The Girl With No Name (20 page)

‘Move up, Clare,’ Miss Morrison said to the girl nearest the door. ‘Make room for Charlotte.’

Charlotte sat down on the mattress, but she remained stiff, with fear in every line of her body. Clare reached over and took her hand and Charlotte gripped hers in return as if her life depended on it.

The door was pulled shut behind them and then Miss Morrison took a roll-call to be sure everyone was safely in the shelter.

‘One of us will have to bring Charlotte down separately,’ Miss Morrison said to the matron when the drill was over and the children were back in the common room. ‘There’s some deep-seated fear here that can’t be dismissed. I suggest you and Mrs Downs take the rest of them on in as usual, I’ll gather up Charlotte as they come downstairs and bring her with me. I’ll keep her near the door.’

Her plan was put into action less than two hours later when the sirens blared and the children had to leave their beds and trek out to the shelter, to spend the rest of the night sleeping on the mattresses, wrapped in their coats with blankets spread over them. Charlotte was still afraid to enter the shelter, but with gentle pressure and encouragement from Miss Morrison, she was finally persuaded to go inside and the door was closed behind her.

The raids continued, night after night, and Miss Morrison realised it was becoming gradually easier to get Charlotte into the shelter. She was always first out when the all-clear sounded, but that didn’t matter.

Miss Morrison had given some thought to the question of who Charlotte could be. Since she had arrived she had started at the local school, going with the other children. It was found that her reading and writing were behind the others, but that she had an excellent grasp of maths.

‘The more I see of her,’ Miss Morrison said to Matron, ‘the more certain I am that she’s a refugee. I think I’ll try an experiment.’

Matron looked startled. ‘What sort of experiment?’

‘My brother, George, speaks German,’ said Miss Morrison. ‘I’m wondering if he spoke to her in German, it might trigger her memory.’

‘Worth a try, I suppose,’ agreed Matron.

That evening Miss Morrison phoned George, who was home on a week’s leave, and explained the situation.

‘I just wondered,’ she said, ‘if you’d come and talk to her. Speak to her in German.’

‘Well, I will if you think it’d help, Caro, but I’m afraid my German’s pretty rusty these days.’

‘But you can speak it,’ his sister persisted. ‘Will you try?’

‘All right,’ sighed George. ‘When shall I come?’

‘At the weekend? Or one afternoon when she gets home from school.’

‘My leave’s up on Friday,’ he said, ‘so I’ll come tomorrow afternoon.’

Next day, when they all got home from school, he was waiting in Miss Morrison’s sitting room. The superintendent collected Charlotte from the common room and took her in to meet him. Charlotte came into the room a little nervously, wondering if she’d done something wrong, but Miss Morrison smiled as she led her forward and said, ‘Nothing to worry about, Charlotte, there’s just someone I’d like you to meet. This is George. Sit down and have a chat, I’ll be back in a minute or two.’

Charlotte looked at the man enquiringly and said, ‘Good afternoon.’

George replied, hesitantly at first, in reasonable German. ‘Hallo, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sit here so we can talk?’ He waved at an armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Charlotte sat down, perching on the edge of the chair as if ready for flight.

‘That’s better,’ George said with a smile. ‘How was school today?’

‘All right.’ Though he had addressed her in German Charlotte replied in English.

‘That’s good. Can you understand my German? It’s not very good, I’m afraid.’

‘I understand you,’ said the girl, ‘but why do you speak to me in German?’

‘I thought perhaps you might be more comfortable speaking German,’ George answered. ‘We know you can. You’ve lost your memory at the moment, haven’t you? I just thought it might help you to remember.’

‘I hit my head,’ said Charlotte. ‘They tell me I was caught in the street in a raid, but I don’t remember. They say it is because I hit my head. They tell me I shall remember soon, but I don’t.’ She looked up at him and with quivering lips, said, ‘I don’t know who I am.’

‘I know,’ George said gently. ‘It must be awful for you, but it will all come back to you in time.’

‘Don’t think I did any good at all,’ he reported later. ‘She didn’t speak any German to me, though she clearly understood what I was saying.’

His sister sighed. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. Thanks for coming, George.’ She walked with him to the front door. ‘When do you have to leave?’

‘Friday morning.’

‘Where are you going this time?’

George gave her a rueful smile. ‘Caro, you know better than to ask.’

‘Will I see you again before you leave?’

‘Doubt it. Off down to Somerset to see Avril before I go.’

‘Are you? How lovely. Give her my love.’

‘I will.’ He gave her a hug and she held on to him for a moment.

‘Look after yourself,’ she said, ‘wherever you’re going.’

He kissed her cheek and said, ‘You too, Caro.’

Dan took Harry to the fire station and introduced him to the chief, John Anderson, who gave a brief nod. ‘Can always use another runner,’ he said. ‘You stay with Arthur and his team. They’ll send you back to me with any news, all right, lad?’

‘Yes, OK. I’ll run with messages.’

‘Good. Know your way about round here, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where’d’you find him?’ the chief asked Dan.

‘Just a lad who wanted to help,’ said Dan. ‘Thought we could use him.’ And he hurried off without further explanation. Within half an hour the sirens were sounding and all the firefighters were soon at full stretch. Harry started with Arthur’s team, but as he ran back to the station to warn of a blaze near the wharf, he was sent on other errands, pushing a water cart, shovelling sand, and Dan hardly saw him again. As always the work went on long after the steady blast of the all-clear and Harry and Dan were there until Anderson sent them home.

‘You did well, lad,’ he said, clapping Harry on the back.

‘I’ll come again tomorrow,’ Harry said.

‘Good, we’ll need you.’

No one was under the illusion that the bombing would stop in the foreseeable future, and it was this general expectation and acceptance of more raids that made them somehow easier to deal with.

Harry walked back with Dan, leaving him just before Kemble Street to head back to the hostel. After his night among the firefighters, Harry was determined to be out with them during future raids. He felt he was taking a bash at Hitler out there in the streets, his natural habitat; better still, he wasn’t crushed in the air raid shelter with the other boys, being treated like a child.

‘Where d’you live, son?’ asked Dan as they paused at the street corner.

‘A hostel in Stoke Newington.’

‘That’s miles from here,’ Dan said in surprise. ‘You want to doss down at our place?’

It was Harry’s turn to look surprised. ‘Sleep in your house?’

‘Just for tonight,’ Dan said.

‘Yes, please.’

They walked back to the house and Dan showed Harry the mattress in the cellar. ‘You’ll be safe enough down here, lad,’ he said, lighting a candle. ‘Just don’t burn the place down, all right?’

Dan climbed the stairs wearily and crept into the bedroom where Naomi was lying awake in the darkness, waiting for him.

‘Put the lad in the cellar for the night,’ he said. ‘Too far for him to go home.’

‘Shirley’s still in the front room,’ Naomi told him.

‘Guessed she would be,’ said Dan, heaving himself into bed. Within moments he was fast asleep.

Naomi lay beside him. She needed to talk to him; she and Shirley had hatched a plan, but it could wait until the morning. She needed Dan to be in the right mood. Her thoughts turned to the boy now sleeping in the cellar. Why had Lisa kept him a secret? Was he, she wondered, the boy Mary had seen with Lisa some months ago? Lisa had said it was just a friend from school who lived nearby, but now Naomi was almost certain that it must have been this scruffy youth called Harry.

Downstairs in the cellar, the scruffy youth was also lying awake, thinking about Lisa. She was dead, he knew that now. She would never wear the bracelet he still had in his pocket. She would never grin at him as they met in the park, or giggle as they cheated another bus conductor of his fare. Harry lay in the dark, the candle carefully snuffed out, and for the first time since he’d heard of his father’s death, the tears slid down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried for his mother, she had given up and wanted to be dead. He had accepted her death with stony resignation, but now, lying here in this chilly cellar, he was crying; crying for the girl who’d been so brave. He’d promised he cared about her and now he found that he did, more than he’d have dreamed possible, and he’d lost her.

‘Be back tonight, if you like,’ he said to Dan in the morning. ‘To go fire-watching with you.’

‘Be pleased to have you, lad,’ Dan said, and they headed off in different directions: Dan to pick up his cab from under the railway arches, Harry to go back to the hostel.

*

But that evening, when the sirens sounded, Harry did not return.

When he’d finally walked into the hostel that morning, he was greeted by Mr Pate, the warden.

‘Ah, there you are, Heinrich.’

Harry glowered at him. He had told Mr Pate months ago that he now went by the name of Harry Black, not Heinrich Schwarz, but it was as Heinrich Schwarz he’d come to the hostel and been registered and Mr Pate was not a man to accept any changes that didn’t come from the authorities and come in triplicate.

‘Yes, Mr Pate,’ he retorted, ‘I am here.’

‘I’m afraid I must ask you to stay within the hostel until further notice,’ said Mr Pate.

‘You mean I can’t go out at all?’ Harry stared at him.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Mr Pate, looking relieved.

‘Why? Why can’t I? What about my job?’ demanded Harry. ‘I have to go out.’

‘I’m afraid the police want to talk to you.’

‘Me?’ Harry’s mind was racing. Why did the police want him? Was it something to do with Mikey? Had he been seen with the Dickett bloke? What could have gone wrong?

‘They’ll tell you,’ Mr Pate assured him. ‘They’re coming back. Please go to your room and wait for them there.’

Harry went to his room as instructed, but he had no plans to wait for the police. He must get over to the Black Bull and warn Mikey that something was up. He couldn’t stay here now and he certainly couldn’t come back. Quickly he gathered his few possessions together and stuffed them into the small case he’d brought from Germany. His money, which had been hidden in a slit he’d made in the thin mattress on his bed, he put into the pocket of his trousers. He’d learned the hard way in Hanau: never keep your money in your coat pocket. If someone grabs you, you can wriggle free of your coat, leaving it in your captor’s hands as you break away. It had happened once when he’d been cornered by two Hitler Youth boys. Harry had put up a good fight and escaped, minus his jacket but also minus the money in its inside pocket. Now he had everything that he owned with him, all he had to do was slip out of the hostel without being seen. Mr Pate would be in his office near the front door, but there was always the way out the back, through the kitchen into the yard and over the wall.

Very quietly he opened his door. All was quiet. Most of the inmates of the hostel were younger and at school. He could hear one of the cleaning ladies singing as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. He’d have to get past her without arousing suspicion. Difficult, he decided, when he was carrying a suitcase. Perhaps better to try the front door after all. He edged along the hallway and peered round the corner. There was Mr Pate, sitting at the desk in his office with the door wide open. Could he sneak past without him noticing? Then he saw the chain. The front door was shut and its chain, usually only put on last thing at night, was across the door. Not difficult to open, but impossible simply to make a dash for it. Harry turned back, out of sight.

Better going out through the back door, he thought; after all, what can an old charwoman do to stop me?

As he moved quietly to the kitchen door he heard the front doorbell ring and then voices. No time to be cautious now! Harry burst through into the kitchen and tripping over the charwoman’s bucket of water fell flat on his face in a puddle of dirty water. He scrambled to his feet, still clutching his case, and made for the back door. It, too, was locked, but it was the work of only a moment to turn the key and fling it open. As he fled across the yard he could hear the woman shouting behind him and heavy-booted feet in hot pursuit. Tossing the case up and over the wall, he launched himself upward, grabbing for the coping, but it was just too high. Again he jumped and the second time managed to get hold of a jutting piece of stone and haul himself up. Behind him a policemen dashed out through the back door and made a grab for his feet. Harry kicked out, catching the man in the eye before managing to swing himself clear and drop down into the alley on the other side. As he landed he wrenched his ankle and a shaft of pain shot up through his leg. He gasped and clutched the wall for balance, but before he could snatch up his case and limp away into the lanes of London, a hand gripped his arm and a voice said, ‘Going somewhere, was we?’

The uniformed policeman towered over him, his grip on Harry’s arm like a vice. Harry tried to pull free, but the cop was too strong. Moments later a second officer appeared in the alley and snapped a pair of handcuffs on to Harry’s wrists. They picked up his suitcase and led him, hobbling, back to the front of the hostel where Mr Pate hovered, looking anxious.

‘Ah, you got him, Constable. Well done. That’s good.’ He turned on Harry. ‘That was very stupid, Heinrich,’ he said. ‘Did you really think I was going to let you walk out of here? You’re an enemy alien.’

Harry stared at him incredulously. He was well aware that a great many male refugees had been interned after the fall of France, when the whole country was panicking about spies and fifth columnists, but he’d never even been interviewed. As a boy of under sixteen he wasn’t considered likely to have been sent as a spy by the Führer. He’d only been fourteen when he’d arrived at Liverpool Street station and was clearly no threat to anyone.