Not wanting to miss a minute of the party, I ran all the way to Queenie’s. The shop was shut up, so I let myself in through the back door.
‘Queenie?’ I called. ‘We’re about to serve the tea. Are you coming?’
After the crowded village hall, the house was quiet. The clock on the kitchen wall was still stopped; I wondered if Dr Wirth had given up trying to mend it.
‘Queenie?’
Thinking she’d not heard me, I went down the cellar steps and found her sat at the table. With her sweater sleeves pushed up, she was going through what looked to be an old shoebox. She was crying.
I’d never seen Queenie in tears before: she wasn’t the sort of person you’d imagine cried very much and it threw me, rather.
‘I’m sorry.’ I backed away. ‘I’ll wait upstairs,’ but she was up and past me before I’d a chance to.
‘Give me a moment,’ she said.
I didn’t know whether to wait. To be honest, she didn’t look in the mood for a party and might prefer to be left alone. The contents of the shoebox lay spilled across the table like a mouse’s nest. For that’s all it seemed to be – a clump of shredded paper.
The paper was tissue-thin – airmail paper. The strips looked as though they’d once been letters, little phrases like ‘with all my heart’ and ‘I dream of you every day’ on each one. They reminded me of the lucky sayings you got in Christmas crackers or lines from the Valentine’s cards Dad used to send Mum. Gently, I stirred the nest of paper with my hand. In doing so, I saw a few more:
each day without you is agony
my dearest Queenie do write soon
I’m sorry for the tears
don’t forget how I love you
So Queenie did have a penpal after all – a sweetheart, by the looks of things. I felt a bit uncomfortable reading what was private so, scooping up the strips, I put them back in the box and closed the lid.
It was then I saw on the side of the box – a name, a date: ‘Marcus Epstein: Frankfurt, March 2nd 1940’. It was today’s date, a year ago. And, at the bottom, a specific time.
2.10 p.m.
‘Romantic’, Mrs Henderson had called Queenie’s clocks; but to me, realising what it probably meant, it made my throat thicken with tears. No wonder Mum had understood what a stopped clock might mean.
Something must’ve happened to Marcus Epstein that day, at that time. Something terrible that made Queenie’s life stop dead.
My brain tried to fill in the gaps. Perhaps Marcus was a Jew. Perhaps this was why she was so set on helping Jewish people, and had such guts when it came to standing up for what was decent.
I didn’t know. In many ways it didn’t matter. It was Queenie’s private business. She was the person who’d thrown stones at German aircraft, and yet protected the injured pilot from more harm. She fought for people, that was what Queenie did. Beneath our race, our religion, we were all human beings. We all hurt in the same ways.
Upstairs in front of the hall mirror, I could hear her now repinning her hair and fastening her coat.
‘Right, Olive, I’m ready,’ she called down.
I went to join her, taking in her smooth, tearless face, the newly tidied hair. You’d never know from looking at her that her heart was still breaking. But that was the awful thing: life did go on, and so did that horrible empty ache you felt when someone wasn’t there any more.
*
Back at the tea party, the hall buzzed with noise: laughter, different accents, the excited exclamations of people trying delicious new foods. It was nice to be amongst it again because it helped chase my sad thoughts away. I hoped Queenie, who was given a cup of tea by Mrs Henderson, was feeling the same.
Cliff and me, meanwhile, decided to have a competition to see who could get the most food on their plate in one go. Everyone had brought something, and seeing it all spread out on the table you’d have thought rationing had ended.
‘I want to try everything,’ I said to Cliff, whose eyes were on stalks.
There were jam sandwiches – naturally – cold chicken, slices of potato pie. And on the sweets table were cinnamon biscuits, Ephraim’s carrot fudge, fruit scones, rock buns. What caught my eye most were the foods I didn’t know, made by our Austrian visitors: the flat bread, the shredded cabbage in vinegar, the dark, dense cake dusted with icing sugar, and the apple pie that was oblong rather than round, and whose pastry crackled when you cut it.
‘I’m going to try everything,’ Cliff replied. I just hoped he wouldn’t burst his stitches.
Half an hour later, feeling thoroughly sick, we stopped eating, and Cliff was declared the winner. Outside, the dusk was gathering but no one was in a rush to leave, the noise in the hall now the peaceful lull of easy chat. We moved our chairs so Dr Wirth and Esther could join us, and it felt nice just to talk about silly things like Pixie’s doggy beard and whether the hospital had thrown Cliff’s appendix away or if not, where it might be now. Mum hadn’t mentioned going home early again, and no one reminded her.
Then Mrs Henderson clapped. ‘Let’s have dancing!’
Everyone got to their feet, dragging tables and chairs aside to make space. Mr Geffen said he had sheet music in his suitcase, and went off to fetch it. When he came back, it turned out Mrs Moore knew most of the tunes on the piano.
At first it was only the Budmouth kids dancing, which was like watching carthorses charging about, until Esther grabbed the boy called John. Following her lead, Miss Carter took Clive, and together they showed them how to do a dance so fast it made my head spin. It was all kicking legs and swinging arms, with steps as goofy as a clown’s. Even its name – the lindyhop – sounded jolly good fun.
I went over to Mum, taking her hands and pulling her up. ‘Come on, let’s give it a try.’
‘Oh I can’t, Olive,’ she protested. ‘It’s too fast for me.’ But she was laughing and not putting up much of a fight.
I managed to get her on to the dance floor. And we’d got as far as learning how to swing our arms, when the music suddenly stopped mid-beat. Everyone groaned.
A familiar voice boomed over the noise: ‘Ephraim Pengilly? Are you present?’
Like a switch had dropped, the room went quiet. Mr Spratt in his navy coastguard’s uniform stood just inside the door. With him were four policemen.
What were they here for? Who’d done something wrong? You could see the questions and suspicions returning to people’s faces. Heart floundering, I guessed the answer: the authorities had got wind of thirty-two Austrians arriving in Budmouth Point by boat. In truth, it was bound to happen eventually; it was only a matter of time.
Mr Spratt pointed to Ephraim. ‘That’s our man.’
As he and the policemen strode across the room, we moved to its edges.
A glance passed between Mum and Miss Carter. Queenie stared straight ahead, unblinking. Mrs Henderson started fanning herself with her hand.
‘I’m here,’ Ephraim said clearly. And I saw how somehow we’d all drifted away from him, so he stood alone. Even Pixie had stayed traitorously close to Cliff, who’d gone back for thirds of cake.
It wasn’t right. Not when Ephraim had done so much for Cliff and me – actually, for pretty much everyone in this room. Letting go of Mum, I went over and linked my arm with his.
‘No, Olive.’ He tried to pull away.
‘Come come, now’s not the time for heroics.’ Mr Spratt rolled his eyes. ‘Unless you’d like to be handcuffed together and both taken to the police station?’
I didn’t move.
‘Wait a minute. What’s Ephraim actually done?’ Queenie asked.
‘It’s what he hasn’t done that concerns me. A boat turns up mysteriously from France, and not one word of an explanation in the lighthouse log book?’ Mr Spratt put his little hands together. ‘That, madam, goes against all regulations.’
Queenie’s face flushed an angry red, but it was Mum who answered. ‘I’ve also broken regulations,’ she said levelly. I felt a thud of panic as she walked right up to Mr Spratt and held out her wrists. ‘So if you’re threatening my daughter with handcuffs, you’d better arrest me too.’
‘And me,’ Queenie joined her.
‘Likewise, Mr Spratt,’ agreed Mrs Henderson.
‘You should take me as well,’ added Miss Carter.
The policemen looked at each other, eyebrows raised.
‘I’ve also broken the law.’ A new voice called out from the other side of the hall. It was the schoolteacher, Mrs Simmons, now nervously on her feet. ‘Last night, I forgot to close my blackout curtains.’
There was a pause.
Then Jim the cabbage man stood up. ‘You’d better take me too, officer. I gave my petrol coupons to Mr Fairweather.’
‘I bought a pair of nylons on the black market,’ said Mrs Moore the baker, which raised eyebrows amongst her friends.
People were now standing up thick and fast. I didn’t know whether to cheer or beg them to stop as the policemen started arguing over what to do.
Mr Spratt looked extremely uncomfortable. ‘Look, if you’d all just sit down—’
‘I fed my dog my meat ration,’ a woman I didn’t know called out.
Then Pamela stood up. ‘I copied Gillian’s history homework last week.’
‘And I took that piece of chocolate you were hiding in your desk,’ admitted Gillian.
‘My baby boy drank too much milk.’ This was Miriam with Reuben squirming in her arms. ‘He’s just over two weeks old. Do you wish to handcuff him as well?’
It was so absurd that people started to see the funny side of what was happening. Even the policemen had taken their hats off and were scratching their heads. One of them was drinking a cup of tea someone had offered him. The funniest thing of all, though, was the expression on Mr Spratt’s face. He’d gone such a violent shade of purple, I honestly thought he’d burst.
‘These people shouldn’t be punished for their kindness,’ said Dr Wirth, who, stopping in front of Mr Spratt, stood a good foot taller. ‘You should be proud of what they’ve done. I only wish more of my fellow countrymen had such humanity.’
‘My dad’s right. You’ve all made us welcome here,’ Esther agreed. She caught my eye and smiled.
Trying hard to appear dignified, Mr Spratt looked Dr Wirth up and down. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced, Mr –?’
‘Dr Wirth. And I’m afraid you’ll need to arrest us as well,’ he said, gesturing to the other refugees.
Confusion spread over Mr Spratt’s face. He looked to the policemen, then to Ephraim, Mum and the others stood before him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, man!’ he fumed. ‘We can’t possibly arrest you all!’
‘Not on a Sunday,’ remarked the policeman with the teacup in his hand.
His colleague agreed. ‘We’re not going to break up a happy party, either.’
The only thing left for Mr Spratt to do was leave, which he did, storming out, nostrils flaring like a small, squat bull.
There was a beat of quiet as the room settled again. We caught each other’s eyes. Smiled. Laughed. Then hands, hats, napkins flew into the air. The cheer of delight that went up with them was enough to lift the roof.