‘Don’t be daft! You’re my favourite gooseberry – green and hairy. Si won’t mind, he’ll be busy anyway. I just like being near him. But I can still talk to you. And you can talk to me. And we can both talk to him.’
‘Well – I suppose – OK, then. If you’re sure.’
Reuben looked at her. ‘Better not let your gran know I’m gay,’ he said, half-flippant. ‘She’ll definitely think I’m a corrupting influence if she finds that out. Homos were there in the concentration camps, weren’t they, along with gypsies and Communists and everyone else the Nazis didn’t like?’
Chapter Seven
Hello, Goodbye
4th May 1939
Mr and Mrs Thornton,
12 Shoe Lane,
Northampton
Dear Sir and Madam,
We are writing to thank you for
your very kind offer to take into
your home a refugee child. We would
like to inform you…
She did not want the train to stop at Northampton. She had got used to the other children, the ones who were left; among them Helga, who was so big and sensible that she seemed almost grown-up. Why can’t I go with Helga? she wondered. Helga knew a little English; it would be much easier if they could stay together. But the children would be split up into ones and twos, and she was to be a One. All alone in this strange country. At her sponsors’ house she would not even be able to ask for what she wanted. The only English words she knew were Hello and Goodbye, Yes and No, and thank you.
Apart from the German group, only two other people got off the train: a boy in short trousers who whistled tunelessly, and a smart woman in a belted coat. Both looked curiously at the German children, who clustered uncertainly on the platform. The guard whistled and the train pulled out, leaving space for a raw wind to slice between the station buildings. It felt much colder here than in London. The children and their attendant passed through the barrier, and a woman who seemed in charge of a group of adults waiting in the booking hall came up to introduce herself, speaking in English. After a brief conversation the attendant, who spoke both languages, took out a list of names clipped to a board. As he read out each name, a boy or girl stepped forward to be claimed. Which would be hers? she wondered, staring at the grown-ups. They all looked rather plain, she thought, drab, in their brown and grey clothes.
As her surname began with R, she was almost the last to be called. ‘Come along – you’re going with Mr and Mrs Thornton.’
Two of the remaining four adults came forward. The woman smiled and held out a hand. She was a lot older than Mutti and not nearly as pretty, in fact not pretty at all, with hair severely parted in the middle and pulled back in a bun. The man, who had a thin face and bushy eyebrows like caterpillars crawling to meet each other, looked uncomfortable, as if it hadn’t been his idea to be involved in this.
The woman leaned down and put a hand on her shoulder, then said something, crouched, and took both her hands. In spite of her scraped-back hair and her big plain face, she looked kind. Then the man held out a hand and shook hers, which seemed a very English thing to do. The man smelled of tobacco, the woman of sweet perfume. She knew nothing of them except that their name was Thornton, Mr and Mrs Thornton, and that she was going to live with them.
The only word she had understood was her own name. Sarah. Sarah Reubens.
Two days later, in the front room of 12 Shoe Lane, Sarah was writing a letter home. Mrs Thornton sat her at the table with writing paper and a pencil. The table was square, with four chairs round it, dominating the small room. It had a cloth of green velvet that was worn flat in places. At meal times, Mrs Thornton spread a checked cotton tablecloth over the velvet.
[Sarah wrote, forming the letters carefully],
Sarah could have written much more, but did not consider that Mutti and Vati deserved a proper letter. They were still at home, without her. It is not a very nice house, she could have written. It is much smaller than ours and made of ugly brick. There are rows of houses exactly the same on both sides of the street, all jammed together. The front doors open straight onto the pavement. They call the meals by funny names too. In the middle of the day we have dinner. In the evening we have tea. Tea is not just to drink, it is bread and butter and cheese and cake. I have already learned some new English words. They have given me a room to myself, but it is really Eric’s. They want me to call them Auntie and Uncle because I’m going to stay here a long time. Auntie Enid and Uncle Donald. How long am I going to stay here?
A brown box radio was playing cheerful music that made Sarah think of people dancing, men and women whirling around a crowded floor as they smiled into each other’s faces. Mutti and Vati, glad to be together, rid of her. Mutti dancing looked young and graceful, with her slim legs and her swirling skirt. Her feet in high-heeled shoes would be light and precise, moving to the pulse of the music, and everyone would turn to look at her and her partner; such good waltzers they were, so happy together. Mrs Thornton was ironing in the kitchen, humming with the music. Sarah heard the hiss and thump of the steam iron, and smelled warm cotton. It reminded her of home so strongly – being tucked up in bed between clean sheets fresh from the laundry – that her nose became tickly with tears. But she wasn’t going to cry any more. That was what Mutti and Vati wanted. They would be pleased to know she was crying and lonely in a strange country where no one could understand what she said. They would waltz on and on, free of her.
She slid down from her chair and held out her letter to Mrs Thornton to show that it was finished. Mrs Thornton, poking the nose of her iron between buttons on a shirt-front, looked in surprise at the careful writing. She stood the iron on its base, said a lot of English words, then gestured with her hands to show Sarah that she had expected more. Sarah shook her head, but pointed at the writing desk to try to show that she wanted another piece of paper.
‘All right, lovey.’
Sarah understood lovey. It was a sort of new name, and sounded nice. It was like the German Liebling.
Mrs Thornton opened the desk, which had a scroll top that rolled back to reveal shelves and drawers inside. In it there were things like balls of string, used envelopes, sharpened pencils in a glass, and bundles of letters. The writing paper was lined and rough. Sarah realized that her new aunt thought she was going to start all over again and write a much longer letter.
Sarah sat at the table, resting her feet on the rung of the chair, and picked up the pencil stub. When Mrs Thornton had gone back to her ironing, she cradled her left arm round the paper. She breathed hard as she wrote, forming each letter carefully.
Chapter Eight
Doppelgänger
Doppelgänger, n. German. Literally: double-goer .
Chambers English Dictionary
Hilly and Reuben were sitting at a corner table in Settlers, Hilly facing the mirrored back wall, Reuben opposite with his seat angled towards the counter, positioned for the best view of Saeed as he moved among the tables.
‘You can’t take your eyes off him, can you?’ Hilly said, in slight exasperation.
Reuben grinned. ‘Something in the way he moves,’ he said, misquoting one of his favourite George Harrison songs.
Hilly could see for herself that Saeed’s unselfconscious grace made every movement watchable. He was slim and fine-featured, with eyes the colour of the darkest dark chocolate, full and expressive. Every so often he would glance in Reuben’s direction, see Reuben watching him and smile his quick dazzling smile that transformed his otherwise passive face. Hilly saw this, tried not to feel left out, and envied Reuben for finding his Someone. Where’s mine, she thought, the person who’ll share little secret looks with me? No, don’t be so stupid – whoever would? She glanced behind her at the big plate-glass window, as if Someone might chance to look in at that precise moment, searching for her.
And instead she saw two of the boys who had come to the house last Saturday night: both in leathers like Grant’s, one of them cl
utching a crash helmet. It was the one called Tuck, with the swastika on his jacket, and the greasy-skinned one with the multi-pierced ear. They shoved their faces against the window, leering, and Tuck thumped on the glass; they both made obscene gestures at Saeed. They did not recognize Hilly, did not even look in her direction.
Behind the counter, Saeed pretended not to notice. Reuben sprang to his feet, but the older boys had already moved on, laughing. Hilly glanced around the bar. Saeed, manning the espresso machine and the till, was the only member of staff visible, apart from a girl who appeared occasionally from the kitchen with pizzas or baguettes; only two other tables were occupied, one of them by a middle-aged couple who had just settled themselves. Saeed busied himself with the foam nozzle and a canister of flaked chocolate, but when he carried over two cappuccinos to the new customers Hilly saw that his hands were trembling, making the heavy cups clink in their saucers. ‘Hooligans,’ said the man, shaking his head; Saeed gave a small, rueful grin. He came over to the corner table, and Reuben put a hand on his arm.
‘Do you know those morons?’ Hilly asked.
‘I’ve seen them before. They’ve been in, with some others. Late, and they stay ages making a lot of noise.’ From habit, Saeed starting clearing the cups and a torn sugar wrapper. ‘They’re enough to put other people off coming in.’
‘Leave that, Si. Sit down for a minute,’ said Reuben, pulling him towards a spare seat. ‘Do they bad-mouth you?’
Saeed met his gaze, then pulled back the chair and sat down. ‘They have ways.’
‘Ways of…?’
‘Of letting me know they think I’m scum. You know. Looks. Saying things I can’t quite hear. Saying things I can hear. Making a mess just so I’ll have to clear it up. Barging past me like I don’t exist.’
Hilly glanced at the street outside. The coffee bar was warmly lit, the furnishings and décor chosen to give the feel of the American West in the 1930s, but she thought how conspicuous Saeed must feel, on view to any passer-by. OK by day, not so comfortable at night. ‘Isn’t there anyone you can call on if there’s trouble?’ she asked him.
‘The manager’s here quite a lot of the time. Stuart. There’s Tracy in the kitchen and sometimes Doug, and there’s a panic button if things get out of hand.’
‘Stuart ought to know,’ said Hilly, reluctant to interfere. ‘If you feel vulnerable on your own.’
Saeed shook his head. ‘I’m all right. Not really on my own.’
‘Have you seen a tall guy with them – short fair hair, bright blue eyes?’ she asked.
Reuben looked at her. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Not sure,’ Saeed said, thinking. ‘I don’t exactly gaze into their eyes. Why, do you know them?’
‘My sister does.’ Hilly glanced at Reuben; she had told him about last Saturday night, though not about meeting Grant earlier this evening. ‘The tall guy’s her boyfriend. Fingers crossed it won’t last.’
‘There was a girl with them a few nights ago,’ said Saeed. ‘Last time they came in. Young, sexy – nothing like you.’
‘Thanks a lot!’
‘No, I didn’t mean—’ said Saeed, in some confusion. ‘I mean I’d never have thought she was your sister. Taller than you. Long blonde hair. Trying to act hard, I thought. The bloke she was with could be the one you’re on about. They were all over each other.’
‘I can imagine,’ Hilly said drily.
‘That’s her, then, your sister?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately. What can I say? I’m really sorry if she’s been mouthy.’
Saeed shrugged. ‘Not your fault.’
‘She’s heading for trouble. How can such a bright girl be so stupid? She’s the sort of person, my sister,’ she explained to Saeed, ‘who gets all A grades at school without seeming to do any work at all. Compared to her I’m just your average plodder. This time next year she’ll have done her GCSEs and it’ll be all A stars. Unless she decides to throw all her chances out the window, that is. Which is what she looks like doing at the moment.’
‘Looks and brains,’ said Reuben. ‘She’s lucky.’
Hilly sighed. ‘Looks, brains and mouth.’
‘I remember the guy now.’ Saeed glanced at the window. ‘He called me Mustafa.’
Hilly looked down, crumpling a sugar wrapper, recalling that earlier, by the roadside, everything she knew and disliked about Grant had gone right out of her head, in the flattering glow of his attention.
‘Si, you mustn’t put up with it,’ said Reuben. ‘Racist cretins. Promise me you’ll call the police if they come back?’
Arriving home, Hilly found her parents waiting up for Zoë. The downstairs rooms were in darkness, but the lights were on upstairs. She looked into her parents’ bedroom to say hello. Her mother was in her dressing gown, about to make a phone call; her father was still dressed, sitting on the bed with his shoes off, flicking through a colour supplement. ‘Hello, love,’ he said. ‘Had a good evening?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Hilly said curtly, not looking at him.
‘Thought you were Zoë, coming in,’ her mother said. ‘I don’t worry about you, knowing you’re with Reuben.’
‘No, I’m not likely to get in any trouble, am I?’ Hilly said, but her mother, preoccupied with Zoë, didn’t notice her spiky tone.
‘It’s gone eleven – she knows she’s supposed to be in by now.’
Her parents, Hilly knew, had been led to believe that Zoë was spending the evening with Nadine, her friend from school. ‘She’ll be all right. I wouldn’t bother waiting up.’
Her mother – caught, Hilly saw, between annoyance and anxiety – pressed a key on the handset, listened, then put down the phone. ‘Her mobile’s not switched on. She knows I’ll be trying to get her, that’s why. I’m going to ring Nadine’s parents. Can you pass me my address book, love? In my bag there, by your feet.’
‘It’s a bit late,’ Hilly said, foreseeing trouble; but her mother held out her hand. Hilly found the notebook and passed it over; she could have gone upstairs to bed at that point, but curiosity made her wait.
‘Hello, it’s Rose Craig, Zoë’s mum. I know it’s late, sorry, but I wondered if Zoë was there, or if they’ve rung you?’ She listened intently, her expression changing. ‘Oh. Oh. I see. Well, sorry again for disturbing you. Bye.’ She looked at her husband, then at Hilly. ‘Nadine’s already in bed. Zoë didn’t go out with her tonight – it’s Nadine’s grandparents’ golden wedding and they’ve had a family party at home. But Zoë wasn’t there. She lied to us!’
‘Hmm,’ said Hilly, heading for the attic stairs, but her mother called her back.
‘Do you know who she’s with?’
Oh well, Hilly thought, if she can’t cover her tracks better than this she can hardly blame me. ‘She’s got a new boyfriend,’ she said guardedly.
‘Who?’
‘No one you’d know.’
‘Have you met him?’
Hilly paused; saw both parents registering her hesitation. ‘Just briefly.’
‘And?’ prompted her father.
She shrugged, Zoë-fashion. ‘And nothing. Ask Zoë to introduce you if you’re interested.’ She turned away, hearing him call ‘Hilly!’ after her, hurt and puzzled. Fine, she thought, in spite of what she’d agreed with Reuben. Let him be hurt. Zoë isn’t the only liar in the family.
Lying awake in bed nearly an hour later, Hilly became aware of a commotion outside: revving engines, raised voices, laughter. It took her a few moments to connect the disturbance with Zoë, but then the shouting came closer and eventually the front door slammed. Hilly heard one of her parents crossing the landing. She listened for the inevitable row.
‘What time of night do you think this is?’ Dad’s voice.
‘Oh, is it late? I lost track of time.’
‘Why didn’t you let us know?’
‘Just told you, didn’t I? Didn’t realize it was late.’
Now more footsteps, and Mum joining in: ‘Shhh! Heidi
gran’s asleep, so’s Hilly. Zoë, we know you weren’t with Nadine. Where’ve you been, and who with?’
‘Friends.’ Hilly could picture the jutting chin, the haughty expression.
‘With motorbikes? Did you come home on a motorbike? There was enough noise to wake the whole street—’
‘What if I did?’
‘Zoë, we don’t ask much.’ That was Dad doing the Reasonable Parent bit. ‘Just that you let us know where you’re going and who with. And get home at the agreed time so we don’t have to sit up worrying—’
‘Oh, don’t make such a fuss! I’m not a little kid—’
‘– and we’re not happy about you getting lifts on motorbikes. You’re not to do it again, Zoë.’
‘For God’s sake why not?’
Hilly had to strain her ears to hear Mum’s next remark: ‘Have you any idea how many people kill themselves in biking accidents?’
‘No, and I couldn’t care less!’ (No effort required to hear Zoë.) ‘You’re not bothered about them either. You only want to stop me having fun!’
‘And who’s this new boyfriend?’
‘Who said anything about a new boyfriend?’
‘Shh, Zoë. Who are these friends?’
‘Just people. OK if I have friends, is it? Or would you be happier if I signed up for a nunnery?’
‘Oh, this is pointless,’ said Dad’s voice. ‘And we can’t stand here shouting on the landing. Go to bed – we’ll talk about this in the morning.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Hilly heard Zoë grumble to herself as she clomped up the wooden stairs to the attic. Taking the cop-out of pretending to be asleep, Hilly rolled over and tugged the duvet around her ears. But Zoë didn’t care whether she was asleep or not. She turned on both lights and banged her wardrobe door.
‘Thanks, thanks a lot!’ she fired at Hilly.
Hilly turned over slowly, feigning dopiness. ‘What for?’
‘Dumping me in it. Why’d you have to tell them about Grant? I thought you promised!’
‘What am I supposed to say, if you lie about going out with Nadine? All I said was you were seeing someone. I didn’t actually tell them you’re hanging round with a bunch of yobs. Where were you tonight, anyway?’
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