The Girl With No Name (58 page)

A breeze blew up and Charlotte shivered. ‘We should be getting back,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I said I’d be back at the vicarage for early supper with the children.’

Billy whistled the dogs, which had been happily exploring a rabbit warren under a nearby hedge, and they turned their steps back towards the village, Charlotte with her hand tucked comfortably through Billy’s arm. When they finally reached the village green, the sun had disappeared and the air was decidedly chilly.

‘Will you come over to the farm tomorrow?’ Billy asked her, looking up at her as he bent to clip leads to the dogs’ collars. ‘Have your dinner with us?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Yes, I’d love to. When shall I come?’

A smile spread over Billy’s face and he said, ‘Just come when you’re ready. Ma’ll be expecting you.’

The last couple of days went very quickly and suddenly Charlotte was on her way back to London. It was Billy who went with her on the bus to Cheddar to see her off at the station.

‘How will you get back to the village?’ she asked as they boarded the bus.

‘Walk, of course,’ Billy replied with a grin. ‘’Tisn’t that far.’

As they waited on the platform, her case at her feet, Charlotte could feel tears pricking her eyes. She knew she had to return to London, but she was sorry to be leaving Wynsdown and all the people there who’d done their best to make her feel it was her home. As the train chugged round the corner, Billy put his arms round her and held her close.

‘Look after yourself in London,’ he said into her hair. ‘Don’t go getting lost again.’

Charlotte returned his hug and then broke free as the train snorted to a halt beside her.

Billy opened the door for her to get in and heaved her suitcase up into the rack. ‘Take care,’ he said as he jumped back down on to the platform. ‘And you never know, I might just come up the Smoke to visit you.’

The guard blew his whistle and the train began to move. Billy jogged along the platform beside the open window and to his delight as the train drew away, Charlotte leaned out to wave and called back, ‘Yes, Billy, do.’

As the train rounded the curve she pulled the window up and sat down on her seat. Blinking away the tears that had threatened to overflow, she thought about the day she’d spent at the farm. It had been a lovely day and she had spent the morning, as she had so often before, helping Billy’s mother in the farmyard and in the kitchen till the men came in for their midday meal. As they were preparing the vegetables, Margaret Shepherd had said, ‘It’s lovely to have you back, Charlotte, if only for a few days. We’ve all missed you, Billy in particular, of course.’

‘Has he?’ Charlotte couldn’t help letting a little bitterness creep into her voice as she remembered how her happiness of the midsummer dance had evaporated in the face of Billy’s coolness towards her after the German plane had crashed. She had spoken in German, words of comfort to the injured pilot, words of comfort to an enemy.

‘Of course he has,’ Margaret chided her gently. ‘You know how fond of you he is. I know he wasn’t... well, quite himself for a while, but he was involved in sommat secret that was preying on his mind.’

‘Secret?’ echoed Charlotte. ‘What sort of secret?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my lover, he ain’t said nothing to his dad nor me, but we know him and he were worriting about sommat for sure. Sommat to do with them trainings he went off to do.’ She gave Charlotte a reassuring smile. ‘But seems like it’s over now. Our Billy’s our Billy again.’

That afternoon they went round the farm with the dogs and she watched Billy training the two of them with a few sheep. The dogs were learning to work in tandem and, as she’d watched, Charlotte knew she could never take Bessie back to London with her. Her place was here in Wynsdown, even if her own wasn’t.

They’d been back in time to help John Shepherd with the afternoon milking and then Billy had walked her back to the vicarage.

Avril had been pleased to see that their friendship had been rekindled. Billy Shepherd was a good solid man, no stranger to hard work, with a generous heart. She’d heard Caroline’s misgivings about the young German refugee, Harry, who seemed to have some sort of hold on Charlotte.

‘I don’t think he’s holding something over her,’ Caroline had said, ‘but there is a very special connection between them, they came on the same train from Germany. The thing is, I don’t really trust him. I certainly didn’t tell Charlotte about Miss Edie’s will till I was pretty sure he wasn’t coming back, but a letter has come for her. It’s postmarked HMP Brixton.’

‘You mean the prison?’ exclaimed Avril.

‘Yes. I think he’s probably inside. He was arrested some months ago as an enemy alien, so perhaps he’s been arrested again. The thing is, do I give her the letter, or do I simply forget about it?’

‘Oh, Caro, I don’t know,’ Avril said. ‘What do you think?’

‘One minute I think I won’t tell her about it and if he turns up again they’ll just think it was another casualty of the wartime post, and then the next I think that’s morally wrong. I shouldn’t try and play God and decide what’s best for her. I’d be furious if someone did that to me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Even if it was for your own good?’

‘Who’s to decide what’s for her good? It’s not up to me.’ She sighed as the pips went. ‘Time’s up,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll—’ but before Avril could hear her decision, the line went dead and she didn’t know what Caroline was intending to do.

Perhaps, she thought as she saw Billy help Charlotte on to the Cheddar bus the next day, with a bit of luck she’ll forget the disappearing Harry and remember Billy, waiting for her here in Wynsdown.

*

Caroline was waiting up for Charlotte when she got back to Livingston Road.

‘My dear girl, you must be so tired,’ she cried as she hurried her into the warmth of the home’s big kitchen and set some soup to heat on the stove. ‘How did you get on? How was my sister? It must have been lovely to get out of London, even if only for a few days.’

She poured the hot soup into a bowl and, cutting the crust off a loaf and a wedge of cheese, she set the food down in front of Charlotte.

Charlotte was indeed feeling tired. Several times during the journey the train had been shunted into a siding to allow a more important train to pass by on the main line and it had finally arrived in London nearly three hours behind schedule. She was grateful for the food and as she ate the bread and drank the soup, she told Miss Morrison about her time in Wynsdown.

‘Did you get everything sorted out with the solicitor?’

Charlotte explained the arrangements, both financial and about Blackdown House.

‘Mr Thompson is going to look after the maintenance of the house,’ she said. ‘He thinks we should let it, furnished, for the time being. I’ve taken a few small things that I want and packed them into a trunk. Mrs Swanson’s going to keep them for me until I have somewhere else to store them.’ She thought again of the wedding dress she’d folded so carefully into the trunk, the veil which had hung with it. No one had seen them but her. Laid with them were Herbert’s photo and both the letter and the telegram Miss Edie had kept all those years. Charlotte had planned to burn those, but at the last minute had slipped them in the trunk instead.

The only thing she had brought back to London with her was the piano music she’d been practising for her exam, before Miss Edie died. She had missed playing the piano more than she’d have thought possible. There was an old piano in the home at Livingston Road, but she’d had little time to do more than play simple tunes for the children to sing to.

If I really have a little money of my own now, she thought, I might try and find someone to teach me again.

So, she’d packed the music in her case and brought it back to London.

Apart from that she took nothing. She’d had no wish to go into the attic and search through the boxes and cases that were stored there. She simply told Avril Swanson that she could go through everything and take anything that would be of use to anyone in the parish.

‘Of course, if I find anything of value,’ Avril had said, ‘I’ll set it aside for you to look at. There may be things there that would fetch a fair price in an auction room.’

As Caroline listened, she was still struggling with her decision. Should she pass on the letter that she was sure had come from Harry, or not? She had been very tempted to open it, just to be sure it was from him; but who else could it be from? Who else would Charlotte know in Brixton prison? She had decided to hang on to the letter for a few days and see how Charlotte settled back into the Livingston Road routine. Then, if all was well, she would find a suitable time to give it to her.

‘Have you told anyone about your legacy?’ she asked now.

Charlotte shook her head. ‘No, not yet. The vicar said it would be better if it wasn’t generally known yet. It’d be round the village in no time.’

‘Will you tell the Federmans?’

‘I probably will,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I don’t want them to think that they have to provide for me any more. They know I’ve got a job with you, but Uncle Dan was saying something about giving me a little extra so that I could go up and see them from time to time. With the allowance Mr Thompson is giving me, he certainly won’t have to pay my fares when I visit them.’

Would she tell Harry? Caroline wondered. If she handed over the letter, would Charlotte tell Harry about her good fortune? Somehow, Caroline felt, if Harry discovered Charlotte had come into money, there would be cartoon pound signs whirling in his eyes.

June 1944

Billy Shepherd got off the train that afternoon and caught a bus to Livingston Road. He had made the journey several times over the last eighteen months. Charlotte was still working at the children’s home. She had not returned to Wynsdown, but when she got back to London she had written to Billy and, unlikely correspondent though he was, he had answered her letter by return. Their correspondence had continued until Christmas, when Billy took the train to London and spent the festive season with Charlotte and all the other inmates of the Livingston Road home. He had been a great favourite with the children, dressing up as Father Christmas on Christmas Day and handing out presents to everyone.

All of them were pleased enough to receive a special present and when Billy reappeared, minus red coat and white beard, he was greeted by an ecstatic Mary, one of the youngest children.

‘Uncle Billy, Uncle Billy, Father Christmas was here!’

‘No! Really?’ he cried, looking amazed.

‘He was! He was!’ shrieked Mary. ‘But oh, Uncle Billy,’ her face fell, ‘you missed him!’

Billy gave her a hug. ‘Never mind, Mary, perhaps I’ll see him next year.’

‘But next year’s so far away,’ wailed the little girl. ‘Can you wait that long?’

Billy smiled, and thinking of Charlotte, he replied, ‘I can wait as long as it takes.’

The population of the home was continually changing, but all the children looked forward to Billy’s visits. Charlotte did, too. She welcomed him with open arms and they always hugged each other fiercely, but Billy was treading carefully, and apart from a gentle kiss under the mistletoe at Christmas, he’d never moved for anything closer. He knew she was holding him at arm’s length and though he wasn’t sure why, he was afraid if he hurried her he would lose her altogether. Their friendship was firm and strong and, for the time being at least, he was prepared to settle for that.

Harry was the ghost. Harry still lingered in Charlotte’s mind. He had disappeared from her life as suddenly as he’d come into it, but she couldn’t forget him. He was the only one left from ‘before’. But Billy knew nothing of Harry.

As Billy got off the bus, his heart beat faster at the thought of seeing her. Two minutes’ walk and he’d be there. He paused at a news stand to buy a paper. Everyone was still buzzing with the news of the Normandy landings and the fact that the Allies were finally taking the war to the Germans, bringing the end of the conflict ever nearer.

Later that evening, he and Charlotte walked home, hand in hand, after a visit to the cinema. When Billy had arrived, Caroline had sent them off to the pictures for an evening’s relaxation. Life in the home had suddenly become more hectic. Since the Allied landings in Normandy, just a couple of weeks ago, there had been a renewed bombardment of London, but now the bombs that came to deliver death and destruction carried no crew. They flew, pilotless, out of the night, their engines whirring until the fatal moment when they cut out. Sometimes they dropped immediately, destroying whatever lay beneath them, others continued their flight, coasting silently through the air until they dived, unannounced, to explode on the homes of those below. Hundreds of people had been made homeless again, hundreds more had been killed or injured. The doodlebugs, as they’d become known, were taking Hitler’s revenge.

Caroline had had to find room for more and more children, left homeless by this new onslaught. Her tiny staff were worked off their feet. They’d moved out of their own rooms to accommodate more refugee children. Four small girls were put in Caroline’s room and she slept in her office. Charlotte had a camp bed in the living room along with some of the older girls, her tiny attic having been taken over by three boys, sleeping head to toe in a row on the floor. Until this renewed bombardment, whenever he’d been visiting, Billy had slept on a mattress in the small staff room, but that was now where Matron and Mrs Downs slept. This visit he was going to have to manage with a blanket on the scullery floor.

‘You’re going to be very uncomfortable with just a blanket,’ Charlotte said as they strolled home.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Billy assured her. ‘It’s summer after all.’

‘Yes, but not a very warm one,’ Charlotte said. She was right. The night was cool and although a half moon lighted their way through the streets, the air was chilly and there were few people about.

And then they heard it. The distinctive pulsing whir of an engine, high above them. Both looked up. There it was, a dark, lethal shape, against the ragged moonlit sky, and even as they looked, the whirring stopped.