‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Odd way to land.’
‘Is it?’
‘Lucky those boys were just behind you, lucky they found you.’
The doctor looked at him quizzically. Frank thought, if I tell the truth, maybe I’ll never have to go back. But then the doctor smiled and said, ‘Strangmans was my old school. It’s a fine place. Those boys who found you showed real presence of mind making a tourniquet like that. Otherwise, you could have bled to death, you know.’
Frank closed his eyes.
Next day his mother came to visit. She wept at the sight of his bandaged hand, shook her head and asked how Frank could have been so careless, so stupid. He asked if he could come back home but she said she couldn’t cope; after what had happened she was sure he needed to stay at the school, be properly taken care of. She told him this was what his father had told her from the other side, through Mrs Baker.
Back at school, the other boys left him strictly alone now. Lumsden and his friends kept well out of his way. Teachers treated him more gently. From the way they looked at him sometimes Frank guessed the authorities knew or suspected what had really happened, but it was always spoken of as a dreadful, careless accident. Lumsden left at the end of the term, to go to another school. Frank, relieved, wondered if Strangmans had asked him to go. His English teacher, who had formerly mocked him for his lack of interest in anything but science fiction, was now patient and careful in helping him learn to write again. He continued to work and work, hardly speaking to the other boys at all. He would listen to their conversations though, and had a dim awareness that life was passing him by, leaving him behind. He didn’t even understand some of the slang they used nowadays.
One day in the spring the science teacher, Mr McKendrick, asked him to stay behind after class. He was a large, middle-aged man, the suit under his black gown always shabby. He had a gentle, enthusiastic air, unusual among the crusty Strangmans masters. He sat at his desk on its dais, looking down at Frank.
‘How’s the hand?’ he asked in a friendly way.
‘All right, sir.’ It wasn’t, it tingled and hurt a lot of the time, but the doctor said there was nothing more to be done.
‘You’re a clever boy, Frank, you know that.’
‘Am I, sir?’
‘Yes. You can grasp scientific ideas as well as any boy I’ve taught. You could go to university, spend your life doing real scientific work.’
Frank felt a glow of pride, and something else new: hope. Mr McKendrick continued, ‘But you’d have to work harder in your other classes. Your English isn’t bad, but your marks in other subjects aren’t great.’
‘No, sir.’
Mr McKendrick seemed thoughtful. He leaned forward and said, ‘You don’t appear to have any friends, do you, Muncaster?’
‘No, sir.’ Frank wriggled a little, the pleasure replaced by shame.
‘You should make an effort to join in.’ McKendrick looked at him appealingly. ‘Why don’t you try harder at sport, perhaps, once your hand’s better.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Frank answered woodenly. He had hated rugger, was glad the doctors said he mustn’t play that term. Nobody ever wanted him in their team and they would kick or barge him out the way if he came anywhere near the ball.
‘Oh, Muncaster, please do take that grin off your face.’ McKendrick sighed. ‘I just don’t want you to waste your talents, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Waste is a terrible thing,’ he said quietly. ‘I remember during the Great War, the casualty lists, those boys whose names are on the memorial in the Assembly Hall. For me they weren’t just names. I look over the desks and think, this boy sat here, that one there. I pray to the Good Lord another war never comes.’
Frank stared at him. He understood what McKendrick was saying about the War, he had lost his own father, but as for the rest, he was talking nonsense. As though the other boys would ever let him join in. But he thought, yes, he would work in class. The idea of spending his time somewhere studying science gave him, for the first time, a sense of purpose. A life somewhere far, far away from Strangmans.
‘Frank!’ It was Sam, the older attendant, shouting from the doorway.
He stood up wearily; it must be time for his walk round the airing courts. But Sam said, ‘You’ve to come to Dr Wilson’s office. People to see you.’
Frank frowned, puzzled. It was too early for David, and he had thought he was seeing him in here. His heart pounded. But he had come. David might rescue him.
But then Sam said, ‘It’s the police. Probably something to do with what happened to your brother.’
Chapter Sixteen
GUNTHER WAS PICKED UP FROM his flat by Syme, driving an old Wolseley, at ten o’clock. They set off an hour after David’s party, through quiet suburban streets empty save for a few early churchgoers. It was a cold, cloudy day.
When Gunther had got up he had found a letter pushed under his door. It was addressed to his flat in Berlin, and he recognized his wife’s handwriting. The postmark, stamped over the Führer’s grey head, was Krimea. The Gestapo must have collected it from his flat and forwarded it to the embassy, who had then brought it round here for him. He was certainly getting first-class treatment.
There was a brief, formal note from his ex-wife, dated a week before. She said his son was doing well at school, that she hoped the security situation would allow Michael to visit his father in Berlin next spring. She hoped he was in good health.
He opened the letter from his son and read it eagerly.
Dear Father,
I hope you are well and that your work in trapping bad people who work against Germany is going well. Here it has become cold, but not so cold as Berlin, and I am wearing a new coat Mummy got me for school. I am doing quite well in German, not so well in mathematics. I am second top of the class in gymnastics. A new settler family from Brandenburg has moved in next door. They have a little boy called Wilhelm who comes to school with me and I am helping him find his way around. There was a terrorist attack on the railway line to Berlin last week and a freight train was derailed. It was out near Kherson. I hope there is a bad winter in Russia and the terrorists all starve.
Thank you for saying you are sending me a train set for Christmas. I look forward to getting it so much. We will be putting the Christmas tree up next week and I will think of you on Christmas Day.
Mummy says I may come to Berlin to visit you next year. I would love to come.
Kisses,
Michael.
Gunther folded the letter and laid it on the coffee table. He kept his hand on it. His son, the only family he had left, so far away.
Syme said little as he drove but there was a hint of a smirk in his expression that puzzled Gunther. The inspector was restless, too, lighting one cigarette after another. Then, as they reached the outer suburbs, he said, ‘I thought we might’ve seen something interesting on the way, but it looks like the fun hasn’t started yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gunther tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘I heard about it when I went to collect the car. They’re moving all the Jews in the country this morning, taking them to special camps. Everyone’s involved, Special Branch, Auxiliaries, regular police, even the army.’
Gunther stared at him, annoyed at his smug tone.
‘We’ve had the plans ready for years, of course, we thought the government would give in to German pressure eventually. About bloody time so far as I’m concerned.’
Gunther frowned. ‘I did not know this.’ So that was what Gessler had meant about the police having something else on their minds.