by Pam Weaver
The nurse walked down the centre of the ward with a large hand bell and rang it loudly.
Ruby stood up. ‘Have you any idea where Eric might be?’
Lena shook her head.
‘Why would he run away?’
‘He’s scared he’ll end up back in prison.’
‘Prison?’ gasped Ruby. ‘Why?’
The nurse touched her arm. ‘Visiting time is over now,’ she said brusquely. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
Ruby gathered her things and gave Lena a kiss on her cheek. ‘Try not to worry,’ she said, but as she walked down the ward, she knew they were both worried sick.
There was a real draught in this room. Even though the window was closed, the curtain moved. Ruby was sitting in the room that Jim called his office. This was the first time she’d spent any length of time in it.
Curious about the draught, Ruby pulled the curtain back. To her great surprise, she found Jim’s Contax camera mounted on a bracket on the wall. It wasn’t a very good job, so Ruby guessed Jim must have done it himself. The camera had a wire fixed to the shutter button, which hung down level with the chair. Jim had placed it on the wall so that the lens of the camera was facing the street. He must have been taking pictures of people coming or going from the house. But why?
When she took it down, a blast of cold air came into the room, so for now she stuffed the holes up with screwed-up newspaper, but she would have to get a builder in to do the job properly.
She examined the camera. It normally took twelve pictures. There were five frames left on the film. She would get them developed in the morning. Who could be on it?
CHAPTER 31
Bea and Rex were glued to the radio. Their maid hovered in the doorway and the rest of the family sat around, listening hard. On September 30th, 1938, at Heston Aerodrome on the borders of Heston and Cranford in Middlesex, a Lockheed 14 aircraft, number G-AFGN, had just touched down after a flight from Munich airport. According to Richard Dimbleby, an up-and-coming BBC reporter, the pilot was Victor Flowerday, who had now gained entry into the hall of fame because one of his passengers was none other than the British Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. The whole country had been on tenterhooks as Chamberlain, worried by the massive build-up of German fortifications in the Rhineland and by Hitler’s declared intention for expansion in Europe, had made no fewer than three trips to Germany in two weeks, in the interests of peace.
The family knew what was coming. It had been on the radio all day, but hearing it said by the man himself made this a momentous occasion, and one not to be missed. Percy and Rachel had motored over from Shoreham, picking up Ruby and the two children on the way. Jean was still staying with Ruby, because Lena had picked up a serious infection after her accident and, although she was gradually improving, she was still in hospital. The two older children were playing in May’s bedroom, while Michael lay on the mat in front of the fire having a good kick with his legs. Having enjoyed a lovely meal, the adults gathered around the radio. This was a moment of history and they all knew it.
Richard Dimbleby described the occasion so well that they felt as if they were witnessing it with their own eyes. As the plane touched down, they could almost see the crowds pushing good-naturedly through the police cordon, and the flags hanging from every house surrounding the airport. The weather wasn’t good. It had been raining, but as Neville Chamberlain appeared at the door of the aircraft, men took off their hats and waved them as everybody cheered.
As soon as he stepped down, the Prime Minister was given a letter from the King. There was no time to read it. The crowd, and indeed everyone in the country, held their collective breaths to hear his voice.
‘The settlement of the Czechoslovakian problem . . . has now been achieved,’ Chamberlain said. ‘This morning I had another talk with the German Chancellor, Herr Hitler, and here is the paper which bears his name upon it as well as mine.’ Richard Dimbleby told his listeners that Chamberlain was waving the white sheet of paper above his head, as everyone cheered. ‘We regard the agreement signed last night,’ the Prime Minister went on, ‘as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again . . . My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time.’
Somewhere in the distance someone called, ‘Three cheers for Neville’, and the crowd roared its response.
The family listened for a while longer, but the excitement had already worn off. Everyone was so relieved. The preparations for, and the prospect of, war had rested heavily on everyone’s shoulders, although for the sake of one another they had each kept that particular burden to themselves. The only person unconvinced by events was Rachel. There might be peace between the British and German peoples, but the rest of Europe was still in turmoil.
‘Is this an end to the APR women’s section?’ Ruby asked. ‘I was looking forward to my driving lessons.’
‘You can still have them, darling,’ said Bea, ‘and no, I don’t think the Women’s Voluntary Service will end. The evacuation has only been postponed, for now. As for everything else, we’re being told to carry on regardless.’
‘So it’s not lasting peace,’ said Percy.
Rex took a cigarette from the box on the table in front of him. ‘It’s peace for now,’ he said sagely.
Jean came into the room asking if she could have a sweetie. Ruby shook her head. ‘Not now, sweetheart. Sweeties are on Saturday. Remember?’
The child pouted a little and went back upstairs to play again. The adults gave each other a knowing smile.
‘What’s happened to her father?’ Rex asked. ‘Did he ever turn up?’
Ruby shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’
‘What is the man up to?’ said Rex. ‘Do you think he had anything to do with the girl falling in front of the car?’
‘I should hardly think so,’ said Ruby. ‘He adores her.’
‘Then how come he’s deserted both his wife and his daughter?’ Rex said drily.
Ruby couldn’t answer that one.
A couple of days later Imogen came over to see Ruby. After the accident, Ambrose had taken her to Paris for a relaxing holiday and now she was back. The two women were pleased to see each other again and Ruby enjoyed hearing about her trip. Imogen told her about the second-hand booksellers on the banks of the River Seine.
‘They are called les bouquinistes,’ said Imogen. ‘Apparently there have been booksellers there since the sixteenth century.’
Ruby rolled her tongue around the French word for booksellers. ‘Les bouquinistes.’
Imogen went on to describe Javel la Croix, a bar in Montmartre, the artists’ quarter, where she and Ambrose would dine before heading off to a jazz nightclub, and it stirred Ruby’s long-held desire to travel. Funny how life gets in the way, she thought.
‘Is there anything you’d like me to help you with?’ Imogen asked.
Ruby had never got round to going through the last of Jim’s papers. In fact, since he’d died, she didn’t like spending time in the room he called his office. Other members of the family offered to go through everything for her, but she wanted to do it herself – when she was ready. The trouble was, she could never bring herself to start.
‘Why don’t we do it together?’ Imogen asked, when Ruby explained. ‘We’ll take it at your own pace and, if it gets too much, we’ll leave it for another day.’
Ruby nodded gratefully. It was an ideal moment. Michael was having an afternoon nap and, knowing that Imogen was coming, Bea had offered to take Jean to see her mother in hospital.
Jim had been a tidy man. His desk wasn’t clear, but each pile of papers was neat and in order. It was only as they started sorting through them that Ruby realized they were in a muddle. It was as if someone had gone through them and put them back in the wrong order. They found a few crossword-puzzle templates, and a little black book containing some half-finished ideas a
nd clues. Distracted for a moment or two, Ruby could see at once how he did the crosswords. A template for Good Health magazine already had the answers written in pencil; just before he died, Jim had been working out the clues. There was a well-thumbed dictionary on the desk beside it. The answer for six down was ‘prune’ – a dried plum, Ruby thought, but then discovered that Jim had chosen ‘a regular breakfast food’ as his clue. She thought for a minute and realized that he was keeping in step with the ethos of the magazine, which promoted good exercise and a healthy diet. Prunes were an essential food to the reader of Good Health magazine. She smiled to herself. No wonder he had been so successful.
Imogen had found an old tin marked ‘Humbugs’. ‘What’s this?’
She shook it, but it didn’t rattle. Instead she heard a shuffling sound. Inside they found some grainy photographs. Ruby could see at once that they weren’t up to Jim’s standard, but she was sure they had been taken by him on the Contax camera. Was he trying his hand at photography again? And why on earth had he kept these pictures? He hated keeping anything that wasn’t of good quality.
‘Do we keep these?’ Imogen asked, her hand hovering over the wastepaper basket.
Ruby examined them more closely. There was a man and a woman walking away from the house. They had their backs to the camera. ‘I know them,’ she said quietly, but for some reason she couldn’t place the names. She instantly recognized Franz and Albrecht sitting on the garden wall, and there was a second one of them in which they seemed to be talking to someone in a car.
‘What’s that, in Franz’s hand?’ she asked.
Imogen leaned over her shoulder. ‘A package or something.’
‘Is he giving it to the passenger, or is the passenger giving it to him?’ said Ruby.
Imogen stared harder. ‘Taking,’ said Imogen, and at the same time Ruby said, ‘Giving.’ They both laughed. ‘Better keep them,’ said Ruby.
As she went through Jim’s stuff, other memories began to flood in. The shepherd’s pie wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times she told herself Imogen was right. Imogen was convinced that Jim, for once in his life, was being considerate by putting it in the meat safe before he put his head in the oven, but Ruby still found that hard to believe. She kept a tidy kitchen, and anything not in its rightful place stuck out like a sore thumb. So who put the iron on the wheelchair?
Imogen began looking at the bookcase. It was almost empty, although there were piles of books stacked against the wall. ‘Do you want to keep all of Jim’s books?’
Ruby nodded. Imogen began filling the spaces on the shelves.
Ruby’s mind wandered to Eric and Lena. She was puzzled that Eric hadn’t come back. If Jim had shown him the newspaper cuttings, Eric would have known there was no case to answer. Ruby still didn’t know the full story, but Lena had promised to tell her when she got home. Eric had no reason to run away unless . . . Her blood ran cold. Could he really have had something to do with Jim’s death? She took a deep breath. Don’t be silly, she told herself crossly. Why would Eric harm Jim? Hadn’t he risked his life to rescue him from a gas-filled kitchen?
‘Are you all right?’ Imogen asked gently. She’d seen Ruby shiver and was concerned. ‘We can stop now, if you like?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Ruby. She had already gone through Jim’s record box of papers some time ago, but now she looked in his desk. It wasn’t really a desk, just a table with drawers underneath. There was nothing of any significance in either, but something that had been trapped at the back of the table and against the wall had fallen to the floor. Ruby gasped as she opened it.
‘What is it?’ Imogen asked.
Jim had saved nearly £130 in a Post Office Savings book. Not only that, but there was a five-pound note and three postal orders waiting to be cashed, at the back of the book.
‘Oh, Ruby!’ cried Imogen. ‘That will make such a difference for you.’
Tears sprang into Ruby’s eyes. Yes, indeed it would. Perhaps her most pressing problem since Jim had died had been her lack of income. As a widow with a small child, she would have been eligible for a pension from the government, but that was forfeited because Jim had taken his own life. She was, however, eligible for five shillings a week to raise her son. It would be a joke, if it wasn’t so serious. But she was lucky. She had a small savings account, and she knew she could rely on help from her parents and Percy. Other people had a much harder struggle. She had often wondered how an old person managed on a pound a week, especially if they had to find seven to nine shillings’ rent out of that sum of money. She lowered herself onto the chair.
‘I think it’s time for a break,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’
Alone again, Ruby considered her options. She’d already decided she couldn’t carry on with the guest house. With a newborn baby to care for, there wasn’t the time to give her guests the level of care she wanted to, and she felt far too vulnerable when a lone man knocked on her door and asked for lodgings. Even if she put locks on her private rooms, there was an element of risk that she wasn’t prepared to ignore.
Hiring the downstairs rooms for meetings brought in a small amount, but by the time she had supplied tea and cake, there wasn’t a lot of profit in that. She could take in a lady lodger, but she wasn’t very keen on the idea. She valued the little bit of freedom she had between guests, but if she took a permanent lodger, she would forfeit that freedom for good. She’d be tied to the house twenty-four hours a day. Besides, supposing she and the lady lodger didn’t get on? It might lead to some unpleasantness.
She turned the Post Office book over in her hands. She had no idea what her husband was saving for, but he had inadvertently handed her a lifeline. If she used it wisely, the money might last almost a year, and that would give her sufficient time to work out what she was going to do in the future.
Imogen appeared with two cups of Camp coffee and put them on the table. ‘Had enough?’ she asked.
Ruby shook her head. ‘No, we’ll carry on for a bit. I’d like to get it cleared up if I can.’ She sipped the welcome coffee. ‘Thanks for helping me with this. It’s so much easier with someone else around.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Imogen smiled. She gazed into her cup. ‘How is Lena, by the way?’
‘She’s coming home tomorrow,’ said Ruby.
‘So she’s all right?’ There was no mistaking the relief in Imogen’s voice.
‘Her arm is mended,’ said Ruby, ‘but it will be a little while longer before she’s up to scratch. It takes time to build up your strength, after something like that.’
Imogen nodded miserably. ‘I still feel dreadful about it.’
Ruby reached over and squeezed her arm. ‘Well, don’t,’ she murmured. ‘These things happen.’
‘Has her husband come back yet?’
Ruby shook her head.
‘Then how will she manage with the little girl?’
‘I shall have Jean with me,’ said Ruby. ‘We’ll keep popping next door so that Lena can spend time with her.’
‘I could get her a nurse,’ said Imogen.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Ruby, ‘but . . .’ Another thought came to mind. ‘Could you perhaps pay for a daily woman? I haven’t been able to do much in the house, what with the baby and looking after Jean, as well as my own house. It needs a thorough going-over in there.’
‘Consider it done,’ Imogen smiled.
Ruby was just about to put the Post Office book into her handbag when she noticed there was a name and telephone number on the back.
‘I know this name,’ she said, pointing it out to Imogen. It was Sir Hubert Temple, the man who had rung up on the day Jim died.
‘He’s a government minister, isn’t he?’ said Imogen. ‘Something to do with the Foreign Office.’
Ruby explained about the telephone call. ‘I only remember him because he sounded so posh,’ said Ruby, ‘but why did he want to speak to Jim?’
Imogen shrugged.
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‘Well,’ said Ruby, reaching for the telephone, ‘there’s only one way to find out.’
Eric looked out over the field and shivered with the cold. He hadn’t thought for one minute that it would all end up like this. He had legged it all the way out of Worthing, keeping close to the hedges and occasionally jumping down into a ditch if a car went by. He dared not thumb a lift in case the driver asked too many questions. He didn’t know the lie of the land, but he reckoned he was about eight miles out of Worthing. Today he’d passed a sign for a village called Patching and had headed towards another called Findon, but he had no real idea where he was. All he knew was that he had to keep out of the way, for Lena’s and Jean’s sake. What was he going to do? He’d already spent two nights in this barn in the middle of nowhere. He should have got right away, but he couldn’t do it. Nobody must see him, but he couldn’t bear being too far from his family.
He stank to high heaven. He could smell his own body odour. He needed a proper wash and some clean clothes, but he had no money. He’d spent the last of it on a pie yesterday. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since then and there was little prospect of food today – not unless he pinched something, but he’d never nicked anything in his life. No matter what they said, he wasn’t a thief.
When he had seen the landlord holding up the five-pound note, he knew it was his. It was the note his employer had given him as a bonus. Trust his bloomin’ luck. The one time he thought he’d got a leg up, and that happened. He held his head in his hands and tried to think. A thought drifted through his mind. Did his employer know it was a forgery? Eric raised his head, then lowered it again. Na, the bloke was obviously very well off. Why would he want to pass off forged bank notes? Still, he told himself, it was no good brooding over it. What was done was done. He had to decide what to do now. He longed to see Lena. She was his world. She was the only reason he wanted to draw breath. Without her, he just couldn’t live; but if he went back to Worthing, the next thing would be the coppers feeling his collar, and he couldn’t go back to prison, he just couldn’t. He was crying now. What sort of a man cries . . . ? But he couldn’t help himself.
