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  Twenty-two

  September 1939

  ‘A boy. We can’t take a boy.’

  ‘You’ll have to, Mrs Bailey. If you’d come down earlier there were several girls, but other families took them in and this one here is all that’s left.’

  ‘If I’d known, I’d never have agreed. I’m not having a boy.’

  Sarah, who had just changed out of her gardening clothes, came downstairs to find her mother gazing down horrified at a skinny little lad who looked back at her from the open door with the expression of a cornered rabbit. His mid-brown hair was cut at an angle across his forehead above a pair of bewildered hazel eyes in a pale, freckled face. The sleeves of his jacket were too short, exposing bony wrists. There was a luggage label pinned to his collar and the canvas bag lying at his feet was pitifully small. She wanted to bear him away at once to soothe and feed him, but if her mother had her way he wouldn’t get further than the doormat where he stood listening to the harassed balding man he’d come with arguing with the posh lady who wanted to send him on his way.

  ‘Please, M’am,’ the official was saying. ‘Yours is the only home left on my list.’

  The boy’s expression of frightened despair was more than Sarah could stand. She took the last few steps down to the hall and, ducking down before him, smiled and asked him his name.

  His lips moved, but no sound came.

  ‘May I see your label?’ She reached out a gentle hand. It read ‘Derek Jenkins’, but the rest of the writing was smudged, perhaps by tears.

  ‘And how old are you, Derek?’

  A whispered, ‘Nine ’alf.’

  Sarah was surprised. He appeared younger.

  Her mother and the official had stopped arguing to stare down at them. Mrs Bailey’s arms were crossed in that pose which Sarah knew from experience brooked no opposition.

  Sarah rose to her feet. ‘Mummy,’ she said fiercely. ‘You can’t turn him away. Suppose this was me or Diane?’

  ‘But it’s not, is it? It’s a boy.’

  ‘He’s a good boy, I’m sure, aren’t you, son? If handled firmly he shouldn’t give you any trouble.’ The official was sounding desperate.

  ‘I can’t look after a boy,’ Mrs Bailey whispered to Sarah, her voice pleading. ‘Not again.’

  Sarah saw with amazement that the fear of noise and naughtiness was not the reason. Her mother was anxious. And she thought she understood. A boy in the house would remind her of the one she’d lost. Peter. But this child’s need was greater than her mother’s tamped-down grief.

  ‘Will you allow us a moment, please.’ She steered her mother into the drawing room, shut the door and leaned against it.

  ‘We have to take him, Mummy, don’t you see. We’ve all got to do things we don’t want to do. He is lost without his parents. We cannot be so cruel as to turn him away.’

  ‘I would have had a girl.’

  ‘I know, but we’ve been given what we’ve been given. Father would have taken him.’ It was a cheap shot, but it worked. Her mother flushed, whether with guilt or anger, Sarah couldn’t tell.

  ‘Yes, your father would have. Whatever else he was, your father was a good man.’

  There was a silence, then Mrs Bailey tossed her proud head. ‘Very well,’ she snapped. ‘But if it all goes wrong I’m not taking the blame.’

  Sarah opened the door and followed her mother out.

  ‘Right,’ Mrs Bailey sighed. ‘We’ll take him.’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ the official repeated with obvious relief, and blew his nose. ‘Goodbye, son, behave yourself.’

  Derek didn’t even nod. He looked at his feet and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

  ‘Come along now,’ Sarah said, taking his hand. ‘I’ll introduce you to our cook, Mrs Allman. She may have a biscuit for you. I expect you’re hungry, aren’t you?’

  Derek was very shy and quiet at first and those deep-set brown eyes troubled the household. He was frightened by the tiger-skin rug with its snarling head on the floor of the drawing room, but to everyone’s surprise Mrs Bailey declared that she hated it, too, and rolled it up and gave it to Major Richards, who had always admired it.

  Derek felt the pain of separation from his mother, they could all see that, though Nora Jenkins did write every week, short notes on lined paper about how she hoped he wasn’t giving any trouble. Once, to the boy’s excitement, she came down to visit; a short, stocky woman with a palely pretty face and the same shy manner as her son. She stared round Flint Cottage in delight, and declared to him that he’d fallen on his feet here all right. She was ‘a nice woman with sensible values, though common as muck, of course,’ Mrs Bailey said to Sarah later, but Derek cried so hard after she left that it was decided that she shouldn’t come again. He’d only been with the Baileys for six weeks, though, before she came and fetched him away. Some of the other evacuee children went home, too. After all, there had been no sign of bombardment in London and what had the government been making such a fuss about?

  The story didn’t stop there, though. At the County Record Office Briony listened to the whole interview and thought how the war must have changed the course of Derek Jenkins’ life.

  Later that evening at home she felt triumphant when she found Derek’s name mentioned in one of Sarah’s letters to Paul. It was dated May 1940. The war had been going on for a whole eight or nine months and this letter had been sent to an address in Liverpool. What had Paul been doing up there?

  Twenty-three

  May 1940

  It broke Paul’s heart to pull up the flowers in the walled garden, but what else could be done? Lady Kelling and Robyn were still in residence, but Sir Henry was in London much of the time. Although the Hall had been officially earmarked as a military convalescent home, as yet it hadn’t been needed. In the meantime, instructions from the local Agriculture Committee were clear. Flowers were a luxury and cabbages and potatoes would win the war. Part of the park was to be turned over to allotments and large swathes of grassland were to be ploughed for arable.

  Sarah registered as a land girl in order to be properly paid and went away on a month’s training course, learning how to drive a tractor and to plant crops in industrial quantities. Before winter set in, it was with a mixture of sadness and professional pride that with Paul’s assistance she carved the first furrow in the lush grass around the manor house and sprinkled seed. When in the spring pale green spears began to push their way up through the rich earth, she felt only triumph. She watched over the growth constantly, looking for evidence of pests or disease, but all was well. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ Major Richards said in his usual dismissive manner.

  In the walled garden, once the snow had gone, she and Paul dug up the irises, the border lilies and the lupins, mulched the beds and, as the frosts eased, planted out carrots, cabbages, turnip, beans and potatoes, endless rows of spuds, together with a few precious onions. The fruit trees and bushes were allowed to remain; indeed more were added. Weather allowing, they, the elderly head gardener, when he was well enough, and the apprentice, Sam, worked from dawn till dusk. It was gruelling work. Sam talked on and off about joining the army, but he was still only sixteen, a tall lad whose ambitions were in danger of outgrowing his strength. Paul ordered him to build up his muscles by extra digging, which didn’t please him at all.

  From early on, Sarah noticed the disdainful expression in the boy’s eyes whenever Paul directed him. The usually even-tempered youngster was turning surly.

  ‘I told you to finish digging that bed today. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I’m goin’ as fast as I can.’ Then he muttered something.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I din’t say nothin’.’

  ‘Get on with it then.’ Paul turned back to his task and only Sarah, glancing up from her hoeing, saw the boy’s rude gesture and stared him down. She made sure she walked back to the village with him that afternoon when the light began to fail.

  ‘You’
ll land yourself in trouble, Sam, if anyone else sees you doing things like that. What is the matter with you? And don’t say “nothing”. There’s obviously something.’

  ‘I don’t like takin’ orders from ’im. It don’t seem right. He’s the enemy, in’t he? That’s what my dad say.’

  ‘Sam, he’s not the enemy. He’s German, yes, but he’s on our side. You know what the Gestapo did to his father, don’t you?’

  Sam shrugged, but his expression was still dark. ‘He’s still one of ’em, Dad say, when the chips is down.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘If the authorities are happy, Sam, I’m happy with him, too, so you’ll do best to get on with your work. It’s not for you to question.’

  It was well known locally that as an enemy alien Paul had been summoned before a tribunal, but his circumstances had attracted the lowest security rating and he was free to continue his work. Many local people went along with this, but a certain minority didn’t. As a result, Paul had to be careful where he went. He’d never made a habit of visiting the Green Dragon, but now he avoided the pub altogether, for Sam’s scowling father might be serving behind the bar.

  Sam’s behaviour improved a little after this conversation, but come the spring, as first Norway was invaded, then Denmark fell to the Nazis, the mood in the newspapers and on the wireless became more urgent.

  It was a warm April day when Sarah and Paul sat together to eat their sandwiches on an old stone bench with a view across the grounds. Twenty yards away Sam lay sprawled on the grass, one arm across his face, apparently asleep. As Sarah pulled off her jumper, she was aware of Paul’s presence close beside her, but he merely took a long draught from his water bottle, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stared into the middle distance. Then he fumbled a small object from the pocket of his jacket and held it in his long fingers.

  ‘Someone threw this at me yesterday,’ he said. It was a stone, about the size and smoothness of a pigeon’s egg.

  ‘Paul!’ she said, in horror. ‘Who?’

  ‘I didn’t see. Whoever it was must have been hiding near the river. I went to buy some cigarettes after I’d cleared up here, then I stood on the bridge for a bit having a smoke and a think and suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.’

  ‘Are you much hurt?’

  ‘No, it was the shock more than anything.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing? Perhaps it was a child messing about. Or a bird. Sometimes you hear about that, a bird flying carrying something.’

  ‘Why would a bird carry a stone? That’s crazy.’ He laughed suddenly and soon they were both laughing. Sam raised his head to stare at them, then lay down again.

  ‘I don’t belong,’ Paul said quietly. ‘That’s why. There are people who don’t want me here. I can never feel at home.’ He looked so miserable that it made Sarah angry.

  ‘You mustn’t bother about them. They don’t matter. They’re narrow-minded, petty.’

  ‘And full of fear, maybe, I know.’

  ‘Full of themselves, more like. Their own importance. Your mother isn’t being bothered, is she?’

  ‘No. Listen, I haven’t told her about this. It would be too upsetting for her.’ His voice was hoarse with anger, and really she didn’t blame him. He rarely complained, but it didn’t take much effort to imagine how it was for him, forced to leave his homeland and to come somewhere where he was resented, where he had not been able to pursue his dreams, where he was expected to be grateful, which he was, she thought, but still. Of course, everyone was making sacrifices now, but to be seen as the enemy when you were trying your best to help, that was hard.

  She watched him play with the stone, toss it from hand to hand, then he drew back his arm and threw it away down the hill. Sam leaped to his feet. They all watched it bounce out of sight. The boy looked at her and Paul in surprise.

  It hadn’t been Sam, she thought, relieved. That would have been too much to deal with.

  Behind her, Westbury Hall lay dreaming in the sunshine. Things felt in some ways as they always had done.

  The news, however, told differently. One Friday in May when Sarah went to change her books at the library in Cockley Market, she took the time to browse the full range of the week’s papers. Careless Talk Costs Lives, was one of the headlines. The article asserted that the country was full of aliens who were helping the German war effort. Why had Oslo given up the fight so easily? Because Norway was full of traitors. The same with Denmark. And it was happening here in Britain, too, the paper concluded. There were German spies posing as refugees, that was the size of it. Sarah was puzzled. She supposed there must be some truth in this. The paper wouldn’t have printed it otherwise, would it? Paul wasn’t a spy, of course, but maybe there were Germans in Britain who were. Why had Denmark and Norway given in so easily? Perhaps they had been infiltrated by secret agents; who was she to say differently?

  Paul was worried and restless, she could tell. They went to the cinema that evening to watch a film with Errol Flynn and he spoke little and was watchful of others.

  Over the following week the news from the Continent worsened. Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, all were suffering invasion, and France itself was under threat. Once Nazi forces reached the Channel it would be Britain next, people were saying. Everywhere were signs that the country was being put on high alert.

  It was on the morning of Sunday 12 May, when Sarah was waiting for the others to be ready to leave for church, that the flustered figure of Mrs Hartmann could be seen hurrying up the path. Sarah flew to the door to admit her. Barbara Hartmann’s coat was unbuttoned, her face crumpled in anguish. ‘They’ve taken Paul, they’ve taken him,’ she managed to whimper between wheezy breaths.

  Mrs Bailey, who disliked chaotic behaviour, took charge, ushering Mrs Hartmann into the drawing room and sitting her down with a tot of brandy. Eventually, the woman managed to stammer out her story. An hour ago, two policemen had arrived at Westbury Lodge. They had examined Paul’s papers, then waited while he packed an overnight case before escorting him to their car. ‘Taken away like a common criminal,’ Mrs Hartmann wailed.

  The more kindly of the officers had told her not to worry too much.

  ‘Not worry?’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know where my boy’s gone or why.’

  Sarah, sitting beside her on the sofa, grasped her fluttering hands. Diane poured tea, her nervous fingers rattling the cups on their saucers. After drinking hers, Mrs Hartmann gained strength. ‘Do you think they will hurt him?’ she enquired. ‘I know this is not Germany but these days . . .’

  ‘I’m certain they won’t hurt him,’ Mrs Bailey said, unpinning her hat because church was the last thing on anyone’s mind now. ‘Perhaps Sir Henry would be able to enlighten us, or I expect we’ll hear something on the news.’

  ‘Evelyn and Robyn are away in London or I’d have gone to them. You have always been my friends, but I’m sorry to throw myself upon you.’

  ‘There’s no need for any dramatic talk. Of course, we’ll do what we can,’ Mrs Bailey said briskly, ‘but until we find out where they’ve taken your son that is likely to be very little. I’m sure Major Richards will drive you to the police station in Cockley Market to make enquiries. And if that doesn’t work we can ask him to ring up Sir Henry in London.’

  From the police, the news and general rumour, a rough picture was assembled. The papers were full of the British Expeditionary Force’s entry into Belgium. The round-up of enemy aliens across much of Britain was, for Mr Churchill, a natural step in defence against invasion. It was German and Austrian men who’d been interned. The kinder of the two bobbies visited Mrs Hartmann during the week. Paul would have spent a night in a school at Bury St Edmunds before being moved onward, though to where he did not know. Sir Henry was telephoned and he promised to make enquiries.

  It was a full week since the arrest before anyone heard anything more, then Mrs Hartmann and Sarah both received letters from Paul on the same day. Sarah’s had been opened an
d bore the censor’s stamp, but she was pleased to see that nothing had been blacked out. The letter was written on cheap notepaper and dated 20 May.

  My dear Sarah,

  First, please be assured that I am safe and well. I am now in an internment camp near Liverpool; Huyton, it’s called. The authorities arrested us all then had nowhere to put us, so in the end they sent me up here! It’s an estate of council houses which they haven’t finished building yet, and so there are mounds of sand and stacks of bricks everywhere and the houses have no furniture or hot water. I’m sharing a very small house with a dozen other men, mostly older than me, and all as shocked and confused as I am. So we are not in the height of luxury, but it could be much worse. There are two among us who should not be here, they are in a bad condition, a Jewish dentist in his sixties with heart trouble and a boy of eighteen or nineteen who talks to himself and makes odd noises. He’s plainly off his head, if that’s the right phrase, and I believe it cruel to have put him here. He cries at night for his mother and keeps the rest of us awake.

  Don’t worry about me. I am getting enough to eat (just!) and now we have to wait and see what happens. I’ve written to Mutti and would be glad if you would keep your eyes on her. Tell Sam I don’t want to see a single weed in the kitchen garden when I get back. I hope you are able to find someone else to help with the planting, it is such a big job.

  Kind regards to you and your family. Remember me to your mother.

  Paul