Changing Times

by Jack Sheffield

  Joseph recognized the signs of a troubled soul and decided to ease his way into a conversation.

  ‘May I?’ he asked, gesturing towards the bench.

  Freddie nodded, but said nothing.

  Joseph sat down and placed his Bible and service sheet beside him. ‘I come here sometimes when I need a little peace and quiet.’

  Freddie didn’t reply. He simply stared at the gravestone and the white petals of snowdrops as they shivered in the breeze.

  ‘I knew Florence,’ said Joseph quietly. ‘She was a good woman … often strict, but fair.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Freddie forcefully, ‘but she wasn’t always truthful.’

  Joseph was surprised, but he had learned to be cautious. ‘Perhaps that applies to many of us on occasions. I once heard it said that the war could make liars of us all.’

  Freddie turned to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that it was such a difficult time and your mother lived through it. People did things they wouldn’t normally do because they didn’t know how long they were going to live.’

  ‘But how can that justify a lie?’

  Joseph was puzzled by the determined young man at his side. He didn’t fully understand why Freddie had these thoughts about Florence.

  ‘A mother shouldn’t lie to her son.’ Freddie was persistent.

  Joseph steepled his hands under his chin as if in prayer. ‘I should think a mother would do anything to protect her children in wartime.’

  Freddie put his head in his hands. Maybe this is why my mother allowed me to think she was my sister, he thought.

  ‘Sometimes things aren’t what they seem, Freddie, but usually our actions are born out of love.’

  Freddie let this sink in. ‘I suppose so,’ he acknowledged.

  Joseph looked at the clock on the church tower. ‘I’m sorry, but I must go and prepare the service.’ He stood up. ‘Not many attend this one,’ he added with a smile, ‘but each of them has their reasons. They usually find the loving kindness and mercy we all seek.’ He picked up his Bible and service sheet. ‘And I believe they all leave feeling refreshed.’

  Freddie nodded. ‘I’m sure they do,’ he said. It seemed the right thing to say. He watched the slightly stooped, angular figure of the vicar as he hurried towards the church and thought about what he had said.

  The air was clean and cold.

  His thoughts were clear.

  He shivered.

  It was time to move on.

  However, there remained a diamond hardness to his resentment and the bitter taste left by the perfect lie that had shaped his life.

  With renewed vigour he trotted back to the Morton road and increased his pace as he ran towards Ragley High Street.

  Joseph had paused in the church entrance and watched the athletic young man stride away into the distance. On impulse he sketched a cross in the air.

  ‘Peace be with you, my son.’

  Albert Jenkins, the forty-one-year-old school governor and churchwarden, was a regular at this service and he arrived moments later as Joseph was still staring after the blond-haired figure disappearing into the distance.

  ‘Good morning, Joseph,’ said Albert. ‘You look thoughtful. I saw young Freddie Briggs as I arrived.’

  Joseph nodded. ‘Yes, he was paying his respects to his late mother and discussing a little philosophy.’

  ‘Philosophy?’

  ‘Well, truth and lies, to be precise.’

  Albert grinned. ‘Magna est veritas et prævalet,’ he recited. Albert loved his Latin.

  Joseph gave an enquiring look.

  ‘Great is truth, and it prevails,’ clarified Albert.

  ‘And so it does,’ agreed Joseph, and they walked side by side into the sanctuary of the silent church.

  It was as Freddie ran back towards Kirkby Steepleton that the cold rhythm of his thoughts began to race.

  It was the last breath of winter and the first of a new life.

  It was time to rekindle the ashes.

  It was time to feed the fire.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Road to Reconciliation

  ‘Time to go, Freddie,’ shouted Tom from the foot of the stairs. It was early morning on Friday, 20 March, the final school day of the spring term.

  ‘Coming,’ said Freddie and he pushed his rucksack under his bed. He had begun to pack spare clothes and a few toiletries, plus an old phrase book. A smile flickered across his face as he hurried downstairs. His secret was safe.

  As Tom drove out of Kirkby Steepleton the hedgerows were bursting into new life and the bright yellow petals of forsythia gave promise of warmer days ahead. On the distant North Yorkshire moors curlews found shelter in the gorse, while newborn lambs were taking their first hesitant steps. The long winter days of dark nights and log fires were over and the swallows had returned to build their nests. When Freddie arrived outside the gates of Easington School the breeze carried the warm breath of spring. He walked in with the confidence of youth. The Easter holiday beckoned and he had special plans.

  In Ragley School Anne Grainger was preparing her classroom for the morning activities and reflecting on a breakfast conversation with her husband.

  He had shown her a diagram of a refectory table in oak, plus a detailed cutting list. Worry had creased his forehead. ‘I need some three-eighths dowel to join my crossrail to the pedestal,’ he had said. Anne knew where she would like to put the crossrail and it wasn’t on a pedestal. She looked out of the window and saw a few parents arriving with their children.

  Twenty-six-year-old Molly Swithenbank was walking up the drive with her five-year-old daughter, Connie. She needed to tell Anne Grainger that her daughter had an appointment at the hospital. Connie occasionally had trouble breathing and there had been some anxious moments.

  The pale-faced little girl looked up at her mother. ‘Mummy … when was I born?’

  Molly crouched down and smiled. ‘The thirtieth of March, nineteen fifty-eight.’

  Connie’s eyes lit up in realization. ‘Hey! That’s my birthday!’

  Molly gave her a hug. ‘Yes, you’re a big girl now.’

  Connie considered this for a moment. ‘Yes, Mummy … but in my heart I’m still little.’

  Molly stared at her daughter in surprise. It was a moment to treasure. She kissed her forehead with the love of a mother and they walked hand in hand into school.

  It was morning break and Vera had prepared coffee in the staff-room and distributed the end-of-term report cards.

  John Pruett gave Lily an enquiring glance. ‘Have you any plans over Easter?’

  ‘Probably taking Tom’s mother to Fountains Abbey – she loves to go there. He’s got a few days off and Freddie is going camping in the Dales. What about you?’

  ‘My sister is coming to visit.’ He said this with a despairing finality. His sister made his life a misery with her constant need to spring-clean John’s untidy house.

  ‘A bourbon biscuit, Mr Pruett?’ offered Vera, holding out the tin. The Ragley secretary usually had a solution for a soul in torment.

  Saturday morning dawned bright and clear and in Nora’s Coffee Shop the jukebox was on full volume playing ‘Little Children’ by Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, the current number-one record.

  The teenage friends Lizzie Buttershaw and Veronica Collins were humming along while they flicked through the pages of Ready Steady Go! magazine. On the cover were photographs of Dusty Springfield and George Harrison and inside were souvenir pictures of the Searchers, Brian Poole and the Tremeloes, the Rolling Stones, plus a giant colour photo of the Beatles. The girls were in heaven as they sipped their frothy coffee and shared news of their heart-throb, Billy J. Kramer.

  Lizzie sighed as she thought about their current boyfriends. ‘So what shall we do ’bout Darrell and Carl? They’ll finish up fighting the way things are going.’

  Veronica leaned forward so their foreheads were almost touching. ‘Thing is, we can never g
o out as a foursome.’

  ‘Y’spot on there, Ve.’ It was a crisis in their young lives. ‘An’ Darrell says he ’ates Rockers.’

  ‘Carl told me ’e wouldn’t be seen dead wi’ a Mod.’

  Darrell was clean-cut, wore a smart suit, listened to rhythm and blues and owned a Lambretta covered in shiny badges. In contrast, Carl wore a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots and his hero was Marlon Brando in The Wild One. On Saturday nights he changed into his brothel-creeper shoes and danced with Veronica to the music of Bo Diddley.

  Suddenly they were distracted. Seventeen-year-old Bertie Stubbs, the burly farmer’s son, walked in with his handsome and equally rugged farmhand friend. They smiled in the direction of the two girls, ordered coffee and sat down at the next table.

  Lizzie gave Veronica a knowing look, ‘Jus’ thinkin’ …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Darrell an’ Carl. Why don’t we dump ’em? It’ll never work.’

  Veronica grinned and nodded.

  They stared at the two burly newcomers. Both had weather-beaten faces and shoulders like weightlifters.

  ‘Which do y’fancy?’ whispered Lizzie.

  ‘Both of ’em,’ said Veronica, who wasn’t backwards in coming forwards.

  Ten minutes later Mods and Rockers were forgotten and a Saturday night barn dance beckoned with rough cider and a cuddle behind the hay bales.

  It was Sunday evening and Freddie had packed his rucksack and was standing in the hallway when there was a beep of a car horn outside Laurel Cottage.

  Lily hurried to say goodbye, but the farewell was brief as Freddie walked down the path towards Sam Grundy, who had borrowed his mother’s car. Freddie was staying the night at Sam’s house so that they could set off together the following morning.

  ‘Enjoy the Yorkshire Dales,’ called out Lily. ‘Hope the weather stays fine.’

  Sam waved to Lily, but Freddie gave the merest glance in her direction. Lily felt an emptiness in her heart as she watched the car drive away.

  After their evening meal she and Tom settled down in front of the television. Dr Finlay’s Casebook was on later, one of Tom’s favourite programmes, and, although Lily missed Freddie’s presence, time with Tom was always precious.

  Sunday evening television entertainment was also on the minds of the folk of Ragley. Shortly before seven o’clock Vera settled down to watch Songs of Praise from St Mary’s Church in Taunton on the BBC. In contrast, Ruby never missed Val Parnell’s Sunday Night at the London Palladium on ITV. This week it starred Freddie and the Dreamers and, as always, the talented host, Bruce Forsyth, was on form with his Beat the Clock game and a staggering jackpot prize of £100.

  On Monday morning Freddie was up at the crack of dawn and insistent on an early start. At first Sam was puzzled – until he realized Freddie had no intention of going camping.

  ‘I’ve got other plans, Sam. Just trust me on this. We’ll talk when I get back.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I’m a bit disappointed, Freddie, but I guess you have your reasons.’

  They drove down the A19 towards York and pulled up outside the railway station.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Sam, but recognized Freddie would not be swayed. They shook hands.

  ‘See you later,’ said Freddie. ‘Have a great time and don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Just something I have to do.’

  He walked to the ticket office and bought a ticket for London.

  Half an hour later, as the train pulled out of York station, he settled back, stared out of the window and thought of what lay ahead. It had been a reluctant dawn, but as the mist lifted there was promise of a fine day. He took out his German phrase book and scanned the pages. He had not posted his earlier letter to Rudolph Krüger and had considered writing again, but had then decided it would be best not to forewarn him.

  It was time to meet his father and discover his history.

  Hamburg beckoned.

  King’s Cross Station was busy, but he found his way on the underground to Liverpool Street Station and boarded the train to Harwich. Two hours later he was at the port where the Harwich–Hamburg ferry was due to depart at three o’clock.

  Meanwhile, life in Ragley village carried on its timeless cycle. The General Stores was its usual busy self, with early-morning shoppers and the exchange of gossip.

  Elsie Crapper was buying soap powder and Prudence Golightly passed over a large packet of Lux. ‘Anything else, Elsie?’

  The church organist was always keen to impart the latest news. ‘There’s a lot going on, according to my Ernie,’ she said with enthusiasm. Her husband was an encyclopaedia salesman and regarded himself as something of an expert in virtually everything. ‘He said the government’s building a new town because there’s too many people in London.’

  ‘Really,’ said Prudence. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Somewhere called Milton Keynes in Buckinghamshire.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Prudence. ‘I had a friend who lived in Bletchley during the war. That’s not far away.’

  A queue was forming behind Elsie and Prudence was beginning to look anxious. ‘So, is that it, Elsie?’

  Elsie returned to the last few items on her shopping list. ‘Almost, Prudence. Just a tin of beans, please, and a Toffee Crisp for Ernie and my Tit-Bits.’

  In Harwich Freddie bought a ticket and boarded the ferry along with a heaving mass of people. It was almost full and a long overnight journey was in store. Some of the wealthier passengers had purchased a cabin, but there were many like Freddie who sought out a comfortable bench on the top deck.

  With the benefit of his German studies, he found he could follow much of the conversations of those around him. On the next bench a young German couple were recalling a night back in 1960 at Hamburg’s Indra Club when they had listened to a live performance by the Beatles. Freddie smiled and thought of Rose. She was unaware of his travel plans and he wondered what she would think when the time was right to reveal all. Rose had become a constant companion, whereas relations with his family had become flawed, an amalgam with a seam of impurity. His youth was lost now, a time of innocence he could barely recall. The memory had been scarred and the time to seek his own destiny had arrived.

  Time passed and he bought a sandwich and a bottle of German beer. Then, as darkness fell, he mused on the events that had brought him to this journey. He tried to get comfortable as the ferry rocked beneath a firmament of inky darkness sprinkled with stars. It was a long time before he fell asleep.

  The ferry was due to arrive in Hamburg at around seven o’clock the next morning; following a six-hour crossing of the North Sea, there was still a long journey up the River Elbe. Finally, however, they docked at Landungsbrücken, the largest landing place in the Port of Hamburg. As Freddie disembarked a drift of rain freshened the air and dampened the dockside. He stared in wonder. He was here in Hamburg, a German city in the process of rebuilding itself on a grand scale. Around him were the old piers that had been destroyed during the Second World War and ten years ago pontoons had been built. He took out a map of the city and studied it.

  A clock tower loomed before him as he made his way to the local station. He bought a ticket on the overground train to Barmbek-Süd, a district of Hamburg rebuilt in the old style after the war. This was where Rudi lived and Freddie recalled that twenty years ago Tom had been fighting against a German Army that included his father. When the train pulled in to Barmbek-Süd station he picked up his rucksack and began the last leg of his journey. As he walked, he was aware that this was a time of renewal for a city that had been devastated during the war.

  Finally he arrived at No. 4 Weizenkamp, an apartment block with lockable postboxes for each apartment. He saw Rudi’s name, stepped inside, climbed the stairs and headed for the fourth floor. The name Krüger was next to the bell. He pressed and waited. There was no response. He tried again. There was no one in.

  A curious neighbour suddenly appeared across the hallway.
She was tall and elegant and studied the stranger before her.

  He plucked up courage to use his German and asked if Mr Krüger lived here. ‘Entschuldigung, wohnt Herr Krüger hier?’

  The lady frowned and asked who he was. ‘Und wer sind Sie?’

  ‘I’m a relation from England,’ he said cautiously. ‘Ich bin ein Verwandter aus England.’

  The lady’s demeanour softened slightly and she replied in excellent English, ‘Rudolph is away on business.’

  Freddie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh … when will he be back?’

  ‘One week, perhaps two. He is a busy man.’

  The plan to surprise his father had backfired. He thanked the neighbour. ‘Schade. Vielen Dank.’

  She nodded, clearly appreciative of this tall young Englishman trying hard to speak her language. His disappointment was obvious. ‘Is there a message?’ she asked.

  Freddie shook his head sadly. He had many questions but was unsure how to proceed. ‘Nein, danke.’

  She watched him descend the stairs and considered his appearance. Definitely a relation, she thought.

  Freddie slowly made his way back to the station, his hopes dashed. He walked into a kiosk with the word Imbiss over the door and bought a sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate. He used his phrase book to look up ‘youth hostel’ and asked where he could find one to spend the night. The directions provided by the young woman behind the counter were clear and precise.

  On Wednesday morning, after a comfortable night in the hostel, Freddie explored Hamburg. He sat down outside the town hall, the Rathaus, and watched the busy scene before him, trying to imagine Rudi appearing from the crowds.

  It was not to be.

  As he was stepping on to the return ferry from Landungsbrücken to Harwich, he wondered about the life he had left behind him.

  On Wednesday afternoon Lily was in Ragley village and had loaded up her car with shopping. Finally, after buying some stamps in the Post Office, to her surprise she saw Sam Grundy coming out of the telephone box.

  She called out to him. ‘Sam, you’re back early. I thought you were going for a week.’