Wartime Wife (45 page)

Instead … he looked over his shoulder at the grey blanket covering the thin mattress. It looked rough enough to bring the toughest skin out in a rash, and Lord knows how many other men had slept beneath it.

The sudden opening of the solid steel door heralded the arrival of a young constable, carrying a mug of something hot and steaming. He wore glasses and had the faint vestige of a ginger moustache on his upper lip. Michael presumed he was a new recruit, rejected by the military due to bad eyesight.

‘I brought you a cup of tea. Didn’t know how you like it, but
put two sugars in. That be all right, mate?’ he said, his casual manner betraying his lack of training.

Michael took the tea gratefully and smiled. ‘How long will I be here?’

‘Not long. Rees Jones, the bloke who brought you here, has got to get a few papers together.’ He glanced over his shoulder before leaning closer and whispering. ‘It’s something to do with Germany.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word.’

It was about an hour later when the plain-clothes officer he now knew was named Rees Jones reappeared. This time he was alone and carrying a sheaf of papers, including Michael’s British passport.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said, indicating the miserable surroundings. ‘But we’ve ran out of room. Normally, I’d see you at my desk, but I have to share it with the ARP and goodness knows who else until they get their own base sorted out. This place gets more like Paddington Station every day. Still, at least we didn’t lock the door on you,’ he added, smiling reassuringly.

Michael was dumbfounded at the revelation that he hadn’t been imprisoned at all. Why hadn’t he checked? He could have walked out if he’d tried the door.

‘Your passport checks out as do the details you’ve told me about your uncle leaving you the shop. Lucky you had a good solicitor.’

He handed him the passport, his joviality diminishing as he fished among the other official-looking documents. ‘However, there has been a development, one of which you may not be aware.’

Michael leaned forwards, his teeth aching because he was clenching them so hard. One bright hope burned in his heart.

‘My parents? Have you heard from them?’

He wanted to ask whether they were alive or dead, but he reasoned they couldn’t know. No one could find out what was happening in Germany, even the people that lived there. It must be something else.

‘We have.’ Rees Jones looked him straight in the eye. His voice had a certain melodic quality. ‘Your parents have arrived in this country.’

Michael let out an explosion of relief, flinging his arms in the air, letting them drop and covering his face with his hands. He wasn’t quite sobbing, but when he finally emerged, his face was creased with emotion.

Rees Jones had waited politely until he deemed him ready for more information. ‘They brought over a boatload of Jewish children into Holland and then by Dutch trawler to Harwich. They did it under assumed names and with clearance from various embassies. They were very brave and I think they were the last to get out.’ Rees Jones’s expression was as grey as November. ‘With the worsening situation, it took time for us to check their details and let you know.’

‘It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter! When can I see them?’

Rees Jones drew his lips back from his clenched teeth, drawing his breath through with a hissing sound.

Michael waited to be told that it wasn’t possible, but Rees Jones surprised him.

‘It is possible for you to see them, either for a short term or much longer, depending on how you yourself wish to be treated.’

Michael remained silent, letting the other man continue, keeping his gaze steady as he digested the details.

‘You can remain in your shop as a British citizen. However, this does mean that you might get called up. Or you can be incarcerated with them.’

‘Incarcerated?’

‘Yes. Not that your status would be changed as such, it’s just that they’re not in an ideal visiting spot, so if you go there, you stay there – well – more or less. You’re not interned as they are, but your stepfather is a German citizen, an enemy alien. Your mother refuses to leave his side although like you, she can, though with reservations. It’s up to you.’

It felt as though the blood had drained from his system.

‘May I know where they are?’

Rees Jones made that hissing sound again followed by a low whine as he made up his mind. ‘I don’t see why not. I think everybody in Britain knows. They’re on the Isle of Man. I don’t know whether you’ve ever crossed the Irish Sea, but it’s not always a pleasant experience – in fact most of the time it’s most unpleasant.’

One vital question remained. ‘How long do I have before I make up my mind?’

Rees Jones looked at his watch. ‘There’s a train to the rendezvous point at midday tomorrow. You need to be on it. Travel’s going to become more difficult in future, so bear that in mind too. You might not be able to come back quite as freely as you go.’

‘So I can go.’

The policeman nodded. ‘Of course. Oh, and I think you might want this.’ He handed him a letter. Looking at it he could see that it had been opened, resealed and stamped with a censorship mark, ‘War Office’.

Walking back to the pawnshop, he stopped in the park, sitting on a seat close to the old artillery guns that children were playing on. Spread out before him was a city of over three hundred thousand souls, its buildings sharp as sixpence in the clear spring air. Following the gummed edges that had already been disturbed, he opened the envelope.

My dear son, Michael
,

We both hope you are reading this note. If you are, then we thank God for his mercy. We acquired the correct papers and followed the route to Holland and then by Dutch trawler to Harwich. We brought small friends with us; children entrusted to us by their parents. On arrival in Harwich we were immediately interned, but do not worry for us. We are being fed and well treated. As we all know there are others far worse off than we are, some of them in camps from where they will never return. The horrors of this war will only increase. I recall something I read, that all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Refrain from doing nothing, Michael. The world is depending on you. All our love.

Everything had seemed very straightforward up until he read the note. Of course he would join them, even if it meant being incarcerated. Following his heart rather than his head had seemed the right thing to do. People meant more than wearing a smart uniform or living in comfort, that’s what he had told himself. The trumpet blowing and smartness now faded into insignificance. The
reason
for wearing the uniform was what counted.

Turning his collar up against the wind, he retraced his steps down the incline past the bowling green, the smell of wallflowers pungent on the air. He knew what he had to do and walked quickly back to the police station.

He wrinkled his nose at the prospect of once again smelling the disagreeable mix of carbolic, chalk dust and unwashed bodies in the square waiting room of Bedminster Police Station. On this occasion, he detected a more pleasant smell and it emanated from someone he recognised already sitting there.

Harry winked at him. ‘Michael! Nice weather we’re ’avin for the time of year.’

Michael nodded an acknowledgement. His demeanour was too fragile at present for trivialities. What he was about to do would affect a lot of people.

‘Take a pew,’ said Harry, moving up the bench a fraction so the new arrival could squeeze in. ‘Move up a bit,’ Harry said to the constable sitting next to him. There was no one behind the counter, so Michael sat down.

The young man obligingly moved up. Michael wondered what he was doing here, gave Harry a tight smile and nodded at the newspaper balanced on his knee, watching as Mary Anne’s son filled each square with a letter in double quick time.

‘You are very good at that,’ he said.

‘So I understand,’ said Harry. ‘I could do it even quicker if I had both hands free.’ He lifted his hand and flexed his wrist. Being attached to the other half of the handcuffs, the constable did the same, but didn’t look happy about it.

‘What happened?’ asked Michael.

Harry made a casual shrug. ‘I got caught.’

Michael didn’t ask what for. He thought of how it would affect Mary Anne. ‘Will you go to prison?’

‘Apparently not.’

The constable, his expression growing more concerned by the minute, intervened. ‘Careless talk! Careless talk!’

Rees Jones came out through the door that led to the interview rooms and the cells. Michael got to his feet. Rees Jones looked surprised to see him.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘It seems you’ve come at the right time. I’ve got some very interesting visitors who I’m sure would like to meet you.’ He turned to Harry and his handcuffed companion. ‘You first. And then I’ll sort you out,’ he said to Michael.

Mary Anne had taken a chair out under the sweet-smelling sapling, hoping the fresh air would calm her nerves. The moment she heard someone knock on the shop door, she raced through, hoping it would be Michael, but opened it to see her daughter Lizzie and Patrick Kelly.

Her disappointment must have been obvious.

‘Mum! What’s the matter?’

She let them into the shop, Patrick bolting the door behind them.

‘I should be open,’ she said apologetically, ‘but I just couldn’t face anyone today.’

‘I think she’d better sit down,’ Patrick said to Lizzie.

Lizzie shrugged off her coat on the way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, though she needed Patrick to turn on the tap.

Lizzie looked around the room, noted the fire had gone out, but apart from that, everything seemed exactly the same, except that her mother looked devastated.

Sensing the atmosphere was less than happy, Patrick took charge. ‘You sit with yer mother. I’ll make the tea.’

‘What is it, Mum?’

Mary Anne sighed and closed her eyes as she attempted to collect her thoughts. ‘Michael’s been arrested.’

Lizzie’s jaw dropped. ‘What? What for?’

Her mother told her all that had happened.

Lizzie shook her head. ‘It couldn’t have been Stanley. He wouldn’t go near a police station.’

‘But they mentioned his name. Someone must have really had it in for Michael to do that. After all, he is a British subject.’

Patrick watched them from the doorway. ‘Perhaps it was you they had it in for.’

Lizzie’s eyes locked with his. ‘Mrs Selwyn!’

Patrick lifted his head in one simple acknowledgement. ‘She said she’d get back at you for shopping her son.’

‘You shopped Peter?’ said Mary Anne incredulously. ‘What for?’

‘He dodged his call-up papers. She told everyone that he was in Canada, but he wasn’t. She’d hidden him up in the attic. I happened to find out he was up there, but I didn’t shop him, I merely left her employ because I didn’t want him near me.’

Mary Anne smiled and looked from her to Patrick. ‘Good.’

‘Mum.’ Lizzie gave her a warning look. ‘My life is mine. I’m still going to join the Wrens when I can.’

Her mother’s smile vanished. ‘I know.’

‘But where’s Michael?’ said Patrick, keen not to show his hurt as he poured hot water into the teapot.

Mary Anne looked up at him. ‘What will happen to him?’

Lizzie looked from her mother to Patrick. It struck her that they were referring more and more to this new Patrick that had developed as an aspect of the war, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.

Taking a cup of tea from Patrick, Lizzie sighed and stirred it until she was sure the sugar was totally dissolved. Stirring also gave her time to gather her thoughts.

‘Our Daw is getting married. That’s why we came round. She wanted us to tell you.’

She could tell her mother wanted to ask why Daw hadn’t come round herself, her expression seeming to turn inwards as though she’d answered her own question.

‘We thought you’d like to know what’s been arranged. They’ve got a special licence. No printed invitations will be sent out, and there’s no time for bridesmaids or a church, but John’s aunt and uncle at the corner shop have donated a cake and a tin of ham.’

‘And as best man, I’ve got extra leave,’ said Patrick.

Dropping her gaze into the weak tea, Mary Anne cleared her throat. ‘And she’s allowing me to come. She doesn’t have to. Tell her that. I quite understand. People gossip and my reputation must be at rock bottom at the moment.’

Lizzie exchanged a quick look with Patrick. He was one of the few people outside of the family who knew what had happened.

She didn’t know when he’d first acquired such a mature stance or a deeper, more commanding voice, but he’d certainly acquired presence. It was his words that got through to them.

‘We don’t choose our families, and there isn’t one family in Kent Street without secrets, much as they might pretend otherwise.’ He grinned and flicked a finger at Lizzie’s nose. ‘At least my mother didn’t pretend to be anything else. There were no secrets in our house, that’s for sure.’

Patrick looked at his watch and then at Mary Anne. ‘Do you want me to go to the police station and find out what’s happening?’

At first she did not answer. She was listening to the ticking of the clocks.

‘Do you hear them?’ she asked, her blood coursing through her veins in time with the incessant ticking.

Lizzie tilted her head in the same manner as her mother. ‘The clocks?’

Mary Anne nodded. ‘Time is ticking by, and our hearts are ticking with it.’

Patrick shrugged his puzzlement at Lizzie, who could only look at him briefly, then look away.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asked, handing out the opened packet to Mary Anne and then to Lizzie.

Mary Anne shook her head.

Lizzie took a light from the end of the one Patrick had already lit.

Mary Anne heaved her shoulders in a deep sigh. ‘Can we go outside? A little fresh air might clear my head and help me to think. After that, we’ll go to the police station.’ She turned to Patrick. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Lizzie wasn’t stupid. She saw from the look in her mother’s eyes that there was no point in talking about the wedding. Her mind was elsewhere. In the circumstances – in other words, Daw’s piggy behaviour – it seemed quite just.