The road outside the town hall was heaving with people. There were vans serving food and crowds of people milling about, waiting for their turn. Inside the town hall their voices echoed off the stone floors and the high ceilings as if they were all in there and shouting, so I hid behind a pot plant in the hallway and watched them through the door. I didn’t know what to do and the noise frightened me after the strange silence of our street.
Then a big man in a suit came over and asked me why I was there.
‘I’m looking for my sister, Mavis,’ I said. ‘She looks like me only she’s four.’
He pointed to a counter in the corner and told me to ask there.
‘I’m looking for my sister,’ I said. I was suddenly tired of this.
‘Your sister?’ said the lady there. She had bright blond hair in a tight little curl which hung over her forehead, pink rouged cheeks, and a purple jumper with blue diamonds on it. She looked at me over the counter.
‘Yes, my sister,’ I said. ‘Mavis Gillespie.’
‘If you go and wash, I’ll tell you where to go,’ she said, and she wrinkled up her nose, which was very small. ‘Yes, wash,’ she said, when I stayed where I was. ‘Have you been playing in the bombsites?’
‘No,’ I said, which was true. I hadn’t been playing.
‘Hmm,’ she said, and her mouth squashed up sideways.
So I went anyway, down a corridor, and washed my hands and came back again. It was a very clean town hall and I hadn’t realised how filthy I was or how badly my hands were cut, again.
‘Hello again, Miss Gillespie,’ she said. ‘It’s through that door there.’
I went through a huge dark door, about twice as high as Mr Tait. There were two ladies at desks with telephones and papers and ledgers (like the one at school for roll call). Pots of ink and jars of pencils sat at the front of each desk along with a gas mask. There was another desk beside them across the corner opposite the door. A large dark-green ledger was on top of it. ‘DECEASED’ was written in heavy black letters that were barely visible across the front of this ledger. Deceased. I knew what that meant. It meant dead. It seemed like a book I might want to have a look at.
I glanced at the two ladies. One was licking her pencil. Her brow was knotted with concentration. I don’t think she knew I was there. The other sat back in her chair and stretched her arms behind her head and stared at something on the ceiling that I couldn’t see. I didn’t think she knew I was there either until suddenly she spoke.
‘You’re Peggy Gillespie’s girl, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘She’s not missing is she?’ she said, flinging her arms down into her lap and leaning across her desk at me. Her face was almost the same pasty colour as her fawn-coloured jumper, like old potatoes.
‘No, she’s not,’ I said.
‘Thank goodness for that!’ she said. ‘She’s always good for a laugh, your mum. Always ready with a shoulder if you need one.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant but she seemed to like my mum so I smiled.
‘Why are you here?’ she said.
‘I’ll deal with this,’ said a voice I’d heard already. The lady in the hall with the curl on her forehead and the pink cheeks was looming large behind me. ‘Sit down, Miss Gillespie.’
The other lady was suddenly hard at work just like her workmate with a pencil in her mouth.
I sat on a chair next to the desk and she sat on another one at the other side, leaving the door behind me open to the hall. The seat was hard but when I sat in it I thought I might fall asleep I was so tired, but all of me ached with worry and fear for what I might be told. I looked at the Deceased book, and wondered whether it didn’t mean diseased instead. I wasn’t very good at spelling.
‘Do you think she might be dead?’ asked the lady with the curl, seeing me look.
I gulped. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s her first name?’
‘Mavis. Mavis Gillespie.’
‘Age? Date of birth?’
‘Four. Um . . . .’
‘Four?’
‘Yes, four. And a bit.’ I didn’t think she liked Mavis being four. ‘Twenty-third of December.’
‘Nineteen thirty-six.’ She was a very fast counter.
I nodded though I’d no idea.
She picked up the Deceased book and balanced an odd pair of glasses on her tiny little nose. They didn’t have anything to go over her ears, no arms so I wondered why they didn’t fall off.
‘When did you last see her?’ she said over the top of these glasses.
‘Just before the bombing, by the canal. We were . . . .’
‘Who was she with?’
‘Me, but . . . .’
‘You, but . . . .’
‘I lost her.’
‘I know that.’
I gulped.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Um . . . .’
‘Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Why do you think she might be dead?’
‘Because nobody knows where she is.’
‘Where are your parents? And your family?’
So I told her the whole story that I’ve told you, only not quite so much of it because she kept interrupting with questions. She seemed very busy. Then she looked through her Deceased book and the only thing I could hear was the tick of a clock which sat on a mantelpiece beside a sign that read ‘Dig for Victory!’ I’d seen that sign before. Digging for victory seemed different now, not about carrots and onions any more. It meant digging down into the rubble and finding my mum not so very long ago, and I hoped it wouldn’t mean the same for Mavis.
Suddenly the pink-cheeked lady with the curl who didn’t tell me her name shot out of her seat.
‘Excuse me, Miss Gillespie,’ she said, and she left the room without further explanation.
Her shoes went clackety-clack across the marble floor and mingled with the voices of the crowd.
I did wait for a while, for her return; I didn’t do it immediately, but the Deceased book was lying open where she’d left it, so I tried to read the names upside down. The names were just squiggles of grown-up handwriting in pencil and ink but next to it was a column with numbers which seemed to be ages and dates of birth. I had to twist my head to see. Mavis’s shoe bulged in my pocket. The two ladies at their desks were still concentrating, one on another similar ledger, the other on the ceiling. I stood up very slowly, checking them, checking the book.
And then I saw a big four, bigger than all the other fours and I was sure as sure it was her, and my heart was beating in my mouth again, but I had to be really sure and I couldn’t read the name. So I grabbed the book with both hands and in one fell swoop I was under the desk that the lady with the curl had sat at.
It was one of those huge heavy desks with drawers on either side and a tunnel in between for legs. I squashed myself in there and held my breath and waited for the two desk ladies to call me back out again, but they didn’t.
Quickly, quickly now, I told myself. The name next to the big four was not the name I was looking for. I gave myself a two-second break then carried on down the number column. I was nearly at the end when the lady with the curl came back in. She had someone with her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the voice. ‘I didn’t mean to come in snivelling. How stupid of me! I just wanted to report in, from the rest centre.’
‘Sit down, Debbie, it’s alright,’ said the lady with the curl. ‘Where did the girl go?’ she said in surprise.
‘The girl?’ said the woman with the fawn face.
‘The girl, where did she go?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t notice.’
‘Didn’t notice?’ She made a sound a bit like Mrs Wilson, who wasn’t a witch. ‘Tsk, tsk.’ Then she told the two ladies at the other desks to go and check whether the afternoon post had arrived, yes, both of them, and leave them in peace for a minute. And while they were at it to look for that daft wee girl (me).
Underneath the desk I was quaking. I knew that voice, the voice of Debbie, and I knew those shoes that nearly tapped me with their toes, and the ankles, and the bottom of the not-very-clean coat that dangled over them; I knew that coat had fur round the collar and Miss Weatherbeaten’s face would be sticking out above it.
‘Go on then,’ said the Curl. ‘Tell me.’
‘It was awful (sniff, sniff),’ said Miss Weatherbeaten. ‘Just awful! I don’t think I’ve slept for five days, not in a bed, not even properly lying down, only in a chair in the corner of the kitchen, and once on the you-know-what.’
I couldn’t help feeling it served her right for leaving us and for taking Rosie, but she went on.
‘There was a woman who gave birth in the headmaster’s room in one of the other centres and I kept thinking it was going to happen to one of our pregnant ladies. We had quite a few. I mean I didn’t see the worst of it. They had gas rings to cook on by the time I got there. They’d had nothing for three days – just a few sandwiches and a huge pile of carrots and turnips. And the WCs. Ugh, you wouldn’t believe them! Sorry, it’s so selfish of me to complain. At least I’m not there any more. I’m not anywhere!’ There was a loud honk as she blew her nose, and the foot which had been crossed (and nearly tapped me) slid down onto the floor. Her elbows thumped onto the desk over my head.
‘It all sounds horribly inefficient to me,’ said Miss Curl.
‘Oh, it’s not, Jinty, really it’s not. Everyone’s trying so hard but there’s hardly any billets to give them and there was no food for ages, or not much, and no blankets or mattresses and all the workers are run ragged. I feel so guilty for leaving but I just couldn’t do it any more.’
‘Are you going back?’
‘Well, no. Of course I’m not going back.’
‘I see.’
‘And people keep losing each other. They keep sending buses to take people away but some of the men have gone back to work and the women won’t get onto the buses for fear of losing their men. There’s been some terrible scenes. I just can’t describe it!’
‘If you went back you’d have somewhere to go. You’re in the same boat as them, I suppose.’
‘How extraordinarily unfeeling you are!’ said Miss Weatherbeaten. The tears had gone from her voice.
‘I’m not unfeeling,’ said the lady with the curl. ‘I can’t put you up if that’s what you’re meaning.’
‘Well, I had hoped . . . .’
‘We’ve got almost all my nephews and nieces and my . . . .’
She stopped suddenly. Nobody spoke. I held my breath. Had I been discovered?
‘Robbie died,’ said Miss Curl in a whisper.
‘Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry!’ said Miss Weatherbeaten. ‘How awful.’
Miss Curl was behind her desk now and plumped down sharply onto the chair which grated backwards under her weight.
‘My mother’s distraught. He was her favourite, even though she never said so. She’s just . . . oh, it’s too awful this, just too awful! And we still don’t know where Alasdair is, and me sitting here all day taking other people’s names, everybody trying to find somebody, and I have to tell them their somebody is dead, when . . . .’
‘Oh, dear! I’m so sorry,’ said Miss Weatherbeaten again. ‘I wish there was something I could do. I suppose at least you have your mother. I don’t have anyone.’
‘We don’t even have windows. The rest of the house is alright, well most of it, but . . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Weatherbeaten.
‘I keep putting too much rouge on because I can’t see in the candlelight,’ said Miss Curl. ‘Isn’t it silly to fuss over such things when there’s so much to be done. We really must keep going. There are too many people who need us. This war is making fools of us all.’
‘I can’t go back,’ said Miss Weatherbeaten in an odd husky voice.
‘I know,’ said Miss Curl. ‘I’m sorry I even suggested it.’
There was a pause that was so long I was sure I’d have to breathe and be found out.
‘Do you remember little Rosie that I brought to you?’ said Miss Weatherbeaten.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Miss Curl. ‘Cute little thing. Poor soul.’
‘Where did she go? Where did you send her?’
‘Oh, dear. She sat on that chair you’re on now while you left. She had no idea you had gone. And then, after about twenty minutes, when she still hadn’t twigged, I had to leave the room. I told her to stay where she was but when I came back she had gone. I’ve no idea where.’
‘Oh, no! That’s terrible. I knew I shouldn’t have left her!’ Miss Weatherbeaten’s voice shook and her feet jumped off the floor for a second then fell back down.
‘I’m sorry, but, you know, it’s not my fault if the little mite won’t stay where she’s told.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that she never stays where she’s told, not if you tell her. I was going to come back and get her, seeing as neither of us have anybody now. I saw some poor little things at the rest centre. If I’d had a home to take them to . . . .’
‘You can’t take them all home.’
‘I only wanted one, just Rosie. It’s not a lot to ask. You’re younger than me. You’ll have your own children.’
‘But you’ve nowhere to take her. Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even have a house with no windows. You have nowhere to go yourself.’
‘Thank you, Jinty. I’m aware of that.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, perhaps . . . .’
‘You know it’s odd,’ said Miss Curl. ‘I had another little girl, a bigger one, probably about nine or ten who was in here looking for her sister. She also just upped and disappeared when I left the room.’
‘Was she upset?’
‘Not specially. Filthy little thing, she’d been playing in the bombsites.’
I was desperate to come out now, mainly because my neck was so cramped against the underside of the desk, but also because I was most definitely not playing in the bombsites. I was looking for Mavis and it had been horrible.
‘Do you think you’ll go back to Carbeth?’
‘I’d love to go to Carbeth but I don’t think they’d have me after bringing Rosie back here, especially if they ever find out she’s lost again.’
‘Maybe she went back there herself.’
‘Unlikely. It’s a long way, a straight road from here but too far. They’re right, of course. It was unforgivable. I just didn’t think I could leave her with Mr Tait, being a single man, of course. It’s particularly bad because of Lenny, the wee girl who . . . .’
‘Lenny?’
‘Yes, Lenny. Why?’
‘She was here. That’s the girl . . . what was the surname?’
‘Gillespie.’ They said this together.
I think we all three gasped at the same time.
‘Looking for Mavis,’ said Miss Weatherbeaten.
There was another long pause. I was sure I’d been found out. I was grateful for a sudden hullabaloo in the hall.
‘Did you find her? Mavis, I mean,’ said Miss Weatherbeaten.
‘I hadn’t finished look . . . hang on, she’s taken the Deceased book! Oh, Lord! Oh, my good Lord! No! What on earth am I going to do?’
Miss Curl’s legs straightened as she stood. So did Miss Weatherbeaten’s and I heard things being shifted about up on the desk.
‘What did I do? Did I have it with me when I went to the hall? Did I have it . . . maybe it’s . . . ?’
I nearly came out straightaway and confessed. Instead, when they went back out to the hall to look for the book, I leapt out from my hiding place and flung the book onto the desk of the fawn potato lady, then dived back under.
The fawn potato lady came back into the room immediately afterwards with her companion and said loudly, ‘How did that get onto my desk, I wonder?’ and dumped it back onto the desk over my head. ‘Oh, look what I’ve done!’ she went on. ‘I’ve dropped my cardigan.’
Her face appeared round the end of her desk. She looked at me across the cold floor and pursed her lips, trying not to laugh. Then she disappeared again.
Miss Weatherbeaten and Miss Curl came back.
‘Goodness, look how I’m losing my marbles!’ said Miss Curl seeing the book. ‘What a fluster. That’s not like me at all. I’m so sorry.’
They started going through it together, and then through other ledgers of people missing or billeted, and every so often one of them would say ‘Here’s one, oh, no, sorry,’ and it would be Mavis something else, or some other missing four year old.
And slow, slow, slow! I couldn’t bear it. And then they’d stop and talk about someone I’d never even heard of until finally the time had come. I had to get out. I put one hand out on the floor.
‘What’s that?’ said the fawn potato lady.
‘What’s what?’ said Miss Curl. ‘We’re very busy. Can’t you see?’
‘I thought I heard a child’s voice. In the hall. Maybe it’s that girl. What was her name?’
I pulled my hand back in. Miss Weatherbeaten nearly trod on it.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. How can you tell in all that noise?’ said Miss Curl.
‘There it is again!’ said Miss Fawn.
Miss Weatherbeaten shot out the door, followed closely by Miss Curl.
‘Out, quick!’ whispered Miss Fawn. She went to the door. ‘Out! Now!’ She beckoned me with a pudgy, fawn hand. ‘That way, that way! Now!’ And she shoved me out into the busiest part of the crowd. I bent double and sneaked out the door and round the corner of the street as fast as I was able.
‘Lenny!’ I heard in the distance. It was Miss Weatherbeaten. ‘Lenny darling, where are you? I’m here looking for Mavis. Lenny! And Rosie too! Lenny!’
A big corporation bus squealed to a halt just over the road. It said ‘DEPOT’ on the front. I didn’t know where Depot was, but it was heading in the right direction for Glasgow and the Carbeth bus. It was only when I found my seat on the bus that I realised I’d lost my pretty hat with the pink and yellow ribbons and the purple cloth flowers.