The Londoners (3 page)

‘Hitler isn’t German, Mr Collins,’ Kate said, her voice sounding a little odd even to herself. ‘He’s Austrian.’

‘Whatever he is, he’s a blighter,’ Mr Collins said cheerfully. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you had those roses lopped down a bit, Miss Helliwell?
They’re beginning to look like a perishin’ jungle.’

As Miss Helliwell protested strongly at the very idea of having her roses tampered with, Kate walked away from them, continuing on her way home, wondering why everyone had Hitler on the
brain.

‘First it was Miss Godfrey,’ she said to her father an hour later as she put a plate of sausage and mash on the table in front of him, ‘and then it was Mr
Collins.’

Carl Voigt smiled slightly and reached for a bottle of brown sauce. ‘It’s only to be expected,’ he said in a voice betraying only the merest hint of an accent. ‘Germany
hasn’t been out of the news all month. First it was the news that German citizenship had been declared conditional on Nazi membership and then there was the decree that the importing of
banned books would be punishable by death. With Hitler instigating the passing into law of such obscenities, of course people are talking about him.’

Kate sat down opposite him and sipped at a mug of tea. ‘It wasn’t Hitler being mentioned, it was the
way
he was mentioned, or at least the way Miss Godfrey mentioned him,
that was odd.’ She hesitated and then said, troubled, ‘She made it sound as if people would assume, because you’re German, that you’re an admirer of what is now going on in
Germany.’

Carl Voigt’s eyebrows rose slightly over the top of his rimless spectacles. ‘Did she?’ he queried mildly. ‘Were those her exact words?’

‘Not exactly,’ Kate admitted, adding defensively, ‘but that was definitely her implication.’

Carl speared the end of a crisply fried sausage. ‘I think you misconstrued whatever it was she said to you,’ he said at last, ‘and I also think you’re being
over-sensitive,
Liebling.
No-one who knows me would ever, in a million years, imagine I was an admirer of the present German government.’

The idea was so preposterous that Kate’s sensation of uneasiness immediately began to ebb. ‘I know that,’ she said with a grin, ‘but all the same, her manner
was
odd.’

‘If it will make you any happier I’ll talk to her about it,’ Carl said, keeping his own suspicions as to what Miss Godfrey had been trying to convey to Kate to himself. There
was no sense in anticipating unpleasantness, especially when it was unpleasantness that couldn’t possibly affect his English-born daughter.

He speared the last piece of sausage with his fork and said appreciatively, ‘That was a wonderful dinner,
Liebling.
’

She rose to her feet and picked up his plate, carrying it across to the sink. ‘Are you going to The Swan this evening?’ she asked, her thoughts no longer on her puzzling conversation
with Miss Godfrey, but on the pub’s annual outing to Folkestone which her father always helped to arrange.

He nodded. ‘Yes, there’s a meeting tonight to settle on the date of the trip. Daniel Collins thinks we should change it from August Bank Holiday weekend to an earlier date when
Folkestone won’t be so crowded.’

‘It’s a good idea, but it’s a bit late to change this year’s date, isn’t it?’ Kate asked, plunging her father’s plate and knife and fork into a bowl of
soapy hot water. ‘It’s July already.’

‘We could go the week beforehand.’ Carl pushed his chair away from the table. ‘The only person it will inconvenience will be Nibbo. He doesn’t mind closing shop on a Bank
Holiday weekend but it’s going to half-kill him to put up the shutters on a normal weekend.’

He picked up a large shabby briefcase and withdrew a pile of exercise-books from it, putting them on the table where he wouldn’t be able to avoid seeing them when he came home from his
meeting at The Swan.

‘What on earth are those?’ Kate asked, her eyebrows rising. ‘School’s over until September.’

‘Not for teachers, it isn’t,’ Carl said dryly. He gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Cheerio,
Liebling.
I’ll be back by nine.’

When he had gone she dried her hands on a tea towel and went into the living-room. A library edition of J. B. Priestley’s
The Good Companions
lay on the arm of a chair, a bookmark
placed strategically at the end of chapter five. She picked it up and carried it outside, sitting on the scoured top step. Though it was now after seven the sun was still warm and the air was heavy
with the fragrance of the flowers in her own, and her neighbours’, gardens.

She read a few pages and was interrupted by Mr Nibbs calling out a greeting as he left his house intent on the same destination as her father and by Charlie Robson calling a greeting as he
walked towards Magnolia Terrace, his alsatian, Queenie, at his heels.

Kate put her book face down on her knee and watched man and dog until they were out of sight. Charlie Robson was obviously going to take Queenie for a walk on the Heath. On such a lovely summer
evening there couldn’t be a nicer activity and she wished she had had the forethought to have asked Carrie’s grandmother if she could take Bonzo for a walk. It was too late now and she
closed her eyes, enjoying the heavy, sweet smell of Miss Godfrey’s carnations and the rhythmic sound of a distant lawnmower.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Hettie Collins, Danny Collins’s mother, called out cheerily. She was on her way to arrange the flowers at St Mark’s Church and the shopping bag
she was carrying was crammed with freshly cut sweet peas and lilies and columbines. ‘On an evening like this you know that God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the
world!’

‘You certainly do, Mrs Collins,’ Kate agreed, trying to remember where the quotation came from and flashing her a wide, sunny smile. ‘I finished school today and I start
secretarial school in September.’

‘Good for you, dear. My Danny’s joined the army. He doesn’t half look a smasher in his uniform. I envy both of you. You’ve got your whole lives to look forward to. I must
be getting on though, dear. I can’t stay talking. There’s a wedding tomorrow and there’s a lot of flowers to arrange. Toodle-doo.’

‘Toodle-doo,’ Kate rejoined exuberantly, suffused with sheer animal good spirits. She had remembered where the quotation about God being in his heaven had come from. It was from a
poem by Robert Browning. She knew also that Mrs Collins was right and that the whole of her adult life lay before her; a huge adventure she couldn’t wait to begin.

She closed her eyes again, day-dreaming of the wonderful things to come. When her father came home she was still there, her book face down on her knee, asleep in the blue-spangled dusk.

AUGUST
1936

‘Don’t you think it’s a little beneath our dignity to go on the Folkestone trip this year?’ Carrie asked, looking at herself critically in the
full-length dressing-table mirror in Kate’s bedroom. ‘I mean, it isn’t as if we can let our hair down, is it? Not when your dad is organizing it and my mum and dad and gran are
going on it, not to mention Mavis and Ted and the kids.’

‘Mrs Collins told me Danny is hoping to be home on leave that weekend and that, if he is, he wants to be counted in for the trip,’ Kate said guilefully, continuing to paint her nails
a devilish scarlet as Carrie surveyed the squared shoulders of the lavender crêpe dress Kate had helped her to make.

Carrie raised an eyebrow in mock offence. ‘And just what is that remark supposed to mean?’ she asked, knowing very well what it meant. ‘If you’d said King Edward, I might
have been tempted.’

‘You’re neither married or American so you stand no chance there,’ Kate said dryly, painting her last nail with care.

Carrie returned her attention to her dress. ‘I’m not at all sure about these puff sleeves,’ she said doubtfully. ‘They make me feel top-heavy.’

‘You don’t look top-heavy,’ Kate said truthfully, ‘and the skirt hangs wonderfully.’

Carrie did a pirouette, the cross-cut, mid-length skirt swirling around her legs. ‘Do you think the rumours are true?’ she asked, referring to King Edward. ‘Do you think the
King really does want to marry Mrs Simpson?’

Kate shook her head. ‘He can’t marry her, can he? I expect he’ll end up marrying Princess Frederica or Princess Alexandrine Louise.’

Carrie turned away from the mirror. ‘And who are they, when they’re at home?’ she asked, flinging herself face down on the bed beside Kate.

Kate waved her wet fingernails in the air in order to dry them. Ever since she had left secretarial school two years ago and begun work as a junior typist in a City office, Carrie had treated
her as the fount of all wisdom. ‘Princess Frederica is the granddaughter of the Kaiser and Princess Alexandrine Louise is the third daughter of Prince Harald of Denmark,’ she said
obligingly.

‘Blimey, we could do without a German queen at the moment. She might want Hitler to come to the wedding! And speaking of boring old Hitler, you’ll never guess my latest
news.’

She rolled over on to her side, propping herself up on her arm. ‘We’re taking a Jewish refugee in. She’s the granddaughter of an old friend of Gran’s who went to live in
Dresden when she was a young girl. Gran kept in touch with her for a little while but hasn’t heard from her for over forty years. Then, out of the blue, she received a letter via the Red
Cross from something called an
Auffanglager
in Lucerne. Apparently it’s a humanitarian camp for Jewish refugees who have managed to cross the lake that forms the border between
Germany and Switzerland. Her friend’s granddaughter is interned there, and she’d given the Red Cross Gran’s name in the hope Gran might be able to help her gain an entry visa into
Britain.’

Kate stared at her round-eyed. ‘And what did your gran do?’

Carrie grinned. ‘She got Dad to write to the Home Office saying that if Christina Frank, her friend’s granddaughter, was given an entry visa into Britain he would both give her a
home and employment. It’s taken quite a while to arrange and more letters than Dad’s ever written in his life before, but she’s finally been granted a visa.’

‘I think that’s . . .’ Kate sought for a suitable word and couldn’t find one that summed up her admiration sufficiently, ‘. . .
magnificent
,’ she
said at last.

‘It ain’t bad, is it?’ Carrie agreed, enjoying the reflected glory. ‘She’ll have Mavis’s old room and now he’s going to have a third pair of hands
helping down the market Dad’s going to take on an extra stall. Mum says he’s becoming quite a little empire-builder.’

Kate giggled. ‘Mr Nibbs will have a pink fit. He was telling Dad last night that he thinks even Miss Helliwell is jaunting down to the market to do the bulk of her shopping.’

‘She is,’ Carrie said complacently. ‘And as Dad always slips her some bruised fruit for free, she’s likely to continue doing so.’

Through the open window Miss Godfrey could be heard discussing a forthcoming church fête with Mrs Collins and Kate said musingly, ‘Miss Helliwell’s going to be doing
palm-readings at the fête. Don’t you think it’s about time we asked her to read ours?’

‘Yes, but not at the fête. We don’t want anyone listening in and you can bet your life that’s what would happen. Why don’t we call on her one evening next week?
She’s always glad of company and we can cross her palm with silver and discover our destinies. What does she charge? Do you know?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I think she just charges what she thinks people can afford.’

Carrie lay flat on her back and stretched a capable-looking hand high into the air, staring at the palm musingly. ‘I wonder what she’ll see there? Do you think she’ll be able
to tell me who I’m going to marry? Do you think he’ll be tall, dark, handsome and rich?’

‘I think he’ll probably be five-foot-nine with a hint of red in his hair, more than passably good-looking and a private in the army,’ Kate said dryly.

It was a fairly adequate description of Danny Collins and Carrie threw a pillow at her. ‘I am
not
going to marry someone I’ve known since I was in nursery school,’ she
said firmly, sitting up and swinging her legs off the bed. ‘I’m going to marry someone dangerously exciting, someone who will sweep me off my feet . . .’

‘Someone who’s taking a heck of a long time in appearing on the scene,’ Kate finished for her.

Carrie grinned ruefully. ‘He is, isn’t he?’ she said, standing up. ‘Perhaps Miss Helliwell will be able to tell me what’s keeping him. Shall we go and see her
tomorrow night?’

Kate nodded, as eager as Carrie to have a glimpse into her future. ‘Where are you going now?’ she asked as Carrie picked up her clutch bag. ‘The dentist?’

Carrie shuddered. ‘Yes, God help me. This is the third appointment I’ve made and if the last two are anything to go by my nerve is going to fail me again long before I reach the
surgery!’

When Carrie had reluctantly gone on her way, Kate went in search of her father. He was in the back garden, a battered straw hat shading his head from the sun as he sowed
Brussels sprouts seeds in carefully prepared seed trays. She sat down on the low wall that separated the nursery garden from the rest of the garden and said, still hardly able to believe it,
‘The Jennings family are taking in a German-Jewish refugee. She’s the granddaughter of an old friend of Carrie’s gran’s.’