Remember Me (12 page)

“Come in, Mr. Evans. Don’t stand on the step. A cup of tea before you go?”

“If it’s no trouble, Matron.”

“I’ll just show the girls upstairs.” Matron led them up a narrow stairway. “Lucy, you can go in this room, and Mary Anne in here. Unpack, and then come downstairs.” She hurried back to Mr. Evans.

Lucy whispered, “I wish we were in the same room. Should we knock?”

Marianne said, “I think so. I’ll see you in about ten minutes and we’ll go down together.”

The rooms were next to each other, the paint peeling off the doors. The girls looked at each other and knocked. They walked in.

Marianne said, “Hello, I’m Marianne Kohn. I’m an evacuee from London.”

Two girls sat on the narrow beds farthest from the door. There was a chair beside each bed. The unoccupied bed, made up with a gray blanket, was set against the damp-looking wall. The girls got on with their knitting.

“How far are you gone?” said one to Marianne, not looking up.

“I beg your pardon? I don’t understand what you mean,” she replied.

“Well, if you don’t want to tell us, that’s your business, isn’t it?”

Marianne put her suitcase on the bed and unlocked it.

“Matron will kill you if you put that on the bed,” said the other girl, who was dressed in a loose blue smock. “On the floor – use some common sense, can’t you?”

Marianne moved her case, and said, “Please, where is the lavatory?”

The first girl put down her knitting and stood up and walked towards Marianne. Her waist was huge and Marianne realized that she was expecting a baby. Both girls looked a couple of years older than Marianne.

“The lavatory, my dear? Well, now, we don’t have those fancy London ways here. The running water comes from the sky.” She went to a small window and pointed. “
Tŷ bach
– the lavatory to you – is out there, and in my condition, don’t expect me to walk down and show you,” the girl said.

Marianne replied, “I’m sorry, we just came off the train. I don’t even know where we are.”

The girls started to laugh. One of them said, “You’re in the Methodist Home for Unmarried Mothers. A disgrace to the community, we are. By the looks of you, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Marianne didn’t know what to say. The girls turned to each other and began to speak quickly in Welsh, staring at her and laughing.

Marianne opened the door and fled downstairs.

“Mary Anne, wait for me.” Lucy was behind her. “I can’t imagine what Miss Barry would say if she knew we were
here.
”

Marianne said, “They’re not exactly friendly, are they? It’s not for long – only a day or two she said.”

Matron appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “There you are. Mr. Evans had to leave. What a busy man he is, and all this extra work.” She looked at them accusingly. “Come in the kitchen.” She put a bowl of bread and milk in front of each of the girls and waited. Marianne picked up her spoon.

“Before grace?” Matron spoke in a shocked whisper.

Lucy looked at Marianne through her cracked lenses and said, “I’ll do it. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

Marianne joined in the amen.

Matron said, “When you’ve finished, wash your bowls in the scullery. Be quick now, it’s late.”

When they’d eaten, the girls carried their bowls into a narrow flagstone scullery, and rinsed the dishes in a bowl of water that stood in the sink. The water was cold. There was a greasy towel hanging on a nail by the door, and they used that to dry the dishes.

“The privy is at the end of the path,” said Matron. She took a key from the pocket of her dress and unlocked the back door. The yard was dark and smelt of cats.

“Wait for me, Mary Anne. I’m terrified of spiders and I can’t see properly,” said Lucy.

When they came back to the house, Matron told them to wash at the pump by the back door and handed them a sliver of soap and the same greasy towel they’d used to dry the dishes. As
soon as they were back inside, she locked the scullery door behind them.

“Breakfast at seven, and make your beds before you come down.” She watched them go up, and then went back into the kitchen.

“Goodnight, Lucy,” said Marianne. “Sleep well.”

“If Miss Barry doesn’t come and get us tomorrow, I’m going to catch the first train back home,” said Lucy, and went into her room.

Marianne thought she heard sounds of scuffling behind the door. When she opened it, she saw that one of the girls was hunched over her open suitcase. “What are you doing with my things?” asked Marianne, horrified.

“Did you hear that, Margaret? Did you hear her accuse me? Are you calling me a thief?” The girl got clumsily to her feet.

“You were going through my case,” said Marianne.

“You’re a dirty spy.” The girl held an envelope in her hand.

Marianne tried to stay calm. She said, “Please give me that letter. It’s from my mother in Germany.”

“Dilys, you were right. She
is
a spy,” said Margaret, and got out of bed to stand by her friend.

“I’m too young to be a spy. I’m only twelve years old. My mother sent me here to be safe from the Nazis. I’m Jewish,” said Marianne.

Margaret crossed herself, and Dilys gave a scream of horror. “Christ killer,” Dilys said. “You did that.” And she pushed
Marianne forward and forced her to look at the picture on the wall that showed Christ hanging on the cross. Marianne stared at the nails driven through His feet and hands, and the gashes in His side.

The door opened and Matron stood in the doorway. The girls scuttled back to their beds.

“What is the meaning of this? What is going on here?”

Dilys replied, “She’s a Jew.”

Margaret added, “She gets letters from Germany. She’s a spy.”

Marianne burst out, “They have no right to touch my things. They went through my suitcase. I want my letter back.” And she went up to Dilys and snatched the envelope out of her hand.

“Oh, my poor baby, a Jew,” wailed Dilys and put her hands protectively over her stomach. “He’ll be marked.”

“Come with me. Bring your things,” said Matron, “and not one more word. Be quick, now.” She pushed Marianne out of the door. “Go down,” she said.

They went downstairs.

“You’ll wait here till I come back. Don’t move.”

Matron took the shawl that was hanging on the hook, put it over her head, and opened the front door. Marianne heard her lock the door from the outside. She was too angry to be frightened. After a while, she sat on the bottom stair, her hands over her ears to shut out the words “Christ killer,” which Dilys and Margaret called from the upstairs landing.

After a long time, Matron returned. Mr. Evans was with her. He picked up Marianne’s suitcase without a word. The door slammed behind them.

“Now then,
bach
,” he said, “that was a poor start.” They walked in silence for a long time, then they stopped in front of a small row house. It was very dark. Mr. Evans rapped on the door.

A
very old lady, wearing a lace cap over her wispy gray hair and a shawl over her nightgown, opened the door. She was stooped over, and was only a little taller than Marianne.

“
Y ferch, Mam
,” said Mr. Evans.

He turned to Marianne and said, “My mother has very little English. I told her, ‘Here’s the little girl.’ You sleep well now. This is just for one night; I’ll find you a billet tomorrow.
Nos da, Mam.
Goodnight, Mary Anne.” Mr. Evans disappeared into the dark street.

Mrs. Evans beckoned Marianne inside and made signs to her to follow up the stairs. Mrs. Evans’ progress was slow. She hung on to the bannisters, wheezing at every step, threatening to extinguish the candle she held in her other hand. Once upstairs, she maneuvered herself onto the double bed, which took up most of the space in the airless small room.

All Marianne could think of was witches – every witch in every story she’d ever read. She looked at the “witch’s” teeth floating in the glass on the narrow mantel.
Do I really have to sleep with this toothless old woman?

There was a porcelain chamber pot at the foot of the bed. Marianne shivered, though the room was hot and stuffy.

The “witch” made signs for Marianne to get in bed beside her. She kept repeating “
Dech y gwely
,” and patting the pillow beside her. “Come to bed.”

Marianne stood at the door, wondering if she dare flee.

After a long time, Mrs. Evans, sounding each word with great difficulty, said again, “Come to bed.” She patted the space that was waiting for Marianne, and smiled a very unlike witch’s smile, showing clean pink gums.
How hard this poor lady is trying to make herself understood. She’s been woken in the middle of the night, and now she is willing to share her bed with me.

“Thank you,” said Marianne. She took a step into the room, undid her suitcase, and pulled out her nightdress. The old lady smiled and nodded at her, blew out the candle, then turned on her side away from Marianne.

Marianne climbed into bed, and lay near the very edge.

“
Nos da
– Goodnight,” said Mrs. Evans. They slept.

When Marianne woke up the next morning, the old lady – and the teeth in the glass – were gone. She went downstairs and straight into the kitchen.

“
Bore da
– Good morning,” said Mrs. Evans, and pointed Marianne into the tiny scullery. She opened the back door, and
Marianne walked along the path set with flagstones to the lavatory. Someone, perhaps Mr. Evans, had whitewashed the walls. There wasn’t a spider in sight.

When she got back, Mrs. Evans was pouring hot water from the kettle into a tin bowl. She put out a clean towel and a piece of soap for Marianne to wash.

When Marianne had finished, she went into the kitchen and Mrs. Evans handed her a plate of brown bread and butter. “
Bara menyn
,” she said, pointing to the food.

Marianne repeated the words.
Welsh is quite easy!
Mrs. Evans seemed very pleased. She poured Marianne a cup of tea, and then sat in her rocking chair by the big oven and watched her eat her breakfast. Although the kitchen was small, it was very cosy. As well as the big black oven, there was a tall cupboard full of brightly colored plates and cups. A crocheted rug lay in front of the brass fender. On the mantelpiece were two china figurines and a doll wearing a black hat, red flannel dress, and white apron.

A cat purred under the table. If she had noticed Mrs. Evans’ black cat last night, she would truly have been convinced she was in the house of a witch.

Marianne said, “Your house is beautiful.”

Mrs. Evans nodded and smiled. “
Diolch
– Thanks,” she said. Her teeth moved when she spoke.

There was a knock on the door and Mr. Evans came in. “
Bore da, Mam.
Good morning, Mary Anne. Had a good sleep, did you?” He did not wait for an answer, but started an animated
conversation in Welsh with his mother, who nodded and interrupted softly from time to time. Then they’d both stop talking, look at Marianne pityingly, shake their heads, and continue.

At last Mr. Evans sat down and said to Marianne, “Well now,
bach.
”

“Please, what does
bach
mean? I thought it was the name of a composer.”

Mr. Evans laughed. “I knew last night you were musical, young lady. It’s the choir you’ll have to be joining. No, no,
bach
just means ‘little,’ or ‘dear.’ Now, I’m pleased to say, I have found a very nice home for you, with Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. They are happy to give a home to a little girl. So get your things and we’ll be on our way.”

When Marianne came down with her suitcase, she said, “Please, will you tell your mother ‘thank you very much’? She is so kind.”

Mr. Evans said, “Tell her
diolch.
”

Marianne went up to Mrs. Evans, said
diolch
, and curtsied. Mrs. Evans pushed herself up from her chair and patted Marianne’s cheek with her gnarled fingers.

When they got outside and were walking down the hill, Mr. Evans said, “You must be a very good girl for Mrs. Roberts. A sad time she’s had, and her such a pillar of the chapel. Never misses a meeting.”

Marianne’s stomach gave a warning lurch. “Is this a temporary billet?” she asked.

“Oh no, indeed. Mrs. Roberts is looking forward to having a child in the house again. You’ll be settling down there now.”

T
he white lace curtains of 66 Queen Victoria Road moved slightly. Marianne straightened her shoulders. The front door opened.

“
Bore da
, Mr. Evans. Come in quick, do. Don’t stand outside.”

They walked in.

“This is the little girl, Mary Anne Kohn, we were talking about,” Mr. Evans said.

Marianne could guess the kinds of things they’d been saying, but he was a very nice man and was doing his best for her. There was no reason to feel so apprehensive.
Why do I feel so uneasy?
she wondered, her stomach lurching again.

“There’s skinny, she is. Soon fatten you up, we will.
Diolch
, Mr. Evans, for bringing her. There’s a shame you working Saturday. Lots to do with all these ’vacuees, I dare say, and war not started yet. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing my Elisabeth isn’t here to see it. Very sensitive she was, as you know, Mr. Evans.”

Marianne wondered who Elisabeth was. This lady seemed to have a lot to say; perhaps she was lonely. Was there a Mr. Roberts?

“And how’s your dear mother, Mr. Evans?”

“
Mam
’s as well as can be expected. Eighty years old last month. Took a great fancy to your little Mary Anne here.”

Your?
She hadn’t been in the house two minutes; she wasn’t a parcel to be handed over.

“Well, better be off, Mrs. Roberts. More billets to find. Goodbye, Mary Anne.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Evans.
Diolch
,” Marianne said.

“Proper little Welsh girl you’re getting to be. Good-bye, both.”