It was past noon by the time they had delivered the salvage to the WVS collection centre and returned the handcart, and they were aching with hunger. Ross and Derek, who seemed to have nothing better to do, mooched wearily along with Joan in the direction of her house. On the way, they ran into Doreen, looking lovely as usual: pink-faced, blonde hair blowing in the wind. The boys perked up considerably when they saw her, but she ignored them.
“Mummy says I can go to the pictures with you tonight if we catch the early show,” she told Joan. “Can you call for me at my house at about five and we’ll walk down to the Queensway together?”
“Great! They’re showing Down Argentine Way with Betty Grable. It’s got that new singer in it – what’s her name? Carmen Miranda – the one who wears the tutti-frutti hat!”
To show she knew who Joan meant, Doreen performed a few expert samba steps on the pavement. Even in flat lace-ups and ankle socks, her legs looked good. Ross and Derek exchanged glances. All three watched as Doreen tripped off, waving but not looking back. Why do I have an older sister and a best friend with lovely legs? Joan thought to herself.
“Will you be going?” she asked Ross, then wished she hadn’t. She’d remembered too late that Ross’s dad probably couldn’t afford to give him money for the pictures on an army corporal’s pay.
“Nah,” Ross said scornfully. “I’m going to football practice. Can’t stand all that daft dance stuff, anyway. Tutti-frutti rubbish.”
“Me neither,” agreed Derek and he did a terrible imitation of what he thought was Carmen Miranda’s song and dance routine, flapping his hands about above his head.
“We like action pictures. John Wayne, James Cagney and that,” said Ross. After crouching down low, he emptied the chambers of an imaginary pair of pistols into Derek, who staggered about, clutching his stomach before falling flat on the pavement.
Joan was greeted by the welcome smell of dinner cooking as she entered the house. Mum usually managed to stretch the rations to something good on Saturday. They all lived, ate, did homework and listened to the wireless in the back sitting room next to the kitchen, where it was warm. The front room was left cold and unheated, except for special occasions. But, with a sinking heart, Joan heard voices in there. This meant a visitor, and she was pretty sure who it was. She tried to sidle through the hall and get upstairs unnoticed, but her mum heard her and called out, “Is that you, Joanie? Come on in!”
Reluctantly Joan hovered in the doorway, still wearing her coat.
Captain Ronnie Harper Jones was leaning against the mantelpiece, warming his backside by the small fire that Mum must have been reckless enough to light in honour of his visit. She was sitting on the settee, wearing her best ice-blue twinset, with her hair carefully done up in front. On the table was a half-opened parcel full of goodies. Joan immediately spotted a packet of butter and two bags of sugar, as well as what looked like some promising tinned goods. But she wouldn’t let her eyes rest on them.
“Joanie!” cried Captain Harper Jones. “Been out helping the war effort, I hear! Good for you!”
Joan nodded but said nothing. Nobody called her Joanie except her family and sometimes Doreen. She didn’t like someone she hardly knew doing it. Especially this man, with his carefully tended moustache and dapper army officer’s uniform, with polished Sam Browne belt, gleaming brass buttons and three pips up on each shoulder.
Some people might find him pretty impressive (including, for some unknown reason, her mum), but in Joan’s opinion, he was on the oily side. Anyway, his eyes were too close together. She wished he hadn’t taken to dropping in so often, especially not at Saturday dinnertime. He was stationed locally with the Army Catering Corps – “the wonderfully whacky world of army supplies”, as he laughingly called it. He was always explaining that he would have preferred to be with a crack commando unit, to see some real action “now the Jerry war was on the doorstep”, but unfortunately he had failed his medical on account of his eyesight.
“Just dropped by to bring in a few extras for you,” he said. “Help to eke out the rations!”
“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Mum. “We can manage, of course, but it’s a bit difficult with all these hungry people around.”
“Glad to help out any time. I’ve just come off parade. That’s why I’m all spruced up in dress uniform. Got to set a good example and all that. I won’t allow any laxity in my unit. I keep them up to scratch in the smartness department. And I see to it that the batman who looks after my uniform does a proper job with the spit and polish.”
“We’ve just been discussing the big charity dinner dance that’s coming up soon in aid of the Red Cross,” said Mum. “Ronnie’s doing all the catering for it.”
“It’s going to be at the golf club,” he explained nonchalantly. “I’m a friend of the chap who chairs the committee. Promises to be a pretty swish affair – Blitz allowing, that is. I’m taking your mother, as a matter of fact, and I was just wondering if you’d like to join us?”
“I’d rather not,” said Joan. “I’m not much good at ballroom dancing.”
“Oh, come on, Joanie. You’d love it,” said Mum.
Joan shot her a look.
“Is Audrey going?” she asked.
“No. Dai will be back at sea by then and she doesn’t want to dance with anyone but him. And you know how Brian feels about dances!”
“I haven’t got anything to wear!” Joan protested.
“We’ll find you something. Doreen and her brother will be there, I expect.”
Joan felt trapped. She could hardly say she was doing something else that evening when Mum knew perfectly well that she wasn’t.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball!” Ronnie laughed. “That is, if your mother doesn’t steal all the limelight.”
Joan didn’t bother to reply. She knew when she was defeated. She refused to catch Mum’s eye. If he stays for dinner, I’m not going to be polite to him, she thought.
But not even the pushiest guests ever invited themselves over for a meal in these days of food rationing. As Ronnie prepared to go, there was a knock at the door. Mum answered it.
Two men in army uniform, a sergeant and a corporal, were standing on the doorstep. Joan could tell by the red bands around their caps that they were military policemen.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said the sergeant, pushing his way past Mum without waiting to be invited in. He nodded to Ronnie. “We’re looking for someone. We’ve got reason to believe he might be hanging around this area. Have you seen anyone suspicious at all?”
“Why? What’s he done?” Mum asked.
“Deserter. A Polish chap. One of the refugees attached to the pioneer corps doing roadwork – digging ditches and that. Now he’s gone absent without leave and we’ve got orders to arrest him on sight.”
“I thought the Poles were meant to be on our side,” said Mum.
“He’s got no proper papers. On the loose illegally.”
“Will that mean military prison?”
The sergeant gave her a sharp look. “Yes – probably.”
“Military prison is the best place for him,” Ronnie said.
“Have you seen him?” the sergeant asked Mum. “We think he’s been hanging around here the last few nights.”
“No. I’ve been at home all morning, and there’s been nobody around here as far as I know.”
“Your husband away in the services?”
“He was. Merchant Navy. I’m a widow.”
The sergeant paused. His voice softened, but only slightly. “Sorry to hear it. Your neighbours at home?”
“Mr Roberts is probably out training with the Home Guard, but I think Mrs Roberts is at home.”
“Well, lock and bolt all your doors carefully, and if you see anything or anyone suspicious, report it immediately.”
“Yes, of course.”
The sergeant saluted Mum and Ronnie and then motioned to the corporal to leave. Mum closed the door carefully. Soon they heard them hammering at the Roberts’ front door.
“It’s a very bad show to have these undesirables on the loose,” said Ronnie. “The trouble is we’ve got too many of these European refugees and displaced persons over here now. Poles, Czechs, Jews – all sorts. A good many of them are safe and secure, interned on the Isle of Man, and a good thing too. I’m sympathetic, of course, but we’ve got to keep track of them.”
“They’ve had a terrible time, most of them,” said Mum with some spirit. “We’re fighting Hitler for what he’s doing to them. The least we can do is to take some of them in.”
“Yes, yes, of course, my dear. You’re such a sweet, soft-hearted person, I knew you’d take that view. Just don’t worry about it. Leave it to the Military Police. And you must report it right away if that deserter does show his face around here.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Just then Judy emerged from the back room, putting on her “cute little girl” act, as usual.
“Ah! Here’s my little Shirley Temple!” cried Ronnie, adjusting back to his usual jocularity. “Where have you been hiding, Judy? I’m just off, I’m afraid. But I’ve left a parcel for all of you − and there’s a special packet of sweets just for you.”
“Ooh, thanks, Captain Harper Jones.”
“Ronnie,” he said. “I want all you children to call me Ronnie.”
“Thank you, Ronnie.”
As the front door closed behind him, Brian appeared from the back room with a hunted expression. “Has he gone?”
Mum looked suddenly weary.
“Yes, he’s gone. But I wish you could have come out to say goodbye at least, Brian.”
“Not me. Not likely! Can’t stand the bloke.”
“I like him,” said Judy. She had already taken control of the packet of sweets, but as Joan noticed bitterly, she wasn’t offering them around.
“Mum, why did you lie to those policemen?” Joan asked. “Why didn’t you tell them about that man who was in the garden a few nights ago?”
Mum walked off into the kitchen, saying nothing. Joan and Brian trailed after her and watched as she slammed saucepans about in the sink.
“I didn’t want to put them onto him,” she said finally. “That is, if the man they’re looking for is the same one as you saw, Joanie.”
“But they’re the police!” said Brian. “Why ever not, Mum?”
“Well, if you must know, it’s because I’ve heard about those military prisons – ‘glasshouses’, they call them. They’re very, very tough. And if you’re a foreigner of any kind in one of those places these days, heaven help you.”
“Suppose he does come back?” asked Joan.
“Then I’ll get the police onto him straight off, don’t worry. I just thought we might give him one chance to get away. The Poles are supposed to be on our side, after all. Look how bravely their airmen fought in the Battle of Britain. Now the whole of Warsaw’s been destroyed and their country’s occupied by the Nazis. For all we know, this chap may be some poor devil who’s gone on the run because he just couldn’t take it any more.”
“But, Mum—”
“That’s enough. Now come on, you two. Go and check on Judy for me. She’ll ruin her dinner if she eats all those sweets.”