Bombs on Aunt Dainty. Judith Kerr

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      Now, surely, was the moment to ask. It would be so simple, and she knew Mrs Bartholomew wouldn’t mind. But standing there in Judy’s shoes and Jinny’s scarf and looking at Mrs Bartholomew’s kind face she found it suddenly impossible. She shook her head and smiled. Mrs Bartholomew smiled back and closed the door.

      Damn! thought Anna as she started to trudge up Holland Park Avenue. Now she would have to walk all the way to Bloomsbury because she didn’t have fourpence for the tube.

      It was a cold, bright day, and at first she tried to think of it as an adventure.

      “I really like exercise,” she said experimentally to Miss Metcalfe in her mind, “as long as it isn’t lacrosse.” But, as usual, she could not extract a satisfactory reply, so she abandoned the conversation.

      A few people were still in bed as it was Sunday and you could see their blackout curtains drawn above the shuttered shops. Only the paper shop at Notting Hill Gate was open, with Sunday papers displayed on racks outside and printed posters saying “Latest War News” but, as usual, nothing had happened. The pawnbroker next to the tube station still had the sign which had so much puzzled Anna when she had first come to London and couldn’t speak English properly. It said “Turn Your Old Gold Into Cash”, but a little piece had fallen off the G in Gold, turning it into Cold. Anna remembered how every day, when she had passed it on her way to do lessons with Jinny and Judy, she had wondered what it meant and whether, if she went into the shop and sneezed, they would give her some money.

      Of course nowadays no one talking to Anna would guess that she hadn’t spoken English from birth, and she had lost the American accent she had originally picked up from the Bartholomews. She hadn’t been meant just to learn English from them – they had also been meant to learn some of her native German and the French she had acquired in Paris after escaping from Hitler. But it hadn’t worked out like that. She and Jinny and Judy had become friends and spoken English, and Mrs Bartholomew hadn’t minded.

      There was a sharp wind blowing across Kensington Gardens. It rattled the signs pointing to air-raid shelters which no one had ever used and the few crocuses still growing between newly-dug trenches looked frozen. Anna pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her old grey coat. Really, she thought, it was ridiculous for her to be walking like this. She was cold, and she would be late, and Mama would wonder where she’d got to. It was ridiculous being so short of money that the loss of fourpence threw everything out of gear. And how could anyone be so stupidly shy as not to be able to borrow fourpence when they needed it? And how had she managed to lose the money, anyway – she was sure she’d had it the previous day, a silver threepenny bit and two halfpennies, she could see them now. I’m sick of it, she thought, I’m sick of being so ineffectual – and Miss Metcalfe’s tall figure rose unbidden before her, cocked a sarcastic eyebrow and said, “Poor Anna!”

      Oxford Street was deserted, the windows of the big stores covered in criss-crossings of brown paper to stop them splintering in case of air raids, but Lyons Corner House was open and filled with soldiers queuing for cups of tea. At Oxford Circus the sun came out and Anna felt more cheerful. After all, the reason for her predicament was not only that she was shy. Papa would understand why she couldn’t borrow money from Mrs Bartholomew, not even such a small sum. Her feet were tired, but she was two thirds of the way home and perhaps she was really doing something rather splendid.

      “Once,” said a grown-up Anna negligently to an immensely aged Miss Metcalfe. “Once I walked all the way from Holland Park to Bloomsbury rather than borrow fourpence,” and the aged Miss Metcalfe was suitably impressed.

      At Tottenham Court Road a newsvendor had spread an array of Sunday papers along the pavement. She read the headlines (“Tea Ration Soon?” “Bring Back The Evacuees!” and “English Dog Lovers Exposed”) before she noticed the date. It was the fourth of March 1940, exactly seven years since she had left Berlin to become a refugee. Somehow this seemed significant. Here she was, penniless but coping triumphantly, on the anniversary of the day her wanderings had begun. Nothing could get her down. Perhaps one day when she was rich and famous everyone would look back …

      “Of course I remember Anna,” said the aged Miss Metcalfe to the interviewer from Pathé Newsreel, “She was so bold and resourceful – we all admired her tremendously.”

      She trudged up High Holborn. As she turned down Southampton Row, not very far now from the hotel, she noticed a faint clinking in the hem of her coat. Surely it couldn’t be…? Suspiciously, she felt around in her pocket. Yes, there was a hole. With a sinking feeling of anticlimax she inserted two fingers and, by lifting up the hem of her coat with the other hand, managed to extract two halfpennies and a threepenny piece which were lying in a little heap at the bottom of the lining. For a moment she stood quite still, looking at it. Then she thought, “Typical!” so vehemently that she found she had said it out loud, to the astonishment of a passing couple. But what could be more typical than her performance that morning? All that embarrassment with Mrs Bartholomew, all that worrying about whether or not she had done the right thing, all that walking and her aching legs, and in the end it had just been a huge waste of time. No one else behaved like this. She was tired of it. She would have to change. Everything would have to change.

      With the money clutched in her hand she strode across to the other side of the road where a woman was selling daffodils outside a tea-shop.

      “How much?” she asked.

      They were threepence a bunch.

      “I’ll have one,” she said.

      It was a ridiculous piece of extravagance – and the daffodils weren’t worth it, either, she thought, seeing them droop over her hand – but at least it was something. She would give them to Mama and Papa. She would say, “It’s seven years today since we left Germany and I’ve brought you some flowers.” And perhaps the flowers would bring them luck, perhaps Papa would be asked to write something or someone would send him some money and perhaps everything would become quite different, and it would all be just because she’d saved her fare money and bought some daffodils. And even if nothing happened at all, at least Mama and Papa would be pleased and it would cheer them up.

      As she pushed open the swing-doors of the Hotel Continental the old porter who had been drowsing behind his desk greeted her in German.

      “Your mother has been in quite a state,” he said, “wondering where you’d got to.”

      Anna surveyed the lounge. Scattered among the tables and sitting in shabby leatherette chairs were the usual German, Czech and Polish refugees who had made the hotel their home while hoping for something better – but not Mama.

      “I’ll go up to her room,” she said, but before she could start a voice called, “Anna!” and Mama burst in from the direction of the public telephone. Her face was pink with excitement and her blue eyes tense.

      “Where have you been?” she cried in German. “I’ve just been talking to Mrs Bartholomew. We thought something had happened! And Max is here – he can only stay a little while and he wanted specially to see you.”

      “Max?” said Anna. “I didn’t know he was in London.”

      “One of his Cambridge friends gave him a lift.” Mama’s face relaxed as always when she spoke of her remarkable son. “He came here first and then he’s meeting some other friends and then they’re all going back together. English friends, of course,” she added for her own pleasure and for the edification of any Germans, Czechs or Poles who might be listening.

      As they СКАЧАТЬ