What a stupid argument! I was sure it had nothing to do with my youth and everything to do with my skin colour.
I said, in my best English accent, ‘I should think it will be rather difficult for Frau von Arnim to manage her walking sticks and her papers at the same time.’
In the end I was put properly in charge, with sheepish excuses as the Society of Friends people avoided looking me in the eye. But they apologised by making a bit of a fuss over Frau von Arnim before she left, and me as well, feasting us with scones slathered in jam and butter. ‘There’s no rationing here!’ somebody told me. ‘People on the mainland are envious when they find out how well the detainees eat. But we can’t let it go to waste, can we? And we’re not allowed to send any foodstuffs off the island. You must guzzle as much as you can before you go!’
I studied the documents they’d given me so grudgingly. It said Johanna von Arnim on the old woman’s passport and her ration books and release papers. Hadn’t Nancy Campbell told me her aunt was called Jane Warner now? But everyone in Rushen Camp called her Frau von Arnim. I wasn’t sure how to keep her Germanness quiet, as Mrs Campbell said I should; or even what to call her.
*
The mainland ferry set sail for Liverpool, and I sighed with relief as I unwrapped the sandwiches I’d bought at a kiosk on the pier in Douglas. (Roast beef! I hadn’t tasted beef that wasn’t out of a tin since the war started.) Taxi, rail station, taxi, ferry, loading and unloading everything at each stop, helping Frau von Arnim in and out of vehicles and up and down from platforms – hauling all the travelling cases along with us again, hers full of record albums and mine full of books. There was the gramophone, too. We had to wear the furs; I felt like a trapper. Had Nancy Campbell suspected the fuss? She must have.
But at last I had a chance to breathe, with a long night at sea ahead. We weren’t in a cabin, but the ferry lounge was more comfortable than the train, and Frau von Arnim’s furs were incredibly warm and surprisingly light. I had never worn anything so soft. Johanna von Arnim sat straight and elegant in her own beaver coat and fox stole, with her back to the Isle of Man as we steamed away from it. Her thin powder-white hair peeped out beneath her fur hat, and her watery blue eyes gleamed as if they were wet.
‘Good riddance to that godforsaken place,’ she said abruptly. ‘Tell me, my dear, how does a Jamaican schoolgirl end up traipsing across Britain with a released German detainee?’
I swallowed. I hadn’t yet had to tell anyone about Mummy and Daddy being killed – my landladies were there when it happened, and it was nobody else’s business. Mrs Campbell hadn’t even asked.
‘I needed work,’ I said evasively.
‘No people of your own to go to?’
‘Not here,’ I said.
I bent over my cup of tea.
‘You’re dreadfully young not to have any people,’ said Johanna von Arnim.
I didn’t want to talk about it.
But I’d just make it worse for later if I was mysterious. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d have to tell someone, even if it was the first.
‘My parents were killed by bombs last month,’ I said. ‘In the same week. Not in the same place. My mother, she was called Carrie, Caroline Adair – she – she was riding in the front of a bus that fell into a crater when Balham tube station was bombed. You might have seen the pictures in the papers.’
‘No, we aren’t allowed newspapers,’ the old woman said gently. She cocked her head to favour her left ear, listening carefully over the ferry’s engines. ‘How terrible, and how unhappy you must be! Were you in the accident?’
I shook my head. This I couldn’t talk about – that I hadn’t been along. I hadn’t been there when it happened, I hadn’t been there when Mummy was taken away in the ambulance, I hadn’t been there when she died all alone in the hospital four days later. No one needed to know that. No one could fix that, and I didn’t want anyone to pretend to try.
‘My father, Lenford Adair, was a merchant seaman on a ship that was torpedoed three days after my mother died,’ I said carefully. ‘I didn’t find out until about two weeks later. Poor Daddy! I don’t know if he knew what happened to Mummy. I sent a telegram, but it might not have reached him. I can’t decide if I hope he did know, or if I hope he didn’t.’ I swallowed again. ‘Hundreds of men drowned. He hadn’t been let in the Royal Navy because he wasn’t born in Europe, but the German U-boats don’t seem to care whether it’s a navy or civilian ship they’re sinking—’
I choked on my words, my face and eyes burning.
‘I’m sorry!’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like anyone who’s German—’
‘It didn’t,’ she said. ‘And the U-boats don’t. Well done, Lenford Adair! Those merchant seamen are just as heroic as the military seamen, even if they’re not in battle. I’m sorry they wouldn’t let your father in the navy. There’s nothing more frustrating than having an open door slammed in your face.’
It reminded me of what the social worker said: There’s nothing worse than knowing nobody wants you.
‘And grief is a burden you can never put down,’ said the old woman. ‘Though it gets easier to hide. I’ve been alone for three years. It doesn’t feel very long.’ She suddenly sounded stubborn. ‘It isn’t very long. It never stops hurting. You learn to bear the pain.’
‘Do you?’ I asked longingly, caught off guard by her intimacy and kindness.
She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘It depends on where you are and what you’re doing.’
The social worker’s warning nagged in my head. Do keep a careful eye on her, won’t you? Do take care that Frau von Arnim isn’t allowed to hurt herself again.
We’d finished our sandwiches. The old woman drooped and was instantly asleep, snoring lightly against my shoulder.
I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t remember ever being so tired in my life. Johanna von Arnim’s sleek head pressed against me like a sandbag full of concrete. It hadn’t been easy, talking about Mummy and Daddy. I let the tears come quietly and didn’t make a noise. It was comforting to have the old woman’s head lolling heavy and trusting against my shoulder.
I thought it would be impossible for her to steal off and throw herself into the Irish Sea without waking me up, so I gave up trying to keep my own eyes open.
I recognised the drone of German planes even in my sleep. I dreamed I was standing in Balham High Road back in London, staring at the sky. It was blue and empty, and I wasn’t worried about being attacked. I was happy and excited, as if I were going to a party. I could hear the thudding engines all around and I held my breath, longing for the air battle to begin. I couldn’t wait to cheer on the Spitfires and Hurricanes as they cut up the sky with their vapour trails.
Then I remembered what the bombers would do to Mummy, and woke myself with a sob.
The engines were real. The German air force, the Luftwaffe, was bombing the Liverpool docks. The ferry lounge lights had been switched off, but the ship steamed onward, with a kind of grim determination that reminded me of Mrs Campbell on the phone.
I jumped up and peeked beneath the blackout curtains. We hadn’t far to go, but fire lit the low black land. The ship rocked, and I thought of U-boats and torpedoes. We were helpless. Had Daddy felt this way, waiting for his ship to sink? I couldn’t believe it. He must have had a job to do, right up to the instant he was killed.