Remember Me (21 page)

The
New Zealand Herald
did a follow-up on Tuesday morning, which largely consisted of comments by people who thought the world hung on what they thought. Somebody from the Returned Servicemen’s Association was demanding that Christian Berger be deported and the government hold an enquiry into how he got into New Zealand in the first place. The Secretary of the Maritime Union expressed similar sentiments. And there, in the middle of the article, was a thumbnail picture of Gary’s dad with the caption ‘Mr Bernard Gillespie, torpedo victim’. Mr Gillespie spoke on behalf of all U-boat victims when he called Christian Berger’s
presence an outrage. It was a story designed to do nothing more than maintain the rage. As it happened, the rage didn’t need a lot of maintaining.

School was weird. The girls continued to treat me as though I’d trodden in dog poo even though I’d served many of them in the shop the previous afternoon. They’d been as sweet as pie then. What unsettled me was that Gary, Clarry and Ken had moved to desks over on the opposite side of the classroom, as far away from me as they could get. For at least the previous three years we’d all sat together, the power group in the class. When we behaved, the class behaved; when we misbehaved, the class became unmanageable. We were the core of the class and, with the exception of Ryan, the brightest students, but for Judith and a couple of girls who usually placed in the top six. Now we were split in two, a group divided, apparently no longer pals. But the strange thing was, as soon as the bell went for playtime, we all played cricket together although some of the kids remained a bit distant. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Eric thought I was a bit quiet but the truth was I didn’t want to start conversations with anyone because I wasn’t sure I’d get a response. I preferred to think Gary, Clarry, Ken and all the other kids were still my pals rather than confirm that they weren’t.

Of course Collitt and his cronies decided they definitely weren’t my pals even though they joined in the cricket. In one sense it was no loss because they
weren’t my pals to begin with, but now they took every opportunity they could to put the boot in. They called me a Nazi, a Kraut-cuddler and Hitler’s bum-boy, all the stuff you’d expect, except they did it with what looked like genuine venom. It never took much to set the dogs barking and this time was no exception. Even kids I got on reasonably well with, Pacific Island kids who couldn’t find Germany on a map if you paid them, took up the cry. All they knew about Germany they’d learned from movies but that didn’t matter a damn. Nothing unites like a common enemy. It seemed as if half the kids in the school went out of their way to bump into me, and some of the older kids were as big as front-row forwards. It got so bad Eric and Ryan made me walk between them. Being a Pommy I’d never been the most popular kid in the school but, by the same token, I’d never been a pariah either. It was a new experience and the hurt cut deeply.

Eric was solid gold all day as a best pal is supposed to be but I think he was a bit relieved when I declined his invitation to go home with him after school. He needed a break from the aggravation and I had other plans. I had a U-boat captain to meet and the treatment I’d copped at school had made me even more determined. But the day still had a few more surprises to spring. When I got home I found the shop bustling with kids and mums buying stationery. It was hardly the bunfight we were accustomed to but people still had to queue to be served. Mum called
me over to help. How weird could the day get? Here were people who should’ve and could’ve bought their books yesterday buying them today. Mum had always said things would blow over and I assumed they had, and a lot sooner than anyone expected. I figured the change of heart would spread from the shop to the school to the Church Army and maybe even to Christian Berger. Things were looking up at last. Nigel came home and immediately lent a hand serving. We were kept busy right up until a quarter past five when Mum normally shut shop, but the usual buzz associated with buying new exercise books, pens and pencils was strangely absent. In previous years we’d almost had to shout to be heard because the kids were making so much din. Even Mum, who had the knack of remembering customers’ names and circumstances and usually asked after sick kids or husbands, was oddly subdued. She did what she had to do and no more. If she made any small talk I certainly didn’t hear it.

Nevertheless when Mum locked the door I expected celebrations. The stacks of exercise books had shrunk appreciably to less than half the size they’d been the previous night. She had to be relieved about that. But, more importantly, it seemed we’d been forgiven for whatever it was we were supposed to have done. When Mum turned around I threw up my arms like I’d just scored a goal.

‘Yes!’ I shouted. The response I got from Mum was
hardly what I had in mind. I thought she’d be happy but instead she had the grim look on her face she got when she was really put out. I was totally perplexed. What was there to be angry about?

‘What’s the matter?’ I said.

Mum just snorted. And walked away into the kitchen where Nigel was getting ready to mash the potatoes.

‘Set the table,’ said Mum. ‘Dad’ll be home in five minutes.’

‘In a minute,’ I said. ‘I want to know what’s wrong.’

‘Work it out,’ said Rod. He was stirring a pan filled with tripe.

‘Work what out?’ What was there to work out?

‘Whittles have rung me twice today,’ said Mum bitterly. Mum had a way of saying
Whittles
that made it sound like a rude word. Whittles was a shop up on Ponsonby Road that also sold school stationery. They were our nearest competition. ‘Whittles wanted to take over some of our stock. They ran out yesterday. Now do you see?’

‘No. What do Whittles have to do with it? It looks like everyone’s decided to buy their stationery from us as usual.’

‘They wouldn’t have if they’d had any choice,’ said Mum, her voice filled with disgust. ‘Once Whittles ran out those
bees
either bought their books from us or caught the bus into town.’
Bees
was what Mum said instead of
buggers
. Occasionally when she was really angry
she’d revert to her Cumbrian accent and say
boogers
. Apparently it was OK to swear in Cumbrian.

I was stunned. I’d thought it was all over and we were friends with everybody again. Any lingering doubts were soon dismissed. Mum hadn’t finished.

‘I can’t tell you how tempting it was to slam the door in their faces and shut up shop. If we’re not good enough for them they can go catch the bus to town. See if I care.’

‘Satisfied?’ said Rod.

‘How old do you have to be before you understand these things without needing to be told?’ I asked.

Mum suddenly spluttered like something had caught in her throat and tried to hide the smile spreading across her face.

‘What?’ I said. Rod had turned away but he was laughing, too.

I couldn’t figure out what I’d said that was funny. The day was getting weirder by the second. I marched out to the living room, lifted up the drop leaf on the dining table and started to set the table. I couldn’t wait to grow up.

Things didn’t get any better on Wednesday. If anything the anti-U-boat captain sentiment gained momentum. Kids whose mothers were still boycotting the shop got into trouble for having the wrong kinds of exercise books. Naturally they blamed me for their mother’s pigheadedness. The playground snubs became more frequent and now it wasn’t just the girls. I’d inherited some of Mum’s stubbornness and refusal to accept criticism or
acknowledge imperfection but I lacked her experience and capacity to endure. Mum could happily stand apart from the mob but I craved acceptance. Both Captain Biggs and Mum were adamant I’d done nothing wrong but with so much blame being dumped on me I figured I must have screwed up somewhere along the line. I began to feel guilty and ashamed.

I didn’t run home for lunch as usual but sneaked home. I’d already made up my mind I wasn’t going back to school until the bell rang for classes. Cricket loses its appeal when kids boo when you hit runs and cheer when you get out. Mum, as sharp as ever, wanted to know what was wrong.

‘Nothing,’ I said. But then Nigel came home and made a liar of me. His nose bled like a stuck pig and his shirt was covered in blood. He’d thrown a punch at Collitt for deliberately bumping into him and immediately found himself in a punch-up with his cronies as well. Four against one was a battle Nigel was never going to win and he had the blood and bruises to prove it.

Mum was ropeable. She told us to look after the shop while she went over the road to have a word with the headmaster. We only just managed to stop her. We convinced her that if Collitt and the kids who beat up Nigel got strapped or suspended it would only make matters worse. The only solution was to be smarter and deny Collitt the opportunity to have a shot at us. I had Ryan and Eric for protection and Nigel had a couple of
classmates who’d ride shotgun for him. Mum wasn’t happy and warned us that if either of us got punched again she’d go straight to the headmaster’s office. Nigel and I both knew what that meant. We made a silent pact; whatever happened, we wouldn’t tell Mum.

When I came home after school the shop was deserted, exactly as I hoped it would be. Now there was nothing stopping me from slipping through the Church Army’s back fence. It never dawned on me that the absence of customers was nothing to celebrate. I’d been focusing on the school stationery and was unaware that other wheels were falling off. People who’d taken out library books had returned them without taking out another. Customers who normally bought their cigarettes from us were now buying them from the milk bar next door. Some people still came in for the staples like patterns, wool, cotton, ribbon, stockings and writing paper but an awful lot of people chose to shop elsewhere. I thought the threat of night after night of cauliflower cheese and macaroni had passed but I was about to learn differently. It had never occurred to me that the boycott would extend to every single thing the shop sold.

I told Mum I was going to play with Eric but halfway down Chamberlain Street, having made sure no one was watching, I ducked into the bushes below the Church Army’s back fence. The fence was on top of a steep bank covered in scrubby trees, fennel and geraniums that grew like weeds. I crawled up the bank to a once secret hideout
beneath the only decent tree on the bank. It was a good hideout. The tree’s dense foliage screened it from the street, but nobody used it any more because everyone knew it was there. But the hideout had another secret known only to Nigel, Eric, Maxie and me. We’d loosened one of the fence palings just enough so that when we pushed it sideways we could squeeze through onto the Church Army grounds. Eric and Maxie used it for a short cut to club. As I pushed and squeezed I suddenly became aware of the sound of the Church Army’s lawnmower working. The sound had been there all along but I’d been too preoccupied to take any notice. This puzzled me. The Church Army’s lawnmower had a motor that drove the rear roller and was controlled by a clutch, gear and handbrake. As silly as it sounds, this was the only piece of motorised equipment any of us had any chance of playing with. The mower could be difficult to drive unless managed properly and there was no shortage of true and apocryphal tales about people who’d lost toes and fingers through not being sufficiently careful. Eric and I were the only ones entrusted with the mower but we had to follow strict rules. The number-one rule, the golden rule, was that we never mowed the lawns on our own. There always had to be the two of us.

So what was Eric doing mowing the lawns on his own and why hadn’t he told me? I thought fish would start flying before Eric turned against me but the evidence suggested otherwise. My heart sank at the thought of his
betrayal. I could understand that he didn’t want to be seen to be associated with the Church Army outside of church and club, but he still could’ve let me know what he was doing. Who was I going to tell? Bragging about mowing the Church Army’s lawns was hardly going to do my cause any favours. The inescapable conclusion was that maybe Eric didn’t want to be seen with me any more.

The mower was working out of sight around the corner of the building on the slope below the clubhouse and that’s where I headed. I had a thousand accusations ready to hurl when I reached the corner. The mower was headed straight towards me but it wasn’t Eric hanging on to it. Oh no. It was someone I’d only ever seen a photo of, in the
Herald,
with Captain Biggs’s arm around him.

‘Hello,’ he said, disengaging gear.‘Where did you come from?’

The thousand accusations evaporated and took my voice with them. I stood there open-mouthed and grinning like a fool.

‘He’s the lad who wrote “Mack’s Story”,’ said Captain Biggs. The three of us sat in what passed for the Church Army’s lounge, a cavernous room fitted out with illmatching sofas and armchairs, the residue of deceased estates. Sister Glorious fluffed around bringing mugs of tea and plain biscuits. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a silly grin on her face as though embarrassed by my bare feet and the dirt I’d got on my T-shirt and shorts
squeezing through the fence. When she wasn’t passing mugs and plates she pretended to rearrange the flowers in the vases scattered around the room. Parishioners brought the flowers to decorate the altar. Every Monday they were taken into the lounge to die. Pictures of Jesus were all that enlivened the high, grey walls. He smiled down on us from at least six unmatched picture frames and looked different in all of them.

‘You wrote “Mack’s Story”?’ Christian Berger looked genuinely surprised. ‘I expected someone older. You are very wise for your age and very perceptive.’

I wasn’t sure what ‘perceptive’ meant but I glowed anyway. Praise from any U-boat captain would carry a lot of weight, but Christian Berger spoke with an even deeper voice than Curt Jurgens. It rumbled like a big marine diesel. He was everything I expected a U-boat commander to be. ‘Mack let you read it?’

‘Of course. He gave it to me to read then put it back in his pocket. He carries it with him everywhere he goes. Captain Biggs tells me you have quite a reputation as a writer of stories.’