The Girl With No Name (44 page)

As they came towards the green they could see the children, gathered outside the Magpie, waiting for the bus. Charlotte hung back a little, but Billy, not appearing to notice her reluctance, walked on to the waiting group.

‘She won’t dare show her face today,’ Tommy Gurney was boasting to the Morgan twins. ‘Not now we’ve found her out. My dad’s going to tell Major Bellinger an’ I ’spect she’ll be arrested soon.’ He didn’t see Billy coming, but all of a sudden found himself being spun round and held in a vice-like grip.

‘What were you saying?’ Billy enquired softly, his face menacingly close to Tommy’s.

Tommy’s eyes widened. Billy was two years older, six inches taller and had broadened from hard physical work on the farm. Tommy saw the cold anger in Billy’s eyes, felt warm breath on his face. ‘N-n-nothing,’ he stammered.

‘Oh, I think you were.’ Billy remained icy cold and was all the more terrifying for it. ‘Say it again, so I can hear what lies you’re spreading about my girl.’

‘Your girl?’ echoed Tommy faintly.

‘Yes, my girl.’

‘Your girl’s a German spy!’ called a voice from the safety of the group.

‘My girl is German. A German who’s lost her parents, her brother and her home. A refugee from the very people you pretend she’s spying for. Charlotte... is... not... a... spy.’ He spaced the words out for emphasis. ‘And if I hear any more of such utter nonsense from anyone... they’ll regret it.’ His grip tightened on Tommy and the boy squeaked with fear.

‘Now,’ Billy went on conversationally, ‘I’ve heard that you’ve all been treating my girl very badly.’ His eyes turned to the Morgan twins who were standing amid the others. ‘I know who the bullies are.’ His eyes flicked to Ernie Clegg, who squirmed away behind Fred Moore. ‘And this I promise you: one more word from any of you about spies, fifth columns and hating German girls and I’ll come and get you, each and every one, and you’ll wish I hadn’t.’ He jerked Tommy’s arm sharply up behind him, making the boy cry out in pain. ‘Understand, Gurney?’ He waited for a response and when there was none he jerked again and repeated, ‘Understand, do you?’

‘Yes,’ gasped Tommy.

‘Good,’ said Billy and released him. Billy turned his attention to the other boys. ‘You lot better believe me, an’ all,’ he said. ‘Another word from any of you and I’ll find you, wherever you are, and you’ll truly wish I hadn’t.’

‘Bully!’ muttered Stephen Morgan.

‘Takes one to know one,’ remarked Billy calmly, and turned his back on them all.

Charlotte, still standing a little way off, had watched the whole encounter in amazement. Now when Billy came towards her, she could feel colour flooding her cheeks. Billy had called her his girl.

‘Who told you?’ she asked as he reached her side. ‘Miss Edie?’

‘Nope,’ replied Billy. ‘Heard it on the grapevine. But you just let me know if you have any more trouble from any of these little shits and I’ll sort them out.’

They all heard the sound of the bus coming up the hill into the village, and the children scuffled together, ready to get on. Billy linked his arm through Charlotte’s and led her to the bus. He allowed everyone to get on first and then, very deliberately, kissed her gently on the cheek before she, too, got on the bus. As it pulled away he could see her inside, taking her seat next to Clare. He had claimed her, his girl, and he set off back to Charing Farm with a light heart to begin his day’s work.

The mood in the school bus was subdued to begin with, but gradually the noise rose to its normal level. Clare squeezed Charlotte’s hand.

‘It’ll be all right, now,’ she said. ‘They’re all afraid of Billy.’

Charlotte smiled. She was in a world of her own. How could anyone be afraid of Billy? He was kind and gentle, but not so, she now knew, if anyone threatened his girl. His girl. Charlotte’s heart raced at his words and she touched her cheek where he’d kissed her. He had claimed her publicly and she was his.

There had been no repercussions for Harry after the unsuccessful escape. Everyone assumed that he had been the unwilling victim of an insane prisoner. Harry readily accepted this version of events. He knew that both he and Alfred had been in real danger from Rolf and that it was Alfred’s courage that had saved them. That made Alfred his hero. Only Hans Bruch looked at him askance when he returned to the house after his adventure and Harry knew Hans thought he had been a willing participant in Rolf’s plan. However, Hans said nothing and Harry, banishing any thoughts of escape, soon came to believe the accepted story himself.

When Alfred returned to the house, he was still weak and needed rest, but it wasn’t in his nature to sit about and before long he started up his classes again and this time Harry joined in with enthusiasm. During Harry’s visits to Alfred in the hospital, a closeness had developed between them. It surprised Alfred. He had been right when he’d said that he was old enough to be Harry’s father, but he hadn’t expected his affection for the prickly boy to be so strong. He had saved him from Rolf, but more importantly he’d also saved him from himself. Alfred knew that, despite Harry’s protestations that he’d been too afraid of Rolf to betray him, the hope of escape had long been in Harry’s mind too. Alfred could only hope that after the fright Rolf had given him, Harry would put all such thoughts aside and set about acquiring the skills he would need after the war.

‘You really do need to improve your English,’ he insisted, ‘and from now on you and I will only speak English to each other.’

Harry gave him a rueful shrug. ‘All right, Alfred. You win. English it is.’

Alfred was an excellent teacher and an exacting taskmaster, continually correcting grammar, vocabulary and accent, and over the weeks, Harry’s spoken English improved out of all recognition.

Alfred had been right, Harry was intelligent, and now he was self-motivated it took him little time to learn to read and write. Once he could read, Harry discovered a whole new world open to him and he devoured the books from the camp library that Alfred suggested.

‘Now it’s time to try and get you out of here,’ Alfred said to him one evening. ‘You know they’re gradually releasing people, don’t you?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Yes, but it’s not going to be me, is it?’

‘Why not?’

‘Why would it be?’

‘Well, you clearly aren’t a threat to national security, are you? And they could use you in the war effort.’

‘I don’t think anyone knows I’m here. Who’s going to let me out?’

‘You have to make contact with the right people, Harry. Don’t forget, as a refugee you can volunteer for the army. The Pioneer Corps is taking men from the occupied countries and using them to support the front-line troops. You should ask to see the camp commander and it’s time you wrote some letters.’

‘But who do I write to?’

‘Anyone and everyone,’ answered Alfred, ‘from the chiefs of staff to the secretary of state for war!’

Thus the letter-writing began.

All through the spring and early summer Harry had been going out of camp on work parties and had earned himself some pay. It was credited to his camp account and with it he could buy the stamps he needed for his letters. He was not the only one writing such letters, of course, and some of the letter-writers had managed to reach the right people. At five o’clock each day the names of those who were to be released the next day were announced. Those who had applied for release waited with baited breath to hear if they had been successful. If so, they were called in to see the camp commander. The wheels of bureaucracy moved incredibly slowly and most of those waiting hopefully to hear their names were disappointed, but the lucky few were jubilant.

One evening in June, Harry was listening to the list of names, when a name leaped out at him. ‘Alfred Muller’. Harry was dumbstruck. Alfred had been summoned to the commander’s office, which meant, almost certainly, he was going to be released... tomorrow. He’d be taken to the dock and put on a ship for Liverpool. Alfred was going home to his family. Alfred was leaving and Harry hadn’t even realised he’d been applying for release.

‘That’s stupid!’ he told himself. ‘Of course he was applying, everyone is!’ But even so, somehow he felt betrayed. Alfred was leaving and he, Harry, was still stuck here in this shithole. He looked round but couldn’t see Alfred anywhere. That made him angry too. The man had applied to be released and he wasn’t even here to hear his summons.

Harry turned away and stumped back to the house. Alfred was in the kitchen with Hans, overseeing preparation of the evening meal.

Harry barged in and said, ‘Better pack your bag, Alfred. You’re leaving tomorrow!’

Alfred laughed. ‘What a great idea, Harry. You know I think I will, just in case!’ Then he turned back to Hans and the supper.

‘Listen!’ Harry was almost shouting now. ‘Listen, you stupid bastard, you’ve been called to see the commander. You must be on the list for release. I didn’t know you’d even applied!’

‘Of course I’ve applied,’ answered Alfred mildly. ‘I’ve been applying ever since I got here.’

‘So why the hell didn’t you go and find out?’ demanded Harry, a little more quietly.

‘Because, Harry,’ Alfred answered with a sigh, ‘I got tired of being disappointed. So, let’s forget it and get this meal on the table.’

‘But Alfred,’ Harry said, ‘it’s true. Your name was called this evening. You’re going home tomorrow.’

Alfred turned slowly back to look at him. ‘You’re not joking, Harry? It’s a pretty poor joke if you are!’

Harry, now containing his own disappointment, managed a smile and replied, ‘No, Alfred. I wouldn’t joke about anything so important.’

Alfred stared at him for a moment and then he gathered him into a bear hug and began to weep.

Harry watched Alfred leave the following morning and felt utterly bereft. Alfred had become his mainstay and now he’d gone, Harry was alone.

‘Keep writing those letters,’ Alfred said as he gave Harry a final hug. ‘They’re sure to let you out soon, they’ll need people who speak both English and German. I’ll keep writing on your behalf, too. One way or another we’ll get you out.’

Harry wasn’t so sure. He’d been to see the camp commander some weeks earlier, but he hadn’t seemed very helpful, simply saying he’d look into his case.

‘You’re under age,’ he’d said. ‘Can’t join up until you’re eighteen.’

‘I can join then though?’

‘Maybe. It’s not up to me.’

‘You mean I’m stuck in this... camp,’ Harry changed the word he’d been going to use just in time, ‘until I’m eighteen? That’s another eighteen months.’

The commander shrugged. ‘Probably,’ he conceded, ‘unless someone finds a use for you before that. Then you might get out.’

Harry had left the office extremely depressed, but Alfred had encouraged him to go on writing to people in London.

‘You never know, someone might pick you up.’

Now Alfred had gone Harry’s spirits plummeted. He knew he was on the Isle of Man for the duration.

Harry still went out on work parties; he quite enjoyed the physical work and at least it got him out of the camp for a while. Spending days working in the fields and with enough regular food, he grew stronger, growing another couple of inches and filling out so that he looked more like a healthy young man and less like a scrawny street urchin. He missed Alfred more than he would have thought possible and though he still continued with his reading, his morale was low.

Sometimes the internees were escorted out of the camp and taken to the beach, where they could exercise and swim in the sea. Occasionally Harry went too, but he found such excursions made it increasingly difficult to return to the confines of the camp. Many of those around him seemed content to live life a day at time like this, but Harry became increasingly bored and low-spirited.

It was early August before he came up for release and like Alfred, he’d almost given up.

‘Heinrich Schwarz. To the commander’s office.’

At first Harry didn’t react. No one called him Heinrich now, but of course it was how he was registered within the camp. Like Alfred the news almost brought him to tears. Tomorrow! Tomorrow he’d be out of this place and on his way.

Harry left the camp next morning. First thing, he had reported to the guard room, where he was given his papers and the belongings that had been taken from him on his arrival. It was the beginning of the long release process. He was still listed as an alien and so there were still restrictions, but he was no longer a prisoner. The ship took him to Fleetwood and once his documents had been checked, yet again, by the police there, he was free to continue his journey. Harry was on his way back to London. He’d been given a travel warrant and asked to supply an address where he could be contacted and reminded he must report to the police on his arrival. To begin with he was at a loss for an address. There was no way he was going back to the hostel where he’d been arrested nearly nine months ago, but he was terrified that they might not let him leave unless he wrote something. He was about to wing it and make up an address when he remembered Dan Federman. He’d stayed the night in his house, been fire-watching with him; surely he wouldn’t mind Harry giving his address, 65 Kemble Street. The house where Lisa had lived. His only link with her.

Harry had given occasional thought to Lisa while he’d been incarcerated, but she hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Harry had long ago learned not to dwell on the past and those who peopled it. He’d been fond of Lisa, but she was dead. He had moved on from her as he’d moved on from his parents. Kemble Street, however, was another matter altogether. Perhaps Dan would let him sleep in the cellar again, just until he found somewhere.

Harry was not sure why he’d suddenly been given his freedom. He still wasn’t eighteen but he’d said in all of his letters that if he were allowed to go free he would do anything to help the war effort. He reminded everyone that he was fluent in both German and English, this last not quite true but near enough to get him by. Whatever it had been that had convinced the powers that be that he was no longer a security risk, Harry didn’t care. He was out! Once through the formalities at Fleetwood, he was allowed to board the London train. With a jubilant heart, he climbed into the carriage. The compartment was crowded but Harry didn’t care, he was free.