Page 132 of The Gathering Storm

One particular parting remained in James’s mind, not because it was different, but because it was typical. Most of the windows of the flat were still boarded up, so they had to have the lights on – they had not been able to afford re-glazing yet. There was not much furniture, and what there was showed signs of damage. The father had the scar of a recent wound across his brow, the woman’s drawn cheeks and haunted eyes told of suffering not yet forgotten, and the fear of its return. Her lips trembled under the effort of smiling, and the little girl, five years old, would not let her go. In the end, the father snatched her from her mother’s legs and put her into Emil’s arms; he pushed the boy, a little older, to follow, out of the door and down the stairs. James hesitated, wanting to say something, anything, that might help, but the father stepped across to his wife’s side and said tersely, ‘Just go – please.’ And James saw in his face the knowledge that it was not just for a little time; saw the terrible acceptance that they would never see the children again; that they, the parents, were doomed.

James nodded and turned away, feeling sick and empty with vicarious grief. And as he closed the door, a single cry of pain broke from the woman, quickly cut off. It was that cry that haunted him. He and Emil were doing good work, vital work, extracting the children from the increasing dangers of the Nazi programme, seeing them on their way to a place of safety.

The plans were in place: James drove them to the railway station where the helpers saw them onto trains for the docks. The long sea crossing to Harwich would not be pleasant at this time of year, but from Harwich port they would be taken by bus to a nearby camp at Dovercourt, a haven run by a matron and volunteers, where there would be food and beds and games and kindness, until a foster home was ready to receive them. He did his best to encourage and comfort the children and told them they would be well treated and that it was only for a short time. Some were relieved, some even looked forward to the adventure, but mostly they looked at him with troubled, patient, ancient eyes, eyes that had witnessed centuries of cruelty and lies; and when he lay down to sleep, it was the woman’s cry he heard.

Polly was just about to enter Makepeace’s, where she was to consult the manager, Mrs Harrison, about the window display for the Christmas period, when she was hailed from further up the street. Mrs Hughes was coming towards her, waving to attract her attention. She was in her fifties, the wife of a Quaker and very active in charity works. The year before, she and Dorothy Ditcham had founded the York Refugee Committee, offering financial support to refugees, mostly Jews, from Europe. The committee found them homes and jobs, and two employment bureaux had been set up, along with sports and social clubs. It was exhausting work when there were so many displaced people needing help, but Mrs Hughes worked tirelessly, and had already placed almost a hundred Jewish refugees in the area. Polly had frequently been approached by her for funds, and had put her in touch with charitable acquaintances in New York who might swell the coffers.

Polly raised a politely enquiring eyebrow, thinking Mrs Hughes looked more than usually tired and fraught. Her cheeks were hollow and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

‘Mrs Morland! I was going to drive out to Morland Place later to speak to you, but here you are! Have you time for a word?’

‘Of course. Would you like to come up to my office? We can be private there.’

‘You’re most kind.’

‘I think you may be overdoing things,’ Polly said, as they mounted the stairs together. ‘You look worn.’

‘Oh, I daren’t slow down, because if I get behind I can never catch up. Every post brings more demands, and such pitiful cases! But I’d sooner die from doing too much than live and do too little.’

‘You make me ashamed that I don’t help more.’

‘Oh, but you are always generous,’ she protested. ‘Some friends one can always rely on.’

Mrs Harrison was hovering at the door of Polly’s office with a sheaf of drawings in her hand, and Polly said, ‘Would you give us fifteen minutes, Mrs Harrison? Mrs Hughes wants to discuss something with me.’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Harrison said, taking a step back. ‘Shall I bring you both some tea?’

‘Not for me, thank you,’ Mrs Hughes said, with a distracted frown at having to deal with an inessential question.

‘I’ll have mine later,’ Polly said, and ushered her visitor in, shutting the door behind them.

When they had sat, Polly said, ‘Well, what can I help you with? Another donation?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so – but there’s more this time. Something more personal.’

‘Ask away.’

‘You’ve heard about this scheme to bring Jewish children to Britain, from German-occupied Europe? Germany, Austria and the Sudetenland – and of course the wretched displaced Poles, sent back and forth from pillar to post, because no-one wants the poor creatures.’

‘Yes, of course. Are you involved in that?’

‘We simply have to be. The government has said that they will put no limit on how many children can come, but there are conditions. All the agencies involved must find homes for the children, and there must be funds, a guarantee of fifty pounds for each child to finance their eventual re-emigration – because they are to be here only temporarily and they must not be allowed to be a burden on the public purse.’

‘So you want me to sponsor a child?’

‘I knew you would offer, and thank you. Any funds you can spare are, of course, most welcome.’

‘But?’

The frank, weary eyes met Polly’s. ‘I’m hoping I can persuade you to offer a home to one of the children. It’s getting harder all the time to find people willing to take in refugees. I feel that every Quaker house should be ashamed of itself if it doesn’t have at least one refugee in it, but will they come forward? And I hate to have to harry people and nag, but what is one to do? And now the children … Oh, Mrs Morland, you are not a Quaker, of course, but your family has a tradition of charitable works in York – your good father was always the first to offer help – and given that you have such a large house—’

‘—A small child would be hardly noticed?’

‘I’m sorry – I hope I haven’t offended you?’

‘I’m not offended. You are quite right. I do have plenty of room, and I know if my father were alive now he would be the first to offer.’ Her father, indeed, had always thought the house could never be too crowded. ‘You may put me down to give a home to one of these poor children. When are they likely to come?’

‘Very soon,’ said Mrs Hughes. ‘The first shipload has already arrived on the east coast, and more will be arriving every day. I will give you as much notice as I can, of course. Have you a preference as to age, or will you take anyone in need?’