After the Mourning (6 page)

I offered the sergeant a fag, which he declined, then said, ‘So what’s all this about, then, Sergeant?’

‘I understand, Mr Hancock, that you were at the wake for the Gypsy girl in Epping Forest when all of these “miracles” began.’

‘Yes, I was,’ I said, and proceeded to tell Sergeant Williams what my involvement had been.

‘I wasn’t there myself, the day these visions began,’ he said, ‘but as you must have noticed the Corps have been up there in the forest for some time.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s all sorts up there. Spivs and gangsters on the run from the law, dodgy types concealing dodgy goods among the trees. But we’re not really in the forest because of them. We’re military and as such we’re concerned with national security and military matters. Deserters hide in the forest.’ I had to make myself continue to smile at him. ‘We’re looking for four at the present time.’

‘Are you?’

There must have been an edge or a tone in my voice that he didn’t like because he said, ‘Is that a problem?’

I studied the sawdust-covered floor of the storeroom and said, ‘No.’

He paused before he spoke again. ‘Good.’ And then, after another pause, during which I lifted my eyes to his, he said, ‘We’re also searching for a couple of foreigners, people we’re obliged to intern for the national good.’ He put his hand into the top pocket of his battledress and pulled out several photographs. I knew at least part of what was coming next. Doris’s father-in-law, a German Jew, had been interned for six months at the beginning of the war. It had nearly killed the poor old bugger.

‘This is Heinrich Feldman,’ he said, as he handed me a photograph of an elderly Jewish man. ‘And that is his wife, Eva.’

She was quite a bit younger than him but I’d known that anyway. Heinrich was a clock-mender and had done a very nice job for me once on my dad’s old pocket watch.

‘They used to live in this area. Had a shop in Upton Park, so I believe,’ the sergeant continued. ‘They were born in Germany so the law must be applied. Do you know these people, Mr Hancock?’

‘No.’

‘There’s talk, you see, in some quarters, among those who may call themselves socialists, that because some of these people are Jews they shouldn’t be subject to internment. But they are Germans, Mr Hancock, and we believe they are hiding in Epping Forest.’

‘Well, I wish you luck in finding them,’ I said, as I handed the photographs back to the sergeant.

‘As you can imagine, what with all that miracle chaos, we haven’t been able to move around quite as easily as we normally do,’ he said. ‘And, of course, the Gypsies aren’t exactly helpful. A strange, dark people.’ He stared pointedly at me as he spoke.

‘Yes.’

‘And talking of Gypsies, here’s another reason my chaps and I are in the forest.’ He handed me a small, indistinct photograph of a dark, rather fierce-looking young man.

‘His name is Martin Stojka,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ve received intelligence that he’s in the forest. He’s required to be interned.’

‘He’s a German?’

‘A German Gypsy,’ he replied. ‘Have you seen either the Feldmans or this man in or around the Gypsy encampment at Eagle Pond, Mr Hancock?’

‘No.’ Of course, I, like most people in West Ham, knew the Feldmans and wouldn’t have told the authorities where they were even if I’d known. But I didn’t, any more than I knew about this Stojka fellow.

‘We’ve searched the Gypsy encampment, with a view to finding Stojka, but we’ve come up with nothing.’

‘Then maybe he’s moved on or was never there,’ I said.

‘Or maybe the Gypsies are still hiding him somewhere,’ the sergeant replied, as he sipped his tea slowly. ‘The Eagle Pond group are the only Gypsies in the forest at the moment. They look after their own, that lot.’

‘Don’t we all?’

He looked up at me sharply, wondering, I could see in his face, what someone like me might be. Was I a very pale black or just a dark white man? It’s a look I’ve seen many, many times.

‘Well, the fact is, Mr Hancock,’ he said at length, ‘you’ve been up to the camp a few times and it’s said you know these Gypsies.’

‘Well . . .’

‘His Majesty and his armed forces would therefore be very grateful, Mr Hancock, if you could keep your eyes and ears open for any unusual people, the Feldmans and especially Martin Stojka in your future dealings up in Epping Forest.’ He leaned in close to my face and said, ‘They trust you. You buried one of them, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You know the horsemen from Beckton, Horatio and George Gordon Smith?’

‘Yes.’ He knew a lot about me, this Military Policeman. I frowned. ‘Why do you want this Martin Stojka again, Sergeant?’

‘Because he’s a German,’ the sergeant said levelly. ‘He’s also, it’s said, vicious and dangerous. Anyway, all Germans have to be detained, you know that.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Just keep your eyes peeled, Mr Hancock,’ he said, as he put his cup down on one of the coffin stands, then rose to his feet. ‘My lads and I are always about. If you see or hear anything you should pass it on immediately. And don’t try to do anything yourself, don’t be a hero. Whatever sub-group these people might belong to, whatever stories may be going around about what Hitler is doing to them, they are first and foremost Germans and the enemy. If attacked, they might kill you.’

I thought about telling him the story of Doris’s father-in-law Herschel Rosen, but thought better of it. That poor old Herschel had suffered in that awful camp they’d sent him to wasn’t going to impress or soften this bloke. He was, or rather I thought he was at the time, one of those who goes beyond patriotism into something that is an enemy of any sort of understanding. But I said I’d do as he asked and bade him goodbye cheerfully enough.

Aggie, who was almost breathless with excitement, watched him and his men go with a sigh on her now painted lips. ‘What a dish!’ She turned to me. ‘Oh, Frank, are you going to be seeing him again?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ I said, and at the time, I meant it.

‘Oh, you mean git!’ Aggie cried.

I walked out into the yard, passing Walter on his way to the front of the shop with more wood. Arthur, who had only just arrived, was looking into Alexander McCulloch’s coffin with a frown.

‘He out getting a suntan, Mr H?’ he said.

‘Something like that,’ I replied, and then I asked Arthur for a fag, which he gave me without further ado. We stood beside the not-so-dear departed, smoking in silence. Even the back of our building, which had not been touched by the blast, was filthy and studded with shards of glass.

Chapter Four

L
ater that afternoon, once I’d screwed the lid down on Alexander McCulloch’s coffin and my lads and I had boarded up most of the windows, I went into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. I knew that my sisters were out and I had thought that the Duchess was asleep but then I saw her thin, black-clad figure standing motionless at the kitchen window and I said, ‘Penny for ’em?’

She turned and smiled. She’s seventy years old, my mother, and still beautiful. ‘My thoughts? Well, Francis, I was thinking that someone ought to go down to Canning Town for some sweets.’

I went over to the kitchen range and lit the gas underneath the kettle. ‘Sweets? You’ll be lucky. What do you want sweets for?’

‘I’d like some Victory Vs to soothe this cough,’ she said. ‘I would also like some sweets for a journey I intend to make.’

Like me, the Duchess is tall and thin, so I never have to look down at her. ‘Where are you planning on going, Duchess?’

‘Well, that poor woman who lost her daughter, Betty Lee, she invited me to see her other daughter’s attraction, the Head. You remember, Francis.’

I did, although I couldn’t really see my mother putting herself out so much as to go all the way to Epping Forest just to see some side-show.

‘Nancy and I have decided to go tomorrow afternoon and I thought it might be nice for us to have some barley sugar or something like that for the journey.’

I’d had my suspicions, of course, but now I was certain. If the Duchess was going up to Epping Forest with Nancy, she wanted to see the ‘miracle’. She wouldn’t go directly against Father Burton’s orders, of course, she’d use the mysterious Head as a cover story and be perfectly calm about telling the priest so, when eventually she had to.

‘So, if you have time, Francis, I would be obliged if you could go to Murkoff’s for me,’ she said. ‘Their sweets are so much better than anyone else’s.’

‘Duchess,’ I said, ‘the chances of my finding some sweets even at Murkoff’s—’

‘Well, if you don’t find them there, then maybe you won’t mind trying elsewhere in Rathbone market,’ the Duchess said, as she turned pointedly away from me. ‘You could even see your friend who lives there, Miss Jacobs, couldn’t you? I’m sure she’d be glad of the company.’

Ever since my mother had met my ‘friend’ Hannah Jacobs, some weeks before this, I’d wondered how much she’d worked out. Aggie, I knew, was fully aware of what Hannah was and what she meant to me. But the Duchess? Well, I knew she knew that Hannah was Jewish, and I suspected she had knowledge of some amount of ‘involvement’ on my part. I could be pretty sure, however, that she didn’t know that Hannah was a prostitute. If she had I do believe that Rathbone Market and even Murkoff’s would have been very much out of bounds. That she waved me off when I left, with a smile, was also a strong clue.

‘I’ll come with you and Nan tomorrow,’ I said. ‘It’s like a madhouse up round that pond and I’ve no work on in the afternoon.’

The Duchess coughed, then smiled again.

‘Eva Feldman’s parents disappeared, so they say,’ Hannah said, as she pulled her dress over her slip, then lit a fag. ‘She got together with old Heinrich, who already had a brother over here, in Bethnal Green. That was three years ago.’ She looked down at the floor sadly. ‘Jews can’t leave Germany now.’

‘Hannah, love, I would never tell the Military Police or anyone else where the Feldmans might be, even if I knew,’ I said. We both dress very quickly after one of our ‘afternoons’ so I was sitting on the bed by this time with my shirt and everything else done up to my neck.

‘I know.’ Hannah isn’t a pretty woman, she’s seen far too much of life for that, but in spite of her age – forty-seven like me – and the fact that she dyes her lovely brown hair yellow, she’s beautiful. Many years before I met her, Hannah left her very religious family, disowned by them, to marry a Gentile boy. But that didn’t work out so she had to make her living any way she could. At first she was literally on the streets, but now she lives with a couple of other ‘old girls’, who work in the house of an elderly abortionist called Dot Harris. I am one of Hannah’s few regulars. I am also, I like to think, something more on occasion too.

‘Anyway, I got the feeling that the person the sergeant really wanted was the Gypsy, Stojka,’ I said. ‘He made him sound dangerous.’

‘Like the Feldmans?’ Hannah shook her head. ‘You know, the Commies say that the Nazis have been killing the Gypsies for years. This Stojka has probably run here for his life.’

‘But, as the sergeant said, they’re all German,’ I said, unconvinced even as I uttered the words. The Communists, or Commies as many call them, are strong in this part of London. Committed to the betterment of the working classes, a lot of Commies are Jews and they are, in my experience, very well informed. Hannah knows a few, and if they were saying that the Nazis were killing Gypsies I was inclined to believe them. After all, even if Joe Stalin chooses to ally himself with Hitler that doesn’t mean every Commie on the planet thinks likewise. Doris’s husband Alfie, for one, thinks that the Soviet leader is simply playing for time.

‘Well, if you don’t go up to the forest again for a bit, you won’t have to get involved in none of it, will you?’ Hannah said.

‘I’ve said I’ll take my mother and sister up there tomorrow afternoon,’ I replied. And then I added, ‘To see this Gypsy girl having her “vision” hopefully.’

‘Virgin Mary supposed to be, isn’t it?’ Hannah said.

‘That’s certainly what people want it to be and, to be fair, the girl Lily did call whatever it was “Our Lady”. But putting aside for a moment the fact that I can’t believe in such things, there’s something not right about it all.’

‘What do you mean?’

I picked up a fag I’d rolled earlier and stuck it into my mouth. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘when some old girl from Canning Town started jumping around about it being the Virgin Mary, Lily said, “No”.’

‘What changed her mind?’

‘I don’t know whether anything did.’ If my memory served me right, Lily had just stopped saying it wasn’t the Virgin Mary. She had also, I remembered, stopped her brother-in-law saying something too.

‘Maybe it’s a swindle,’ Hannah said, after a pause. ‘You know how dodgy Gypsies can be.’

‘I thought you felt sorry for them,’ I said, as I lit my fag.

‘I don’t think they should be hurt,’ Hannah said, ‘but I’m connected to the real world too. Gyppos are dodgy, H. Talking of which, they have paid you for that girl’s funeral, haven’t they?’

Exactly like Doris. ‘Yes,’ I said impatiently – and this time I was telling the truth.

‘Good.’ Hannah smiled. ‘So, you’re off to Eagle Pond tomorrow, then, are you?’

‘Yes.’

She sat down in the small hard chair beside the range and sighed. ‘Well, maybe I’ll take a trip out there meself. Get a bit of country air. Maybe our paths will cross. I should at least see this thing for meself.’

‘Not likely to be much to see,’ I said. ‘Lily hasn’t had any visions since the first one.’

‘A lot of people are living in hope that she does,’ Hannah said. ‘I should see what there is to it.’

‘Yes, you could come with us . . .’

‘No.’ Nan wouldn’t be any too pleased, but the Duchess, in blissful ignorance of Hannah’s calling, would be charmed. After all, I am forty-seven and I’ve never been married, which means that my mother is willing to consider most women for me now. The religion, of course, is a stumbling-block, but that isn’t nearly as big a problem as Hannah’s low feelings about herself. I’ve proposed several times and she’s always refused me. She reckons she isn’t good enough to marry a decent man like myself. What, she wonders, would she say to my mates and my neighbours if they ask her what she did before we met? She’s also afraid, and with good reason, that one or other of them might recognise her. And that is a problem even I must accept. ‘No, I’ll pop along in the afternoon and if we meet we meet.’