by Diana Finley
So gradually, the cause of my bad mood is coaxed from me, and they either comfort or reassure me, or we all end up laughing uncontrollably together.
***
For the first time in my life I feel a part of a family. Even Len and Betty’s adult children greet me warmly when they visit.
‘It’s good for them to have a youngster to care for at their age,’ their eldest son, Harry, tells me, patting my shoulder confidentially. ‘It’ll keep them young, like.’
‘Aye,’ adds their daughter Shirley. ‘I’m right glad there’s a sensible lad like you living with them; keeping an eye on them an’ all, Robbie. Anything wrong, anything worrying you, just give us a ring. You’ve got me number.’
No one had ever considered me good for other people or anything else before, and least of all sensible! But I like their genuine faith in me. I like Len and Betty in a way I’ve never liked anyone before. I feel a closeness, which warms and softens my heart. I feel I have to live up to the family’s positive opinion of me. I want to be liked by them. It’s the first time I’m conscious of caring what anyone else thinks of me. It’s the first time the concept of love has any real or special meaning for me.
***
In the second year, we have a new form teacher, Mr Lewis, who takes a special interest in me from the start. He also teaches English and drama, my favourite subjects. I really like Mr Lewis, perhaps because I can tell he likes me. Mr Lewis tells me I have ‘great potential’. Nobody has ever said that to me before. Mr Lewis discovers how much I like reading books. I’d never told anyone about it – he must just have noticed I spend a lot of time with my nose in a book. He takes trouble to find out what sort of books I enjoy, and helps me to make selections from the school library. Mr Lewis encourages me to ‘research’ topics in my schoolwork, like in history or geography, by finding relevant books in the school or public library.
Mr Lewis meets with Len and Betty regularly on parents’ evenings too – they never miss an opportunity to attend. I’m always included in the conversation, and I’m surprised to find that Mr Lewis has an amazing amount to say about me. I don’t understand how Mr Lewis could know so much about me, when I don’t even know it myself! I wonder if perhaps he just makes it up as he goes along.
‘Robbie’s an exceptionally bright lad,’ he says, nodding at me, ‘especially when you consider his past. He’s really blossoming this year in all his work, but in particular, he’s showing outstanding ability in English and drama. I’m sometimes astonished by how wide his vocabulary is for a lad his age. He reads widely, and has a real talent for writing, whether stories and imaginative accounts, or factual descriptions. He’s got a truly vivid imagination. My one main concern is that his confidence is still so fragile.’
He looks at me sympathetically as he says this. He reaches out and clasps my shoulder. I probably turn beetroot-red. I can feel my cheeks burning.
‘You’ve got to believe in yourself, Robbie. Try to think the best of yourself and what you can do. Be ambitious. Always expect the best, rather than expecting the worst.’
I shuffle uncomfortably on my chair. Mr Lewis nods and smiles at me, as if this is just what he would expect. Then he turns to Len and Betty.
‘Robbie doesn’t always realise just how good he is, how able – but he is. I’ve been amazed to see how he can hold an audience – in drama, for example. He’s got a really special talent. He could be an actor; he’s such a fantastic mimic. He can copy any accent, maybe because he’s moved around a lot. He has the other children in stitches sometimes.’
‘Eeee, Robbie! D’you hear that? Isn’t that grand, son?’ Betty squeezes my arm affectionately.
‘Aye,’ says Len, ‘he’s got a funny way about him all right – but you’ve got to apply yourself too, lad.’
‘That’s right,’ says Mr Lewis, ‘the fact is there’s no limit to what Robbie is capable of, if he does apply himself. He can go on to do his GCSEs, and then his A levels. In fact, there’s no reason why he can’t go to university one day.’
Len claps me on the back. ‘Just listen to that, Robbie me lad. There’s a great future for you. Never mind if the past has been tricky. The past is past and gone; it’s now and from now on that matters. Work hard at all your schoolwork, even the bits that aren’t your favourites – your greatest interests, like. Could be “Professor Robbie” one day if you put your mind to it!’
***
I soon get to know Len’s two great interests in his life since retiring from the pit, one being fishing and the other being working on his allotment. Over time I learn to love sharing both these activities with him. Len teaches me how to set the bait on the rod, how to identify the best places along the river to catch different sorts of fish, how to hold on when the line jerks and pulls – and then how to draw it in carefully, smoothly, always steadily, though I’m wild with excitement. Actually catching fish for us all to fry with chips for tea is the ultimate joy for me, but most of all I love sitting quietly at the riverbank, listening to Len’s stories of his life down the mine. It’s like stories of another era to me. No other adult has ever talked to me of things that mattered. All around them, the mines have been closing down.
‘They’re tekkin’ the heart out of the communities,’ Len tells me, shaking his head sadly. ‘Soon there’ll be no work for lads round here, no jobs at all.’
Beyond the village, the beautiful Northumberland countryside stretches for miles. Despite living half his life underground, Len is a countryman at heart and he knows about every aspect of it. He teaches me to recognise birds by their plumage and their song, and to be quiet in the countryside; to listen to the sounds around me and distinguish one birdcall from another.
Betty’s great love is flowers. At each time of year we bring her armfuls of whatever blooms are in season and I learn the names and characteristics of plants I’d never even heard of before. Len and Betty’s fireplace or windowsill is never without a colourful vase of flowers to brighten it in the spring. As well as decorating the house, we gather plants for food, like young nettles or wild garlic to make soups or flavour stews.
As the year progresses into the later summer and autumn we bring wild blackberries, raspberries and damsons for jam, bottling and making tarts. Later in autumn we find edible mushrooms, which Len helps me to identify, using a much-fingered guide dating from the long-gone days of wartime rationing. At first, I’m scared to eat them, convinced we’ll all drop dead from poisoning. But under Len’s confident guidance, I soon learn to recognise the edible field mushrooms, big boletus, and the curly, yellow ones that they call ‘scrambled egg’. More importantly, Len shows me how to recognise and keep away from the poisonous ones!
At home Betty and I wash the mushrooms carefully without bruising them. Then we pat them dry gently with a clean tea towel, and fry them for tea with onions, eggs, and a bit of rosemary from the bush next to the kitchen door. From that day to this, the smell of rosemary is always enough to set my mouth watering, like a Pavlovian dog.
Chapter 11
1982
Marie
After Barry telling us of his unhappy experiences at school, he and I both wait eagerly and nervously to hear what Erna Goldstein is going to suggest to help him.
‘So this is my idea,’ says Erna. ‘Why don’t we arrange for Barry to take the exam for Wentford Grammar School and see if they can offer him a place. I’m sure he’d do very well at the entrance examination. What do you think of that, Barry?’
Barry looks shocked. Then he beams at her like the sun is shining out of him. ‘Oh yes!’ he says. ‘I’d love to go to Wentford Grammar School!’
‘Now wait a minute, Barry,’ I say. ‘Erna, I’m sorry, it’s a lovely idea, but it’s just not possible for Barry to go to Wentford, much as I’d love him to.’
‘Why not, Mum?’ Barry wails, looking from Erna to me and back again.
‘Because, darling, it’s a private school and it costs a lot of money, and that’s just the fees. Ther
e’s the uniform and sports equipment, and other expenses no doubt as well. I just can’t afford that sort of money. I haven’t got it.’
‘Of course not, Marie. You didn’t let me finish. I am very fortunate that I have been left with more money than I need for myself. One day perhaps I’ll explain how that came about. The important thing is that you, Marie, and Barry, have come to mean so much to me. I can’t think of any better way of spending some of that money than by helping you both now. It would make me happier than I can say.’
Erna reaches to me and takes hold of my hand.
‘So, Marie, I would love to help you and Barry in this way. I will pay for his fees and any other expenses related to his education. Please believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
***
Barry had been at Wentford School for nearly two terms, and was settling in so well. He’d studied hard for his entrance examination and had not only passed, but won a substantial scholarship. Erna paid for everything else. I could never fully repay her kindness, but I wanted to get something for her to show my gratitude.
One day, as I’m walking through Blackheath Village, looking in the shop windows. I stop at a flower shop and study the beautiful displays. A friend of Mrs Goldstein has just paid me fifty pounds for making her a two-piece suit. I know exactly what I want to do with the money. I choose a large bouquet made up of what I know are Mrs Goldstein’s favourite colours – ‘hot’ colours to remind her of sunshine: red, yellow, orange and peach. I ask the lady to wrap them in fine paper, finished with a deep turquoise ribbon.
At home, I secrete the flowers into a vase filled with water to keep them fresh, and hide them in the cupboard under the stairs. I set about making a cake with freshly cooked plums and ground almonds, with a crumble topping. Then at teatime, while Barry is doing his homework upstairs, I bring in the cups and plates as usual, with the cake on the top of the trolley.
‘Oh my goodness, Marie! You have been busy. You know how much I love plum cake.’
‘I do, Mrs Goldstein.’
‘Erna! Go on, Marie – must I keep reminding you to always call me Erna? Surely we are good enough friends for that?’ She smiles.
‘Of course we are … Erna. It’s just that as well as thinking of you as wonderful, generous friend, I sometimes think what a fine and grand lady you are, and how much I admire you. Anyway, I made the cake specially for you … and I want to give you something too.’
I dash out of the room and fetch the bouquet of flowers from the cupboard. I place the bouquet on the low table to one side of Erna’s chair.
‘Oh! My goodness … how beautiful! But it’s not my birthday. What have I done to deserve such gifts?’
‘It’s just because you are such a good kind friend, and you have been so unbelievably generous to me and to Barry. Do you realise how much you have changed his life, Erna, and mine too? He was so miserable at his old school, so angry and isolated. Now he goes to school each morning with a skip in his step. He is soaring ahead with his lessons, and he’s appreciated by the teachers and the other children. I’m hoping he might even bring a friend home soon – which has never happened before. I can never thank you enough for your generosity.’
‘You have already thanked me quite enough, Marie, and you know that giving Barry the opportunity to attend Wentford School has been a huge joy for me. In any case, you know it was his own intelligence that helped him pass the entrance examination and even win a scholarship.
‘So thank you for the beautiful flowers, and I can’t wait to have a piece of that delicious-looking cake – but let’s say no more about generosity and gratitude. Come, cut us each a piece of cake and let’s have our coffee.’
I hand her a cup and a large slice of the cake.
‘Thank you, Marie. You know, you and Barry are so special to me; in fact, you have become like my family. I don’t have the company of my dear son Aron, but I am so happy to have your company. And, because you are so special to me, and have told me something of your own history, I would really like to tell you a bit more about myself. First I think I should explain to you, as my friend and companion, how I come to be living here in England in the first place … on my own, without my family.’
‘Well, that seems very personal, Erna, very private, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want you to have to relive unhappy times or painful memories … You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself you don’t want to. I would never pry.’
‘No, I know you wouldn’t pry, Marie. It’s because I like and trust you enough that I’d like to tell you about myself, as you have been open with me about your past.
‘Did I ever tell you about my husband, Marie? His name was Andreas. We were very happy together, especially when our son Aron was born in 1927. I was a young woman of twenty-seven then. Andreas was a doctor and I was a pianist. We loved each other very much. We lived in Berlin during the 1930s. At first life was good; Andreas’s parents lived nearby, we had good friends and we both enjoyed our work. One great sadness was that Aron showed signs of not developing normally physically. When he was two, he was diagnosed with a serious progressive wasting disease called muscular dystrophy. There was no cure. Things became even more difficult for us towards the later years of the 1930s. We were Jewish – do you know what that means, Marie?’
I feel a moment of acute embarrassment. I know the colour must be rising up my neck and suffusing my cheeks, as if I’m sitting with my face too close to a fire.
‘Oh, you know, Erna, I’m sorry to say I’m not a very educated girl,’ I say. ‘Of course I’ve heard of Jews, and I know they suffered something dreadful in the war … but I have only a vague notion of what it means to be Jewish and why you’re not exactly like us Christian folk.’
Erna smiles. ‘You are right, Marie, that we have some different beliefs to Christians, and some different ways of worshipping, as do people of other faiths. The problem is, many people distrust anyone who is different to themselves. So I’ll tell you what happened.
‘Hitler, the leader of the Nazi party in Germany in the 1930s and ‘40s, encouraged people to hate the Jews. He made out they were the cause of everything wrong in Germany. He made them into “scapegoats” for every problem. Do you know what that means, Marie? And many people liked having a group of people to blame for all that was wrong in their world.’
‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying, Erna. In Ireland people sometimes talked about the gypsies that way too. I always thought that was nasty. The gypsies are no different to the rest of us really.’
‘That’s true, I think you are quite right. Well, the situation for Jews became very difficult – very dangerous – in Germany. At first it was just calling them unpleasant names; you know, insulting them, goading them. Then gradually, many Jews were pushed out of their jobs, especially high-grade jobs like doctors, teachers, lawyers and so on. That meant many people lost their income – and then they could not support themselves or their family properly. Andreas was forced to leave his job in the hospital. He wasn’t allowed to continue practising as a hospital doctor, even though most of his patients loved and trusted him.
‘Luckily for us, he could earn a little money treating private patients in secret in our apartment. It was dangerous, and he only charged what he thought people could afford, but at least we could buy a little food. At this time too, many Jewish children and young people were being denied education. They were forced to leave their schools or universities. Things got worse and worse …’
I shake my head and sigh.
‘One night, a good friend of ours was viciously attacked in the street opposite. Many people saw it happen, but most were too frightened to do anything to protect or help him. Andreas and a former colleague crept out at night, carried the injured man home and treated his injuries.’
‘That’s wicked, that is, that’s terrible. You must have been terrified.’
‘It was wicked, and it was very frightening. Suddenly, we could no longer trust people we�
��d known for years; we couldn’t even be sure of people who had once appeared friendly to us. We were especially concerned for Aron. He was particularly vulnerable because of his illness, which meant he was confined to a wheelchair from the age of about ten years old.’
‘Oh, the poor wee boy …’
‘During the later years of the 1930s, life for us in Berlin was becoming more and more difficult and dangerous, as it was for all Jewish people. We hardly left the flat during daylight hours, even to buy food. Day by day, week by week, the Nazis gained more control over the population. These days, we might say they were being “brainwashed”, especially the young people.
‘The Nazis characterised the Jews as the cause of Germany’s economic problems, and therefore the cause of poverty among ordinary people, deserving only disgust and hatred. Aggressive mobs of youths roamed the streets, looking for Jews to humiliate and victimise. Andreas’s patients would creep into our apartment building late at night, and come up to our flat for him to treat their ailments, but it was very risky.
‘Increasingly, we heard rumours of Jews being rounded up and sent to “camps” far away. We didn’t know exactly where to – only that they did not return. Some people even referred to them as “death camps”, but no one really knew what went on in them. Andreas’s parents told us two couples, elderly like themselves, and living in their street, had been dragged away, crying and begging to be allowed to remain. Of course, that really terrified my in-laws.
‘We were aware that the troubles and dangers would only escalate, so, even though we had little money, over the previous two or three years we had gradually, bit by bit, been transferring money to England via good friends we knew we could trust. Do you remember my friend Mrs Heller, Marie? For whom you made the lovely wedding outfit? She and her husband had already left Germany and were living in London. They were a great help to us. We were making a plan to leave Germany ourselves, for good. Although Berlin had always been our home, we felt there was no option but to emigrate and make new lives where it was safe, in England, and perhaps ultimately in Palestine.’