Chapter 25

It was a quiet time for Ruth to visit the office. The next edition was in the print room and the writers were out finding stories, or missed sleep. It was a time she often liked to work, when there were fewer distractions. When they hadn’t needed her to drive the van that night, she had thought that she could have some time to herself, but as soon as she was left alone the thoughts all came flooding back. Where was George? How was she going to get him back?

She flicked through her notepad trying to form the words in her mind. She needed to work, but all she could think about was George. The words were slow today, dropping onto the page in an irregular drip. Clever words, if only she could work them into her article. Her thoughts wandered and she thought about writing fiction. Anthony would like that. One day she would write the story of her life, tell everyone what had happened to her. She only hoped that she wouldn’t have to do it from a prison cell, forcing the stream of words as she waited for the gallows noose.

She pushed the notepad away and her pen clattered to the floor. She didn’t stoop to pick it up, but dropped her head to the table to rest on her crossed arms. She closed her eyes, breathing in the woody, ink-stained scent of the desk. She was going to have to do the unthinkable, against every fibre of her body. But it was all for George. She had made a choice to be responsible for his life; his was more important than hers. She fingered the cards she kept in her handbag. She had memorised the addresses written on them.

Pushing herself up from the table, she took a deep breath. She knew exactly what she needed to do. She would go to each of those addresses until she found her son. It wouldn’t be easy, but then nothing ever was.

It was the penultimate address from the ones she had snatched from Patrick’s wallet, but she hoped it would be the last. She stood outside the supposed home of Philip McAllister, or Patrick, or whatever his name was, on Bailey Street and took a deep breath. It was remarkable how unremarkable the houses were, just row upon row of terraces. But this one could contain her son. She didn’t know what she was going to do if she found him, but she had to go in and try. The front door hung loose on the hinges, moving slightly in the breeze. It wasn’t a good sign, but at least she didn’t have to break in.

Inside, she felt like calling out George’s name, but knew it was ridiculous. She moved through the hallway, searching for any clues. It reminded her of the house her grandfather lived in at the camp. There were bits of litter strewn everywhere and an overpowering stench of damp. There was nothing in the kitchen, where part of the rear wall was missing, nor in the living room, so she made her way upstairs. She winced with each creak of the wooden steps, but no one came. It was the only sound in the house.

From the landing she rushed into a bedroom hoping to surprise anyone who was there, but it was just as empty as the downstairs. There was only a simple bed in the corner, missing a mattress. Yet there were signs that someone had been living there recently: discarded bits of clothing, and a newspaper dated from the first week of the month. She moved on to the other room, but was disappointed not to find George. That last room was in the same state of disrepair as the rest of the house, but amongst the discarded items she spotted one piece of clothing she recognised. It was the shirt George had been wearing when he had been kidnapped. She rushed to it and picked it up, wrapping herself in it as if it were her son. It still smelt faintly of him and she breathed deeply, but it was tinged with the smell of damp. She put it in her overall pocket and moved to a bedside table.

She rifled through the pieces of paper that lay on it, but there was nothing of use. The only name on them was the alias that Patrick was using at this address. Philip McAllister. It could have been his real name, but she had found no further records of him existing outside this house. He didn’t officially exist.

The house was not what she was expecting. There was nothing there, it was just yet another house abandoned after a raid. That was the only reason she could think that Patrick was using it. It had brought her no closer to her son. He must be moving George from one abandoned house to the next. She mentally checked the list of addresses she had found in his wallet. As she thought, there was only one more address left to try. George would have to be there, or she was lost.

Saturday, 30 November 1940

It wasn’t straightforward to get to Knowsley Hall from the city centre. Ruth had to get the train to Knowsley station, then the bus, and walk the rest of the way along a country lane and up the secluded path to the big house. Train travel was discouraged unless it was essential or for the war effort, but as a journalist she would be able to make an argument for it. She had taken the bicycle just in case, but the muddy paths soon had her regretting it.

They had been expecting her. It was like gaining access to an exclusive club, forbidden to her as both a common worker and a woman. She had been led into a library by Mrs Reed the housekeeper, in which thick leather-bound tomes lined the walls. While she waited Ruth took a look around. The books looked as if they had never been read, if the dust was anything to go by. One must appear well read, even if one wasn’t. But as she had heard from her sister, they had found it difficult to retain staff at the house. A writing desk was arranged at an angle to the seating area, so that whoever sat there could engage in conversation with those by the fire. She took a closer look. There were locked drawers in the top section, but swathes of paper were left on the writing panel. Glancing over her shoulder to check she was unobserved, she flicked over the first sheets.

She wondered whether she should make a mental note of where everything lay on the desk, but she didn’t have the time. Besides, the desk was disorganised and cluttered and there was no way Lord Derby would be able to remember where things had been. She flicked over another piece of paper. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but there had to be something she could pass on to Patrick. Her stomach lurched as her conscience screamed at her from somewhere in the back of her mind.

Most were notes about the running of the household, things to be fixed in the gardens, who was responsible for the wall and the end of the estate, that sort of thing. Her pace quickened as she looked for anything to make sure this was not a wasted trip. Even should her interview with the Lord prove fruitless, she was sure she could find something here. She read and read, speeding up as she sensed her time was short. There were so many scribblings she didn’t know what she was reading and she was about to give up when something more formal caught her eye.

There was a typewritten note from the War Office. They were moving the North Atlantic Command to Liverpool. There it was. That was something she could pass on to Patrick. His handlers would want to know. The other sheets detailed naval movements in and out of the city, and she started scribbling notes in her notebook. Her stomach dropped again. Was she betraying other seamen like Peter? Surely the Nazis would find out someway if not from her. What choice did she have? She had to do something.

‘Mrs Holt! What on earth are you doing?’

Ruth spun on the spot and dropped her notepad to the floor. It landed with a thump then slid a few inches on the freshly polished wood. She was forced mute, and the housekeeper repeated her question.

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Holt, but this is a private residence. May I ask what you thought you were doing by that writing desk?’

The housekeeper had crossed her arms under her chest, and looked down her spectacles at Ruth like a school mistress. Ruth could imagine Anthony looking at a pupil in the very same way, and she almost smiled before she shook the thought away.

‘My sincerest apologies, Mrs Reed. I didn’t mean to be impertinent. However, while I was waiting I took it upon myself to find some writing paper. For the interview.’

It wasn’t much of a lie, but she hoped that it would pass. There was no way that the housekeeper could have any suspicions of what she was truly up to.

‘I see,’ Mrs Reed said after a pause. ‘Did you not think perhaps to bring some with you? I would rather expect writing paper to be one of the tools of your profession.’

‘Of course, Mrs Reed. Only, I forgot to bring my bag from the office, and when I realised it was far too late to go back… I would have missed the appointment and kept Lord Derby waiting. I rather thought that was a worse crime than borrowing some writing paper.’

‘Yes, quite. Well, let me see whether I can find you some before Lord Derby comes down. Only, you won’t be able to borrow it, I’m afraid.’ She smiled a wicked smile, the creases on her face highlighting her many years. ‘You shall have to keep it!’

‘Thank you,’ Ruth replied, giving the short laugh that she was sure was expected of her. ‘I would be grateful.’

‘Wait here. And do not touch anything else. In fact, make yourself comfortable on the Chesterfield. Lord Derby will have the armchair. He prefers to sit closer to the fire.’

Ruth moved away from the writing desk, picking up her notebook. She was thankful that Mrs Reed hadn’t pointed out the obvious fact that she could write in her notebook, but perhaps she had not noticed Ruth drop it. A minute later Mrs Reed came back into the library with a young man in tow. He was dressed in a suit which had clearly been tailored in Savile Row. It fitted him well, the lines of its dark navy cotton emphasising his height. Ruth was so flustered she simply curtseyed and waited to be introduced. Lord Derby simply smiled in response and held out his hand to shake hers.

‘What would you like to know, Mrs Holt?’ he asked as he took a seat. ‘I don’t often get journalists here, and I certainly don’t often allow them in, but let us just say that I was intrigued by your letter. And I hear you are sister to my assistant’s wife. You say you would like to know about the running of the house? I suppose I’m the last person you should be asking about the day to day, but perhaps I may be of some, minor, assistance.’

She had expected an older man, but it was only then that she realised that the son had taken over the estate from his father. He too had links to the War Office, but how much he knew, she would have to find out.

‘I’d be obliged if you would tell me everything,’ she said. ‘I’m sure our readers would be fascinated to hear about all the works of a Lord such as yourself and the great house of Knowsley Hall.’

He beamed at her, and she knew then that he would literally tell her everything. All she needed to do was write it down and work out the significance later. Not just because of the interview, but the letters she had found, she finally felt as if she were getting somewhere.

She was surprised that Anthony was waiting for her at home when she returned after that evening’s raid.

‘It occurred to me that we hadn’t seen each other in a week or two,’ he said. ‘And I did promise that I would keep an eye on you.’

Ruth smiled at the pretence, unlocked the door and showed him in. It would be a few hours before the sun came up, and she wondered why he had decided to come so early rather than going home first to get some sleep. But she didn’t ask. It was genuinely nice to see him. He sat on the sofa as she lit a candle and placed it on the small table in the middle of the room.

‘I realised I hadn’t seen George in some time,’ he said. ‘So, I’ve brought something for him. Has Harriet already put him to bed?’

‘He’s gone,’ she said, then caught herself. No, she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Probably not ever. Still, the words spilled out like a confession. ‘I had to send him away again. I couldn’t bear him being here in the city, when we’re all in danger. It’s safer for him as far away from the war and all the bombs as possible.’

She didn’t like lying to Anthony, he didn’t deserve that. This was her life now, lies wrapped in more lies.

‘You kept that quiet. I would have liked to say goodbye to him before he left.’

‘I’m sorry, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I was getting worried for his safety. But well, we all hope he’ll be back soon, don’t we? It breaks my heart thinking of him out in the countryside without me.’

Her voice broke as the emotion hit her and Anthony almost came to her but appeared to think better of it.

‘I thought you had decided to keep him here? Where you could keep an eye on him?’

‘I had decided that, yes,’ she replied, emphasising the words as if they were stupid. ‘But things change.’

‘Oh well, it’s nothing much. Maybe you can post it to him out in the countryside. It might help him pass the time more quickly. Call it an early Christmas present.’

He took out a small item and placed it on the table next to the candle. The silver reflected the scant light.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘It’s my father’s cap badge. The Welsh regiment from the last war. I thought he might like it. I used to keep it on my dresser, but I no longer have a dresser.’

She looked up at him sharply. Whatever could he mean? As if sensing her question, he continued.

‘I no longer have a house for that matter. It was bombed last night.’

She couldn’t contain the gasp. No wonder he had come to see her so early in the morning. He had nowhere else to go. Realising even a man like Anthony could find himself homeless was quite a shock; it could happen to any of them.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, pushing away the mental image of him lying down to sleep on the sofa.

‘I still own the bricks, but I’m no builder. I wouldn’t know where to start with putting the house back together. And besides, most of them are damaged. I may be able to sell them and make some money back, but never anything like what the house was worth. I’m afraid I’ve rather lost everything.’

As she had come to know him Anthony’s softness had become more and more obvious, but this was the first time she had seen him openly upset about something, unless it was expressed in anger. His melancholy was in some way endearing, evidence there was a depth to him that she had always suspected was there but had never experienced before.

‘That wasn’t quite what I meant,’ she said, smiling inwardly at his naivety. ‘Where are you going to live now?’

He paused, as if he hadn’t considered the question himself, then his head dropped.

‘You know, I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘I’ll think of something.’

He took a few breaths, and she could tell he was thinking.

‘Say,’ he said. ‘Would you like to go to a concert at the Phil? There’s Elgar at the moment.’

She hesitated, stuck somewhere between not wanting to disappoint him and wishing dearly that she could go. He noticed her pause and carried on.

‘Sorry, it was a silly idea. I don’t know why I asked, we’re both too busy and it was presumptuous of me. Forget it.’

‘No, no.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘It was a lovely suggestion. I’m just not sure about it. You know, with everything going on. Firstly, it just seems a little privileged to go to a concert when there are people, real people, struggling and dying in the city. Why should we be so lucky?’

He opened his mouth to stop her, but she continued anyway. She knew what he would say. ‘And I’m just not sure I would be able to relax and enjoy myself. It wouldn’t be fair on you, I wouldn’t be good company.’

He closed his mouth again and nodded, lost for words, his eyes downcast. Gripping his arm tighter, she wanted to weep for all the things she couldn’t tell him.

‘Why don’t you move in with me?’ She filled the silence, then almost put a hand over her mouth, surprised at her own words. His eyes widened and his lips pursed.

‘I—’ he started. ‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’

It was settled then. She was reluctant to let anyone into her world, but Anthony was different. He had become a friend, and even though she was trying to convince herself she was simply doing the right thing, she had to admit she liked him. He was a good, caring man. Things would be different about the house, but it would be nice to have some company. The only problem was, it was going to be even more difficult to keep her secret. She couldn’t tell him that yet, possibly not ever. She would still be on her own.