by Lydia Syson
It was too late to hide. The lane was long and straight, and Victor Velvick was in no hurry. Ernest would just have to keep walking. At least the pockets of his shorts were no longer bulging. There was nothing to betray him, nothing visible. Head up, don’t look for cover.
Ernest could tell when it happened, the exact moment Victor Velvick first recognized him. His old enemy began to freewheel … click, click, click, click … the bike gliding towards him, taking its time … and then Victor started to whistle.
Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun.
Roll out the barrel, we’ve got the blues on the run.
Loud and slow. Who’d have thought a song like that could be so taunting?
He would look straight at him as he passed. He could actually say “hello,” or even “hi,” and make sure he got the first word out. It was all a matter of confidence, you see. That’s what Peggy said. Look him in the eye. Stare back. Don’t let him see you’re afraid.
I’m not afraid, thought Ernest. Why should I be afraid of you? You’re nothing to me. Nothing. Nothing.
Zing boom tarrarrel, ring out a song of good cheer.
Now’s the time to roll the barrel, for the gang’s all here.
Victor Velvick didn’t have a gang any more.
As he drew near, Ernest gave him a swift salute, hand firm and arm stiff. Though he kept his eyes firmly ahead, he was aware of Victor turning in his seat as he passed, then staring after him as the bicycle glided on. Ernest kept walking firmly forward, counting to twenty before he let himself look back over his shoulder. Victor had stopped. Feet on the ground, his gaze was still on Ernest, his expression unreadable. Then he set his pedal and the squeaking resumed.
He’d got away with it. Buoyed by the narrowness of his escape, Ernest gave the other boy a wave. It probably looked cheery enough from this distance.
42
When Ernest had gone, Henryk’s limbs began to twitch once more. He found himself gnawing at his nails, and the rushing in his head returned. He could be calm and rational and reasonable with Peggy there, and even with the boy. He had made some sense, he felt, and kept the tide of terror at bay. But then the panic always returned.
And the deluge of other memories began: all that he had seen from the air, all that he had heard. Lanes blocked with people and handcarts, mattresses piled on motorcars, baby carriages full of random possessions, and others discarded on the roadsides, worn-out people and worn-out bicycles with them. Unmilked cows groaning and staggering under the weight of their swollen udders.
In France, as you passed overhead, a steady flow of rising faces caught you in their empty gaze, a dazed indifference. Sometimes, if you flew low enough, you’d glimpse a look of confusion in a child’s eye. These were children younger far than Ernest. Henryk felt responsible for their fear. At railway stations it was worst of all: you could measure desperation like air pressure.
It was just a matter of time before England was the same. It could hardly be much longer. Henryk didn’t know whether to warn Peggy, or protect her from the knowledge of what was coming. The English could be so strangely innocent—they seemed so unprepared, as if they didn’t really believe what was happening. But if Peggy didn’t know what these invaders could do, she risked making the same mistake as his sisters.
Amazing that the news had ever reached him at all. A kind of miracle. Sometimes he wished the unsigned letter had never come. Now it lay at the bottom of his locker at the airbase, one postmark overlaying another, address after address scribbled out in the handwriting of one stranger after another.
Except they would have given up on him by now. He’d have been cleared out, another name to duck away from. It would never do to show you cared. Someone else would be sleeping in his narrow bed—or failing to sleep, more likely. Henryk felt guilty as he remembered Pikey and the picture he kept on show beside his own bed: a silver frame round an open smile and shining curls. He hardly knew her, Pikey was happy to admit, this new friend of his sister, but she liked to write from time to time, and Pikey was always optimistic that she’d be persuaded to come to a dance eventually. Pikey or Taff must have had the task of tidying up Henryk’s things. Not much to sort out: a few pairs of socks, some spare underwear, no other letters. No diary, or bible, or books.
Right now, in the dorm, somebody else’s pajamas must be neatly folded on the pillow, and perhaps their owner would return. Perhaps not. A young pilot, younger even than Henryk, and eager for action, or frightened, or both. Less experienced, without doubt, and unlikely to last as long. The new recruits were sent out before they had a chance really, scrubbed and fresh and so very English, but without half the training he had under his belt. Other than the kind they’d had from birth, that excellent training in how to hide their feelings, which even Henryk had begun to practice.
He had been the only Pole in his squadron, though others were due soon. So what would they do with that unreadable letter, in its uneducated handwriting and foreign markings? He couldn’t blame Mrs. Kosowicz for not putting her name to it. Bravery to write at all. If she had. If his guess was right. The whole thing could hardly have been easy for her. Every time she glanced up from the counter, every time the shopbell rang, to look past the loaves piled up in the plate-glass window, past the hunger on faces looking in, the hollow eyes, over the heads of the queues. And every time to see the four bodies hanging there in the square.
She’d watched each of the girls growing up, after all. Ester too, since she was always with Gizela, far tighter than a sister. Mrs. Kosowicz used to wait for them to choose their Saturday treats week after week, with never a hint of impatience. Éclairs for Anna, always. Usually chocolate, though more recently she’d tried coffee. More grown-up. Klara was more changeable, less predictable. A wafery piszinger one week, a slice of cheesecake the next. As for Gizela, she’d almost grown out of her sweet tooth. Except when it came to birthday cakes, that is, and then she could always be tempted. How many birthday cakes had Mrs. Kosowicz baked for the family over the years? Henryk didn’t want to count.
It must have been common knowledge. Perhaps Mrs. Kosowicz had witnessed everything. Perhaps that was how she knew. Or it had been whispered in the bakery, one customer to another. Maybe these things were becoming so frequent it was easy to guess. And it was easy to think how it could happen: Gizela refusing to use the pavement, while Ester was forced to walk in the road. When had Gizela ever cared about drawing attention to herself? She was always too angry to be frightened, too full of outrage to be silent. She never could stand compromise, or injustice. And so one day all three of them had been walking angrily in the road, Ester in the middle, blue star on her white armband, Gizela on one side, Klara on the other, Anna having to run to keep up with their furious strides.
They called it Łapanka. Henryk wasn’t sure of the word in English. Once it was just a playground game. Everyone running, running out of reach of the catcher, screaming with glee as they twisted out of the way.
But that first time the Nazis played the game in Cracow, Ester had not been fast enough. They had come too quickly. It happened so suddenly. Surprise! This street is blocked. And this one. Here, and over there now as well, and that alleyway too. That was how the round-ups worked, the letter said. Henryk had heard something like this from others too, just before the pilots left France.
And when every exit was cordoned off, or under guard, then it becomes simple. All they have to do is keep on moving closer.
“No! You can’t take her! You’ll have to take me too!” Gizela had screamed, dragging Ester onto the pavement. So they did. They took all four.
43
Before long Peggy was wishing she’d never let Ernest go, though she knew how selfish it was. The very next day, when they were safely out of earshot by the woodshed, he asked if he could go back to the church with her again.
“He’s interesting. I like him. And I can be your, your … what’s it called?”
Even if she did know the word
he was looking for, Peggy wasn’t going to help Ernest. She ran one hand through her hair and shook out the sawdust. It stuck to her skin, sticky with heat and effort. Damn. Should have worn a scarf like June told her to. Next time she would.
“Your alibi,” Ernest said. “I can be your alibi. Plus, if we’re together, I don’t have to answer questions about where you are. And if we take the gun …”
She looked at him. Criminals needed alibis. But they also needed to be able to trust them, completely. She still wasn’t sure if she could trust Ernest. At least she could keep an eye on him if he was with her. It was better than him sneaking off on his own.
“Pass me another log.”
Peggy thumped it down on the chopping block. She let the wood finish rocking before raising the axe above her head again, then brought it down with all her strength. The log split in two, splinters flying.
“Come on, Peggy,” said Ernest. “You asked for three reasons why I should come with you and I’ve given you …” He stopped to count on his fingers: “… four, no, five. It’s not fair. You let me come before.”
Peggy eased the axe-head out of the block, picked up the larger chunk of hawthorn, and set it back in front of her.
“I haven’t said no, have I?”
She knew exactly how annoying she was being. But she didn’t speak again until the wood in front of her was in three more pieces, and Ernest had set them in the right-sized piles.
“Well?”
“Tomorrow you can come with me. After supper. We’ll both go. If there isn’t an air raid.”
Peggy looked hard at Ernest, then gritted her teeth and kept chopping. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. She thought it would help, but instead of working out her frustration, she seemed to be working herself into a fury.
Why didn’t he …? Thunk.
Why didn’t he …? Thunk.
When would he …? Thunk.
Every blow juddered up her arms.
Perhaps he never would. Perhaps she had misinterpreted everything. Perhaps there was nothing between them at all. Stop dreaming, she told herself angrily. Forget all this nonsense. She was nothing more than a meal ticket, and it was no use expecting anything else, and she may as well take Ernest because nothing else was ever going to happen.
But oh, she couldn’t help wishing.
Peggy turned to Ernest for the next log.
“What?” she said, scowling at him. All this time he’d been talking and she hadn’t heard a word.
“How long do you think, I said.”
“How long do I think what?” Peggy replied, impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
“How long do you think we can keep Henryk in the church? He can’t stay there forever, can he?”
“No. No, of course he can’t.”
“So, don’t you think …?”
“What?” said Peggy, while Ernest squirmed.
“Well, I just thought, maybe … it might be easier if we just told—”
“No,” said Peggy very loudly, raising the axe again.
“I just meant …”
“I’m not telling anyone, and neither are you.” She stopped chopping and stared at Ernest.
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be—”
“Listen, Ernest …” Peggy tried to stay calm. Suddenly aware quite how threatening she must look, she slowly lowered her axe. No good flying off the handle. No point in trying to scare or bribe him, tempting though it was. Once Ernest got to know Henryk, he’d understand the problem better and be easier to manage, so she’d better get used to sharing him. “The thing is, you see, we can’t push him. He needs … I think he needs … I mean, wouldn’t you? Don’t you think he just needs to feel safe for a bit?”
She watched Ernest think this over.
“And then will he go back to Poland?”
Her patience was exhausted.
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. Of course he can’t. How can he possibly go back to Poland till the war is over?”
“Sorry. You don’t have to shout.”
She went back to work.
“So what will he do?” Ernest persisted. He had his back to her. He was stacking the rest of the cut wood now, taking ages to decide which section each piece belonged in, hesitating as he looked back and forth from his hand to the pile, then finding exactly the right spot for the wood to nestle, where it wouldn’t roll off, or have to balance, or leave too much of a gap.
“Oh, hurry up with the next log. We haven’t got all day.”
There was always someone waiting for something.
“What do you think he’ll do?”
She didn’t answer.
“And what about when the Germans get here? What will we do with him then?”
“How should I know?”
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Her blows were faster and more furious. The blade of the axe went slightly further into the chopping block with each one, and took slightly longer to ease out. Using the back of her wrist, Peggy wiped away the tears that kept brimming over, their salt mingling with the sweat on her face.
“What’s the matter?” said Ernest.
“Nothing. I’ve got sawdust in my eyes. That’s all. It hurts.”
Without a word, Ernest passed her the hanky he still had in his shorts pocket.
“Thanks.”
It was pretty filthy now. It didn’t smell of Dad any more. It didn’t smell of anyone in particular. She blew her nose.
“Bit of hayfever.” One excuse too many.
“Bad luck,” he said. “Oh, by the way, you haven’t seen my binoculars, have you?”
“No, not for a few days. You had them when you met Henryk, didn’t you?”
“I know, but I can’t find them now.”
“You’d better try and think back to exactly where you were when you had them last.”
“Well, that’s just it. I specially hung them up in the stables where the bikes live now, out of sight, because I didn’t want Uncle Fred or Auntie Myra to change their minds about handing them in. But maybe they have.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t do that without telling you,” she reassured him. Ernest was always losing things. The binoculars were bound to turn up. “Come on, we’ve got a lot to get through.”
She kicked a chunk towards the woodpile and rested on the axe handle, while Ernest went for the next big log. Before he could set it on the chopping block, there was a crash and a scream from the house.
Ernest ran first. Peggy had to decide what to do with the axe. She looked around, realized there was no time to hide it, thought about burying the blade in the block, and, at the last moment, took it with her.
It was quicker to run round to the front of the farmhouse.
June stood in the porch, hand over her mouth, staring with huge blank eyes at the telegram. Only the uneven squeak of the delivery boy’s bicycle could be heard, disappearing up the lane. A pudding basin lay shattered on the front step, one half a perfect break, the other in cream-colored pieces in a yellow pool of beaten egg. June began to sway, and put out a hand, bracing herself against the doorjamb.
“Quick, Ernest,” said Peggy. “Go and get Aunt Myra. She’s clearing the barn with Mum.”
Ernest looked glad to go. June turned away when Peggy approached. She put down the axe and briefly touched her cousin’s arm, but there was no response. So Peggy quietly bent and gathered up the whisk and broken china, and scuffed at the spilled egg with her foot.
“I’ll just …” she started to say, gesturing vaguely with her full hands, and then she remembered Claudette, and hurried to the kitchen. A phrase from the wireless came into her head—they always said it at the end of the news: The next of kin have been notified.
June had left the baby on the rag-rug in front of the Rayburn. She sat there, calm and straight-backed, and when she caught sight of Peggy, she beamed and put her arms up.
“Come on, you,” said Peggy, and sat her on her lap on the floor, loving the solidity of that little body against her ow
n. She bent her head and wiped a tear away on Claudette’s wispy hair, and breathed in her baby smell. She didn’t want her to see her face. She didn’t want her upset: it would be a long time before Claudette could understand any of this.
“Here!” Peggy reached over to retrieve the humming top, which had rolled out of the baby’s reach. She used to pump that screw-formed handle for Ernest when he was little. Over and over again. Now the red paint had almost come off the knob on the handle, and the wood was showing through.
She pushed it down, hard, a few times. The carousel horses on the tin body began to move, with a rising hum, resistant at first to her pressure. Then they were off, galloping into invisibility, spinning and spinning and spinning, faster and faster. The reds and blues and greens merged into a single muddy streak of color, and it sang a high-pitched moaning song that reminded Peggy of the sound of sirens coming over the Marsh from Rye.
She didn’t touch the top again. Just let it whirl itself out while they both watched, mesmerized. Slowly, the horses reappeared. The toy did a few last turns, tried to keep its balance, and tottered before toppling with a rattle onto the flagstones.
44
Haymaking wasn’t the same without the usual gang. It was just the family this year, and a couple of farmhands from a neighbor—they’d be returning the favor soon. Every so often Ernest would catch Peggy gazing in the direction of the church, as if she couldn’t help her eyes drifting, even though it was out of sight.
“What are you staring at?” she snapped, when she caught him looking at her.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, and went back to his trudging, fork in hand, engulfed in the sweet smell of hay … turning, turning, turning. And sneezing occasionally as the dust or pollen got up his nose. At least the weather was still on their side, Uncle Fred said after breakfast, jangling a few coins in his pocket as he looked up at the skies. No need to cock the hay this year.
