The Girl With No Name (19 page)

‘I see,’ said Mrs Barnett. ‘Well, I suppose that might make it easier to trace her family. If we can get in touch with the authorities in Harrogate, they may be able to find a Smith family with a German mother.’ She sighed. ‘Trouble is, everything’s completely chaotic everywhere, it’ll take some time.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ sighed Sister Miller. ‘So what can you do for her in the meantime?’

‘Find a place in a children’s home if I can,’ came the reply, ‘but it won’t be easy. The number of displaced children is growing. Well now, who shall I list her as, I wonder?’

‘She’s known as Charlotte Smith here,’ Sister Miller reminded her.

‘Fair enough,’ said Mrs Barnett. ‘That’ll do for now.’ She closed the notebook in which she’d written down all the information they had and got to her feet. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

She came back the next day and taking Sister Miller aside said, ‘I’ve found a place that’ll take her. It’s called St Michael’s. It’s a children’s home in Streatham.’

‘But that’s near Croydon Airport!’ cried the sister in dismay. ‘That’s a definite target for the bombers.’

‘I know,’ sighed the almoner, ‘it’s not ideal, but at present it’s the only place I can find with space for her. They’re a sort of staging post. They don’t usually keep the children for long. They give them a home until they can be found something more permanent, so there’s quite a quick turnover. That’s why they’ve got a place free. When can she be discharged?’

‘As soon as she has somewhere to go.’

‘Then I’ll come for her this afternoon,’ said Mrs Barnett. ‘St Michael’s won’t keep the place for long.’

‘I’ll get the doctor to sign the discharge papers when he comes round,’ promised the sister. ‘Should be about lunchtime. I should think you could take her any time after three.’

When the almoner had gone, Sister Miller went over to the corner bed and drawing up a chair sat down beside the girl, beside Charlotte Smith.

‘Hallo, Charlotte,’ she said gently. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘All right,’ came the non-committal reply.

‘That’s good,’ said the sister cheerfully, ‘because we’re going to let you out of here today. Dr Greaves says you’re well enough to go home.’

‘But I haven’t got a home!’ The cry was one of sheer panic. ‘I don’t know who I am and I don’t know where I live!’

‘I know, dear, I know,’ soothed the sister. ‘But you see you can’t stay here. We need the bed you’re in for someone else. Don’t worry,’ she continued before Charlotte could interrupt, ‘we’ve found you somewhere to go until we can find your family.’

‘Where?’ Charlotte looked suspicious.

‘It’s called St Michael’s and it’s a children’s home. So you’ll be with other children.’

‘I don’t want to go there,’ wailed Charlotte.

‘I’m afraid you have no choice,’ said Sister Miller firmly. ‘You have to move on from here, and that’s where there’s a place for you. We’re still trying to find your family, but because you come from so far away, it isn’t going to be quick or easy. Mrs Barnett, the almoner, is doing her best, but it may take some time.’

The girl said nothing but her look was mutinous.

‘And who knows,’ went on Sister Miller, ‘it won’t be long before you get your memory back. You’ll find you begin to remember bits and pieces; your name, perhaps your address. Then finding your family will be easy.’

‘I have been trying to remember,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ve tried very hard.’

‘I know you have, my dear, but it doesn’t always work like that. Perhaps it’d be better if you
didn’t
try so hard. Just let the information float up to the front of your brain.’

When Mrs Barnett arrived later that afternoon she brought clothes for Charlotte. Her own had been ruined in the blast. She had no luggage to take with her except her gas mask, which had come with her in the ambulance, a blue bead necklace and the photograph of the family group they had found in her pocket.

‘We’ve looked at this with her a lot,’ Sister Miller said as she showed it to the almoner, ‘and talked to her about the people in it, but though we presume that it’s her family, she doesn’t recognise anyone.’

She handed the picture to Charlotte and said, ‘Keep this safe, dear, it’s very important. I’m sure it’s a picture of your parents and your brother.’

They went to Streatham by taxi. When they got into the cab, Charlotte felt it was familiar; that she’d been in one before, but where? When?

St Michael’s was a large, three-storey redbrick house, set back from the road. Its gateposts, now bereft of their iron gates, led on to a circular drive. The taxi turned in and deposited them at the front door. Mrs Barnett told the driver to wait and, marching up the steps, rang the bell. Moments later they were inside and being greeted by the home’s superintendent, Miss Caroline Morrison.

She was a tall, slender woman, with dark auburn hair that stood in a halo around her head. Her eyes, a dark velvet brown, were warm and twinkled when she smiled.

‘Hallo, Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Welcome to St Michael’s. I’m Miss Morrison and I’m the superintendent here, which means I’m in charge, but we’re all here to look after you.’

Mrs Barnett handed over some papers and then she went back out to the waiting taxi. Her job had been done and Charlotte was on her own.

Miss Morrison took her upstairs to the first landing. ‘Girls on this floor,’ she said, ‘and boys on the top.’ She opened the door to a small bedroom painted light green. It had a window through which the afternoon sun was streaming, making the room bright and cheerful. There were three beds, all neatly made and covered in green and white counterpanes, with a locker beside each. ‘This is where you’ll be sleeping and that’s your bed.’ Miss Morrison pointed to the one in the middle. ‘You’ll meet your room-mates, Clare and Molly, when they get back from school. In the meantime we must get you sorted out with some more clothes. Mrs Barnett told me you only have what you’re wearing. You can leave your gas mask on your bed for now. Come along, I’ll show you round.’

Charlotte followed Miss Morrison along the passage.

‘Bathroom there,’ Miss Morrison waved a hand at a closed door, ‘lavatories there,’ another wave, then on past two more bedrooms to a room at the end. ‘This is Matron’s room,’ she said as she knocked on the door. ‘And here’s Matron.’

Matron was a small woman with iron-grey hair cut short and hooked behind her ears. She wore a blue uniform with a white apron and looked, to Charlotte, very like one of the nurses from the hospital. She was standing at a table, sorting laundry into piles, but as they came in she looked up and smiled.

‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’

She knew perfectly well who it was. They had been told about Charlotte Smith at the morning staff meeting.

‘She’s a child who was brought in off the street after a raid,’ Miss Morrison had told them. ‘We know almost nothing about her except that the ambulance crew said she was found with a man named Peter Smith who came from Harrogate. He was dead, but seemed to be protecting her with his body and is presumed to be her father.’

‘So, what’s
her
name?’ asked the matron.

‘That we don’t know. The child has amnesia. She remembers nothing, not her name nor why she was in London or who she was with. The only other clue we have is that when she first came round she was speaking German.’

‘German!’ exclaimed Mrs Downs, the cook.

‘Yes. It could well be she’s nothing to do with this Peter Smith from Harrogate. We don’t
know
that he was her father. She could be a refugee, or she might be the child of a mixed marriage and have a German mother.’

‘All sounds very odd to me,’ said Mrs Downs.

‘It’s certainly a difficult situation both for us and for her,’ agreed Miss Morrison. ‘They had to call her something and apparently the ward sister offered her own Christian name, Charlotte. The child seems to have accepted that, so at present she’s known as Charlotte Smith.’

Miss Morrison looked across at the two main members of her staff and said, ‘I think the poor child is in a very fragile state and we’re going to have to tread extremely carefully with her when she gets here. There is also the question of her status. The only firm information we’ve had from the hospital almoner is that she is bilingual. It was she who suggested Charlotte might have a German mother,’ Miss Morrison explained, ‘but I think it’s more likely that she’s a refugee. However, as we don’t know and as she’s been passed to us as Charlotte Smith, that’s what she’ll be known as here. If nothing more is found out about her family she’ll become a ward of court.’

They moved on to discuss the air raid warning drill which the superintendent insisted was practised every few days. The population of St Michael’s was very fluid with children coming and moving on, sometimes after only a few days, so it was vital that they all knew what to do when the sirens went, where to go, without panic, to take shelter.

Now Matron, looking at the whey-faced girl standing behind Miss Morrison, knew the superintendent had been right. She was a traumatised child who would need firm but gentle care.

‘This is Charlotte Smith,’ replied Miss Morrison. ‘She’s just arrived and we’ve come to find her some clothes.’

‘Welcome to St Michael’s, Charlotte. I’m Mrs Burton, but everyone just calls me Matron.’ She waved a hand at the room. ‘This is my room and this is where you can find me if you want me. This is where you come if you’re not well, or you need me for anything. The door’s always open. And,’ she went on, ‘it’s also where we keep the extra clothes.’

‘I’ll leave you in Matron’s capable hands,’ Miss Morrison said to Charlotte. ‘She’ll bring you downstairs when she’s got you sorted.’

‘Now then,’ said Matron when Miss Morrison disappeared, ‘let’s have a look.’ She threw open a large cupboard and began to rummage through the clothes inside. She pulled out a dark green winter coat and held it up against Charlotte. ‘Looks about right,’ she said. ‘Try it on and see.’

The coat was, indeed, a pretty good fit and before long Charlotte had been equipped with some underclothes, pyjamas, a warm skirt, two blouses and a red cardigan. ‘That should be enough for now,’ Matron said, handing her the pile of clothes. ‘Let’s go and put them away in your room and then I’ll take you down to meet the others. They’ll be coming back from school any moment.’

Charlotte put her new clothes into the locker by her bed and then followed Matron down the stairs and into a large living room.

‘This is the common room,’ Matron said. ‘This is where you all come to do your homework and relax in the evenings. See, there’s a wireless which we have on after supper, and there are some books over there if you like reading.’

Charlotte looked round. The room was homely, if a little shabbily furnished. There was a radiator along one wall and it felt warm and welcoming.

‘The dining room is next door,’ Matron said. ‘We all eat together, of course, and we help Mrs Downs, our cook, with the washing up afterwards.’

At that moment there was the sound of voices and the bang of a door and several girls erupted into the room. They stopped short when they saw Charlotte.

‘Ah, girls, you’re back,’ said Matron. ‘Good. This is Charlotte who’s coming to live with us. She’s in your room, Molly, so you look after her and make sure she knows what we do. Tea in about ten minutes and then we’re having another air raid drill, so make sure you have your gas masks with you.’

Molly came over to Charlotte. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘You been bombed out too?’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘No... I mean, I don’t know.’

Molly stared at her. ‘What d’you mean you don’t know?’

‘Cos I don’t,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Molly said. ‘I only asked.’

Ten minutes later a bell rang and the children all moved into the dining room. There were two long tables each laid with eleven places, five on either side and one on the end. When they were all in their places Miss Morrison introduced Charlotte.

‘We’re pleased that Charlotte has come to stay with us for a while. I expect you all remember how worried you felt when you first came here, so I know you’ll make her welcome. I just have to tell you that poor Charlotte has had a bang on the head and it’s made her lose her memory for the moment. It’ll come back very soon, but in the meantime you must remember that she can’t!’ She then said grace and there was a buzz of chatter as they all sat down to cauliflower cheese followed by stewed apple.

Charlotte didn’t say much during the meal. She was conscious of the covert glances the other children gave her, but she didn’t want to talk to any of them. She simply sat next to Molly, ate her food, drank her milk and waited for it to be over.

After tea they were all called back into the common room for the air raid drill.

‘In a minute you’re all to go up to your bedrooms and lie on your beds,’ said Miss Morrison. ‘Make sure your gas masks are on top of your lockers, so you can grab them quickly.’

There was a muttering from some of the children, but she hushed them with a lift of her hand. ‘I know you all think you know what to do,’ she said, ‘but we have a new girl among us who doesn’t and I’d like to remind you boys that you’re to come down the stairs in an orderly way, with no pushing, like last night.’

There was a murmur of ‘Yes, miss,’ before Miss Morrison continued. ‘Good. Now, when Matron rings the bell you get out of bed, put your coats on over your pyjamas, pick up your gas masks and come downstairs. We go out through the kitchen door, still without any pushing, and into the shelter. There is enough room for everyone, so when you’re inside, you simply sit down and wait until we’re sure everyone is accounted for.’

The drill went as she’d explained until Charlotte reached the door of the shelter. She stopped, causing the other children to back up behind her.

‘Come along,’ called Miss Morrison from behind. ‘Straight inside, please.’ But when Charlotte didn’t move she came forward to see what the hold-up was. She found Charlotte standing, as if frozen, outside the shelter, her face a mask of fear. Gently she took her hand and pulled her aside to allow the other children to go in. Then when everyone was inside, she said, ‘We have to go in, Charlotte. We have to go in to be safe. Look, it’s not dark inside.’ She eased the child through the door. The shelter was lit with electric light. Two bulbs hung down from the ceiling, lighting the shelter with a yellowish glow. Mattresses were spread out across the floor and the children were all sitting on them, looking expectantly at the door.