Dead Ground in Between (6 page)

Pim leaned in closer to his brother so he could make himself heard above the din of screaming schoolboys. From the beginning, Jan had insisted that they always speak English except in a dire emergency. Pim had almost forgotten how to speak his native language.

“What's g-going to h-happen, Jan? They won't send us to a camp, will they?”

He was on the verge of tears, and his brother patted his arm.

“Stop asking that. I've told you and told you, they don't have camps in England.”

“Yes, they d-do. Carl Stein's uncle is on an island. He's been there for t-two years. He's an alien.”

“That's different. That's the Isle of Man, and it used to be a holiday camp. He's in the lap of luxury.”

“Why's he stuck there then?”

“He must be a communist.”

“I don't th-think so.”

“Well, even if he is, they won't kill him. The English won't do that.”

Pim's voice was tremulous. “They might. You n-never know. Carl is a Jew.”

Jan glanced around to make sure nobody was watching them. The bigger boys had started a game of leapfrog and two lines had formed down the length of the hall. Two teams, both intensely competitive.

Furtively, Jan pulled a small brown envelope from his pocket and opened it.

“Don't forget we've got this. It's our treasure. We'll get to see Queen Wilhelmina with this.”

He picked out a thin, blackened coin, which he rubbed with the sleeve of his jersey until the silver edges shone softly.

“That's all v-very well, Jan,” muttered Pim. “But who'll b-buy it? We don't even know if it's w-worth so much as sixpence.”

“Don't be thick. Course it's worth more than sodding sixpence. First off, it's a piece of silver treasure. I showed you how old it was.
Regina
means Queen. This is a coin from the time of Queen Elizabeth. Whoever was king or queen was the one whose head they put on the money. Like now, it's King George.”

Pim liked the King because he'd heard him speak on the radio, and he tended to stutter as well.

“Besides, the reason it's so valuable is because they's very, very scarce.”

Pim regarded him dubiously. “What if everybody thinks we s-stole it?”

Jan had read more books than his brother and he knew a lot about treasure. “You don't bleeding well
steal
treasure, lummox. You
finds
it. Somebody else must have stole the frigging gold and silver and hid it. Then they made a map – which they lost, else they'd've found it again.”

Pim raised his hand as if he were in the classroom.

“Christ. What?” Jan asked impatiently.

“Why'd they lose the map, Jan?”

“How the bloody hell do I know? They's scared some sod's after them. So they bury the treasure, see, but they have friends and they want them to know where it is in case something happens to them –”

“Like a b-bomb falls on them or something? Or they g-get taken away?”

“Don't interrupt. There weren't bombs in the Middle Ages. But they could have got killed by a sword or an arrow or something like that. Somebody else finds the map and they's the ones who figure out where the treasure is.”

“We didn't find no m-map, Jan. The old m-man must have dropped that coin on the road.”

“I know that.” Jan thumped his brother hard on the arm. “You're such a bloody drip sometimes. You have no imagination.”

“Ow. You don't need to wallop me. I'm j-just asking is all. Besides, one c-crummy silver coin isn't exactly treasure.”

“I know, I know. You don't have to bloody tell me. We might have to go on a treasure hunt soon.”

“You m-mustn't swear, Jan. You said
sod
before. You know what Mrs. K. said about that.”

“I didn't. I said
sot
.”

“Didn't sound like th-that.”

“Never mind. Nobody heard. In fact, I'm thinking we should go back to the hideout and put this coin in a safe place until we can get out of here and go talk to the Queen.”

“What if the old man sees us?”

“We ride off fast as the wind. Like we did on Sunday. He couldn't catch us, could he?”

Pim frowned. “Do you think he kn-knew we were Jews?”

“What! Of course he didn't. How could he? First off, it was foggy. Second, we look just like anybody else now.”

Suddenly tears came to the younger boy's eyes, which he wiped away with the edge of his sleeve.

“Why're you sniffling?” asked Jan.

“I don't know if I want to be a J-Jew any more.”

Jan drew in his breath sharply. “Don't be stupid. It's not something you can put on or off like a coat. Buck up. Things'll look better when Pappa and Mamma get here.”

Pim rubbed at his eyes. “I think they're dead, Jan. I don't think we'll ever see them again.”

A neatly printed card reading “MRS. W. HAMILTON” was pinned above an electric bell in a doorway next to the ironmonger's shop in Castle Square. Tyler pressed the bell, but then quailed. Was he ready to even think about meeting women – “suitable prospects,” as Rowell had referred to them? Maybe he could pretend he was shopping at the ironmonger's and had got confused. He was on the verge of turning tail to flee when a woman's voice called to him from the top of the stairs.

“Come on up, Mr. Tyler.”

He obediently tromped up the uncarpeted stairs to meet the purveyor of “Sincere Introductions.”

Rowell had never described Mrs. Hamilton, and for some reason Tyler had expected a motherly sort of woman with apple-dumpling cheeks. But if Moira Hamilton had seen forty
yet he'd be surprised. Her hair was dark and drawn up into plump, sausage-shaped rolls on top of her head. The only things about her that were in any way dumpling-like were her full, round breasts, which pushed against a snug, pink mohair jersey.

She must have caught his covert glance. “Most people are surprised when they first see me,” she said with a smile. “They think I'm going to be some old dear in a shawl. But I've been a happily married woman for ten years, and what better credentials are there for bringing together people who are looking for love?”

Tyler could see her point but he almost winced. He wasn't yet ready to admit he was indeed looking for love. Not from anyone but Clare, that is.

Mrs. Hamilton stepped aside so he could enter the flat. It was warm, and there was a fragrant smell of cinnamon in the air.

“Give me your hat and coat,” she said. “You must be perishing. Why don't you go and sit down. I'll make us some tea. The kettle just boiled.”

“Something smells delicious.”

Moira Hamilton herself had a nice flowery scent. He hoped she didn't think he was referring to her.

“I've been baking some pies with the last of the apples. I'm going to keep one and give the other to the church fete next Sunday. They're raising money for the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral.”

The flat was really one large room with a kitchen at one end. The sitting area was a grouping of stuffed chairs arranged around a tiny electric heater.

“I'll only be a jiffy,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “Take that wingback. It's the most comfortable for men.”

Tyler did as ordered and sat down in the brocade-covered armchair.

There was a faux mantelpiece against the wall with the heater in place of a hearth. He could see several cards, most
of which seemed to be early Christmas greetings. One had the words
Thank You
in large letters crusted with silver glitter. Presumably from a grateful customer.

He took a fast look around. There wasn't much more furniture, just a table and two more chairs near the kitchen area. A small rag rug in front of the heater was the only concession to comfort. The most impressive feature was a mahogany rolltop desk standing against the wall between the two deep front windows.

Mrs. Hamilton wheeled a tea trolley over and manoeuvred it into position next to his chair. She removed the knitted cozy from the pot and poured out the tea into his cup.

“Milk? Sugar?”

He accepted both.

“I do find the tea ration above all is so difficult to manage, don't you, Mr. Tyler?”

Not being much of a tea drinker he actually didn't, but he agreed politely.

She poured a cup for herself and sat down in the chair across from him. She kept her knees decorously together but she had good legs and was wearing a skirt that looked to him a bit shorter than the prevailing fashion.

She gazed at him over the top of her cup. “I've made myself hold out until now. This is only my second cup of the day, and I do so enjoy it.”

He sipped at his tea, willing himself to relax. This was shaping up just the way he'd dreaded. Awkward as all get-out.

You can leave. Say you've just remembered an urgent appointment. This isn't for you
.

But before he could act, Mrs. Hamilton placed her own cup and saucer on the trolley.

“Well, I'm sure you don't have a lot of time, so why don't we get straight down to business?”

He sighed. “Of course. Let's get right to it.” He swallowed down the rest of his tea.

Moira gave her knees a little slap. “First, then, is the matter of my fee.”

“Fee?” Rowell hadn't mentioned a fee, but of course nobody would go to all the trouble of running a dating agency from the sheer goodness of their heart.

“I charge one pound for the initial interview,” she continued. “Non-refundable. If we agree that you are a suitable candidate, you will pay a further three pounds, which will entitle you to three introductions with women chosen for you especially by me. If, after sincere attempts, none of these introductions work out for the long term, then you are allowed one more free introduction.”

Tyler raised his hand in protest. “Just a minute, Mrs. Hamilton. Let's be clear. I don't consider myself to be in the marriage market, and from the way you are describing your, er, service, that would seem to be the goal of all and sundry.”

She didn't answer but jumped abruptly to her feet and went to the desk. All of her movements were brisk and decisive. She would have made a good private secretary, Tyler thought. She returned to her chair holding a ledger that surely belonged in a law office.

“I specifically state that my job is to provide sincere introductions to single people. What you do with yourselves after that introduction is entirely up to you. Some people have found marriage partners, some have found good friends.” She smiled. “Some are content to be, shall we say, lovers.”

Oh God. He had one lover and that was Clare Somerville. Currently far from him. Perhaps forever
.

“How long have you been…in this line of work, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Five years now. We were living in Manchester when I started. My husband has trained as an engineer and he travels a lot. I was
bored and lonely so I thought I should take up some kind of suitable work. He was only too happy to support me. ‘Keep you out of mischief, my girl,' were his words.”

Tyler wondered if Moira was prone to getting into mischief, and of what sort.

“Anyway, even back then I could see that people sometimes needed help finding a partner they could get along with. Now, with the war on us, it's even more difficult. You think it wouldn't be what with all the dances happening. But let's face it, they tend to be for the younger crowd. But my clientele are rather more mature. A little nervous about jumping into the melee of the jitterbug. I must say, my business has thrived since the war began. Walter was afraid it would drop off with the current loosening of moral standards. Who needs a matchmaker when you can pick up a girl at any time in the local pub or dance hall? Fortunately, that has not been the case. More than ever, people seem to need a compass in the sea of uncertainty that surrounds us.”

Aptly put. Not to mention the poetic turn of phrase. Me, I'm barely keeping my nose above the waves
.

Mrs. Hamilton was wearing cherry-red lipstick, which emphasized her full lips. She had a way of pouting those lips when she was making a thoughtful point.

“Does your husband still travel a lot?” Tyler asked.

“He's been conscripted into the Royal Engineers,” she said with a sigh. “Fortunately, he's too valuable to be sent to the front lines so he's stuck behind a desk down in London. I don't even know what he does. It's all terribly hush-hush. He can only get away every couple of months.”

“That must be hard on both of you.”

She beamed at him. “Let's just say it makes our reunions that much more delightful.”

Tyler wrenched his imagination away from the luscious Moira reuniting with her doting husband in a delightful way.

She opened the ledger. “Are we all right with the fee, then? Shall we go ahead?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I like to get payment in advance. You'd be surprised how many men get cold feet.”

“No, I wouldn't be surprised at all. But I didn't come prepared with that amount of money. Can I drop it off to you later?”

“Certainly you can. Cash or bank draft is fine. Besides, you are an officer of the law. If I can't trust you, whom can I trust?”

“Precisely.”

She turned to a blank page in the formidable ledger.

“Righty-o. I'll need to get some information from you.” She began to write. “Age?”

“Forty-four.”

She didn't comment. Neither the flattering “You don't look it,” nor the chilling opposite – “Only forty-four?” – which was what he half expected these days.

“Marital status?”

“Divorced.”

Pity. Not everyone wants to commit to a divorcé.

“One failure already, is that the idea?”

“In a way, although the issue is more that the first marriage can cast such a shadow over any new love.”