‘I’ve got you some food.’
He came shuffling round the corner shining his torch.
‘Oh, you are a kind boy, haff you brought me fish and chips again? Zey vere most delicious.’
‘No, sorry. I only had sixpence left. I’ve got you a Cornish pastie.’
I held out the paper bag.
‘It’s cold though. Sorry.’
‘You are a goot boy.’
‘Will you be all right?’
He smiled and ruffled my hair.
‘Don’t vorry, I vill manage. I am a survivor. Now go home or your muzzer vill vorry about you.’
‘This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the six o’clock news and this is Alvar Liddell reading it. Mr Winston Churchill is back in 10 Downing Street. At seventy-seven he is tonight forming his first peacetime government after the Conservative Party’s narrow general-election victory. Mr Churchill says he savours the challenge of a new beginning . . .’
‘Is that good, Mum? Mr Churchill winning?’
She nodded at my Auntie Doreen who was reading the evening paper.
‘Your Auntie Doreen obviously thinks so. Look at her. It’s all right you smiling, Doreen, he only just got in.’
My Auntie Doreen put her paper down.
‘Winnie’s back, that’s what matters. The country has spoken.’
My mum got up.
‘Yes, well, Alvar Liddell’s spoken. You’ve had your moment of glory.’
She went over to the wireless and switched it off. My Auntie Doreen went back to her paper.
‘Actually, Freda, there’s a very interesting article here. It’s about Rudolf Hess. You know he made that secret flight to Britain? Well, according to this, he lived here for a while, in this road.’
My mum didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at her.
‘Rudolf Hess lived in this road? Rubbish!’
My Auntie Doreen held out the paper.
‘Well, according to this . . .’
My mum took it and started reading. I wondered what they were talking about.
‘Who’s Rudolf Hess?’
They weren’t listening. My mum was still reading the paper.
‘I don’t like to think of that Rudolf Hess living round here, makes my stomach turn.’
‘Who is he? Who’s Rudolf Hess?’
My mum gave the paper back to my Auntie Doreen.
‘Don’t they teach you anything at that school? He was a German. A Nazi. He was Adolf Hitler’s deputy. He came here during the war, secretly.’
She picked up the paper again.
‘I can’t believe he came here. They said he landed in Scotland. Why would he come here?’
No! Oh no! That’s why he’s hiding in the air-raid shelter. That’s who he is! My stomach churned. He’s a Nazi. Rudi’s a Nazi. He’s Adolf Hitler’s deputy. He’s Rudolph Hess and I’ve been giving him fish and chips and Cornish pasties. No! I’m a traitor. I’m a traitor!
‘What’s the matter, love, what’s wrong?’
I couldn’t stop crying and I was shaking. I couldn’t stop myself from shaking.
‘It was Mr Churchill’s fault. Him and that Mr Attlee. If it hadn’t been for them none of it would have happened. We wouldn’t have had the day off. I’d have been at school.’
‘What’s wrong with him, Doreen?’
‘I’m a traitor, Mum, I’m a traitor. I know where Rudolf Hess is. I’ve been giving him fish and chips and Cornish pasties.’
My mum held me tight.
‘You’d better fetch the doctor, Doreen, I think he’s having a fit. He’s talking gibberish.’
My Auntie Doreen started to go but I got hold of her arm.
‘No, Mum. I broke my promise, I’m sorry. I went down to the bombsite. I know where Rudolf Hess is. He’s living in the air-raid shelter. I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry.’
The tears were rolling down my face. I couldn’t stop crying.
‘I’m a traitor, I’m a traitor.’
‘I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, love, but it’s not Rudolf Hess. He’s in prison in Germany. They sent him back in 1945.’
Me mum got hold of me.
‘Now you’ve told me you been down on the bombsite, I won’t be cross with you, I just want you to tell me what happened. Who have you been talking to?’
They were looking at me, my mum and my Auntie Doreen, and my mum was wiping my face with a damp towel.
‘You promise you won’t be cross?’
‘I promise, I give you my word. Now, just start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.’
And I did. I told her everything.
My mum was right, he wasn’t Rudolf Hess. She told the police all about it and they went round to the air-raid shelter. They took him away and found him somewhere nicer to live. It turned out he was from Germany but he’d escaped from the Nazis. His name was Rudi Klein and he’d lost all his family in the war. They’d been killed by Hitler in a camp or something. I didn’t understand and my mum said she’d explain it to me when I got older.
She broke her promise though. She did get cross with me.
‘Just think if you’d gone into that air-raid shelter and it hadn’t been that nice old man in there. If it had been . . . somebody . . . somebody . . .’
She was trying to think of the right word.
‘The real Rudolf Hess?’
She looked at me.
‘No, love, what I’m trying to tell you is that there are some really evil, wicked people in this world and it could have been someone . . . someone . . .’
Tears started coming into her eyes. She took hold of me by the shoulders. She held me really tight. It made me think of when Rudi got hold of me like that.
‘You mean I could have been killed?’
That’s when she started crying. She put her arms round me. I thought she was never going to let go.
THE BACK BEDROOM
I’d just got back from school and was hanging up my coat when my mum came down the stairs.
‘Your Auntie Doreen’s coming round in a minute, we’re popping in to see Mrs Bastow.’
‘Ooh, can I go with you?’
My mum goes to do her hair for her sometimes ’cos it’s hard for Mrs Bastow to get out with her gammy leg. She gets paid for it but my mum doesn’t like taking her money. I’ve heard her telling my Auntie Doreen.
‘I don’t like to, Doreen. I mean they’re both pensioners. I’d rather she kept her money but she won’t hear of it.’
‘She’d pay a lot more if she went to the hairdresser’s, and you’re helping her out. She’s not embarrassed to ask you if she’s giving you money.’
‘Mm, I suppose so . . .’
I’m glad my mum helps her out. I love going there with her. Mrs Bastow brings out the biscuit barrel and tells me to help myself and Mr Bastow lets me play on his model railway. He’s always in charge but he lets me control the speed of the trains and switch switches and things. It’s in the back bedroom upstairs and it takes up the whole room. You can hardly open the door. You have to squeeze in and crawl under this table and you stand in a space in the middle and watch all these model trains zooming round the tracks. It’s great. Mr Bastow says it’s his pride and joy. His sanctuary he calls it. I’m not sure Mrs Bastow likes it.
‘He’s obsessed, he’s like a big kid with that railway. If he goes before me, God knows what I’m going to do with it. Takes up the whole back bedroom, y’know.’
I’d asked my mum what would happen to the model railway if Mr Bastow went before Mrs Bastow.
‘Oh, I don’t know, she doesn’t mean it. Anyway, nobody’s going anywhere.’
That was only a couple of weeks back.
‘Ooh, can I go with you? Mr Bastow might let me play on the trains.’
We heard my Auntie Doreen letting herself in. She called down the hall.
‘Sorry to take so long, Freda, I didn’t want to go round there in my work clothes. I went home to change first.’
>
She came into the kitchen and that’s when it dawned on me. My mum had changed out of her work clothes as well.
‘I’m not going round there to do her hair, love. We’re going to pay our respects. Mr Bastow passed away this morning.’
‘Passed away?’
My Auntie Doreen took hold of my hands.
‘He’s died, love, this morning.’
I’d thought that’s what she’d meant.
‘Mrs Bastow found him in the front room in his favourite chair.’
‘Dead?’
‘I’m afraid so. That’s why your mum and I are going round. To pay our respects.’
I wondered what was going to happen to the model railway.
‘How is she, Freda? Have you heard?’
My mum shrugged and told her that from what Mrs Priestley was saying, when she saw her in the butcher’s, Mrs Bastow was bearing up. I was still thinking about the railway.
‘I’ll come with you, Mum.’
She looked at me.
‘I’d like to pay my respects as well.’
My Auntie Doreen smiled and put her arm round me.
‘I think that’d be lovely, Freda. She’d really appreciate it. You liked Mr Bastow, didn’t you, love?’
‘Yeah . . .’
My mum didn’t say anything, just carried on looking. I knew what she was thinking and she was right.
‘Yes, and he liked playing on his model railway. Don’t you think you’re going to be playing on that railway today, young man.’
‘’Course not. I just want to pay my respects, don’t I?’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’
My Auntie Doreen said she thought she was being a bit hard on me. She wasn’t.
On the way we stopped off to get some flowers for Mrs Bastow. We went to Middleton’s in Cranley Road but my mum didn’t like the look of them.
‘They’ll not last more than a day or two, they won’t.’
My Auntie Doreen agreed.
‘And they’re expensive. There’s that florist the other end of St Barnabas Street. It’s a bit out of the way but I think they’re very reasonable and good quality.’
In one of the houses in St Barnabas Street we passed an old man sitting in a wheelchair, staring out of the front-room window into the street. I wouldn’t have even noticed him if my mum hadn’t stopped to talk. Well, she didn’t talk exactly, she mouthed at him through the window. ‘How are you, Mr Shackleton . . . ? All right . . . ? Lovely . . .’ The old man didn’t seem to see her, he just carried on staring as if we weren’t there. There was a bit of spit dribbling out of his mouth. My mum waved and mouthed again, ‘Bye-bye then, Mr Shackleton’ and then said ‘Shame’ to my Auntie Doreen as they carried on walking. I looked at the old man. The bit of spit was down to his chin and his eyes were watering, but they never blinked. He was just staring straight ahead like he couldn’t see me. I felt sorry for him. I gave him my own little wave and I was just about to go when I saw his hand move. I wasn’t sure, it was so slow, but . . . yes, it was definitely moving.
‘C’mon, love, the florist’ll be closing soon!’
‘Comin’, Mum!’
I looked back and his hand was up a bit higher. He looked like he was trying to wave back. He moved his fingers. Just a bit. He was, he was waving back. I waved again, moving my fingers slowly like he was doing. He still didn’t blink. He stared like he couldn’t see me, like he was looking through me, and the dribble of spit was hanging from his chin now. Then his mouth moved. He was smiling at me, I’m sure he was. My mum was shouting for me to hurry up. I waved again and ran down the street and caught up with them.
‘Who’s that old man, Mum?’
‘Eric Shackleton and I don’t think he’s that old. What is he, Doreen, forty-five? Fifty?’
My Auntie Doreen reckoned he was about fifty. That seemed old to me. She told me that he used to be a roofer, he mended roofs and about four or five years back he’d fallen off this house.
‘He broke his back. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since. He was a lovely man, wasn’t he, Freda? Do anything for anybody he would.’
‘Yes, and so handsome. Must’ve been over six foot tall. Breaks my heart to see him like that, sitting there, staring out that window. That’s all he does all day.’
They both said ‘Shame’ again and we went into the florist’s.
They took ages deciding which flowers to get for Mrs Bastow. The lady in the shop pointed to some blue ones.
‘Irises are always acceptable whatever the occasion.’
My mum wasn’t sure.
‘It’s not an occasion, I’m afraid, it’s a bereavement. The lady lost her husband this morning.’
‘You can’t go wrong with irises, love.’
While the flower lady wrapped them up my mum chose a card that said ‘With Sympathy’ and wrote on the back.
‘What are you puttin’, Mum?’
She showed me. It said, ‘Sorry for your sad loss, with love from Freda and Doreen’.
‘Go on, you write something.’
‘What shall I put?’
‘It’s up to you, you’re big enough.’
I wrote, ‘I’ll miss you, Mr Bastow’, signed my name and showed it to my mum.
‘Aw . . . Look at that, Doreen.’
What I really meant was, I’ll miss playing on the model railway with you, Mr Bastow.
‘Aw, that’s lovely. Very nice.’
‘Thanks, Auntie Doreen . . .’
It was when we turned into her street that I said it.
‘She must be worried about the model railway, y’know.’
They looked at me.
‘He’s gone before her, hasn’t he?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
That’s the trouble with my mum, she never remembers anything anybody says.
‘That’s what Mrs Bastow said. If he goes before me, what am I going to do with it? Don’t you remember?’
I thought she was going to clout me.
‘For goodness sake, she’s just lost her husband. The last thing she’ll be thinking about will be model railways!’
‘It takes up the whole back bedroom . . .’
She just caught my ear. Didn’t hurt.
When we got to the house the curtains were closed. My Auntie Doreen said that’s what you do when someone dies.
‘Even when it’s light outside?’
‘It’s custom, love, when someone dies, you draw the curtains. It’s a mark of respect.’
‘Oh . . .’
We were sitting round the kitchen table drinking tea. Mrs Bastow was sniffing into her hanky. She was holding a photo of Mr Bastow. I was wondering if I could take another fig roll from the biscuit barrel. She’d told me to help myself but I’d already had two. No, I’d better not.
‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s gone.’
She wiped her eyes.
‘He was just beginning to enjoy his retirement.’
My mum held out the box of tissues for her and squeezed her hand.
‘I know.’
‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. Have another biscuit, love.’
I looked at my mum. Mrs Bastow pushed the biscuit barrel to my side of the table.
‘Never mind looking at her, you help yourself, they’re there to be eaten.’
My mum gave me a nod and I took another fig roll, then changed my mind and took a digestive instead.
‘Don’t touch them and then put them back!’
Mrs Bastow wasn’t bothered.
‘Take as many as you like, love, I’ll not want them, I’ve got no appetite.’
My Auntie Doreen told her she had to eat.
‘You’ve got to keep your strength up, Mrs Bastow.’
‘I know, I know . . .’
She nodded and sighed. My mum and my Auntie Doreen sighed and it all went quiet. I finished the biscuit and went to get another, but my mum stopped me
with one of her looks.
‘She said I could!’
‘Who’s “she”?’
‘Mrs Bastow. She said I could.’
Mrs Bastow nodded.
‘He’s all right. And that was lovely what you wrote on that card, love, I really appreciate it. And those flowers. Lovely. Thank you.’
And she started crying again. My mum put her arm round her.
‘When’s the funeral, Mrs Bastow?’
I tried to eat the biscuit as quietly as I could. It was a garibaldi. It were lovely.
‘I’m not sure. The undertaker’s sorting it all out. Do you want to have a look at him?’
I nearly choked on the garibaldi. What did she mean, ‘Have a look at him’? I thought he was dead.
‘He’s in the front room. He looks ever so peaceful in death.’
That’s where she’d found him, in the front room, sitting in his favourite chair. And he’s still there? And she wants us to have a look at him? Why’s he in the house when he’s dead? I thought they got taken away. My mum stood up.
‘That’d be very nice, Mrs Bastow, we’d like to pay our respects.’
I thought we’d come to pay our respects to Mrs Bastow, I didn’t know you had to go and look at a dead body to pay your respects, I wouldn’t have come. Then my Auntie Doreen stood up. So I did. Oh, I didn’t fancy this at all. I didn’t want to look at him dead in his favourite chair. My mum put her hand on my shoulder.
‘You wait here, love, we won’t be long.’
Oh, thanks, Mum, thanks. I don’t have to go and pay my respects. Thanks. While they were in the front room looking at Mr Bastow I finished the garibaldi and then had another fig roll.
‘’Course he wasn’t sitting in the chair, he was in a coffin! Wait till I tell your Auntie Doreen. Oh, I shouldn’t laugh.’
We were back at home having our tea. I could hardly eat mine, I’d filled myself up on Mrs Bastow’s biscuits. But I didn’t let my mum see. I forced it down.
‘Well, I didn’t know, did I? She just said, did we want to have a look at him in the front room. I thought that was why she’d closed the curtains.’
She started clearing the table.
‘That’s nothing to do with it. Your Auntie Doreen told you, you always draw the curtains when somebody dies. Even if the coffin’s upstairs. It’s a custom, it lets people know there’s been a bereavement. Come on, you’re never going to finish, you’ve eaten that many biscuits. Anyway, that was a nice thing you did, offering to help Mrs Bastow like that.’
The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories Page 27
