hannah, this time, no matter what, would you please do all of us a favor and take whatever Granny doles out with a bit less fuss?”
“I’ll try,” said Hannah, uncertainly. “But it’s not fair…”
“Shut up, Hannah,” they all said simultaneously.
They entered the house after Mrs. Devenish, who sent the rest of the children into the kitchen while she took George upstairs to get him settled in Eric and Alex’s room.
When she came downstairs alone, she found all four kids standing in front of the kitchen fireplace, watching her intently. They relaxed a little as they observed that she had not come armed.
Silently, she removed her hat and jacket, and then closed the door behind her. She looked at all the kids with a serious face.
“We have some unfinished business from this afternoon, children,” she said gravely.
The kids looked uneasily at one another. Suddenly, Mrs. Devenish marched up to Hannah’s side, put her left hand on Hannah’s left shoulder, and extended the other arm behind her. Hannah had closed her eyes and was steeling herself, waiting for the blow to fall. But instead, she felt the right arm reach around her shoulders. Mrs. Devenish, standing beside her, gave her a brief squeeze.
“Where did you learn to do that, when you did such a splendid job of defending me from Mrs. Smith?” she said with a smile, her hands still on Hannah’s shoulders.
“Oh, I did two years of karate,” said Hannah modestly. “Kind of been a while, but I guess I still got it.”
“Good Lord,” said Mrs. Devenish in wonderment, looking down at her. “You never cease to amaze me, Hannah Day. Well, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you, my dear. And the same goes for the rest of you. Thank you.” She beamed at the children, who smiled back proudly. Hannah couldn’t remember feeling this happy or pleased with herself in a very long time.
“In light of the circumstances, I am prepared this once to overlook the fact that you entered Mrs. Smith’s house without permission. But mark my words, children,” said Mrs. Devenish quietly, with a definite air of menace, “if you ever attempt a little stunt like that again, I will skin you all alive. Do I make myself clear?” Her eyes glinted dangerously.
There was a subdued chorus of “Yes, Mrs. D,” and, from Verity, “Yes, Granny.”
“Now, one of you boys, go and invite George downstairs. Hannah, you and I have an errand to run.”
“Where are we going?” asked Hannah, putting on her shoes in the hall.
“To pay a visit to Mrs. Archer,” said Mrs. Devenish. “I think it’s high time.”
“But why?” asked Hannah, who stopped still. “We don’t live there anymore. They’re nothing to do with us.”
“What an odd attitude, Hannah. The Archers took care of both of you for several weeks, at no small trouble or expense. And they haven’t ceased to exist simply because you no longer live with them. I do think that Mrs. Archer needs to know what has taken place. Now, come along, don’t dawdle. We shall take Maisy, because I need to stop at the butcher’s before they close, to pick up some sausages for our supper, now that there’s another mouth to feed.”
Mrs. Archer’s eyes grew wide when she opened the door and saw Hannah and Mrs. Devenish standing on her doorstep.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Archer,” said Mrs. Devenish. “May we come in?” It wasn’t a question. Mrs. Archer meekly held open the door, and showed them into the front room.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
“No, tha
nk you,” said Mrs. Devenish briskly. “That won’t be necessary. Sit down, Hannah. And you, Peggy.”
Hannah was surprised. “Hey, um, Mrs. D? Her first name? It’s Margaret.”
“Don’t be stupid, Hannah,” said Mrs. Devenish, “Peggy is a short form of Margaret.”
“When did you realize who I was?” Mrs. Archer asked forlornly.
“This afternoon, finally. I didn’t recognize you before. You have got quite fat.” Hannah cringed at Mrs. Devenish’s tactlessness. “And I don’t remember your wearing spectacles. I’m not surprised nobody recognized you as old Mr. Gordon’s daughter, even here. Of course, I never knew you in Balesworth, so it’s hardly surprising that it took me so long to put two and two together, until now.”
“Hello?” said Hannah. “Would someone please tell me what this is about?”
“Hannah Day, speak when you are spoken to,” said Mrs. Devenish abruptly. Then she continued. “What I don’t understand, Peggy, is why all the subterfuge? I realized that you had told Hannah that I was a gossip, and I couldn’t understand it, until now. You just didn’t want me to find out who you were, did you? You were afraid that she would somehow get wind of it, and tell me.”
“Nobody in Balesworth knows about the baby, you know,” said Mrs. Archer quietly. “My little cousin doesn’t even remember me. And I had no idea that you lived in Balesworth until I arrived here. It was my husband’s job that brought me back. I didn’t want to come here, but I could hardly tell him why.
“But then these children arrived, and began talking about their colored friend, George Braithwaite, and I was afraid somebody would find out. I knew he couldn’t be my son, but I thought he might be my grandson, and I just didn’t want him in the house. I was afraid my husband would somehow work out the truth.”
Mrs. Devenish looked at her sadly, and when she spoke, her voice was kindly. “But would it really have been that dreadful? So many young women had soldiers’ babies during that war, and it was such a long time ago. And now, it’s happening again to lots of young girls. We live in changing times, and there are far greater sins.”
Mrs. Archer suddenly looked at Mrs. Devenish with distaste. “Well, I have changed, too, you know. I’m not the naive little girl you remember. I have no interest in a colored grandchild. What would people think? What would they say? You can’t trust people with foreign blood, can you?”
Hannah couldn’t stop herself. “That’s so bizarre. I mean, what color is foreign…”
“Hannah!” snapped Mrs. Devenish, and Hannah fell silent. Mrs. Devenish returned her attention to Mrs. Archer.
“So, in short,” she said unsympathetically, “you decided that the most convenient course of action would be to send the children away with Mr. Smedley. You do realize that the man has been arrested?”
Mrs. Archer looked shocked.
Mrs. Devenish continued. “He was collecting children who he thought would not be missed, and billeting them with people who wanted to misuse them, for various and sundry wicked purposes. Your grandson was kept in a locked room for much of the time, and viciously beaten. I have seen the scars running up and down his legs.”
Hannah hadn’t noticed that, but clearly, Mrs. Devenish had.
“Hannah and Alexander could also have found themselves in the most nightmarish circumstances imaginable for a child.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Mrs. Archer. “I didn’t know…”
“No, I don’t believe you did,” said Mrs. Devenish calmly. “But you do now.”
“Please,” Mrs. Archer pleaded, “for God’s sake, please don’t tell my husband.”
“Peggy, since that is your wish, I will not reveal your secret to anyone. And Hannah, neither will you ever—and I mean, ever—repeat what you have heard to anyone, not even to your brother or to Verity. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Hannah.
“I am not Her Majesty the Queen,” said Mrs. Devenish, dryly. “But I am glad that you understand me.”
She turned back to Mrs. Archer. “Hannah and Alexander are with me, and George will remain until I have found him a suitable billet. We will not trouble you any further this evening, or, indeed, ever again, Mrs. Archer, with the affairs of these children. Good evening. Come along, Hannah.”
With that, she shepherded Hannah out of the front door, and out of Peggy Archer’s life.
Meanwhile, in another Balesworth, that of 1915, Mr. Gordon was in town, visiting the bank, Mrs. Gordon was visiting friends, and Oliver was at school. Brandon was in the surgery, getting ready for the afternoon’s appointments, when the front doorbell rang downstairs. He thought nothing of it, until Mary appeared at the surgery entrance. “It’s a patient, a lady,” she said. “She insists on seeing you.”
“Me?” exclaimed Brandon.
“Yes, well, that was what I said, but it’s you she wants.”
“Look, tell her that Mr. Gordon will be back this afternoon, and have her make an appointment, unless it’s an emergency.”
“I’ll try,” said Mary, without enthusiasm.
Soon afterward, there was another set of footsteps on the stairs, and into the surgery swept the Professor.
Before Brandon could say anything, she said, “It’s time. We have found George, and everything is as it should be. We must leave now.”
“But, I can’t. We have patients, and Mr. Gordon said…”
“Now, Brandon. It can’t wait.”
“Can’t I even leave a note?” he asked desperately. She looked at the clock. “You have one minute. Absolutely no more.”
Brandon ran to the desk in the study and grabbed a pencil and the first piece of paper he could find, an invoice from the dental supply company in London. He flipped it over, and scrawled on the back,
Dear Mr. Gordon and Oliver:
I’m sorry. I’ve been called away on an emergency, and I won’t be back. Please forgive me. I wish it didn’t have to happen like this. I will really, really miss you both and I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Gordon. I won’t forget either of you.
Sincerely,
George
Then, even as the Professor hovered behind him, he added,
P.S. If Mrs. Gordon ever starts getting all excited about the ideas of a guy called Adolf Hitler, get her to a psychiatrist. She needs help.
“Time, Brandon,” yelled the Professor. “Let’s go.”
She hurried along the narrow upstairs landing, and Brandon sprinted behind her. He followed her onto the staircase, into a darkness he had never seen there before. And he was gone.
In London in early November, 1940, the British prime minister stood before a collapsing pile of rubble heaped in front of what, just two days before, had been an intact four-story building. Looking up, the people who had gathered around him could see exposed rooms still full of furniture, mirrors on walls, and flowers on dining tables. People’s lives had been opened up to view as though by an enormous can opener.
The prime minister, Winston Churchill, stepped forward, broken glass crunching under the soles of his shoes, and looked at the expectant crowd around him. There were housewives, apprentices, shopkeepers, office managers, Air Raid Wardens, and WVS ladies. Bright flashbulbs popped as news photographers took shots. Then he held up his hand, and there was silence. The crowd waited to hang on the every word of this rather ugly, roly-poly man, who was wearing his trademark bowtie and hat, and had an enormous cigar clamped in his mouth. He removed the cigar so that he could address the waiting people.
“Herr Hitler,” he bellowed, so everyone could hear, “Herr Hitler underestimates the resolve of this great island nation.” A great cheer went up.
Suddenly in the momentary silence that followed, there came a shout from the crowd.
“Crikey,” bellowed a man in a butcher’s overalls and straw hat, “What’s ‘e doin’ up there?”
The crowd looked up, and there was a collective gasp. At the top of the pile of rubble had suddenly appeared a small figure in gre
y shorts, shirt, grey sweater and school cap. He looked confused, and he began to slip and slide down the pile, somehow managing not to fall. The prime minister, who was not used to not being the center of attention, turned around too late, just as the boy stumbled off the pile and barreled right into him. Churchill almost dropped his cigar as he awkwardly caught the falling boy. “What the devil…,” he said. His bodyguard came to his rescue, but Churchill waved him aside. “What’s your name, my boy?” Churchill asked the disheveled kid, who was looking thoroughly disoriented.
“Um, wow, are you who I think you are?” said the boy, rubbing his head.
Churchill and the bodyguard laughed, as did those of the crowd who had heard him. They passed back the joke to those behind, to waves of laughter.
“Well, I certainly hope I am,” said Churchill, mock seriously. “And now, may I ask, who might you be?”
“My name’s Brandon Clark, sir,” he said, bewildered. “I’ve just survived a Zepp…I mean, an air raid. It was quite a close call, actually.”
“Well, now, young Master Brandon-Clark,” said the prime minister, patting Brandon on the head. “If you’re sure you’re quite well, why don’t we pose for a picture? Hopefully, it will appear in one of the newspapers, and then you shall have a keepsake of this remarkable day, won’t you, my boy?”
Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 25