The Girl With No Name (45 page)

The journey took hours, as the train was often shunted into a siding to let a more important train steam by, but when at last he arrived at Euston it was the early hours of the following morning.

Harry not only had his suitcase, but the money he’d had on him at the time of his arrest. He’d been amazed by that. He’d expected that to have disappeared into someone else’s pocket along the way. Added to this was the small amount he’d earned while working from the camp. Despite his tiredness, Harry walked along the blacked-out platform with a spring in his step. He was a man of means, he could read and write and he was determined, he was about to go up in the world.

As the sun began to climb above the roofs of London, still tired and gritty-eyed, Harry made his way to Kemble Street. He hoped the Federmans might let him live with them as a boarder, at least for a short while, then he could report his address, as required, to the police station. The sight that met him when he turned off the main road into Kemble Street made him pull up short and stare. One side of the street still provided homes, though many of the houses had minor damage with doors and windows boarded up, and one or two houses wore tarpaulin caps. The other side of the street was a line of derelict houses. Clearly fire had swept through them some time ago and they’d been left standing empty throughout the winter. The ravages of the freezing weather and the northerly winds were obvious as the houses sagged together as if relying on each other for strength to stay upright.

Harry walked slowly along the pavement until he came to number sixty-five. It looked as bad as the others, its roof burned out, its window frames twisted by the heat and holding only a few shards of broken, smoke-streaked glass; weeds flourished beside what had been the front door.

Harry wondered what had happened to the Federmans. Had they been killed in the fire? Harry thought about Dan. He, surely, must have been out fire-watching when this had happened. Had his wife survived? She’d been left in the cellar shelter the night Harry had gone to the fire post with Dan.

Has the cellar survived? Harry wondered suddenly. Can I still get into the house and down into the cellar?

He still needed somewhere to sleep himself and he remembered the cellar had a mattress. Perhaps he could still use it as his place until the Federmans came back.

He cast his eyes up and down the road, but there was no one about, so he walked up to the gaping front door and edged his way inside.

The whole of the house was burned out, all the furniture destroyed, blackened walls and ceilings bearing witness to the strength of the fire. He walked down the narrow passage that led to the kitchen. As he’d remembered, the door to the cellar was in the far corner. It was charred, but made of good solid wood, it seemed to have withstood the ravages of the fire better than the rest of the house. The closed door stood behind a festoon of cobwebs, clearly unopened for a long time. Harry tried to turn the handle but it was stiff and unmoving. Grasping it in both hands he tried again. This time it gave a little and he realised that the door wasn’t on its hinges, it was simply pushed into its frame and wedged into place with a sliver of wood at the bottom. A good hard pull was all it needed to pull it free. Harry pulled and the door, suddenly released, fell towards him, nearly knocking him to the ground. He propped it against the wall and peered down the steps that lay beyond. The only light came through the broken kitchen window, but dusty fingers of sunlight probed the stairs and Harry made his way carefully down them. He wished he had a torch, but remembered that there had been some candle and matches on a shelf, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he felt his way round the walls until he found what he was looking for. He struck a match and lit a stub of candle, still pushed into the top of a beer bottle. By its flickering light he saw the cellar still had chairs and a mattress.

This’ll do, he thought, delighted. It’s dry and a place to sleep. They aren’t here, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t move in.

Harry had never been a great respecter of other people’s property and dumping his case on the floor, he blew out the candle and went back up the steps. He heaved the door back into place and wedged it carefully as it had been before.

His visit to the police station went without a hitch. He registered himself at 65 Kemble Street with a busy desk sergeant and then set off to buy himself a few necessities. He’d been given back his ration book along with his identity papers and so he bought a few provisions, and to make the cellar a little more habitable he managed to get hold of a Tilley lamp. Carrying his purchases back to Kemble Street he once more slipped in through the front door of number sixty-five. He’d have to make sure no light leaked out from his underground haven at night, but otherwise he’d be snug and dry, with a place to lay his head. He managed to pull the cellar door closed behind him and, having unloaded his shopping, he ate some bread and cheese. Then, pulling a couple of blankets from a box, he flung himself down on the mattress and slept the clock round.

The next evening he went to the fire post Dan had taken him to. He hoped that someone there might have news of the Federmans and he’d be able to find them. Perhaps, he thought, as he hurried through the streets, they’ll be living somewhere nearby and I can shack up with them after all. He was all too aware that if the police came round and checked on the address he’d given them, they’d realise he was a squatter and he might be turned out.

He was greeted by John Anderson at the fire post.

‘Eh, lad, I’ve seen you here before.’

‘Yes, I came once with Dan Federman.’

‘And never again.’

Harry glared at Anderson and said, ‘The day after I was here, I was arrested as an enemy alien. I’ve only just been released.’

‘So you aren’t an enemy any more?’ asked Anderson with a grin.

‘I never was,’ snapped Harry. ‘I’m a Jewish refugee from Germany. I hate the Nazis and want to fight.’

‘Well, if you want to fight fires, lad,’ Anderson replied, ‘you’re more than welcome here.’

‘But where is Dan Federman?’ Harry asked. ‘It’s him I’m looking for.’

‘Don’t know, lad. His house was burnt and we think he must have moved out of London to be with his wife in Suffolk. We haven’t seen him for months. We haven’t had any raids since the end of May, just a few alarms that came to nothing, so the volunteers have dropped away, Dan Federman with them.’

‘Oh, well,’ shrugged Harry, anxious to change the subject, ‘never mind.’ He raised a hand and slipped away. He didn’t want to be called as a volunteer again now that he’d heard the Federmans had moved away. Now he had their house to himself. ‘I’m a friend of Dan Federman’s,’ he would say if anyone challenged him. ‘He said I could sleep in his cellar till I found somewhere permanent.’

John Anderson made no move to stop him and once he was out of sight Harry hurried back to Kemble Street. Once inside number sixty-five, he went back down to the cellar and took stock. He had very little money and needed to find a way to make some. Could he go back and work for Mikey again? Perhaps as a last resort.

The next day, as he emerged from the house, a man was passing. He looked at Harry and said, ‘Who’re you then? What you doing in there?’

‘Who’s asking?’ Harry countered.

‘Albert Johnson, citizen patrol,’ came the reply. ‘Keeping an eye...’

‘I’m a friend of Dan Federman’s...’ Harry trotted out the prepared line.

‘Cellar-rat, are you?’ said the man. ‘Well, I suppose you need somewhere to sleep and if Dan said you could stay... I’m just keeping an eye... you know, to see there ain’t no looting.’ Albert Johnson nodded and passed on along the road, his head swivelling from side to side as if searching out hidden looters among the ruins. Harry’s ruse had worked and it gave him confidence. Perhaps the police would accept it, too, if they should bother to come round checking on him.

‘Looting’, the man had said. Surely, Harry thought, there was nothing left to loot, if there ever had been. The houses stood bare and stark against the September sky. There was surely nothing left of value in any of them. But it had given him an idea. There might be other places, other bomb sites in richer areas might be worth a look. And if he did find something worth having, well he could always go and see Mikey Sharp again.

Harry needed money while he waited for his call-up, so in the meantime he got himself a job in the docks. It was heavy work, but Harry didn’t mind. He was happy to be working in the fresh air and being paid enough to live on. His work also gave him the opportunity to expand his own private and lucrative business.

It had begun in a very small way. He had been walking through a cleared bomb site near the docks – a patch of wilderness, scrub and weeds covering the rubble and debris left behind – and there it was, winking at him as a shaft of sunshine struck through a tuft of willowherb, something bright. Looking round to be sure he was unobserved, Harry bent down as if to tie his shoe and reaching in among the weeds his fingers closed on his prize. A ring. Without looking at it, he slipped it into his pocket and continued to walk slowly across the open ground where once a row of houses had stood. As he walked his eyes scoured the derelict ground about him, but there was nothing else to see.

Safely back in the cellar in Kemble Street away from prying eyes, he pulled the ring from his pocket and looked at it. A gold band, if it was gold, with a diamond set in a cluster of tiny red stones. Could that diamond be real? Harry wondered. It was quite big. And the little red stones, rubies? He considered what to do with it. He could go back to the market and sell it to Mikey Sharp, but before he did, he needed to find out if it was real, not just a piece of glass. He needed to know what it might be worth. He didn’t intend to let Mikey cheat him. Harry had learned a lot during his incarceration on the Isle of Man, but reading and writing weren’t everything. He’d always been streetwise and he knew finding this ring was his big chance.

Next day, when his shift was finished, he found a small jeweller’s shop in Hackney. The name ING was painted in faded gold letters above the window and hanging above the door were the three gold balls indicating that Mr Ing was also a pawnbroker. Harry peered in through the window at the items of jewellery offered for sale. He needed a shop where few questions would be asked and this seemed the right sort of place. He had prepared his story and so with one last glance at the watches and brooches displayed in the window, he pushed open the door and went in. A bell jangled as he entered and a small man emerged from behind a curtain. He stood behind the counter and regarded Harry through wire-rimmed spectacles, before saying in a soft voice, ‘Good afternoon. Can I be of help?’

‘Are you Mr Ing?’ Harry asked.

The man nodded. ‘I am indeed,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Harry. ‘Well, my mum wants her ring valued, see.’ He placed the ring on the counter.

‘Does she now?’ The man looked sceptical.

Innocently, Harry met his eye, apparently completely unaware of the jeweller’s scepticism. ‘Yeah, she was bombed out. My dad was killed in the raid and she’s lost everything. She don’t want to sell it, she just wants to know what it might fetch, just in case, know what I mean?’

Mr Ing thought he did. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, let me have a look at it.’ He removed his spectacles and fixed an eyeglass into his eye. Holding the ring up to the light, he peered at it. ‘A pretty thing,’ he said. ‘But you say she doesn’t want to sell it?’

‘No,’ Harry replied firmly. ‘It’s not for sale.’

Mr Ing nodded. ‘Would she care to borrow against it?’

‘Well,’ Harry sounded hesitant, ‘what would you lend... if she did?’

‘I would have to consider,’ Mr Ing said thoughtfully. ‘If I was lending, maybe ten pounds.’

‘Pull the other one,’ Harry jeered. ‘I know what my dad give for it.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ agreed Mr Ing in a tone that belied his words. ‘But things are different now...’ He didn’t say ‘there’s a war on’ but the words hung in the air.

Harry picked up the ring and put it back in his pocket. ‘No,’ he said, ‘she wouldn’t want to hock it for that. Sentimental value, you know? Thanks anyway.’

As he turned to the door Mr Ing said, ‘I might be able to raise my offer a little, seeing as your mother’s circumstances are so sad. Say twelve pounds ten?’

‘I’ll tell her,’ said Harry and left the shop. He’d learned what he wanted to know. Mr Ing might even have gone a little higher than twelve pounds ten shillings, but he’d sell the ring on for more, so Harry felt certain that it must be worth at least twenty pounds. He set off to find Mikey Sharp.

Since then, Harry had gradually increased his business. Unloading ships at the docks meant there were occasions when small items came his way and were easily concealed in the pockets of his work clothes, but his main source was the bomb sites. The east end of the city still revealed the determination of the Luftwaffe to bring it into submission. Skeletal buildings still stood, their precarious walls displaying ragged wallpaper and hanging fireplaces. Such buildings were cordoned off, but for a street-rat like Harry, the barriers presented no problems and under cover of dusk, he crept through ruins, climbed up broken walls into the remains of upper rooms, searching for treasure. And he found it. Not huge amounts, but occasional pieces abandoned or lost in an air raid, things that could be quickly turned into cash through Mikey and others, like Mr Ing, not too choosy where such items came from.

Harry wasn’t making a fortune, but his savings, stashed safely in the cellar at 65 Kemble Street, were building up. He kept the money in a cocoa tin which he hid in a small cavity he’d hollowed out under the cellar steps. He was still determined to go to Australia after the war and he was equally determined not to go empty-handed.

When his call-up papers came through he found that he was to be deferred as he was now a docker and thus in a reserved occupation. He continued to live in the cellar of sixty-five and people in the area got used to seeing him coming and going. If questioned he always said he was a friend of the Federmans who, as they must know, had moved out of London when Mrs Federman’s baby was due.