by Posy Lovell
She made good time, but when she arrived, Bernie’s sour-faced landlady was nasty and unhelpful.
“What are you, his fancy woman?” she said, when Ivy asked to see Bernie. She looked Ivy up and down, her nose wrinkled as though Ivy smelled bad.
“I work with him,” Ivy said firmly. “He’s my friend.”
The woman snorted. “Right.”
“Can I come in?”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
She shrugged, folding her arms. “How should I know?”
“He didn’t say he was going out, or mention where he was going?”
Ivy’s questions were obviously annoying the woman and she’d lost patience.
“I don’t know,” she said, beginning to shut the door.
Ivy stuck her foot out and, grateful for her heavy work boots, kept the woman from closing it. “Where is he?”
The woman glowered at Ivy. “Threw him out, didn’t I? He’s a bloody conchie. Despicable, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
They stared at each other for a moment and Ivy eventually, reluctantly, removed her boot from the doorstep.
“If you see him,” she began, but the door slammed shut in her face. “Tell him Ivy’s looking for him,” she finished to the wooden panel in front of her.
She felt hopeless. Where was Bernie? Despite his being more than a decade older than her, and her teacher, Ivy felt protective of Bernie. She always thought of him as being fragile. In need of a bit of looking after. She couldn’t let him wander the streets of London with no home and no job without at least checking he was all right.
She thought for a moment. Where could he go? Up to Wandsworth Common? Possible, but there were rain clouds gathering overhead. To a hotel? Did he have enough money? Where else could he go that was dry and where he wouldn’t be bothered . . .
“The library,” she muttered. “I bet he’s gone to the bloody library.”
Quick on her feet, she darted across the road and started striding up Lavender Hill toward the imposing redbrick building that housed Battersea Library. She pushed open the heavy door and dashed inside where it was quiet and still and caught her breath for a minute, looking round.
It was quiet inside. A few readers sat at tables in the center of the room, in silence. Ivy could hear her own breathing and tried to quieten it as she searched for Bernie. No, he was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, she turned to go and there, behind her, was the man she’d been looking for.
“Ivy?” he said in surprise. His arms were full of books. Books about plants, if the picture on the cover of the one on top was anything to go by. The thought of Bernie hiding out in the library, reading about flowers instead of working at Kew, broke Ivy’s heart.
She took his arm and led him a little way away from the readers in the center and the librarian.
“Why are you here?” he whispered.
“To see you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because Mac told me what happened, and I went to your digs and your landlady said she’d thrown you out, too.”
Bernie went pale. “You spoke to Mac?”
“I did.” She clutched his hand. “He’s sorry, Bernie. He knows he went off on one. He said it was more to do with him than it was you.”
Hope flared, just a tiny bit, in Bernie’s eyes and Ivy’s heart broke all over again.
“Can I come back?” he said. “To Kew?”
Slowly, Ivy shook her head.
“ ’Fraid not,” she said.
“But if Mac’s sorry?”
“He reported you, Bernie. They’ll be coming to find you.”
Bernie dropped the pile of books he was holding with a clatter. The readers and the librarian all looked up, and the librarian frowned.
“Sorry,” Ivy said in a loud whisper. “Sorry.”
She steered Bernie to a chair and he sat down with a thump as Ivy bent down to pick up the books.
“What will I do?” Bernie said under his breath, over and over, as Ivy collected the heavy tomes that were scattered around her. “What will I do?”
Ivy was still on the floor. She reached up and put the last book on the table beside Bernie, then got to her feet.
“Looks like you’ll go and fight,” she said.
If Bernie was pale before, he looked positively ashen now.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t take a gun and use it against other men. Human beings. Boys younger than the ones I used to teach. I can’t do it, Ivy.”
“Then go back to St. Richard’s. They won’t make you fight if you’re teaching.”
Bernie closed his eyes.
“I fear I burned all my bridges when I had my troubles,” he said. “It’s a small world, that of teaching, and there’s not a school in the country would have me back now. And rightly so.” He lifted his hands and showed them to Ivy. They were shaking vigorously. He tucked them back into his lap, trying to control the shaking. “This is how I react when I just think about going back into a classroom. Imagine how I’d cope with a roomful of twenty or thirty boys?”
Overwhelmed with sympathy, Ivy perched on the side of Bernie’s chair and put her arm round his shoulders.
“There, there,” she said. “We’ll sort it out, don’t you worry. We just need to find somewhere for you to go, while we come up with a plan. Somewhere no one will know to look.”
The librarian looked over at them and made a loud “ahem” as she saw them so close together. Ivy got up again. She was at a loss. She couldn’t take Bernie home, because there was just no room. Same went for Jim’s house. And she could hardly ask Louisa to hide him.
She opened her mouth to ask if Bernie had any friends who might help, knowing the answer would be no, but her speech was drowned out by the sound of nearby church bells tolling.
“Funeral,” said Bernie, slumping down farther in his chair. “Suits my mood.”
But the noise awoke a memory for Ivy, and despite the somber sound she suddenly felt more positive.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Come on.”
Obediently, Bernie followed her out of the library, leaving the botany books strewn across the table, much to the librarian’s annoyance. He had all his possessions—which wasn’t much—in two canvas bags. Ivy carried one and Bernie the other, as they made their way back to Kew.
“I don’t like this,” Bernie kept saying. “I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.”
But Ivy didn’t want to say anything until she knew if she could pull this off. She couldn’t bear to see hope in Bernie’s eyes again.
When they got to Kew Green, Ivy got Bernie to sit down on a bench across from the gates to the Gardens.
“Stay here for a little while,” she said. “I’ve just got to check something.”
She dashed off in the opposite direction to the Gardens, toward St. Anne’s Church. She paused for a moment at the entrance to the churchyard, next to the imposing stone pillars, steeling herself.
“Come on, Ivy,” she said out loud. “You’ve got this.”
With a burst of determination, she ducked inside the graveyard and followed the path round to the back of the church. And there, just as she’d remembered, were three stone steps leading down to a wooden door.
Crossing her fingers, Ivy jumped down the steps and tried the door. It was locked. But she reached up and felt along the top of the frame and gasped in relief as her fingers closed round a large iron key.
She stuck it into the hole and, using both hands, started to unlock the door. It was stiff and heavy, but the metal handle eventually turned and she could push open the entrance. It creaked loudly as she shoved it, sending shivers down her spine.
“You’re lucky I love you, Bernie,” she muttered, peeri
ng into the gloom behind the door. As her eyes adjusted she could see more steps leading downward into the crypt of the church. No one used it anymore. Everyone had their funerals up in the churchyard now, instead of down in the depths. As far as Ivy knew, no one ever came down there. And that was why it was so perfect.
She took a deep breath, building up her courage, and then crept down the steps to the bottom. So far, so good. She crouched down and felt with her hands round the side of the stairs and there, just as she’d hoped, was a bundle of candles and some matches.
“Thank bloody God,” she breathed. Obviously no one had been down there for years. Well, not since that night . . .
She shook her head. Now was not the time to get lost in memories. She had to get Bernie. She left the candles where they were and bounded back up the stairs, pulling the door to behind her but not locking it. She retraced her steps round the churchyard and found Bernie where she’d left him, anxiously watching the gates of Kew in case he spotted anyone familiar.
“Quickly,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Once again not questioning her, Bernie got up and followed Ivy into the churchyard once more.
“Round here,” she said. “Come on.”
She led the way to the back of the church and down the stone steps, pulling the key from the lock as she went.
“What is this place?” Bernie said, pausing at the top and looking alarmed.
“It’s somewhere safe.”
She felt for a candle and lit it. As the light flared, she saw Bernie’s frightened face looking down.
“It’s fine,” she reassured him. “Come down.”
Cautiously, Bernie descended the stairs.
“It’s a crypt,” he said, half-scared, half-interested.
“It’s somewhere you can stay.”
“Really?”
“No one ever comes down here,” Ivy said. “You can stay here for a few days. A couple of weeks, even. While we come up with a new plan to get you out of enlisting. You can lock the door behind me when I go and then you’ll be sure no one will bother you. And if you’re careful, you can have a wander in the churchyard when you want some fresh air. Just don’t let anyone see you.”
“What about food?”
Ivy had thought of that. “I’ll bring you veg and that from the Gardens. I’ll tell Jim. He’ll help us.”
Bernie looked astonished. “Jim’s not on my side. He said—”
“I know what he said, but he’ll be fine. He was just upset for Mac, is all. I’ll talk to him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“But you could get into trouble yourself.”
Ivy shrugged.
“Not for the first time,” she said. “I don’t think you should have to go and fight if you don’t believe in war, Bernie. I want to help.”
She paused. “Maybe we could even carry on our lessons. If you wouldn’t mind?”
Bernie smiled. It was the first time Ivy had seen him smile since she’d found him in the library, and the sight pleased her.
“I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“Good, then that’s settled.”
She looked round. The crypt was just as she remembered. Stone floor and vaulted ceiling. Several large tombs on either side of a main walkway, and some smaller ones at the end. It was creepy, that was sure, but it was quiet and dry and no one would ever know he was there.
“I’ll find you some blankets and you can make yourself a little sleeping area,” she said. “I’ll bring down books for you and something to eat and drink. If you need the toilet, go outside.”
“How did you know this place existed?” Bernie looked curious.
“Oh, some women I used to know used it for a while,” Ivy said, deliberately vague. “We left some bits and pieces down here.”
Bernie frowned, but to Ivy’s relief, he didn’t pursue it.
“It’s spooky,” he said. “All these dead people.”
Ivy nodded.
“At least you know they won’t hurt you,” she said. “Unlike the living.”
Chapter 14
July 1916
It was strange, Bernie thought, how quickly the new and strange became the everyday. He’d never imagined for one moment that he’d still be spending his nights in the crypt at St. Anne’s months after Ivy suggested it, but there he was.
And though it wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d stayed, and he was lonely on occasion, and still scared about what his future held—Lord knew he couldn’t stay down there forever—he was, surprisingly, fine.
He had made the crypt his own. At the far end, behind the tomb in memory of the church’s first reverend, he had his “bedroom.” Ivy and Jim had brought blankets and pillows for him to use. To Bernie’s relief, Ivy had been right and Jim wasn’t as hostile as he’d worried he might be. Ivy had obviously had a word and explained Bernie’s point of view and Jim, who was such a good young man, was now supporting Bernie in his hiding place, helping make it feel like home. He was, Bernie thought with a flush of shame, more comfortable there than he’d be in a trench.
To the side, was a long, low memorial to a former dignitary from Kew and his long-deceased wife. That had become Bernie’s kitchen. He kept the food Ivy and Jim brought him there. It was mostly fruit and vegetables, but sometimes they brought bread or some cooked chicken or leftover meat from dinner, if they could get it. The good thing about it now being summer was the fruit and veg from Kew was in bountiful supply; he wasn’t going hungry.
He was, however, rather bored. Ivy, bless her, had brought him a mismatched selection of books that she’d gathered from who knew where. But he found he missed the Gardens. He was longing to feel the sun on his face and the earth in his hands.
He’d been getting bolder each day, staying out in the churchyard for longer and longer instead of dashing out each morning and evening to relieve himself. And the other day, he’d noticed the graves at the back of the grounds were overgrown and unloved. That had given him an idea. He’d asked Ivy to bring him gloves, a trowel, and some secateurs and she’d agreed—after a fair amount of persuasion.
“It’s risky, Bernie,” she’d said. “What if someone sees you?”
“I really can’t imagine anyone will. But if they do, I’ll say I’m just helping out. They won’t know I’m living here.”
She’d pulled a face, but she’d brought the things he’d asked for. And now he was going to go outside and start tending the graves.
He had a routine now when he left the safety of the crypt. He’d open the door just a bit and listen carefully, checking he couldn’t hear voices or footsteps. Not many people came back this far, but occasionally someone came to visit an old grave or a child ran away from its parents. If all was quiet then he would carefully climb the few steps up to the path, keeping crouched down lower than the wall so if someone came around the corner he’d not be seen. And then he would nip out and casually saunter along, his hat dipped low over his face, as though he was just out for a walk.
Today he did the same, heading right to the very back of the church where the unkept graves sat in wonky rows. Bernie stood for a second, enjoying the sensation of the sun on his skin, and decided to start on the stone at the far end. He couldn’t read the inscription, because the weeds had grown up so far that they hid the writing.
Nodding in satisfaction, he pulled out his secateurs and went to work.
It took a long time to cut back all the brambles, weeds and tangled tendrils that were looped over the gravestone, but he managed. Wiping his brow, he stood back to admire his handiwork and jumped in shock as a voice said: “Relative of yours?”
Bernie turned. Behind him stood a vicar, an elderly man with graying hair and a faded cassock.
“So sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. “I just wondered wha
t you were doing. No one has been in this part of the churchyard for a long time.”
Bernie swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I saw the graves a few days ago and felt bad that they were so overgrown,” he said. “I like gardening so I thought I could help tidy them up.”
“What a lovely gesture,” the vicar said. “I’m grateful.”
He made to walk along the path, but Bernie stopped him.
“Would it be all right with you if I carried on?” he said. “I’d like to clear this whole area, if I can. I can perhaps plant some flowers, too, to give it some color? And find something that will bloom in autumn so it’s not too gloomy.”
He realized he was talking too much and shut his mouth with a snap. But the vicar was smiling.
“I think that would be more than all right,” he said. “Thank you . . . ?”
Bernie smiled back, before understanding he was asking for his name.
“Bernard,” he said, and then caught himself. He shouldn’t give out his real name, because what if word got back to Kew that there was a chap tending the church garden and someone put two and two together? He cast around for a solution and read a name on a nearby grave.
“Paul,” he blurted. “Paul Bernard.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bernard.”
“Paul is fine,” he said. His heart was beating faster and he thought he must look shifty, but the vicar showed no sign of suspicion.
“I’m Reverend Miller,” he said simply. “I’ll let you get on.”
Bernie watched him go, then sank down on to the grass beside the graves, weak with relief. Ivy was right, it was risky him spending so much time outside. Perhaps he should go back in? Although he had a cover story now. And he was feeling so much better now that he was digging and pruning and weeding. With his hands busy he found he didn’t have time to brood on the harsh words Mac had said or think about how Louisa, who he’d thought a friend, had betrayed him. Yes, he decided. For the sake of his sanity, he’d stay out just a little bit longer.
