Bonfire Memories Read online

  “Of course, I’m sorry. I just wondered if, after the war, around the time of that first bonfire party, you’d seen a young German woman around these parts.”

  “I don’t remember doing so. Do you have a picture?”

  Guy took his wallet from his pocket and found the picture of Greta. “Here she is. My sister, Greta.”

  “She’s a very pretty girl.”

  “Yes, she is. I mean she was.”

  “You think she’s dead.”

  “I’m afraid she might be. I can’t imagine she’d abandon her family and her daughter.” Guy had thought about it time and time again. Greta had been a devoted mother, and had sobbed on the day they waved her off on the ship, leaving little Brigitte with Guy and their mother. She would not just decide to stay away from those she loved.

  “What was she doing in Midchester?”

  “That’s a good question, Peg. I don’t know. She left Australia to come back to Europe, hoping to find her husband after the war. I know she went to Berlin, because we got a postcard from there. I also know she spent some time in Hamburg. She sent us a postcard from there too, saying that she was getting closer to finding her husband, Frederick.” He pronounced it ‘Free-drick’. “Carl Anderson had somehow tracked her down to Midchester, but he didn’t give me full details. He just told me to meet him here.”

  Peg had been looking intently at the photograph as Guy spoke. She shook her head, sadly. “I’m sorry, Guy, but I don’t remember this girl. If she was here, it won’t have been long enough to make an impression.”

  “You’d think people would notice a German girl around here, so soon after the war.”

  “Well, yes, I agree. That’s why it’s strange that I don’t remember her. Ask some of the others. The Simpsons were living here then, as was Herbie Potter and his wife, Cara’s mum.” Peg swivelled on her stool and turned to where Mrs. Simpson sat with her friends. “Myrtle, come here a moment.”

  Mrs. Simpson got up and walked unsteadily to the bar. She gave a loud hiccough on the way. “What is it, Ma Cherry?”

  Guy and Peg exchanged amused glances. “We need your help, ma cherie,” said Peg, gently correcting her. “Do you remember seeing this young lady around here, just after the war? Her name was Greta…” Peg looked to Guy for clarification.

  At the same time, Cara had returned with the pies. Guy saw her look of curiosity and waved her over. “I’m just doing some investigating of my own,” he explained. He turned back to Mrs. Simpson. “Her maiden name was Greta Mueller, but she married a man called Frederick Schwartz. She could have been using either name when she came here. Her passport was still in her maiden name because there’d been no chance to change it when we left Germany.”

  Mrs. Simpson peered at the picture. Guy wished he had not sold her that cocktail, as he was not certain she was in a fit state to remember anything. “You’re very handsome, for a German,” she said, gazing up at Guy.

  “You’re not bad for a British woman,” Guy said, then immediately wished he had not when he heard Cara’s sudden intake of breath. It was a cheap shot, but he was in no mood to be patronised.

  “Hmm,” Mrs. Simpson giggled, as his rebuke went over her head. “I think you’re just trying to get me drunk so you can get information from me.”

  “Good guess,” he said. “I’m trying to find out what happened to my sister.”

  Mrs. Simpson looked at the picture again. “I do remember something. You were ill that week, Peg, don’t you remember? You couldn’t get to the bonfire party.”

  “Oh yes, I remember now. I had the flu and took to my bed for a week.”

  “By the time you were up and about it was all over.”

  “What was all over?”

  “This girl came here looking for someone. Oh what was the name?”

  “Frederick Schwartz? He was my brother-in-law. Greta’s husband.”

  “Was he? That might have been it then. But we had no Germans here. There was that old Professor Solomon…”

  “He was Polish,” said Peg.

  “Ooh, yes I remember now. And his daughter, Rachel. Sullen girl.”

  “They were Jews,” Peg explained to Guy. “They’d suffered quite a lot.”

  “I can imagine. My father lost a lot of his best friends that way.”

  “Anyway,” said Mrs. Simpson, seeming annoyed because Peg was taking all of Guy’s attention, “one day the girl was here, asking about someone, and the next day she was gone. Only … There was something else. Something in the paper. I can’t remember what it was now.” She put her hand to her head. “I’m going to have such a headache in the morning. You really are a very naughty boy, serving those cocktails, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “I bet you’ve never had so much fun though.”

  “Well…” Mrs. Simpson burst into a fit of girlish giggles. “You really are very naughty. If I were thirty years younger, I’d set my cap at you. You watch yourself, Cara. A man like this can have any woman he wants. And you’ve had problems with men before.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Cara said quietly. Guy wondered what problems she had with other men, but he had other concerns at that moment. “You don’t remember anything else?” he asked Mrs. Simpson.

  “No, not just now. If I do remember anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Simpson. You’ve been really helpful. Now, perhaps you’ll let me buy you another drink.”

  “Best make it lemonade,” said Peg, raising a disapproving eyebrow.

  “Oh, no, I want another cocktail.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Guy. He went and played with the bottles as he had before, then put a sparkling cocktail down on the bar.

  Mrs. Simpson walked away with it, still unsteady on her feet.

  “Do you think that was wise?” asked Cara. “She really isn’t used to drinking.”

  Guy leant in and whispered to her, getting a delicious waft of her sunflower shampoo as he did so. Her silky hair brushed his face. “It’s lemonade and lime, with a dash of orange juice. She’ll be fine.”

  Cara laughed. “She’ll be having us under the Trade Descriptions Act.”

  “She’ll wake up tomorrow and be none the wiser, though she may have less of a headache. Come on, let’s do some more cocktails.” Guy wanted to ask more questions of the other villagers, but he realised it was a bad idea to push it. At the moment they seemed to accept him, because he had brought a little sparkle into their lives. Too many reminders of his origins might put an end to that. He had won over the women, but the men were going to be harder.

  “Cara,” he said, remembering something else.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been invited up to Mr. Black’s house tomorrow night for the big dinner party he’s throwing. I wasn’t bothered about going, but maybe we could ask him questions, him owning the newspaper and all that. I can take a guest. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I don’t know, Guy. Nancy is off doing other things at the moment, and I’m really busy here.”

  “So tell her you deserve a night off.”

  “Yes, I could do that, I suppose. But I already have one night off a week for my journalism class. That’s on Friday.”

  “Please ask. I’d like to take you.” Guy could not understand why it mattered to him so much that she say yes. Cara was far too distracting. Once again he told himself to be careful he did not get side-tracked.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great! If it’s okay, give me a call at the Grange and I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  The next hour or so was filled with Guy making cocktails for everyone. A lot of the ladies wanted one just like the last one Mrs. Simpson had. It was just as well. They were out of champagne.

  “I’ve never seen everyone so happy,” said Cara as the jukebox started up again and the Rolling Stones Not Fade Away filled the bar-room. “Though I don’t think I could cope with this every night.”

  “Nah, y
ou want quiet times too. But this is good. Everyone is enjoying themselves, and they’re spending money.”

  “Show us how you throw those bottles again,” one of the male customers called to Guy.

  Guy picked up two bottles and started juggling with them. It was something he used to do in Australia. A bit of showmanship that encouraged people to spend more money. The customers applauded him, and he realised he was having a good time, despite the circumstances. He also realised he was showing off outrageously. Part of him wanted to impress Cara, and judging by the way she laughed at his antics, she was very impressed.

  “Show me how you do it,” she said, at last.

  “Okay. Put one bottle in each hand. The first trick is to spin them over without spilling a drop.”

  “I’ll never manage that.”

  “Of course you will. It’s the rule of centrifugal force.”

  “The what?”

  “I don’t know, really. I just made that up. But if you do it quickly enough, the liquid doesn’t spill. Come on, show me.”

  Cara flicked one of the bottles over. Instead of her catching it, it fell to the floor, shattering. That made all the customers laugh and applaud. “Well done, Cara,” several of them called. Her face was a picture. Guy had to suppress is own laughter because she looked so forlorn.

  Suddenly the door of the pub slammed, silencing everyone. The atmosphere changed in an instant, from cheerful to wary.

  Nancy walked to the centre of the room, her face a mask of fury. “What on Earth is going on in my pub?”

  Chapter Seven

  1946

  Who would have thought such an idiot could be so much help? All I had to do is supply him with drink, guessing that he will one day end up with the same weakness as his vile mother. A few glasses of brandy and he will tell me all about the prank he pulled with his friends. It might have won them first prize at the Guy Fawkes contest if he had not had a fit of the giggles. I won’t have to worry about that happening.

  He’s got lank brown hair, and spotty skin. Not exactly your perfect Aryan male, but sometimes you have to work with what you’ve got. At seventeen, he’s like all the boys who just missed joining in the war effort. All talk about the heroic things he might have done.

  “I’d have shown Hitler,” he says, taking a sip of brandy. He wrinkles his nose. Maybe he’s not like his mother.

  “Go on, be a man and drink up,” I urge.

  He swallows the booze down and for a moment I fear he’s going to vomit all over the carpet.

  “I hear you’re seeing young Nancy,” I say. “They tell me she’s a bit of a goer.”

  He looks taken aback at that. “She’s a nice girl,” he says. “I know she flirts a bit, but she never means it, and she doesn’t mess around with other blokes.”

  “Oh no, of course not. I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. But if I were a bit younger…”

  “You wouldn’t?” He grins, excitement lighting up his eyes. Men always like to think their girl is irresistible to others.

  “I would.”

  “Yeah, well I do and often,” he smirks. I know then that he’s lying. Nancy probably is a good girl at heart. But I play along, pandering to his ego.

  “I bet you do, Tiger. Have another drink.” I pour another glass of brandy down him, and sit next to him on the sofa. He moves up a little, clearly disturbed by my proximity. We’re at my place, away from anywhere we might be overheard. Peg Bradbourne has got over whatever it was that kept her away from the pub, so I need to be extra careful.

  “Show me how you did the Guy Fawkes thing,” I demand. “I want to play a trick on some friends.”

  “I’ll need newspapers and some old trousers and a sweater. Oh and a big paper bag.”

  This is where I have to be really clever. The boy might talk, and I need to make sure he doesn’t. “I don’t suppose you could go and get some of your mother’s old clothes. And some newspaper and a bag. I used up my last lot to build the fire.” When he looks doubtful, I say, “Go on, get them. There’s a fiver in it for you.” I pull a five pound note from my pocket and wave it in front of his greedy little eyes.

  I know his mother spends all her money on booze. As a result the boy always looks half-starved. It won’t take long to get him drunk on an empty stomach. But I need him sober enough to bring the things, so I hold back on the drink for a while and send him out into the night.

  I’m afraid he might not return, but he does, no doubt lured by the thought of a five pound note. Then he takes me through the process.

  “It takes at least two people,” he says. “One to be the Guy, and the other to stuff the newspapers in and put the paper bag over the head. Just cut out holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. Oh yeah, I forgot. You’ll need gloves as well, to hide the hands.”

  “I can get some,” I tell him. I won’t really need them, because no one else will see my creation. At least not until it’s too late, and by then, the body and clothing will be burned beyond recognition.

  “Thanks, Sammy,” I tell him as I let him back out into the night. He’s swaying a little.

  “My fiver…” he says. Oh, so he’s not that drunk then.

  “Of course, it’s well-earned too.” I give him the five pounds. It’s a forgery, left over from the war. I’d managed to slip them into the local economy, causing a panic for a short time. But it doesn’t take people long to become apathetic about such things, so I doubt anyone will notice. “Get yourself some chips on the way home. And remember, not a word to anyone.”

  “My lips are sealed,” he says, before hiccoughing and walking away, clutching the five pound note. I want to tell him to be careful or the colours will run before he has time to spend it, but what does it matter if they do?

  If he ever says anything to anyone, I can tell them that he turned up drunk, insisting he show me the trick. I’ll deny all knowledge of the five pound note. It’ll be his word against mine. With the reputation he has for trouble, I think they’ll all believe me.

  1966

  Breakfast at The Quiet Woman was a tense affair. Nancy barely spoke to Cara. She sat with her face behind a newspaper. Normally, they would chat about the evening before. That was obviously a sore subject, after Nancy arrived to see Cara dropping an expensive bottle of spirits onto the floor. Not even Guy’s offer to pay for it had softened her heart.

  “Will you be using the car today, Nancy?” Cara asked, as she poured Rice Crispies into the bowl. The Hilman Minx belonged to Nancy, so Cara never used it without permission.

  “I might be.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Cara poured milk on her cereal. There was barely any left, so it emptied the bottle.

  “That’s just like you, isn’t it?” Nancy put her newspaper down onto the table with a thwack. “Using the last of the milk. Honestly, Cara, why don’t you think?”

  “I’ll go and get some more.” Cara’s face burned scarlet. She felt like a recalcitrant child. She had never known Nancy to treat her this way. Running out of milk was a regular occurrence and neither of them ever blamed the other. Pushing her cereals away, she got up and went to get her coat.

  “So are you just going to waste this cereal and milk now?”

  Cara turned back. “Look, Nancy, I said I’m sorry about last night. And I’m sorry about the milk and I’m sorry because I can’t do anything to please you at the moment. But I was on my own last night because you had gone off without warning … again. Guy just stepped in to help.”

  “No one goes behind that bar without my say so. Least of all some big-headed Hollywood star who thinks he can just come here and show off. I’m the boss here. Something you seem to be forgetting.”

  “Well, as I’m obviously annoying you at the moment, perhaps it’s best if you’re not my boss anymore. As soon as I can, I’ll get my things and leave!”

  “I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all morning. I obviously can’t trust you to run the pub alone! Honestly, Cara, what were y
ou thinking?”

  Cara grabbed her coat and stormed out of the pub. Nancy was her dearest friend. They had spent so many good times together working behind the bar, and normally enjoyed each other’s company as flatmates. How had things got so bad so quickly?

  Cara headed for the place she always went in time of need. The local shop. The owner, Mr. Fletcher smiled as she entered. He was an elderly man, who wore round glasses at the end of his nose. His body was just as round as the spectacles. “Hello, Cara. Run out of milk again?”

  “Erm … yes, actually. But at the moment I just want a bag of sweets.”

  “Oh dear. It’s one of those days, is it?”

  She nodded glumly. “Yes, it’s definitely one of those days.”

  “What can I tempt you with? We’ve got Sherbet Dib-dabs, white mice, Jelly Babies, rhubarb and custard, Black Jacks. Or what about your favourites, coconut mushrooms?” Mr. Fletcher gestured behind the counter, like a magician drawing a rabbit from a hat. There had always been something of the showman about him.

  Behind him, glass jars gleamed on polished mahogany shelves; a rainbow of different sweets to suit each palate. When she was a little girl, Cara used to like just coming in to look. It could take her up to half an hour to decide what she wanted, but Mr. Fletcher had never rushed her then and he didn’t rush her now. Not like the sullen kohl-eyed girl with badly back-combed and black rooted hair in the mini-market who glared at you if you didn’t just pick up and pay for what you wanted.

  Remembering that she was no longer a child and couldn’t really take all day to decide, Cara said, “If I give you a shilling, can you mix them up for me, please?”

  “Goodness, I haven’t done a mix for you since you were a little girl. It must be bad.”

  She nodded again, but did not want to tell him, even though he seemed eager to find out. She liked Mr. Fletcher, but she knew from past experience that every bit of gossip was passed onto the next customer, who passed it on to everyone they knew. As angry as she was with Nancy, she was not prepared to criticise her to the whole of Midchester.