Page 91 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
Though he never spoke of it afterwards, James never forgot those days.
The solemn, bewildered children – so many round dark eyes in pale faces, tracking from adult to adult, trying to understand what was going on.
The older ones trying to comfort the younger ones.
The youngest frightened, in tears. So many hand-knitted woolly hats pulled down over small ears; so many home-made gloves and mittens; the rubbed collars on the ‘best’ overcoats; the skinny, stockinged legs ending in stout, scuffed boots.
It was late November, bitterly cold, the cleared streets edged with packed grey ice.
The fog made everything grey, shrouded the tops of buildings, hung in dripping veils from bare trees, made twilight of midday; in the grey cities under the grey skies, the only colour was the bloody red of the swastika flag.
And the parents, trying to be glad: the fathers stoical, resigned, the mothers bright-eyed, trying to smile, being brave for the children.
The hugs and kisses – oh, the lingering embraces, the lingering hands pulling a knitted hood straight, wiping a nose one last time.
It’s only for a little while, they told small Hansi and Minnie and Leni and Willi.
Just for a little while, then you’ll come back.
A nice lady will look after you. Just be good, do as you’re told, say please and thank you. It’s only for a little while.
One particular parting remained in James’s mind, not because it was different, but because it was typical.
Most of the windows of the flat were still boarded up, so they had to have the lights on – they had not been able to afford re-glazing yet.
There was not much furniture, and what there was showed signs of damage.
The father had the scar of a recent wound across his brow, the woman’s drawn cheeks and haunted eyes told of suffering not yet forgotten, and the fear of its return.
Her lips trembled under the effort of smiling, and the little girl, five years old, would not let her go.
In the end, the father snatched her from her mother’s legs and put her into Emil’s arms; he pushed the boy, a little older, to follow, out of the door and down the stairs.
James hesitated, wanting to say something, anything, that might help, but the father stepped across to his wife’s side and said tersely, ‘Just go – please.’ And James saw in his face the knowledge that it was not just for a little time; saw the terrible acceptance that they would never see the children again; that they, the parents, were doomed.
James nodded and turned away, feeling sick and empty with vicarious grief.
And as he closed the door, a single cry of pain broke from the woman, quickly cut off.
It was that cry that haunted him. He and Emil were doing good work, vital work, extracting the children from the increasing dangers of the Nazi programme, seeing them on their way to a place of safety.
The plans were in place: James drove them to the railway station where the helpers saw them onto trains for the docks.
The long sea crossing to Harwich would not be pleasant at this time of year, but from Harwich port they would be taken by bus to a nearby camp at Dovercourt, a haven run by a matron and volunteers, where there would be food and beds and games and kindness, until a foster home was ready to receive them.
He did his best to encourage and comfort the children and told them they would be well treated and that it was only for a short time.
Some were relieved, some even looked forward to the adventure, but mostly they looked at him with troubled, patient, ancient eyes, eyes that had witnessed centuries of cruelty and lies; and when he lay down to sleep, it was the woman’s cry he heard.
Polly was just about to enter Makepeace’s, where she was to consult the manager, Mrs Harrison, about the window display for the Christmas period, when she was hailed from further up the street.
Mrs Hughes was coming towards her, waving to attract her attention.
She was in her fifties, the wife of a Quaker and very active in charity works.
The year before, she and Dorothy Ditcham had founded the York Refugee Committee, offering financial support to refugees, mostly Jews, from Europe.
The committee found them homes and jobs, and two employment bureaux had been set up, along with sports and social clubs.
It was exhausting work when there were so many displaced people needing help, but Mrs Hughes worked tirelessly, and had already placed almost a hundred Jewish refugees in the area.
Polly had frequently been approached by her for funds, and had put her in touch with charitable acquaintances in New York who might swell the coffers.
Polly raised a politely enquiring eyebrow, thinking Mrs Hughes looked more than usually tired and fraught. Her cheeks were hollow and there were dark shadows under her eyes.
‘Mrs Morland! I was going to drive out to Morland Place later to speak to you, but here you are! Have you time for a word?’
‘Of course. Would you like to come up to my office? We can be private there.’
‘You’re most kind.’
‘I think you may be overdoing things,’ Polly said, as they mounted the stairs together. ‘You look worn.’
‘Oh, I daren’t slow down, because if I get behind I can never catch up. Every post brings more demands, and such pitiful cases! But I’d sooner die from doing too much than live and do too little.’
‘You make me ashamed that I don’t help more.’
‘Oh, but you are always generous,’ she protested. ‘Some friends one can always rely on.’
Mrs Harrison was hovering at the door of Polly’s office with a sheaf of drawings in her hand, and Polly said, ‘Would you give us fifteen minutes, Mrs Harrison? Mrs Hughes wants to discuss something with me.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Harrison said, taking a step back. ‘Shall I bring you both some tea?’
‘Not for me, thank you,’ Mrs Hughes said, with a distracted frown at having to deal with an inessential question.
‘I’ll have mine later,’ Polly said, and ushered her visitor in, shutting the door behind them.
When they had sat, Polly said, ‘Well, what can I help you with? Another donation?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so – but there’s more this time. Something more personal.’
‘Ask away.’
‘You’ve heard about this scheme to bring Jewish children to Britain, from German-occupied Europe? Germany, Austria and the Sudetenland – and of course the wretched displaced Poles, sent back and forth from pillar to post, because no-one wants the poor creatures.’
‘Yes, of course. Are you involved in that?’
‘We simply have to be. The government has said that they will put no limit on how many children can come, but there are conditions. All the agencies involved must find homes for the children, and there must be funds, a guarantee of fifty pounds for each child to finance their eventual re-emigration – because they are to be here only temporarily and they must not be allowed to be a burden on the public purse.’
‘So you want me to sponsor a child?’
‘I knew you would offer, and thank you. Any funds you can spare are, of course, most welcome.’
‘But?’
The frank, weary eyes met Polly’s. ‘I’m hoping I can persuade you to offer a home to one of the children.
It’s getting harder all the time to find people willing to take in refugees.
I feel that every Quaker house should be ashamed of itself if it doesn’t have at least one refugee in it, but will they come forward?
And I hate to have to harry people and nag, but what is one to do?
And now the children … Oh, Mrs Morland, you are not a Quaker, of course, but your family has a tradition of charitable works in York – your good father was always the first to offer help – and given that you have such a large house—’
‘—A small child would be hardly noticed?’
‘I’m sorry – I hope I haven’t offended you?’
‘I’m not offended. You are quite right. I do have plenty of room, and I know if my father were alive now he would be the first to offer.
’ Her father, indeed, had always thought the house could never be too crowded.
‘You may put me down to give a home to one of these poor children. When are they likely to come?’
‘Very soon,’ said Mrs Hughes. ‘The first shipload has already arrived on the east coast, and more will be arriving every day. I will give you as much notice as I can, of course. Have you a preference as to age, or will you take anyone in need?’
‘Well, it would be nicer for them, I should think, if they were about my Alec’s age, so that he could befriend them, and for the same reason a boy would be preferable. But I leave it up to you.’
‘You are very good,’ said Mrs Hughes. ‘And the financial pledge … ?’
‘I can write you a cheque,’ said Polly.
‘No need, the guarantee is all that’s required. I know you won’t let us down.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I have a child for you. And thank you. If only everyone were like you,’ said Mrs Hughes. ‘Forgive me, I must dash now. I have to catch Mrs Ditcham before she goes to Leeds.’
And she was gone, like a kindly, brown-haired whirlwind.
Ethel, predictably, raised an objection, but when she discovered everyone else was very much for the idea, she switched sides and became unbearably sanctimonious.
‘It’s our Christian duty,’ she said. And ‘People in our position must set a good example. We who have so much must never forget the needy.’ And, most annoyingly, ‘Suffer the little children,’ which she repeated frequently with a sweet, saintly smile.
Polly was driven to mutter privately to John Burton, ‘ She won’t have to suffer the little children. It’ll be someone else’s job.’
He laughed. ‘It’s important that you have one thorn in your rose bed, or the gods might get jealous.’