The Last Telegram. Лиз Тренау
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‘The Huguenots were craftsmen, weavers and throwsters. England needed their skills. There was a good economic reason for letting them into our country.’
‘But if we hadn’t given them refuge, what would have happened to them? They’d have been killed like all the rest. Where would our family be now?’
‘Look, Lily, I understand what you are saying. I still believe we can stop this trouble if we can only persuade the Germans to topple that madman. Then these children can go back to their families. Best place for them.’
‘Of course you’re right,’ I conceded. ‘But what happens to them in the meantime? Can you imagine what it must be like to be stuck in that holiday camp?’
He filled his pipe and puffed it into life. Finally he said, ‘Leave it with me. I’ll have another think. Perhaps I’ll talk to Jim and Gwen and ask them to take soundings with the staff.’
‘Thank you.’ I hugged him, savouring his soothing smell of Old Virginia and hair oil.
‘No guarantees, mind,’ he said, turning back to his desk. ‘Now run along and help your mother with supper. I’ve got work to do.’
The plan worked, just as I’d hoped. Over Sunday lunch Father announced with some triumph, as if it had been his very own idea, that the mill manager Jim Williams had agreed to take on three new apprentices as weavers, warpers or throwsters, depending on their skills.
John’s forkful of food halted halfway to his mouth. ‘How did this happen?’ he mouthed across the table. ‘Tell you later,’ I mouthed back, smiling smugly.
‘But we can’t collect them yet,’ Father was saying. ‘I have to be up in town all next week.’
John had put his knife and fork down now. ‘We could go instead,’ he said, ‘Lily and me can sort it out.’
‘Please, Father,’ I pleaded. ‘I can’t bear to think of those children waiting. They might even be sent back to Germany.’
He pondered for a few seconds and then said, ‘I’ll check with Jim. See if he wants to go, or if he’s happy to delegate the job to you two.’ Across the table, John was giving me a surreptitious thumbs-up. ‘It’s boys we want, remember,’ Father said firmly. ‘No more than three. Strong lads who’ll really knuckle down to it.’
It was a dismal day as we drove in the rusty works van to the holiday camp. Clouds hung like damp sheets over the flat Essex fields and when we reached the coast, the marshy land dissolved into the North Sea in shades of sullen grey.
The road looked familiar. Surely this wasn’t the same place I’d been as a child, on holiday with a friend’s family? As we came closer the memories started to flood back. The holiday had been a disaster. I was horribly homesick, and to make things worse I was terrified of the flame-haired clown in a harlequin suit who had patrolled between the chalets each morning after breakfast, summoning us to the morning’s entertainments. He reminded me of the Pied Piper illustration in my book of fairy tales and I was convinced that the children who followed him would never come back. So I refused to go with the clown, feigning all kinds of exotic ailments, and spent the rest of the holiday in my bunk bed, feeling humiliated and miserable.
‘You’re very quiet, Sis, what’s on your mind?’ John said. When I told him he laughed.
‘Not too many clowns there these days, I don’t suppose,’ he said.
At the entrance, the words were still legible under peeling paint: Welcome to Sunnyside Holiday Camp. The gate was guarded, and spirals of barbed wire coiled along the top of the fence. We were ushered through and directed up a concrete driveway towards a group of buildings in the distance.
As we came closer we could see a gang of older boys kicking a football around on a patch of worn grass, and other children huddled against a chill wind on benches outside one of the pastel-painted chalets. Their faces were solemn and pale, like rows of white moons, turning to watch our van.
Pinned to each child’s coat was a label. ‘Like little parcels,’ I said. John nodded, grim-faced.
We stopped and climbed out and the boys left their football game and ran over, crowding round us, firing questions in their strange guttural tongue. They stopped in surprise when John started speaking in fluent German, and when he’d finished they began chattering even more excitedly than before.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to me. ‘They’re only asking who we are and why we are here. They want to know where we’re from and if we can help. What they mostly seem to want to know is if we can take them to Piccadilly Circus,’ he laughed. ‘They’re desperate for a bit of the high life, and who can blame them?’
At last an adult appeared, pushing his way through the gaggle. He was short, prematurely balding and scruffily dressed in workmen’s jeans and a thick jacket, so different from the crisply intimidating holiday camp staff of my childhood memory. I warmed to him immediately.
‘You must be John and Lily Verner? Welcome to Sunnyside. Name’s a bit ironic on a day like today, don’t you think? I’m Leo Samuels. They call me duty manager, though that’s just a posh title for chief muggins.’ He beamed as we shook hands. ‘Now, what can we do for you, or rather, what can you do for us? Come into the office and let’s keep warm while we talk.’ To the boys he said, ‘Geduldig Sein, be patient.’ As we walked he apologised for the way they had pestered us. ‘You understand, they’ve been through terrible times, and being out here in the wilds of Essex isn’t helping. They need to get settled as soon as possible.’
One of the larger chalets at the end of a row had a hastily-painted sign: Kindertransport All Enquiries. Up two steps, a wooden balcony led through glazed double doors into a small living area next to a kitchenette, with what must have been bedrooms on either side. Leo gestured to a table covered in a chaos of papers and dirty mugs, and went to fill the kettle. ‘Do sit down. Tea or coffee? How do you take it?’
He chattered cheerfully as he rinsed out three mugs in a cluttered basin, waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Sorry for the mess, but we’re on a shoestring here,’ he said, pushing aside untidy piles of papers and boxes on the table to make space for the tray.
‘We’re all volunteers and it’s a bit hand-to-mouth, to say the least. Of course we’re dead lucky they’ve let us have this place for free. You probably know that the boss is Jewish, that always helps. Otherwise we’re totally dependent on charity and right now people have other things on their minds than helping a bunch of German children.’
He sighed. ‘We’re doing what we can for the poor little blighters. Most have sponsors, but this lot have been let down for one reason or another. So not only have they been through some terrible things and been sent away by their parents, but when they get here no one wants them. It’s ruddy awful, if you’ll excuse my French, Miss Verner.’
I cradled my cold fingers round the hot mug, struggling to imagine what it must feel like for these children, being so doubly rejected. No words, even coarse words, could come close to describing it.
‘I was in Austria last year,’ John said, ‘and I saw what was happening.’
Leo shook his head sadly. ‘It’s so much worse, now.’
‘I was afraid it would be,’ John said. ‘So when we heard about your work we had to do something.’
‘It is very good of you,’ Leo said simply, and took a sip of his coffee. ‘So, how do you think you can you help us?’
‘Our family runs a silk mill, in Westbury. Do you know it? About thirty miles from here,’ John started.
‘Silk, eh? How interesting,’ Leo said, listening intently.
‘We’d like to take on three new apprentices,’ John went on. ‘And we wondered if you had some older boys, sixteen, seventeen maybe. Preferably bright lads, who’d be capable of learning a skilled trade.’
‘They’ve