Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [6]
‘The Germans shot someone near the airport last night.
Said he was a spy from England.’ She sounded almost enthusiastic.
Celia shrugged. ‘The Germans shoot a lot of people.’
‘Celia, Anne’s told me how you stand up to them.’ Marie gulped down her food. Her short brown hair emphasized her fat little cheeks. She’d got black-market supplies from somewhere
— and not necessarily from one of the islanders. ‘Leave it to the experts.’
‘Are you saying that you are an expert?’ Celia tried to look non-committal. ‘Because, “Miss Doras”, I don’t remember you from before the war. You’re the same age as me, right? You said you’ve been away for fifteen years, but that doesn’t explain why we weren’t at school together.’
‘You must have forgotten about me. I sat in the middle and kept quiet. A bit like most of the islanders nowadays.’
The judgement was a little harsher than she’d intended.
‘I think. I’m on your side. I think I can help. Not all of us are as passive as you think.’
Celia pulled herself back abruptly. ‘I think that you’ll get us all shot.’
She left the canteen, trying to contain herself. Marie pulled Celia’s plate across and scooped over the potato she had left.
At four o’clock, Celia walked home, stopping off at the greengrocer’s in Smith Street, next to the post office. The small shop was only open for three hours a day now, and the shelves were pitifully bare. As Celia made her selection, an armoured car rattled past. The young girl behind the counter was a brunette called Collette or Charlotte, something like that. They shared a conspiratorial glance, and the young shop assistant scooped another couple of small spoonfuls of flour into Celia’s bag. It was a deal they had, unspoken but powerful none the less. Celia left the shop, feeling ever so slightly guilty about taking more than her ration. The post office still proclaimed that it delivered the ‘Royal Mail’, but it wasn’t the King’s head on the stamps it sold.
There was a disturbance up ahead. She saw an elderly couple sitting at the bus shelter. No buses ran, of course, but it was a cold day. A man was confronting them, voices were being raised. As she passed she heard snatches of conversation.
‘That brooch is the emblem of a hostile power,’ said a young German voice.
‘It’s an RAF badge, son. Royal Air Force.’ A woman’s voice.
‘You will remove it.’
‘I will do no such thing, my son’s RAF’
Things were getting heated now. Celia shoved her hands in her pockets and carried on walking. As she went past she glanced at the scene: the younger man, presumably a German plain-clothes policeman, had drawn his revolver.
‘Remove that brooch or I shall tear it off you!’
The elderly man was standing now. ‘Don’t speak to my wife like that!’
A German military policeman ran past Celia to help his colleague. Celia heard the old man being dragged off, but didn’t turn back to look. She could see the boardinghouse now, and kept her eyes fixed on it.
Ma was cooking dinner for the Germans, and she didn’t like anyone around her when she was cooking, so Celia just dropped off the provisions in the kitchen and went into the front room where Anne was sitting.
Upstairs, Celia could hear some of the Germans shouting, singing and getting drunk. Two of the new German privates sat down here in the front room, playing cards, talking and laughing, occasionally glancing up at the ceiling.
Neither of these two could speak any English, which was important to bear in mind. Anne was sewing up some shirts.
There was always plenty of darning and laundry to be done, and the Germans paid the women of the island with loaves of bread. It didn’t feel like part of the German war effort, but technically it was aiding the enemy. Opinions were divided on whether it was collaboration, but most islanders thought it was acceptable.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘You can’t sew,’ Anne reminded her. ‘The Germans would shoot you for insubordinate sewing.’
‘Fair enough.’ She glanced over at the two ‘lodgers’.
‘Why aren’t you in your room,