A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (30 page)

Tim checked his watch as the wind whistled through his overcoat and almost took his cap. He rammed it on more firmly and tightened his scarf. He was in Dover, and it was an hour before he needed to board the early morning ferry for Calais, so there was just time for a cup of tea.

He found a café outside the docks, relieved to be away from his da's anxious eyes, and his mam's determined cheerfulness. He had chosen, as always, to take the train from Newcastle, in order to catch the quickest ferry. For someone with his tendency to seasickness, anything longer was a disaster.

It was steamy but warm inside the café. He undid his coat and took his tea from the woman serving, her hair tied up in a headscarf. He used the spoon, attached by a chain to the counter, to stir in some sugar. He stared at the chain, feeling the manacles, the chains that had bound him in the police station, or was it Gestapo headquarters? He didn't really know, nor did he want to, because he was breaking out in a sweat, and the spoon was clattering against
the inside of his cup as his hand shook. A man standing next to him at the counter boomed, ‘Are you going to stir that all day, dear boy, or can someone else use it?'

Tim jerked back to the present. He saw it was Potty. For heaven's sake, what . . . ‘Well met, dear heart,' Potty said quietly. How odd. He was so seldom quiet. How odd he was here at all.

‘I'm just having a cuppa, Colonel.'

The Colonel actually whispered, ‘Potty, dear heart. Potty is perfectly fine. Let's sit.'

Although it was a whisper, it was also an order, and one that Tim found himself obeying. He followed the man into a corner seat away from the window.

‘What are you doing here?' Tim asked as they sat down.

‘Got the copy letter, have you? All tucked up safe and sound in your breast pocket, and another in your suitcase, as a fallback? You put the original in a safe deposit box and you've let your mother know you're on your way?'

Tim shook his head, amused. Dear old Potty, he was almost more involved than his da, but perhaps he had nothing better to do. He realised then that he knew nothing about this man who had waddled about on the periphery of their lives for as long as he could remember. Hadn't he been connected with James' father in the war – adjutant or something?

He sipped his tea as Potty settled himself more comfortably, beaming at him. Tim said, ‘The family's
been in touch again, has it, and given you instructions to see me off? You all need to stop worrying. I'm doing as they want, and it will be fine. I've done all that you advised.' Even as he said it, the sweat beaded his forehead.

He checked his watch. In ten minutes he must go. Across from him, Potty was digging into his overcoat pocket, but then appeared to think better of it. He leaned over the table.

‘Your father said you've been brushing up on your German, but best not to let on about that, to anyone. That way people will talk freely, so keep listening, because you are unsafe with Herr Heine Weber. Above all, try to keep him sweet, and your mother too. Never lose control. If you need help, use a telephone number I will give you, which you must memorise and destroy. Use a café telephone, as who knows who is listening to whom, with what bugs, in an SS block. Trust no-one. I do believe that offering Heine a deal is dangerous. He won't like it.'

This was not the usual Potty; this one had gimlet eyes, with a brisk, quiet delivery. Tim tried to think of something to say, but he was reeling from the information.

Potty was standing now, his avuncular self back in place. ‘Come along, laddie, mustn't miss the boat.' Tim gulped his tea, rose, and shook Potty's hand. He felt the piece of paper in Potty's. Tim nodded and put the paper in his coat pocket, then picked up his case and followed Potty.

Outside the café, Tim turned towards the docks, and Potty turned the other way, then stopped. ‘Just one thing. You might bump into someone unexpectedly, the way one does. Remember, be circumspect, don't trust anyone. Keep up your fascism.'

He waddled away, but Tim realised, watching him as he reached the corner, that the man had covered a lot of ground in a short space of time. In fact, he did in all ways. He thought he heard him call, ‘We'll meet on your return.'

Tim checked his watch again and set off, almost at a run, reaching the ferry just in time, and taking a place on a bench on deck, knowing from experience that the last thing he must do, for everyone's sake, was to leave the fresh air and the horizon or there would be consequences. He walked and sat, walked and sat, until Calais came into view, and as they drew alongside he heard yet another familiar voice.

‘Is that you, Tim? Your mother said we might meet.' It was Sir Anthony Travers, his hand out.

Tim shook it. ‘Are you well, sir?' Tim asked.

‘Indeed, but busy, as is everyone. I am bound for Paris, but have papers for your mother and Heine. The last of the co-operative plans, which is all rather exciting, I must say, and productive, one hopes. We have to talk through our differences, don't we, man and country? Yes, indeed we do.' He had answered his own question, so Tim just smiled. He liked this man, well, almost loved him. He did so much good,
and if anyone could moderate Heine and his pals, it would be him.

‘Look, Tim. Would you deliver them, as I have to meet up with Lady Margaret and her daughter, for some birthday shenanigans? All rather irritating, but don't tell them I said that.'

Tim took the package.

‘Take care of it, dear boy,' Sir Anthony said. ‘I'd do anything to save young men like you from another war. Anything.' He walked away, his shoulders hunched, looking like an old man, which of course, he was. It was just that Tim had never noticed it before. Tim watched until Sir Anthony Travers merged into the streams of other passengers. The ferry was manoeuvring into the quay. There was a bump, the hawsers were thrown and secured, then the passengers began to disembark. Tim joined them, hearing Potty's warning. Yes, he had met Sir Anthony unexpectedly, but to think ill of the man was rubbish, just as it was rubbish to think his plans were stolen police papers. Sir Anthony was their benchmark for goodness.

As he walked down the gangplank, the gulls soared and called above him, and his mind disobeyed him, and insisted on playing with the meeting. Sir Anthony was on his way to Paris; he had intended to dispatch the package from the city. Tim had only telegraphed his mother two days ago, saying that he had what she wanted and would be with her on 18 November. Tension threatened to take over, and
he forced himself to relax. He was getting sucked into one of Potty's spy novels.

In Berlin, he took a taxi from the station, past the flags and banners fluttering in the icy blast of the late afternoon. There was a light smattering of snow. He passed a few accordion players. Passers-by threw a few pfennigs into the caps, also dusted with snow. The taxi reached the SS block. He paid, got out, and stood on the pavement, bracing himself for what was to come. As he looked up at the blank windows, he suddenly realised that he hadn't told Potty where Millie and Heine lived, so how could he know that the building had been appropriated for the SS?

A passer-by slipped on the snow and knocked into him, but regained his balance and hurried on. The taxi drew away and he mounted the steps, opened the heavy door and entered, heading straight for the lift at the rear of the foyer. The block leader came out from her cubby-hole. He forced himself to smile, hating her, hating the foyer, hating every damn square inch of this bloody country, and its politics. More, he hated himself for having aligned himself with them, but then again, perhaps that would turn out to be a good thing after all, if he could get James home.

He took the lift to the second floor, walked towards Heine and Millie's door. In his pocket, as always, was Avraham's mezuzah case. He touched the place on the door frame that he had sanded, and then rang
the bell. Heine opened the door, with his braces hanging in loops either side of his trousers, his shirt unbuttoned. Tim held out his hand. Heine just looked at it, then waved him through, saying, ‘After all I did to release you from your interrogation and we hear nothing. Our letters are not answered. But here you are, a bad penny, you say in England, I think.'

Tim had prepared himself, and now his mother was beside Heine, her hair still dyed blonde and in that ridiculous Nazi plait around her head. ‘Mother,' he said. ‘I thought you were angry, because it was only a few weeks ago that I received a letter. I have had no others.' He sounded hurt and confused. But there was no confusion in his heart. ‘Did you address it to fifty-nine A? That A is important.'

It was their turn to look confused. ‘A? But that didn't matter before.'

Tim put his case down. They were all still standing in the hallway, as though they were about to throw him out. Well, that wouldn't happen when they saw the letter – or would it? Was it enough? He'd have to wait until Heine had read it. He forced himself to smile, keeping them sweet, as Potty had said. ‘I wrote to tell you, but had no reply. You see, the building next door has converted to bedsits, and now
they
are fifty-nine.' Thank God he had thought of this, and best of all, it was true, and mail did get muddled.

Heine reached for Tim's case. Was he going to
throw it out of the door? Tim beat him to it, lifting it. Heine said, ‘So why did our last one reach you?'

Tim shrugged. ‘Because I spoke to the postman, asked him if he had delivered any letters from Germany and he said yes, but to the new fifty-nine. The people in the other building threw them away, I suppose. People in bedsits don't care. So he delivered the last letter from you.' It sounded thin, even to him, but as the two of them looked at one another, he saw they accepted it.

Tim grimaced. ‘I've also been in a bit of a state, my last visit shook me a bit. I was drinking.' Somehow he felt they could find out about this too, if they hadn't already.

Heine stepped back, his eyes narrowing. ‘And you say you have the letter?'

‘I found it, would you believe, Mother, in one of Evie's old recipe bibles. She was using it as a bookmark.' He saw the joy in her face and the relief in Heine's, and hated them even more.

Heine said, ‘Come along and sit down. You must be cold and tired. Millie, instruct Amala to brew coffee.'

He led the way into the sitting room. Was the silver still there? That didn't seem so important now. Tim had heard poor Aunt Evie's distress as she read the letter, and Aunt Ver's too, distress on his behalf. Aunt Evie had said, when they saw him listening, in that warm kitchen at Home Farm, ‘People change.'
That
family was his, not this.

Heine was waiting by the card table, but Tim sat on the sofa. He was at least going to have a cup of coffee before the bastard slung him out. Amala brought the coffee. He sprang to his feet and insisted on taking the tray. His mother said, ‘For goodness' sake, Tim. She's staff.'

He said, ‘Well,
you
wouldn't have liked it.' Millie flushed, anger flashing across her face. He held himself in check and continued, ‘If you had ever been in her position.' Millie sat down as he put the coffee on the table, sat next to her, and said, ‘Will you be mother?'

She looked confused and checked his face, as though for irony. He kept his smile steady.

Heine barked a laugh. ‘That is a good joke, Tim. Yes, I like it.' He joined them, taking a cup of coffee.

Tim drank eagerly, as though it would be snatched from him. Once he had reached the dregs, he replaced his cup in the saucer and drew from his pocket, first, Sir Anthony's packet, and handed it across to Heine. ‘I met him on the boat.'

‘Oh, so he found you,' his mother said, before Heine slated her with a look. She flushed again. ‘I mentioned that you would be coming once I got your telegram. I didn't know which ferry, of course, so that was lucky.'

Tim smiled. ‘Of course it was – lucky, that is.'

Heine was hurrying to the card table. Tim strolled across, feeling the mezuzah case in his trouser pocket. It gave him courage, as Heine folded what
looked like more plans, and faced him, his hands on his hips. ‘The letter?'

Tim kept his smile, feeling the sweat trickling down his back and praying it wasn't breaking out on his forehead. He brought out the creased, grease-stained envelope from his pocket, and now Millie was with him. ‘Did you read it?' she asked.

Heine was taking the photographic copy from the envelope. ‘Of course he did. This is a copy, so he photographed it, and has given us this.' He threw it onto the table.

His mother said, ‘You must understand, Tim, it is a forgery.'

She couldn't meet his eyes. Tim said, ‘I took it to a forensic analyst at the university, with a copy of your laundry lists. He verified the writing as yours.' His voice was totally pleasant, but firm. In fact, it was a contact of Richard's who had taken it. ‘I thought I would keep the original. One never knows when one might need things like' – he paused – ‘originals.' Could they hear the hammering of his heart?

His mother flushed even more, and Heine almost spat at her, ‘Like mother, like son, I see.'

Tim didn't understand, but he didn't have time to think about that now. His cousin was in a fascist prisoner of war camp and he needed to get him home. He explained that the original was quite safe, that one other person knew where it was, and if he didn't return, then that person would publicise it,
that he admired them enormously and wouldn't hurt them for the world. ‘But I have learned from my fellow fascist members, and the Nazis who arrested me, that weakness is a fault. Now, like Hitler, I believe in Darwin and only the fittest should survive.' He didn't tell them that the person was Potty.

He waited, while his mother and Heine looked at one another. Finally, Heine said, with a look of reluctant admiration, ‘Indeed, like mother, like son. So, Tim, what do you want?'