Chapter 19

Wednesday, 16 October 1940

Ruth didn’t like department stores at the best of times, but the fact she was constantly looking over her shoulder didn’t help. There was something about the way all the goods were laid out, the decadence of the whole thing that was somehow gratuitous and obscene, especially when most people couldn’t afford any of the items on show. However, Lewis’s did provide something for the local community and its owners tried to make some show of being economical, even if their adverts in the Post were always trying to sell the next variety of fur coat.

She preferred to get what she needed from the smaller local shops near her house. Every now and then she made an exception, and over the weekend she had heard on the grapevine, both through her work colleagues and from the neighbouring women, that a shortage of cloth was coming. If it had been one and not the other, she might not have believed it, but hearing from two independent sources was too much of a coincidence to ignore. She had already decided that she needed to make herself some more suitable clothes if she was going to be sneaking around the streets at night, and a cushion for the tea van driving seat. All she needed were the right materials and some time. She had never been a particularly good seamstress, but she could make do. On her way into work she had spotted a notice that was to be printed that prices were due to increase over winter, and she had made her excuses to leave.

Besides, she needed to make a waterproof bundle to store the photographs in. George was never far from her mind, even if she needed to act like life was going on as normal. Harriet was the only other person, besides Patrick, who knew what had happened and Ruth wasn’t sure she could ever speak to her again. Harriet would tell her to go to the police or her family. But if the police found out the truth, George might never be freed. Her family wouldn’t be much more help, and her sister would likely faint if Ruth were to tell her what happened. Her thoughts and her heart raced, but still she could find no solution than to do what they asked.

Lewis’s department store was only a short walk down the hill, and she could be back before anyone had missed her. If they enquired what she was doing with a roll of cloth, then she was sure she could think of a good reason on the spot. They probably wouldn’t think twice about a woman doing what they considered to be women’s work.

One of the wooden, framed double doors opened and a woman marched out and past Ruth without so much as an ‘excuse me’. Fabric was draped over her shoulders and it looked as if she was wearing some kind of hassock. Ruth wondered how many others were hoarding cloth and yarn. Early on in the war, Harriet had shown her the boxes and boxes of yarn she had hidden under the bed. It was like she was confiding in Ruth, saying that should anything happen to her then someone must look after her wool. Of course, that was ridiculous, but it did make Ruth wonder what people truly valued in wartime. For her, it was other people, even if she cherished her own company. Now Ruth had her own secrets that Harriet had to protect for her. It was the least she could do to give Ruth any possibility of forgiving the woman.

Ruth wondered how long it would be before they were all buying up everything in a panic, taking what they could get to look after themselves without thinking about others. She liked to think she was better than that, but deep down she knew she would do whatever she could to protect herself and her family. That thought brought on a wave of nausea and she almost doubled over. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She had to stay strong, for George.

Inside, the heat was stifling and she wanted to unbutton the neck of her shirt, but to do so would draw attention. There was a queue of women leading up to the stairs to the haberdashery floor, and without checking to see if it was the queue she was after Ruth rushed towards it before anyone could beat her to it. She had to be out as quickly as possible, and if rationing queues were anything to go by this could take its time. Whether it was negotiating with the butcher for an extra cut of liver, or trying to get the best cloth, people had a way of taking their time.

Ruth turned the corner around a clothes rail with the latest autumn dresses, and stopped dead. Next to the woman at the back of the queue was a young boy. His dusty brown hair was faintly familiar and he held the woman’s hand in a loose fashion that suggested he wasn’t overly comfortable with the action. Ruth breathed, wanting desperately to say his name. She took a step further hoping the boy would turn around, smile at her in that familiar way and run into her arms. Words caught in her throat and she mumbled an apology as she bumped into a shop clerk.

The woman turned and frowned at Ruth, but it was not anyone Ruth recognised. The woman pulled the boy closer and as he turned to the side Ruth caught a glimpse of a crooked nose and a lopsided smile. It was not George. It could not have been George, everything about the child was wrong, and she had convinced herself that she was seeing what she had wanted to see.

The queue took another half an hour to snake its way up to the till where she requested and paid for her cloth. She would be late back from her lunch break, but she didn’t expect anyone except for Rupert to notice, and even he was too busy these days to pay much attention. As long as the work got done, everything was fine. Not that she felt much like working at the moment, but she had to. She would have to leave her bicycle at work and carry the cloth home. She left Lewis’s and the queue behind, now out of the door, and went to work. She would have to hunt for George by night, under the guise of her volunteering uniform.

A few days later in the evening, she pushed the bundle into a hole in the brickwork, the brown fabric blending in with the wall. To make sure, she picked up half a brick from the floor and wedged it into the gap. It looked like it was only jutting out from the wall, a slight miscalculation during the building work, rather than a hiding hole. Patrick would know exactly where to look. She was to leave the bundle here, go away, and then he would collect it for passing on to his contacts. That was what they had agreed, but she wasn’t going to fall in line so easily. She had taken the money from a savings account, set aside for emergencies. What was this if not an emergency? But she hadn’t given him the full amount. If she fell into line that easily then he would ask for more, and he was only testing her. It was still a lot of money to leave around for anyone to find.

The money wasn’t the only thing she left for Patrick. Wrapped inside the money was a reel of negatives from the Custom House bombing. Rupert refused to print them, but people needed to see what was happening to their city. She had tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing giving them to Patrick, but she knew it was a lie. If they printed those photos then someone would trace them straight back to her and she’d be in more trouble than she was in now. Then she would never save George. But what choice did she have? They had her son and she would give Patrick what he wanted until he returned George.

There was an alley down the back of the houses, so overgrown with weeds that no one would have used it to access the houses, even had they not been left unattended, no longer fit for residence after the bombing. If she was seen then there would be questions as to what she was doing there, but she would not be seen. Her green-grey coat would blend in with the weeds and the autumn twilight would play its part. She crouched down, then thought better of it. If she had to wait some time then it would become painful. Instead she pushed herself back into the shadows, hoping to blend in with her surroundings.

She waited and waited, not daring to look at her watch in case the movement drew attention and he spotted her. Could he have seen her already? Perhaps that was why he hadn’t come. The wall was damp against her back and her legs were starting to cramp. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay there, and what if there was a raid? Would she hide waiting while the bombs dropped around her, neglecting her volunteer duty to the city? It was unlikely she would be able to bring herself to ignore a raid. She was just about ready to pull herself away from the wall and leave, when she heard the click of a brick being kicked by a boot. She pushed herself further into the wall. She would have to wait until she could follow him.

The footfalls stopped. In the silence she could just make out the rustle of the cloth bundle as someone took it from the crevice. She waited long enough for them to make a head start, before she detached herself from the shadows and gave chase. She could hear the steps of boots around the corner, so she followed them, first round one corner, then onto another street and onto a back street. When she turned again, she crashed into someone, winding her. She was just about to apologise when she caught sight of those emerald eyes.

‘You’ve been following me, lassie.’ There was no grin on his face this time. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. ‘Why’d you go and do a thing like that for?’

‘Where’s my son?’ She grabbed his arm, but he pulled away.

‘Now don’t go being silly. You’re in no position to make demands of me, or of our friends. Your son is fine. He just thinks I’m looking after him because you’re too busy. Just like that daft neighbour of yours did. Want him back? You just have to do what we ask.’

‘What if I don’t? What if I can’t? I have no training for this. I’ll get caught, and then what? You’ll not get what you want either.’

‘You’ll find a way. If you don’t, then, well I don’t have to spell it out to ya, now do I?’

‘You can’t hurt him. If you do then you won’t get what you need from me.’

He reached out towards her, but she pushed him away. A squealing sounded like the screech of a stray cat, and as Ruth turned she realised it was an air raid siren. It started faint, but rose to its warning crescendo. She turned back to the street, but Patrick was gone, lost amongst the crowd of people who were now leaving their homes to head for the shelter. Next time she wouldn’t let him slip away.