Whistling in the Dark (4 page)

“Joanie!” cried Captain Harper Jones. “Been out helping the war effort, I hear!
Good
for you!”

Joan nodded but said nothing. Nobody called her Joanie except her family and sometimes Doreen. She didn’t like someone she hardly knew doing it. Especially this man, with his carefully tended moustache and dapper army officer’s uniform, with polished Sam Browne belt, gleaming brass buttons and three pips up on each shoulder.

Some people might find him pretty impressive (including, for some unknown reason, her mum), but in Joan’s opinion, he was on the oily side. Anyway, his eyes were too close together. She wished he hadn’t taken to dropping in so often, especially not at Saturday dinnertime. He was stationed locally with the Army Catering Corps – “the wonderfully whacky world of army supplies”, as he laughingly called it. He was always explaining that he would have preferred to be with a crack commando unit, to see some real action “now the Jerry war was on the doorstep”, but unfortunately he had failed his medical on account of his eyesight.

“Just dropped by to bring in a few extras for you,” he said. “Help to eke out the rations!”

“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Mum. “We can manage, of course, but it’s a bit difficult with all these hungry people around.”

“Glad to help out any time. I’ve just come off parade. That’s why I’m all spruced up in dress uniform. Got to set a good example and all that. I won’t allow any laxity in
my
unit. I keep them up to scratch in the smartness department. And I see to it that the batman who looks after my uniform does a proper job with the spit and polish.”

“We’ve just been discussing the big charity dinner dance that’s coming up soon in aid of the Red Cross,” said Mum. “Ronnie’s doing all the catering for it.”

“It’s going to be at the golf club,” he explained nonchalantly. “I’m a friend of the chap who chairs the committee. Promises to be a pretty swish affair – Blitz allowing, that is. I’m taking your mother, as a matter of fact, and I was just wondering if you’d like to join us?”

“I’d rather not,” said Joan. “I’m not much good at ballroom dancing.”

“Oh, come on, Joanie. You’d love it,” said Mum.

Joan shot her a look.

“Is Audrey going?” she asked.

“No. Dai will be back at sea by then and she doesn’t want to dance with anyone but him. And you know how Brian feels about dances!”

“I haven’t got anything to wear!” Joan protested.

“We’ll find you something. Doreen and her brother will be there, I expect.”

Joan felt trapped. She could hardly say she was doing something else that evening when Mum knew perfectly well that she wasn’t.

“You’ll be the belle of the ball!” Ronnie laughed. “That is, if your mother doesn’t steal all the limelight.”

Joan didn’t bother to reply. She knew when she was defeated. She refused to catch Mum’s eye.
If he stays for dinner, I’m not going to be polite to him
, she thought.

But not even the pushiest guests ever invited themselves over for a meal in these days of food rationing. As Ronnie prepared to go, there was a knock at the door. Mum answered it.

Two men in army uniform, a sergeant and a corporal, were standing on the doorstep. Joan could tell by the red bands around their caps that they were military policemen.

“Sorry to disturb you,” said the sergeant, pushing his way past Mum without waiting to be invited in. He nodded to Ronnie. “We’re looking for someone. We’ve got reason to believe he might be hanging around this area. Have you seen anyone suspicious at all?”

“Why? What’s he done?” Mum asked.

“Deserter. A Polish chap. One of the refugees attached to the pioneer corps doing roadwork – digging ditches and that. Now he’s gone absent without leave and we’ve got orders to arrest him on sight.”

“I thought the Poles were meant to be on our side,” said Mum.

“He’s got no proper papers. On the loose illegally.”

“Will that mean military prison?”

The sergeant gave her a sharp look. “Yes – probably.”

“Military prison is the best place for him,” Ronnie said.

“Have you seen him?” the sergeant asked Mum. “We think he’s been hanging around here the last few nights.”

“No. I’ve been at home all morning, and there’s been nobody around here as far as I know.”

“Your husband away in the services?”

“He was. Merchant Navy. I’m a widow.”

The sergeant paused. His voice softened, but only slightly. “Sorry to hear it. Your neighbours at home?”

“Mr Roberts is probably out training with the Home Guard, but I think Mrs Roberts is at home.”

“Well, lock and bolt all your doors carefully, and if you see anything or anyone suspicious, report it immediately.”

“Yes, of course.”

The sergeant saluted Mum and Ronnie and then motioned to the corporal to leave. Mum closed the door carefully. Soon they heard them hammering at the Roberts’ front door.

“It’s a very bad show to have these undesirables on the loose,” said Ronnie. “The trouble is we’ve got too many of these European refugees and displaced persons over here now. Poles, Czechs, Jews – all sorts. A good many of them are safe and secure, interned on the Isle of Man, and a good thing too. I’m sympathetic, of course, but we’ve got to keep track of them.”

“They’ve had a terrible time, most of them,” said Mum with some spirit. “We’re fighting Hitler for what he’s doing to them. The least we can do is to take some of them in.”

“Yes, yes, of course, my dear. You’re such a sweet, soft-hearted person, I knew you’d take that view. Just don’t worry about it. Leave it to the Military Police. And you must report it right away if that deserter does show his face around here.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Just then Judy emerged from the back room, putting on her “cute little girl” act, as usual.

“Ah! Here’s my little Shirley Temple!” cried Ronnie, adjusting back to his usual jocularity. “Where have you been hiding, Judy? I’m just off, I’m afraid. But I’ve left a parcel for all of you − and there’s a special packet of sweets just for you.”

“Ooh, thanks, Captain Harper Jones.”

“Ronnie,”
he said. “I want all you children to call me Ronnie.”

“Thank you, Ronnie.”

As the front door closed behind him, Brian appeared from the back room with a hunted expression. “Has he gone?”

Mum looked suddenly weary.

“Yes, he’s gone. But I wish you could have come out to say goodbye at least, Brian.”

“Not me. Not likely! Can’t stand the bloke.”

“
I
like him,” said Judy. She had already taken control of the packet of sweets, but as Joan noticed bitterly, she wasn’t offering them around.

“Mum, why did you lie to those policemen?” Joan asked. “Why didn’t you tell them about that man who was in the garden a few nights ago?”

Mum walked off into the kitchen, saying nothing. Joan and Brian trailed after her and watched as she slammed saucepans about in the sink.

“I didn’t want to put them onto him,” she said finally. “That is, if the man they’re looking for is the same one as you saw, Joanie.”

“But they’re the police!” said Brian. “Why ever not, Mum?”

“Well, if you must know, it’s because I’ve heard about those military prisons – ‘glasshouses’, they call them. They’re very, very tough. And if you’re a foreigner of any kind in one of those places these days, heaven help you.”

“Suppose he does come back?” asked Joan.

“Then I’ll get the police onto him straight off, don’t worry. I just thought we might give him one chance to get away. The Poles are supposed to be on our side, after all. Look how bravely their airmen fought in the Battle of Britain. Now the whole of Warsaw’s been destroyed and their country’s occupied by the Nazis. For all we know, this chap may be some poor devil who’s gone on the run because he just couldn’t take it any more.”

“But, Mum—”

“That’s enough. Now come on, you two. Go and check on Judy for me. She’ll ruin her dinner if she eats all those sweets.”

CHAPTER 6

A
s soon as they had eaten midday dinner, Joan escaped, leaving Audrey to help Mum wash the dishes. She went upstairs to the landing, let down the ladder that led up to the attic and scrambled up. Hardly anyone went up there these days except her. She had managed to clear all the battered suitcases, full of moth-eaten clothes, assorted boxes of broken electrical equipment, old magazines and Christmas decorations across to one side to make room for what she liked to call her studio.

There was a skylight in the roof that let in quite a good light. She had arranged a chair and a folding table on which she had set out her watercolour paint box, pencil case, and jar that held her precious brushes – good ones, proper sable. These, together with a big art folder and a block of watercolour paper, were a gift from a neighbour who had enthusiastically taken up art lessons but soon given them up.

Joan did art at school, of course, every Friday afternoon with the highly strung Miss Burrows, who wore hand-embroidered smocks and was very keen on arranging a tasteful vase of spring flowers or autumn leaves (depending on the season) for them to paint. Most girls in the class had long since given up any serious attempt to rise to this challenge, and sat chatting at the back of the room while occasionally dabbing a bit of colour here and there. Joan made what she could of it. Art was one of the few subjects in which she regularly got an
A
. But she didn’t enjoy it much, not at school.

For Joan, the real stuff was up here in the attic. This was where she came to draw comic strips, fashion drawings, cartoons, pictures of wild imagining, as well as careful copies of illustrations in story books. She had always done art, ever since she could remember, graduating from making paper dolls with cut-out clothes to entering colouring competitions in the newspaper, which she never won.

Her hunger to make pictures had been fuelled by visits to the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool with Mum, before the war started. There were wonderful paintings in there that told a story, like the one from the Bible in which the treacherous and beautiful Delilah betrays Samson to the Philistines. And the one called “And When Did You Last See Your Father?” in which a brave little boy from a Royalist family is questioned by a stern Puritan inquisitor while his sister, guarded by a soldier, is in tears. You knew this was happening in the middle of the English Civil War and that the boy’s father was on the run, possibly even hiding in that very house. There were other good paintings, too.

Joan missed the visits terribly, but they were out of the question now, because of the war. She had to make do with old sepia postcard reproductions, some of which she had pinned up on the attic wall to inspire her. The picture of her own that she was trying to get right was one of Beauty and the Beast. She kept at it for most of the afternoon, working on the Beast’s face, which was the most interesting part. She was doing his eyes peering out from a great hairy mane and a huge jaw with jutting teeth, but she wanted to make him look a bit sad too, because he was really a prince.

As always when she was painting, Joan lost all track of time and only when the light began to fade did she realize that it must be about half past four. Hastily, she picked up her things, carefully washed her brushes, and nipped back down the ladder.

The Russell family – Doreen, her older brother, David, and their mother and father – lived quite near by but in a much more desirable house in the very best part of town. It had big wrought-iron gates, a sweeping half-circle of gravel drive, and a lot of mock-Tudor gables.

There was a separate double garage with a shiny car in it, which, unlike almost everyone else’s, was not laid up for the duration of the war but very much in use. This was because Mr Russell was doing a very important job with the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board, organizing vital supplies of food and armaments that merchant ships brought into the Liverpool docks.

The back of the house offered a wide view of the estuary, with huge skies and silvery rippling mud.
By now the coast of North Wales was fading to a dark shape and hardly visible. No lights showed from the house, of course, because of the strict blackout rules, but when Doreen answered the door and led Joan into their big front room – the lounge, they called it – it was warm and welcoming.

Mr and Mrs Russell were sitting by the fire on a big leather settee. There was a grand piano with music on it, already lit by a standard lamp, and lots of bookcases. David was balanced against the back of an armchair, reading the paper. He put it down when he saw Joan and gave her a big friendly grin. Mrs Russell sprang welcomingly to her feet.

Unlike Ross and Derek, David did not seem to suffer from spots. His skin was the smooth olive kind, and his hair had a bit of an auburn glint to it. He was fifteen, the same age as Brian, but he was in the scholarship class at the grammar school because he was hoping to get into Cambridge. Joan often saw him on his bicycle, pedalling purposefully to and from school, and he always waved. But meeting him like this in his own home was, just for a moment, a little overwhelming. She quickly turned towards Mrs Russell’s inviting smile and outstretched hand.