Josie Under Fire (8 page)

“It was a long time ago,” she said, backtracking now. “They were born here.”

“But I bet they support Hitler.”

“Yeah – they’re still Huns, aren’t they?” said Stan.

No one was taking any notice of Edith, and Josie could feel her cousin’s annoyance.

“We’ll be late for school, Josie,” Edith said. “And we’ve been warned about chatting with boys on the street.” She gave Vic another of her smiles.

The two groups separated.

“See you around!” Vic said.

As soon as the boys had gone, Edith turned on Josie. “You never told
me
about Alice being German!”

Josie shrugged. “I only found out on Tuesday. Anyway, you know now.”

“Wait till the others hear!” said Edith, already appropriating the story for herself. “We can really get back at Alice now.”

“It’s not Alice’s fault—” Josie began; but Edith withered her with, “Oh, don’t be such a
drip
, Josie.”

“Heil, Hitler!”

Pam gave Alice the Nazi salute.

The girl looked at her pityingly and turned away. They had cornered her in the toilets at the end of recess.

“Alice! Alice Hauptmann!” said Edith. “Are you a Nazi, Alice?”

“Is your father a spy?” asked Sylvia, giggling nervously as if she half believed it.

Alice tried to push past them. “You’re all so stupid,” she said.

“No, we’re not!” said Clare, barring the doorway. “You can’t fool us any more. We know who you really are, Alice Hauptmann, and we’re going to tell everyone. We know your grandfather’s a German. He changed his name, but you can’t change who you are. You’re still Alice Hauptmann.”

“What are you talking about?” But a look of fear crossed Alice’s face. She looked, Josie thought, as if she was caught in a trap she didn’t understand.

Chapter Ten

“Huns”

That night was cold and clear. There was an air-raid warning, and they all spent three hours in the basement. Edith and Josie took their knitting. Although there was no school the following week, the teachers and the WVS had organized a “Knit for Our Forces” morning on Tuesday. The plan was to encourage the girls to finish their projects and get everything parcelled up. A photographer had been promised as an inducement. As they listened to the bombing – which was distant: “Some other poor souls”, as Mrs. Prescott put it – Aunty Grace helped Josie with her balaclava and sighed over Edith’s scarf. Josie wondered if all the other girls would come on Tuesday. The class was not compulsory. She hoped Alice would stay away; she wasn’t sure she could face her.

Good Friday was colder still. In the morning, after a breakfast of porridge and hot cross buns, Aunty Grace took the girls to church. There was frost on the pavement and Josie could see her breath on the air. “It’s cold enough for snow,” her aunt said.

When they returned to the house there were letters on the mat. Josie watched eagerly as her aunt sorted through them. Daddy, she hoped. Or Ted. She was lucky. Aunty Grace said, “One for you, Josie,” and handed her a letter. Ted! At last! She recognized his handwriting. Edith wanted to see, but Josie, still in her coat, ran out to the back garden and climbed the walnut tree to read it in private.

Dear Josie,
Ted wrote
, I expect Ma has told you I’ve got leave next week and will be coming to see you. I’ll phone Aunty G. when I know the exact time. Meanwhile here’s some news from the depths of Cheshire. I can’t believe I’ve been here two months now
(yes, and not written to me, Josie thought)
. Arrived at Chester late evening back in February, needing to get a train to Delamere. Absolute chaos at the station. There had been a direct hit and all services disrupted. People sitting about waiting; WVS handing out tea and sandwiches; fire engines, hosepipes snaking everywhere, broken glass. Nobody knew where to go or what to do. Finally got my train. Shared a carriage with a bunch of Land Army volunteers – girls – and several soldiers. Guess who the girls talked to? They don’t even look at a man out of uniform.

I arrived at my digs late at night, exhausted. As soon as the landlady realized I was a C.O. she said I’d have to go. It’s her son, she says. He’s due on leave and won’t set foot in the house if I’m there. She let me stay the night, but then I spent a miserable day looking for another place. Several doors slammed on me, but I’m settled here now and it’s not too bad.

The work’s hard for a desk chap like me! I’d imagined myself felling trees, but we’re planting, mostly, putting in tree stakes, erecting fencing, that sort of thing. Only two of us are C.O.s. Most of the men accept us even if they’re not exactly friendly. A few are hostile. (Malcolm, the other C.O., got beaten up one evening. But I haven’t told Ma that – and don’t you.) I like the fresh air and exercise. I’m building up muscles, and the work is useful and I feel good about growing things, taking care of the land.

How’s my little sister? I know I made it hard for you back home. I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done. I have hopes that when this war is over we’ll all come together and make a better world…

Josie folded the letter and put it in her pocket. It had brought Ted close to her and made her feel homesick. More than ever she longed to see him. But not here. Not now.

Next morning Aunty Grace took the girls shopping. Edith was growing out of all her clothes, and her mother had heard there was to be a sale of fire-damaged cloth at a draper’s in the King’s Road.

“We’ll go for lunch at The Pheasantry afterwards,” she said, “for a treat.”

They walked west along the King’s Road. The draper’s had big notices outside advertising the sale, and a large number of women had already gathered. Aunty Grace spent a long time looking at fabrics, some with brown burn marks running right through them, some merely dusty and dirty. She held up a dress length in dark blue wool with an orange fleck in it.

“That’s horrible!” protested Edith.

Her mother sighed. “You can’t be
too
fussy, dear. How about this brown check? It’s scorched, but if Mrs. Jenks can cut it carefully…”

Mrs. Jenks had been sewing for the Felgates since the children were babies. Even with a war on, it seemed, she was indispensable.

Aunty Grace continued to rummage. All around, women were buying and chatting. Mostly their talk was about prices, or dressmaking, or the difficulty of managing without their servants, but suddenly Josie heard a buzz of conversation in low, shocked voices from a group of women in a nearby queue.

“…broken several windows!”

“And a brick with a message wrapped round it: a swastika and the word ‘Huns’.”

“How dreadful!”

“Of course they
were
German,” an older woman said. “They changed their name…”

Josie looked at Edith. She had been listening too.

“It’s Hampton’s,” whispered Josie.

“But who – the boys?”

“Yes. That Ray.”

“And Vic. Ray’s not bright enough on his own.”

Josie didn’t like to think that Vic would have done such a thing. But it had to be the boys. And she had told them.

“It’s my fault,” she said. She felt stricken.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” retorted Edith. “We don’t know
who
did it, do we? Could have been anyone.” She added, with enthusiasm, “We’ll pass Hampton’s if we go to The Pheasantry.”

They did. Aunty Grace settled on the brown cloth, and as they left she said, “They’re saying there’s been an attack on Hampton’s! Quite upsetting. Such pleasant people…”

The shop was a sad sight. Bombing was one thing, Aunty Grace said, but to see deliberate damage like that – well, it undermined the spirit of the Blitz.

Two windows had been broken and were already boarded up. Inside, furniture had been moved to the back of the shop, but the glass had all been swept up and there was no sign of the brick or the message.

The shop was open. To Josie’s alarm, her aunt went in, taking the girls with her, and found the proprietor at the back and spoke to him. Josie was terrified that Alice would appear and accuse them, but there was only Mr. Hampton, her father, who spoke with an English accent and seemed, as Aunty Grace had said, a pleasant man.

“It’s one of those things that happen in wartime,” he said. “Of course my wife was very upset.” He lowered his voice. “We got rid of the message before our children saw it.”

Lunch at The Pheasantry was bliss. They had ham sandwiches with cress and cucumber, and an iced bun to follow. All the tables were laid with white damask cloths and silver cutlery, and the waitresses wore white aprons – “almost as if this wretched war wasn’t happening,” said Aunty Grace.

Josie could not get the sight of Hampton’s damaged shopfront out of her mind. Edith was right: none of the girls would have done that; it had to be Vic and his friends. And
she’d
told them; she’d set all this going, just to show off, just to impress Vic and annoy Edith; and now she couldn’t stop it. She felt horribly guilty; but mixed up with that was fear that what she had done would somehow get back to Aunty Grace; that Alice would tell her parents what the girls had said to her; or that someone would interrogate Vic and he would name her. And if he did, she realized, Miss Rutherford would become involved too.

She remembered how she had almost told Miss Rutherford about Ted – had felt she might not condemn him, as some people did. And she remembered Miss Rutherford saying, “Come again. Any time.”

Did she mean it? I need to talk to someone, Josie thought. Aunty Grace was so restrained and polite; it was difficult to talk to her. But talking to Miss Rutherford wouldn’t be easy, either; she’d have to confess what she had done.

On Easter Day they went to church again. The church was full of joyful music, flowers, and celebration. Mr. and Mrs. Prescott were there, but not Miss Rutherford. “She never goes,” said Aunty Grace, when Josie asked. Later that day, when her aunt was measuring Edith for the new dress, Josie knew she must seize her opportunity. She slipped out the back way into the garden, and rang Miss Rutherford’s bell.

It was a while before she heard footsteps coming down. The door opened. Miss Rutherford looked more homely today, in a pleated skirt and fair-isle cardigan, and slippers on her feet.

“Josie!” she said.

“I need to talk to you.” She must have seemed desperate, for Miss Rutherford said, “Is something wrong?”

“I’ve
done
something wrong.” And Josie felt tears well up and spill down her cheeks.

“You’d better come in and tell me about it,” said Miss Rutherford.

Chapter Eleven

Photographs

“I never meant to revive that old story,” said Miss Rutherford.

Her back was to Josie as she put the kettle on and reached for some cups. There was a used plate and saucepans beside the sink and vegetable peelings in a colander; evidently she had just finished her dinner. She turned round.

“I shouldn’t have told you – only the wrong name had slipped out. But you should never repeat things that people tell you in confidence.”

Her voice was stern.

“I know.” Josie began to sniff again.

“Do blow your nose,” said Miss Rutherford, making Josie think of the headmistress. She put the cups on a tray, found milk and sugar. “Go and sit on the chaise longue; I know you like that. There’s more to this, isn’t there? Who
are
these boys? And why did you tell them?”

Josie began to explain: about the bomb site, about Edith and her friends, about Alice, and Vic (“He’s…different, fun. And he
notices
you.”) She sniffed again, took off her glasses and cleaned them on her skirt. “It was mean to go after Alice; I know it was. But she’s such a drippy sort of girl, and a tell-tale, and no one likes her. Edith said it didn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” said Miss Rutherford. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Alice is probably just shy.”

“She doesn’t seem shy. She seems stuck-up – stand-offish.”

“Shy people often do. But even if she was a monster: everyone has the right to be treated fairly. Even – well, even Hitler.”