The Girl With No Name (50 page)

People began to drift away, many of them heading back to the Magpie to have a drink and discuss the send-off they’d given that strange Miss Everard.

Charlotte didn’t follow them, but stood staring, unseeing, into the open grave.

‘What are you going to do now, Charlotte?’

Charlotte turned at the question and found Miss Morrison at her shoulder. She shrugged but said nothing.

‘If you wanted a change of scene,’ Miss Morrison said, ‘I could do with another pair of hands at Livingston Road.’

‘Livingston Road?’ Charlotte looked blank.

‘Livingston Road children’s home. You know I’ve just taken over the running of it since it’s been rebuilt. Let me know if you’d like to come and help. You’d have plenty to do.’ And with that, she smiled and walked away. She’d sown the seed; if it took root, well and good.

Billy was waiting for Charlotte at the churchyard gate. He reached out and took her hand, but though she didn’t pull away, Charlotte’s hand lay, unresponsive, in his own. It made his heart ache, but he knew it was his own fault. He had indeed been distancing himself a little from Charlotte. He couldn’t tell her about being recruited into the secret resistance force and he had the growing fear that, should the invasion really come, Charlotte would be at great risk, being an escaped German living in England. She might be shot as a traitor. If, added to that, she were connected to him, a resistance fighter, she would be in even greater danger.

If only he could explain. But he knew he couldn’t; other men relied on his silence, he’d signed the secrecy papers and he was bound by them.

‘Thought you might like to get away for a while,’ he said. ‘We could take the dogs over towards the gorge.’

They had been unable to cope with Bessie at the vicarage and she had gone back to the farm for Billy to look after. On a couple of occasions Avril had suggested that Charlotte should walk up to Charing Farm to see Billy and to take Bessie out, but Charlotte didn’t go. Somehow it seemed too much; she couldn’t make the effort. Avril was very concerned about her, but seemed unable to break through the invisible shell into which Charlotte had withdrawn.

‘If you like,’ Charlotte said now, but without enthusiasm. She looked up at him, his blue eyes searching her face, his fair hair its usual unruly self, cut short to disguise its curls. All so familiar, once so dear, now so distant. How strange that in a few short days everything had changed. She held his gaze and for a moment she returned the warm clasp of his hand, but it was momentary, she was sticking to her resolve, offering no more hostages to fate, and she pulled away.

‘Come on, then,’ he said and together they turned and walked the well-worn path across the fields to Charing Farm. John and Margaret had been at the church and weren’t home yet.

‘Expect they’re in the Magpie,’ Billy said. ‘It’s where most funerals end up.’ Even as he said the words he knew he’d made a mistake. Charlotte tensed, moving away from him. Seeming not to notice her withdrawal, he opened the stable door where the two dogs were already barking a welcome and as they hurtled out into the yard, running in crazy circles in their delight, Charlotte bent down catching Bessie to her and hugged the dog’s warm body against her. For the first time in days, she felt a moment’s comfort.

They set off across the fields, but the gap that divided them was far wider than the couple of feet between them. The sun beat down, but somehow Charlotte still felt cold. As they finally turned and walked back to the farm Billy said, ‘What’ll you do now, Char?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ she said. But she did know. The awkwardness between them that afternoon had made her decision for her. She would take Miss Morrison up on her suggestion. She’d go back to London with her and help other displaced children. She had first-hand experience of what that was like, she would understand what they were feeling and there was nothing left for her here in Wynsdown.

After her walk with Billy, Charlotte had returned to the vicarage, sought out Miss Morrison, who was sitting at the kitchen table with her sister, and said, ‘I’d like to come back to London with you tomorrow, please.’

Though it was what the two sisters had planned for her, they were both surprised at the immediacy of her decision.

‘I do think it’d be a good idea if you went,’ Avril said, ‘but perhaps tomorrow is a bit early. We need time to get you ready.’

‘No,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘I’m ready to go now. I want to go with Miss Morrison when she goes in the morning.’

‘I’m going on an early train,’ Miss Morrison said. ‘Perhaps it would be better to do as my sister suggests and get yourself sorted out here first.’

‘I am sorted out here,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ll be ready to leave in the morning, however early it is.’

‘Well, I don’t know...’ Avril hesitated.

‘Don’t know what?’ asked her husband as he came in through the door.

‘Caro suggested that Charlotte might like to go up to help her at the home,’ Avril explained. ‘I think it’s a good idea, but she wants to go with Caro tomorrow. I think it would be better if we sorted out her things here and then put her on a train in a week or so.’

‘There’s nothing to sort,’ Charlotte said before the vicar had time to answer. ‘All my clothes are here. I’ve nothing else and I want to go... tomorrow.’

‘It is a little sudden, Charlotte—’ began the vicar, but she rounded on him.

‘Miss Edie is dead. I have no home in Wynsdown. I can’t stay with you, you’ve got the Payne children and there isn’t room for me. I’m sixteen. I’m not going back to school, so I need to earn my own living.’ She looked round at the three adults. ‘What Miss Morrison is suggesting is something I can do. I’ve been there, remember?’

‘You’re a ward of court,’ began Avril uncertainly.

‘Then tell the court that I’ve gone to work at Livingston Road children’s home. It’s my contribution to the war effort.’

‘But everyone here’ll miss you,’ said Avril in a last-ditch attempt. ‘You’re part of the village.’

‘No,’ replied Charlotte. ‘I’m not. I’ve never been part of the village. That’s why Miss Edie and I got on so well. She wasn’t part of the village either.’ Her words were greeted by silence. There was nothing more they could say.

‘Well,’ said Miss Morrison, ‘Dr Masters is coming to pick me up tomorrow morning at half past five. If you’re coming with me, you need to be ready in the hall when he gets here.’

‘I will be,’ replied Charlotte and she went upstairs to put her few things together into her case before walking out into the summer evening for one last look at the village.

Until now she’d only been back to the garden of Blackdown House to pick the flowers for Miss Edie’s coffin, but as the sun shone warm on the lane leading to Miss Edie’s home, her home, Charlotte found her steps turning that way. Alone, she walked up the lane and in through the garden gate. Miss Edie’s flower garden was running riot, but someone had been in to see to the vegetable plot. The vicar had pointed out that Miss Edie wouldn’t have wanted the produce to be wasted and Charlotte had agreed, but she didn’t know what he’d done about it. Now she saw the runner beans climbing up their poles, the lettuces growing in their neat rows and the tomatoes ripening on the vine and she was glad that all Miss Edie’s efforts had not been for nothing. She looked at Bessie’s now-empty cage and felt a pang at leaving her beloved dog behind, but Bessie would be miserable in London and Charlotte knew Billy would look after her.

Billy. She hadn’t said a proper goodbye to Billy. She hadn’t told him what she was going to do. He’d hear she’d gone and she hoped he’d understand that she had to go, that her time in Wynsdown had been simply a chapter of her life and like all the other chapters so far, Hanau, Kemble Street, St Michael’s, it was over now and she was about to turn over a new page.

She sat on the bench under the kitchen window, the sun on her face, and for the first time thought about Miss Edie without the tears springing to her eyes. So many things had changed because of her; she’d become part of Charlotte’s life, instrumental in its shaping. Whatever happened from now on, Miss Edie’s influence would be there. The sun was hanging low in the sky and Charlotte got to her feet. She went into the back porch and, reaching up to the shelf where the spare key was kept, she let herself into the silent house. Quietly she went from the kitchen into the hall and stood for a moment looking round, then steeling herself, she went upstairs and stood on the landing. There was nothing to see. Miss Edie’s bedroom door stood open, her dressing gown lay across a chair, her slippers tidily under the bed as if she might walk in at any time; but Miss Edie had gone. The house wasn’t cold, just empty.

The door to the spare room was closed and after a glance round her own bedroom, she went back downstairs and into the sitting room. Her music was still on the piano. As the light outside faded to dusk, Charlotte sat down at the piano and played her two exam pieces. She played them without a mistake and when her hands finally came to rest on the keys, she knew she’d said her goodbyes. Quietly she left the house and restoring the key to its place on the shelf, walked out into the twilight, back to the vicarage. At half past five the next morning she was waiting in the hall with her suitcase.

Avril had got up to see them off. She hugged her sister. ‘Come down again as soon as you can, Caro. We miss you and,’ she teased, ‘Doc Masters does too.’

‘You mind your own business.’ Caro punched her lightly on the arm.

Avril turned to Charlotte. ‘You know you’ve always got a home with us here at the vicarage, don’t you?’ she said. ‘David and I hope you know that you’ll always be welcome here.’ She gave her a hug and then Dr Masters was at the door and they climbed into the car, heading for the station.

Charlotte settled in quickly at Livingston Road, helping Miss Morrison with the children who’d been put in her care. She was surprised to find Mrs Downs and Mrs Burton, cook and matron from St Michael’s, were also installed at Livingston Road. They greeted her warmly, delighted to know she had her memory back. She was given a tiny bedroom in the attic and she was pleased to have somewhere to retreat to at the end of each busy day.

‘The children will call you “Miss Charlotte”,’ said Miss Morrison. ‘You haven’t got a specific job, but I can assure you, you’re going to be very busy.’

Miss Morrison was right. Charlotte had no time to think of anything but the next job that needed doing. The house was home to twenty-five children; children whose homes had been destroyed, waiting to be rehoused with their families, others who had been orphaned by the Blitz and had nowhere to go, yet others waiting for someone to come forward and claim them. Charlotte well remembered the disorientation she’d felt when she’d first come to St Michael’s. She could empathise with these children who now found themselves in a similar plight. She was indeed Miss Morrison’s extra pair of hands. She helped Mrs Downs in the kitchen, she helped Matron in the laundry and with the never-ending mending, she played with the younger children and helped the older ones with their homework. It was a hectic and busy life and allowed Charlotte little time for introspection. It was exactly what she needed after the trauma of Miss Edie’s sudden death.

Hectic as things were at Livingston Road, Miss Morrison insisted that Charlotte had the occasional afternoon off. At first Charlotte hadn’t wanted them, seldom going far from the home, always wanting to come back to its security, but gradually over the weeks she felt a growing urge to revisit Kemble Street. She knew Caroline had been there two years earlier, that many of its houses, including number sixty-five, had been destroyed, but she felt the need to go and see for herself. Perhaps she’d go round to Grove Avenue, too, and see what Hilda was doing. Hilda would be so surprised to see her after so long. Perhaps she’d know what had happened to the Federmans. So, on her next free afternoon, Charlotte made her way across London to Kemble Street, at last getting off the bus and walking again through the once-familiar streets. She’d heard how the East End of London had been devastated during the long nights of the Blitz, but even so she wasn’t prepared for what now met her eyes. Ruined houses stood cheek by jowl with those that had survived, burned-out homes faced those undamaged by the fire, patches of uncleared rubble had been reclaimed by creeping vegetation, willowherb, buddleia, buttercups, couch grass, smothering and softening the harsh outlines of the bomb sites, and all around the jagged outline of damaged buildings stood stark against the summer sky. How had anyone survived such destruction?

Despite what she’d seen on the way and what she’d heard from Caroline Morrison, the sight of Kemble Street brought tears to Charlotte’s eyes. She walked slowly down the road, looking at the houses. One or two had been demolished, leaving gaps between houses still occupied. Others had been damaged but makeshift repairs seemed to have made them habitable again. Along one side of the street, her side, were the blackened shells that were all that was left of the terrace where she had lived. It was difficult to know which house was which and she had to count twice before she was sure she was looking at number sixty-five. Had Aunt Naomi and Uncle Dan got out, or had they been trapped by the flames in the cellar, dying of smoke or, worse still, burned to death as they tried to escape? Had they been together, or had Uncle Dan still been out when the sirens went off? She stood looking at the house for a long time. Everything she’d owned had been in that house. While she’d been in hospital and later at St Michael’s, unable to remember who she was, they must have been wondering what had happened to her. Had they tried to find her?

She thought back to her last night in Wynsdown when she’d visited Blackdown House to say goodbye to Miss Edie. Now, here she was, where she’d lived for over a year with Aunt Naomi and Uncle Dan. Suddenly she knew that she must close the Kemble Street chapter of her life, as well. She must go into the house that had been her home and bid it and them, farewell.

Hesitantly she went towards it. There was no front door; the way into the house stood open and unguarded. Wild flowers had seeded themselves around the doorway and some had even begun to grow inside the house, drawing sustenance from the moisture in the damp walls and rotting floor. Cautiously, Charlotte stepped inside. The whole place was smothered in damp dust and soot. The walls were black and the breeze blowing through the gaping windows caused little flurries of dust to rise, spin and settle. She edged her way along the passage leading to the kitchen, her feet leaving a trail of footprints on the dirty floor. At the far side of the kitchen she could see the cellar door. How she’d hated that cellar. She walked over and looked at it. It was closed. She put her hand on the handle and tried to turn it, but it was stiff and didn’t move.