by Mary Wood
The breath caught in Patsy’s throat. ‘I – I know, but I killed your brother . . . Oh God, Lizzie, I didn’t mean to.’
‘What! What are you saying, Patsy?’
‘Harri, don’t . . . I didn’t mean to . . .’
Patsy’s sobs were too much for her, and her breathing became laboured. Harri ran out of the room to fetch help.
As the medical staff stabilized Patsy, Harri’s heart began to steady itself. Sitting next to Patsy, she took hold of her bandaged hand. Patsy looked over at Lizzie and with more strength than she’d shown before she asked, ‘Did you tell the police?’
‘No, they came to me but I couldn’t tell them. I choked up and the nurses said they’d have to wait a bit to talk to me.’
‘We have to tell them. Harri, will you help me? I need to tell everything, but I can’t go through it all twice. Will you fetch the police for me, and the others? I want you all here.’
‘Are you sure, love? Shall I get Mam and Dad in? They’re in the waiting room.’
‘Yes, everyone who is here. I need to tell everyone in one go.’
‘Right, Miss Crompton, I understand you have further information?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s about the death of Lizzie’s brother, Ken.’
‘He’s dead, then? We thought it a possibility. Who else knows this? Did you know, Miss Railbury?’
Lizzie’s ‘yes’ was hardly audible.
‘Were you present when it happened?’
Again, a whispered ‘yes’.
‘Well then, I will need you to go with my colleague. We cannot take a statement from one of you whilst the other is present. We need separate accounts.’
Harri saw a look of fear in Patsy’s eyes. She went to her and held her hand once more.
Lizzie turned as they wheeled her out and said, ‘I’ll tell them the truth, Patsy. I’ll tell them how it was. But . . . but I – I don’t want to be on me own when I do.’
The policeman answered her, ‘You don’t have to be. No one is accused here – as of yet. But we have to do things by the book.’
‘Can’t Lizzie make her statement afterwards so that we can be with her, too?’ This from her dad warmed Harri, and she could see it helped Lizzie too.
‘Yes, but none of you must react in any way to what you hear from either of them. I don’t want them holding back from revealing everything for fear of upsetting any of you. At this stage all we know is that a man is dead, and that he didn’t die of natural causes. We haven’t got his body, and have no idea where it is or who moved it or why. Verbal evidence that is the same from both of them and given independently is very important at this stage of our investigation. So you are present to support them, and that is all.’
‘We understand, Officer. Patsy, you won’t be judged by any of us. We promise, dear. So tell everything as it happened.’
‘Thanks, Dad, I will. I have to. I didn’t do anything wrong – not intentionally, anyway. It was my need of revenge on my . . . on Theresa Crompton that drove me and caused it all. I don’t have that need now, and I’m worried about her. Does anyone know how she is?’
‘Aye, love. Dad telephoned and they say she is still making good progress. Soon as you’re better We’ll go and see her, eh?’ Harri’s anger had left her, but now she held in her a worry that what Patsy might not think of as wrong would be looked upon as such by the police.
At the end of Patsy’s telling, Harri could feel the silence and the shock. Such things seemed to be played out on the telly, but not in their lives. Well, not in hers, anyway. Her mam had been through that mill, but she never thought as her Patsy would.
The policeman shut his notebook. He’d remained silent throughout, but now he began to probe, asking questions that made Harri want to shout out at him to stop and to believe what Patsy had told him. Patsy did well. Nothing he asked tripped her, but Harri was left wondering, God! Who was this Rita? Oh, she knew who she was, or rather who she had been, as of course she was dead now, but what had driven her and why had she ever come into Patsy’s life? Still, she had to admit that if she hadn’t, then she would probably never have known of Patsy’s existence, and she couldn’t imagine that. She didn’t want to.
‘Right, young lady. You seemed to have got yourself caught up in a world you’re not used to. Now, we will see if Miss Railbury’s story matches your version.’
‘I’ll stay with Patsy. She needs someone with her.’
Harri held her breath at this from Ian, but then knew her heart to sing as Patsy said, ‘Thanks, love. I need someone to, and you’ll do.’ There was a little smile to accompany this. It held relief and . . . well, she’d to stop romanticizing . . .
‘I’ll stay if you like.’
‘No, Harri. I think Lizzie would like you there above any of you. She’s met you, and I’d feel better if you was with her.’
Turning as they left the room, Harri saw Ian gently take hold of Patsy’s hand. Patsy didn’t resist his touch. Harri crossed her fingers and went out.
The sense of relief for Harri was overwhelming. Everything Lizzie said matched what Patsy had said. Why did I worry that it wouldn’t?
The police seemed satisfied, though they did say that there could be more questions as the investigation progressed. They needed to find the body, as that was the key to substantiating how the death occurred, and if that happened and all was as it should be, then that would be an end to the matter. Patsy and Lizzie still had a lot to face with the trial of Lizzie’s dad. That would be difficult for both of them – for Patsy because she would be forced to go over the details of the rape, and for Lizzie because she would have to revisit the death of her mother.
Once again, everyone had left her with Patsy and Lizzie. Both seemed exhausted, and she wished they would rest and go over things they needed to at a later time, but Lizzie didn’t want that and Patsy said she didn’t mind her staying.
‘Harri, does anyone know about me, yet? Anyone connected with me mam, I mean?’
‘Yes, Dad told them – well, the police, anyway. He and Mam thought it best as . . . well, when they thought you had gone to see her and didn’t know about . . .’
‘It’s alright. Have they told me mam?’
‘No. Dad told them not to. He said that he didn’t know your wishes as you hadn’t turned up there.’
‘I know a bit more about me mam now, Harri, as Lizzie has me Mam’s memoirs.’
‘Memoirs? How . . .?’
‘It was the mugging, Lizzie’s brother was involved and he gave the bag to Lizzie, it was inside. You still have them, don’t you, Lizzie? Oh God, Rita put them in a drawer . . .’
‘They’re safe; I have them. Don’t worry. Rita packed them in that case she brought back with her. I read some more of them last night, kept me going. I read about her first days in France . . . and her and Pierre . . . She really loved him. Sh-she had a love with him that . . . well, like we’d all like to have.’
‘I’m glad for her.’ There was a moment when no one spoke, and then Patsy said, ‘Harri, you don’t know about that yet. I – it seems I’ve got a half-brother.’
‘Eeh, Patsy! What? By, lass, you don’t have to do everything by halves, you know.’
Again a moment of silence, but then the penny dropped and Patsy giggled. ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, don’t . . .’
Lizzie’s giggle started as a pitiful sound, but the joke hadn’t missed her. She was a nice lass; she looked neglected and hurt – like an injured animal, really – but it was nothing they couldn’t put right. They would. They’d take her in and look after her, she’d no doubt of that. ‘Lizzie, you’re going to be alright, you know. You can come home with us and stay as long as you like. We’re a bit mad – well, me and Patsy are, but Mam’s lovely. She’ll take to you; I think she has already. Our brothers are a pain like anyone el— I mean, well, you’ll like them, and like us you’ll wish they’d grow up at times! Dad’s a doctor, and he’s grand as you saw. Well, he ain’t our real dad – no, that
ain’t right, as we couldn’t have a more real dad than him. Me and Patsy share the same biological dad. He’s dead now, but we’re in the same boat as you in that our dad were a bad ’un an’ all. We’re better for not having him in our lives, love, and you are without having yours, I reckon.’
Lizzie didn’t say anything. She just smiled a teary smile.
‘D’yer need some time on your own with Patsy, love? I don’t mind. I can go and be with me family and get a pot of tea. The WRVS have a trolley on the corridor. They make a good pot.’
‘Yes, if that’s alright. I – I mean, well, I don’t want to be rude.’
‘No, you ain’t, love. I talk too much. I’m known for it. Anyroad . . .’
‘Before you go you have some explaining to do.’
This from Patsy surprised her. ‘Oh?’
‘Nabbing me man when me back was turned. He saved me, not you! And before I could get me head round things you have him hooked.’
‘Greg?’
‘Yes. Don’t play Miss Innocent with me.’
‘Eeh, I know. Have you seen him, then?’
‘Yes, he came in before he left.’
‘Oh?’ Why did she feel fearful?
‘Unfair advantage. I must look like a freak, and you saw your chance and took it.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that!’
‘Only kidding. He’s coming tomorrow. He wants to take you for dinner, no less.’
Her heart did a flip without her bidding. Her face reddened. All she could do was laugh and walk out of the door casually enough that she didn’t give her feelings away.
Standing for a moment on the other side of the door, Harri held the deep breath she’d taken. Something in her felt unnerved. No. She was being silly. Patsy was very poorly. She was trying to tease her, and it was only coming across as one of her jealous moments. Why should she be anything but pleased for her? Stop being daft. She’ll be glad about it once she feels better – has to be, ’cos Greg is in the very fibre of me and that is where he is staying! Eeh, Harri, you’re a fast one! This last thought made her smile and settled whatever had been disturbed inside her.
Patsy’s head ached. Challenging Harri about Greg had made her cross. If they took up together, where would that leave her? She needed Harri. Harri was everything in her life that was good. And she was hers!
At this moment, she’d do anything to have Lizzie – needy Lizzie – just go away and leave her alone. She couldn’t cope with the reminders of all that had happened, or the constant niggle over her mother. This girl had been through so much, but so had she. She had told her story, but she hadn’t really given her mind to the revulsion of that vile man raping her body, or of her killing someone, or to the dark depths of that water . . . Oh God! Once more her heart cried out with the horror of it all. Will I ever be the same again?
‘Patsy, if yer like I can just sit here. I just wanted to be with yer and reassure meself that you’re okay.’
‘Yes, that’s what I’d like. I’m not ready. It has been . . .’
‘I know. But we came through, that’s what’s important. And if your mam – I mean, Harri’s mam – will have me for a bit till I sort meself out, then we’ve plenty of time to talk about anything we want to.’
This wasn’t what Patsy had expected, and although she was grateful, it wasn’t what she wanted. Facing what had happened at Rita’s house and afterwards had taken its toll, but she did want to hear about her mother. ‘Just tell me about my mother. What you read last night. Just tell me while I rest. Has she become a hero yet?’
‘No, but she has a mission and she is going to be in danger and she has had a narrow escape from being captured . . .’
Lying there listening to her mother’s life story, some comfort seeped into her. She would go and see her, and once she had all the facts of how things happened and how her mother came to be how she was, she’d be able to cope. Then after that, she would look for her brother.
Eighteen
Jacques – A Father by Proxy
Poland 1963
Warsaw, though vibrant, still showed many more signs of the war that had ravaged it than London did. While London had rebuilt itself in the eighteen years since the end of the war, Warsaw’s buildings, once proud and ornate, showed a weary face to the world. Some were dilapidated and crumbling.
Jacques had a sense of being where part of him belonged, and this feeling intensified when he found himself standing in the street of his grandfather’s family home. The house still had an air of grandeur about it, but now it was divided into four apartments – not upmarket, but uncared-for and poverty-stricken.
Feeling silly but unable to control himself, he had to wipe his face with his handkerchief. An old lady said something to him in Polish, and uncertain what had been said, he just nodded. His grasp of the language wasn’t good. His grandfather had always tried to teach him, but he had mastered the language of his grandmother much more easily and could converse in French very well.
Persisting in her quest to find out what ailed him, the old lady came up to him and in an almost cross voice said something along the lines of, ‘Why the sadness? You are young; you are free.’
‘My family used to live here.’ This was a simple phrase that he had been practising. ‘My great-grandparents, my grandfather, his brothers and sister . . . my father too, as a child and as a young man.’
‘Aah, the fire . . .’
‘You know of them? Of the fire in the factory? The Germans burned them alive . . .’ His tears flowed freely. He fought for control, but lost the battle.
Spittle hit the ground next to him. ‘Curse on the Germans! Come. I live in there. First floor. Though it is no longer the grand place it used to be. I have coffee.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’ This came out in English, but she understood. Her ‘yes, yes’ reply surprised him, as did what she said next: ‘I speak English. Come.’
The huge door creaked a cold welcome – a ghostly, unearthly sound that echoed around the high walls and tiled floor of the hallway. A once-magnificent staircase spiralled up from the hall, every stair, now bereft of carpet, was worn in the centre and showing splintered wood.
The woman turned towards the first door leading off the hall, but he couldn’t follow her straight away. She seemed to understand and allowed him his moment. He tried to imagine his family in here: kicking off outdoor shoes, discarding coats – maybe to a butler? – then ascending the stairs, up and up and up, the young ones perhaps sliding down the banister. The banister still shone as if polished by a hundred bottoms clad in the traditional soft-leather shorts of Eastern European boys. Maybe the kids of today still came zooming down?
Ornate carvings decorated the ceilings and a gargoyle looked down at him from each corner, though pieces were broken off the faces. One was missing a nose. And where a magnificent chandelier had perhaps presided over the space, a single wire hung, holding a bare bulb.
The emotions that had racked him gathered force again. Why, why? What did my people do that was so wrong? What did my great-grandfather do, other than work hard for his family? How could it have happened?
The whistling of a kettle coming from the open door took his attention. He entered the room – a shabby but tidy room with no curtains, just a blind at the window. The sun shone through, making a pattern of slats across the floor.
‘Sit down. I have some good strong coffee. It will help. I am Verkona Romanski.’
‘Jacques. Jacques Rueben.’
The steam tickled his nose to an awareness of the delicious aroma, the best since he’d left America. The British did not understand coffee, serving wishy-washy coffee essence – Camp Coffee, the bottle proudly proclaimed – that to him tasted like he imagined dishwater would taste. Why had his thoughts gone to such things when he was sitting in what was probably once the hub of his family’s household staff? The sight of a row of bells high up on the wall had indicated this to him, and as if reading his thoughts Verkona said, ‘Yes, thi
s was once the kitchen. I am lucky to have it as it still has the range through there – a huge one and far too big for me, but when lit it heats all the rooms I occupy.’
Looking around for the first time, Jacques saw that the space had been divided up by partition-type walls. It must once have been huge, he thought, with a very big table for the staff to eat their meals around. How happy it must have been in those days, for he was sure his family would have treated their staff well.
The woman’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘My mother worked here. We had a room at the top of the house. My father worked at the factory before it was closed and became derelict. Our room was large and I slept behind a screen. Father worked nights, so I would creep into my mother’s bed. Your great-grandfather had me educated with his own children, as he did all of the servants’ children, but I was particularly bright. Your grandfather must have been Isaac, as he was the only one to escape . . .?’
‘Y-yes.’ His voice had deserted him. He just wanted to listen.
‘I was in love with Isaac, but a French cousin of the Potinskis along the street came to stay with them and Isaac fell in love with her. I was devastated and never found another to take his place. Oh, I am not saying he let me down. He did not know how I felt and wouldn’t have looked at me anyway.’
‘I – I’m sorry. I am sure he would like to know you are alive and well. He—’
‘He is alive? But I thought . . .’
‘Yes. We live in Florida. He and Grandmother got out of France and took me there. My grandmother has since passed on.’
‘Oh, but this is wonderful . . . Sorry, not your grandmother dying, of course, but you must forgive an old lady a short sojourn into her past.’
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes . . . Yes, as he looked at her properly for the first time, he saw that she had pretty, soft blue eyes, and her delicate skin rippled over high cheekbones. Tiny lines led to thin lips that still had a firmness to them and a pretty shape.
After a moment she continued, ‘My father was taken. He was caught up in a raid one night and we never saw him again. Mother would not go with your great-grandfather. I was an interpreter in the war for the Germans. I had to listen into the messages sent, and decipher the coding. It is what saved me from the gas chamber, though not . . . not my mother. But it didn’t save me from the horrors of living in the concentration camp at Auschwitz, which was my home. I was taken out once a week at different times to work in what is now the council office, but was then the headquarters of the Gestapo. Once, because I changed the code, I was taken to the doors of the gas chamber with all those unfortunates, and I thought I was going in. Fear made me sick, but at the door they turned me round. They beat me and told me if I did anything like it again I would go in. When the liberators came, the Germans began to shoot us. A man in front of me fell on me, knocking me to the ground. He lay over me, suffocating me, but the delay this caused saved me. The Germans surrendered, but I couldn’t shift the man off me. Though emaciated, his dead weight was too much for me.’
