‘Missing? How can Alice be missing?’
‘Apparently, she disappeared shortly after you left. Mrs Markham was upstairs changing her clothes and when she came downstairs Alice was nowhere to be seen. Mrs Markham was quite beside herself. I actually think the poor woman ought not to have been on her own.’
‘How would I know where Alice is?’
‘You were looking after her today.’ June’s tone is accusatory.
‘Until her parents got home! I left her with her mother!’ Fran stops, suddenly, remembering that in fact she left Alice alone in the drawing room.
‘Did she say anything odd? Anything to suggest she might run away?’
‘Of course not! I would have—’
‘What about games? Perhaps hide-and-seek might have given her the idea for a secret hiding place.’ Her mother this time, more placatory.
‘We didn’t play hide-and-seek. She doesn’t like it. We did jigsaws and dressed up some of her dolls… It’s an awfully large house.’ Fran swallows. ‘She must be there somewhere!’
‘Mrs Markham said she had looked everywhere. And spoken to the neighbours. For some reason their French windows were left open, so she thinks the child might have ventured outside. Coming here was a last resort, just in case you could shed any light.’ Her mother throws a glance at June. They have obviously been talking about what Fran might know. Where she might have been all this time.
‘I can’t help! I have no idea where Alice is.’ An ache is swelling in her throat. Alice roaming around the garden, searching for a place to disappear is unimaginable. The child hated to be alone for even five minutes. Why did she leave before Mrs Markham was ready? It now seems inexplicable, although at the time it had felt perfectly natural. She can even picture Alice on the rug, busy with the puzzle, her blond hair a halo in the firelight. There was not the slightest inkling the world might implode two minutes later.
She turns to her mother anxiously. ‘What on earth can have happened?’
The question hovers. Her mother and June exchange another look. Their mother’s hair is swan-white, her complexion ashen and etched with fine lines that suddenly appear deeper and more plentiful than usual.
‘What is it?’ Fran demands. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
There’s a pause.
Her mother opens her mouth, but June speaks first. ‘Earlier this evening that German prisoner was seen near the Markhams’ house.’
Fran’s heart seems to stop. ‘Which German prisoner?’
‘The one who came here at Christmas. The one you liked.’ The barb is unmistakable.
‘What are you suggesting? That he abducted Alice? But that’s impossible!’
‘Impossible? Why is it impossible?’
Fran can’t answer. Her pulse now is racing, the blood pounding in her ears with an awful, private thunder.
Her mother says, ‘One of the Markhams’ neighbours said he was lingering near the gate shortly before Alice went missing, and nobody has seen him or Alice since. We mustn’t jump to conclusions but—’
‘He didn’t take her!’
June is watching her carefully. ‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because he wouldn’t!’ Because he was with me, she wants to say. Kissing me, loving me on the beach. Telling me that our only chance to be together is for him to run away. Instead she says, ‘You’ve met him yourself! How could you possibly believe he would snatch a seven-year-old child?’
‘The police must be dreadfully stupid, don’t you think? If everyone else can tell who the criminals are by simply looking at them!’
Fran glares at her.
Their mother interjects. ‘Stop it! Arguing won’t help anyone. A soldier from the camp called round, Fran. Just before you got back. There’s a meeting at the public house to organise a search party. I’d better stay with your father, but you should both go and see if you can lend a hand.’
‘I’m ready.’ Fran begins to button up her coat again. Her heart feels sick and heavy, like something ill or wounded that she can barely carry. Why hadn’t she waited for Mrs Markham? It would only have been another ten minutes. Now Alice is missing, and Thomas might take the blame. Another thought stops her breath. If Alice isn’t found and Thomas disappears, June won’t be the only person in the village to connect the two events.
She jumps. Her mother has stepped forwards to do up her last button. ‘Try not to worry, dear. Alice may have fallen asleep under a bush or locked herself in an outhouse. The sooner she’s found the better, of course, but children do all sorts of odd things.’
Fran turns to leave. She ought, she supposes, to linger while her sister fetches an overcoat. Then she hears June say from behind, ‘Not that odd. Children don’t just disappear.’ And Fran decides not to wait for her after all.
* * *
The public house is a mixture of familiar and unfamiliar faces. Only those closest to the bar are supping pints, the rest are standing with their hands in their pockets looking about anxiously. Villagers are pressed alongside soldiers while in the furthest corner a knot of German prisoners are whispering, heads bent, amongst themselves. Although there is no sign of Major or Mrs Markham, the sense of urgency is palpable from the shuffling feet and agitated nature of the conversations. A coldness on the back of her hand makes Fran jump. Someone appears to have brought a Labrador. Is he to take part in the search as well? She recalls how sniffer dogs are used to hunt for missing persons, and a horrible taste spreads through the back of her throat.
‘Can I have your attention?’
The words make little impression on the gathering.
‘Can I have your attention!’ Not a question this time and accompanied by the scrape of chair legs. A second later the bespectacled face of Captain Holmes appears above the vantage point of a table, the faces in the room tilt upwards and very gradually a hush descends. Captain Holmes holds out his arms. ‘Now as I’m sure you are all aware, a little girl called Alice Markham disappeared this evening—’
‘Poor little mite!’ The murmur in Fran’s ear comes from a woman with a headscarf tied under her chin whom Fran recognises from the church.
‘She’s been missing for nearly three hours and the weather is deteriorating, so speed is of the essence. Please pay attention, I’m going to divide everyone into groups of six. Half of the groups should focus their efforts on the area between here and the Markhams’ home, and the others on the area further west. We need to check very thoroughly all the places a little girl might hide: sheds, stables, that sort of thing. Knock on people’s doors and ask if they’ve seen her, or anyone’ – he snags awkwardly – ‘anyone they don’t know, particularly someone acting suspiciously.’
The temperature in the pub dips slightly, and into the silence rain begins to patter, brittle gusts rapping on the roof tiles, as if the downpour has been timed deliberately to coincide with Captain Holmes’s address.
‘What’s she wearing?’ Someone shouts.
‘I… I don’t know.’ The captain casts around the room.
‘A pinafore dress,’ Fran says, her voice quavering. ‘Alice is wearing a red pinafore dress and a knitted Fair Isle cardigan.’
‘Nobody can hear you.’ The woman in the scarf yanks a chair from under a table. ‘Stand on this, dear. Try again.’
Fran hesitates, then clambers upwards. Suddenly, the whole room is visible and also reduced in size. From her new height it’s evident there are fewer villagers than she previously thought, while the squares of night pressing at the windows seem blacker, more intimidating, the oasis of the pub more fragile. In the corner she catches sight of Thomas with the other prisoners. His eyes meet hers like the strike of a match.
‘A pinafore dress!’ she yells. ‘Alice is wearing a red dress and a patterned cardigan!’
There’s a murmuring accord. Captain Holmes begins to count, sorting men and women into groups as he does so, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six – you together over there. One, two, three…’
The bustling stops.
The man who has spoken pivots on his bar stool.
Fran shivers as if an outside door has been opened. Although his features are familiar, it’s the set of his shoulders and the pint glass in his hand that immediately conjure up the darkened alley, the beer bottle rattling on the stones, the swinging fist and Martin pressed, helpless, against the wall.
Thick black eyebrows pinch to a frown. ‘You won’t find the girl hiding in a shed. Someone’s taken her. And that someone is a German! A bloody Kraut who should never have been allowed out. Who should be locked up like the Hitler dog he is. Alice Markham isn’t lost. Either she’s been locked up herself or…’ – he swigs his beer, swipes a hand across his lips – ‘she’s dead already.’
All of the room gasps.
Fran watches incredulity and anger ripple across the villagers’ faces. Mr Graveling, the publican, leans over the beer taps and murmurs something to the village smithy. In the corner the prisoners cluster together more tightly. Thomas is translating for the smaller, slight man beside him. It is Reiner, she realises, as she sees his face fill with astonished horror, and he gapes in bewilderment towards the bar.
Captain Holmes bangs together his hands. ‘What nonsense! What dangerous nonsense! There’s no reason to believe anyone has taken Alice.’ He gestures towards the huddled figures. ‘These prisoners aren’t brutes or dogs, but men who have volunteered to search for the missing girl!’
The man at the bar levers himself off his stool. ‘Dangerous nonsense? Is that so? I’ll tell you what’s dangerous. In fact, I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you who’s dangerous, because he’s here. Standing among us. Hiding in plain sight.’
A pause.
An inhale.
‘Right there!’ As he flings out an arm, a surge of beer cascades over the glass and splashes onto the floor. ‘That piece of scum was seen hanging about the Markhams’ house. Hiding in the trees. What business could he possibly have there on a Friday night? None – except the cravings of an evil Kraut!’
Scrabbling and jostling break out as the villagers attempt to follow the pointed finger, but Fran can see without needing to move or whisper to her neighbour how the arc of hate rises and falls on Thomas with the certainty of a spotlight. He must sense the accusation because his eyes widen in shock. Fran tries to find his gaze, but he avoids the contact and looks away. He wants to protect me, she guesses, and as she thinks it, the crowd seems to close in and take one step nearer the prisoners’ corner.
Near the door, June has slipped into the throng. And behind June is Martin. A late arrival, he is holding his hat in front of him, casting his attention left, then right, as if trying to make sense of the scene. The sight of him, tall and steadfast, gives Fran courage. ‘It’s not true!’ she cries. ‘The prisoner didn’t take Alice. I know it’s not true!’
Heads swing in her direction. Mrs Reynolds, the owner of the village shop, smiles encouragingly. Fran heaves a breath. The room swims. What can she say? The only explanation she can give is like a badly built bridge, an old and crumbling bridge, that will collapse the moment she steps on the planks.
She’s still frozen with indecision when June interjects. ‘Have you found the photograph yet?’ she says loudly. ‘The one the prisoner carries in his pocket. It’s a picture of a little girl. I’ve seen it myself.’
A buzz, a static, seems to suck the oxygen from the air.
‘What’s this about a photograph?’ Captain Holmes sounds flabbergasted.
Fran gapes at June. ‘The picture is of his sister. You know that. Thomas told us at Christmas…’
‘That’s what he told us…’
Captain Holmes interrupts them. ‘Do you have a photograph?’ he says to Thomas.
‘Yes, but only of my sister…’
‘I think we’d better have a look.’
Slowly, Thomas reaches inside his coat. The crowd appears to be holding its breath. He extracts his hand. ‘This is my sister. Her name is Gisela.’
As Captain Holmes studies the image a curtain seems to fall across his face. Reluctantly, he holds the photograph aloft.
There’s a stunned hush.
Fran is rooted to the chair.
The picture is the one that fell from his pocket in the alley. The one he showed her family at Christmas. Yet from a distance there’s no denying the likeness with Alice: the white-blond hair, the tentative smile, the combination of innocent self-possession and shyness. Fran is amazed she never saw the similarity between the two girls before.
A man close by says in a shocked tone, ‘It’s Major Markham’s daughter herself!’
Fran shakes her head fiercely. ‘That picture is not Alice,’ she shouts. ‘It’s the prisoner’s sister!’
‘How do you know?’ A voice asks.
‘He told me!’
Someone sniggers.
Somebody else says, ‘If she’s the prisoner’s sister, why is she so much younger than him?’
There’s a muttering of accord. As the photograph is passed around, questions are grabbed and tossed from one person to the next.
‘The child is only seven or eight!’
‘The same age as Alice Markham!’
‘She is Alice Markham, I’m sure of it!’
Anger wheels about Fran’s head, thickening and multiplying and impossible to catch.
Bottle-man’s voice rises above the crowd. The photograph has made its way to him and he sweeps the image around the room. ‘The Kraut was seen outside the Markhams’ house minutes before the child went missing. And he was carrying her picture! You surely can’t believe this is a coincidence? We don’t need to send out search parties to look for Alice Markham, do we? We know who took her. And since he’s standing right here, he can tell us where she is!’
A growl of assent rears up on itself, like a wave about to break. Fran turns to Captain Holmes, but his eyes are full of doubt. As if in slow motion, he looks towards the waiting volunteers, then back to the prisoners. The command to bar the door, to detain, to arrest, is visible, hovering, on his lips.
And still, Thomas won’t look at her. His gaze is everywhere and nowhere, his mouth clamped shut. He will risk prison, she realises suddenly. Or worse. He will let them accuse him of taking Alice Markham simply to keep me safe. The insight is both a gift, the truest declaration of his love, and the heaviest of responsibilities because the decision what to do, what will happen next, rests with her alone.
A hand plucks her skirt. ‘You can come down now, dear.’
Fran sways with indecision.
The rain is falling harder, beating against the pub’s old walls, pressing the building into submission. She imagines the deluge filling the rivers, the marsh, the sea, in an unstoppable cycle. Slowly, she grasps the back of the chair, bends her knees and begins to drop towards the floor.
Captain Holmes clears his throat.
As her fingers encircle the wooden chairback, Fran spots sand under her fingernails, tiny flecks of black and gold, the glittering dust of that other world, dance in front of her eyes. I was with him are all the words she has to utter. When Alice went missing, we were together at the beach.
Straightening her legs, she lifts her chin. The faces of Thomas, Martin and June float before her. The man at the bar and the villagers are watching her too. Captain Holmes doesn’t really believe Thomas is guilty, Fran guesses, he wants me to tell him something different. Well, in that case she will oblige. Loudly, she says, ‘I have something to say!’
The door to the pub flies open. Rain, wind and cold snatch everyone’s attention and in the entrance stands Vivian Markham, her cheeks wet and pinched, her hair in clumps. ‘Please, I need your help! Alice is with my husband. I think he’s taken her onto the beach.’
There’s a
collective blink.
The room quivers with confusion.
A second, two seconds, pass, as though to test the major’s wife really is standing on the threshold. She’s dazzling, Fran thinks with wonder. Dishevelled, damp and clearly in distress, Vivian Markham nevertheless possesses an undefinable air. No longer a romantic one, perhaps, rather a tougher type of beauty altogether.
Martin is the first to step forward. ‘If Alice is with Major Markham, I don’t understand the urgency.’ He glances through the doorway into the lightless void beyond. ‘Of course, it’s turned into a filthy night, but I imagine…’
‘You don’t understand.’ Viv touches her forehead, as if the effort of making anyone understand her is physically painful. ‘My husband, Major Markham, is not well…’
There’s an interruption from the bar, ‘How can you be sure the child is with her father? A prisoner was seen—’
‘I’m quite certain. A girl from the camp telephoned. She told me that Toby came into the office to sign some papers. As he was leaving, Alice appeared.’
‘Then surely…’ Martin murmurs.
‘Apparently he said something about the beach. The girl, Daisy, reminded him the beach was shut off, but my husband took no notice. She said, he seemed’ – Viv swallows – ‘he seemed upset.’
Fran lowers herself into a sitting position. The relief for Thomas, for herself, is so sudden and acute she feels faint. Yet at the same time there’s something about Mrs Markham’s panicky appearance she doesn’t quite understand.
Martin sounds perplexed too. ‘Then they may be home again already. Or back at the camp, perhaps?’
‘I’ve just been to the camp. His office is empty.’
‘Well, presumably they will go for a walk, get a little wet and come home later?’
‘No! At least, he may… he might…’
‘What? Stay out too long?’
Viv stares at Martin. Her eyes held wide. Then she snaps. Her lids drop. Her shoulders shake. ‘His gun is missing.’
Martin swallows, coughs. ‘But you surely can’t think he would use it on himself or Alice?’
The English Girl: A heartbreaking and beautiful World War 2 historical novel Page 26
