Page 38 of The Stranger in Room Six
Drawing nearer, Mabel realized the music was coming from a group of huts on the edge of the cliff. She was going to investigate when she saw one of the farmers from the village.
‘Who’s singing?’ she asked.
‘That lot’s the Italian prisoners of war.’
Mabel froze with terror. ‘What are they doing here? Aren’t they dangerous?’
‘Don’t worry, miss. They’re in an internment camp. Best place for them, although I have to say they’re good workers.’
The melody was beautiful, even if it was coming from the enemy.
‘They’ve got lovely voices,’ she admitted.
‘I suppose they have. Well, Merry Christmas to you, Miss Mabel.’ His eyes softened. ‘It must be hard for you after losing your family.’
‘I haven’t lost them all,’ she said quickly. ‘My father might be alive.’
‘Let’s pray that he is. I remember him as a young man when he was courting …’
He stopped briefly, as if he had something in his throat, before continuing. ‘… When he was courting your mother. They made a lovely couple.’
‘Thank you,’ she gulped, holding back her tears.
‘It was a long time ago now, but I can still see your mother’s beautiful smile. It could light up the darkest day. Everyone said so. Dainty little thing she was, just like you. Oh dear, miss. Have I made you cry?’
‘It’s all right,’ sniffed Mabel quickly. ‘I like it when people tell me their memories. It makes me feel as though she’s still here.’
The farmer made the sign of the cross on his chest. ‘God bless her soul and that of your little sister. Now would you like me to accompany you back to the Old Rectory?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I like the fresh air.’
‘Just like your mother.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Well, I’ll be getting on with my jobs then. It might be Christmas Day, but the animals still need feeding.’
Mabel walked on, lost in her thoughts about Mama and what she must have been like as a young girl.
‘Hello,’ said a foreign voice.
Mabel almost jumped out of her skin. Before her stood a young man with dark hair and moustache. Panicking, she realized that she’d missed the turn-off to the Old Rectory and had instead continued along the cliffs towards the huts.
‘Please don’t hurt me.’
The man chuckled softly. ‘I won’t. Even if I was going to, I am behind the wire and you are on the other side. But I am a gentleman, I would never hurt a lady. In fact, I would never hurt anyone.’
‘Are you a prisoner of war?’ she trembled.
‘I am.’
‘But if you wouldn’t hurt anyone, why are you a soldier?’
‘I was forced to enlist, just like your men in England – and some ladies too. I was a foreign-language student before that, though.’
Ladies enlisting? She hadn’t heard about that.
There was the sound of a shrill whistle.
‘I must go back,’ he said. ‘I came to get some fresh air. I am not a good singer!’
‘Nor am I,’ she said suddenly. ‘I try but I can’t seem to hit the right notes.’
‘I know what that’s like,’ he laughed. He seemed so normal, not like an enemy at all.
Then she noticed a book poking out of his pocket, the name ‘Shakespeare’ just visible over the hem.
‘I’m reading Shakespeare too!’ she blurted out. ‘I’ve just been given a copy of his sonnets for Christmas.’
His face brightened. ‘Really? My favourite is number –’
Then a second whistle sounded. ‘I must go. If this was another place and time, we could talk for longer.’
On the way back Mabel was besieged with loathing for herself. How could she have spoken in such friendly terms to the enemy? What had she been thinking? They were part of the enemy who had taken Papa.
‘I’m sorry, God,’ she began to pray silently as she rounded the corner to the Old Rectory. ‘Please keep my father safe and …’
What was that shouting and swearing?
Mabel stared with disbelief as the Colonel was being bundled out of the house by two burly policemen.
Clarissa was standing on the doorstep, screaming. ‘Let him go! He hasn’t done anything wrong. And how dare you search our house, invade our privacy like that?’
‘How can you be surprised, madam, with all these comings and goings on Christmas Eve, suspicious papers and now this stolen list? A search is the least you can expect.’
The noise was so loud it was hard to hear who was saying what. But the Colonel’s voice rose above the others. ‘I swear to you,’ he was yelling, ‘I don’t know about any bloody list.’
‘Just as you didn’t know about the pamphlets with swastikas we found in your library. Those words about making Britain great again and fighting for a better future? They look to me like the work of a traitor. The BUF is illegal now, as well you know. You’re not fooling me, sir.’
‘Like I told you. Someone must have planted them there. Get off me. You’re hurting me.’
‘Then I suggest you go calmly,’ said a second policeman firmly shutting the rear door on him. Mabel stepped back as the car shot off down the drive, sending dust flying up from the gravel as it went.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, running to her aunt.
Clarissa’s eyes were red. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she wept. ‘Go away and leave me in peace.’ Then she ran up the stairs towards her room and slammed the door shut.
There was only one person who would tell her the truth, Mabel thought, racing down to the kitchen.
Cook was sitting at the table, shaking. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she kept saying. ‘All those dinners … All those posh visitors! I could kick myself. How did I not see what was going on? I’m just trying to do my job and now I find out that we’ve been entertaining folk who want Hitler to win.’
Mabel gasped. ‘The policeman said something about the BUF. What’s that?’
‘The British Union of Fascists. Members are known as Blackshirts. The BUF has been banned now, but some folk are still secretly part of it. The police accused the Colonel of being one of them.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t do such a dreadful thing,’ Mabel stammered. ‘He just wants everyone to have more opportunities and to cut down on unemployment.’
Cook’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that, love? He didn’t get you involved, did he?’
A cold fear shot through Mabel as she thought of all those leaflets. The ones that she herself had willingly put into envelopes and hidden in the woods.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He didn’t.’