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  ‘It’s OK. Take ’em off. I’ll sew ’em up for yer. She won’t know nuffin’.’

  Frankie looked relieved. Once again Helen was getting him out of a potential row with their mother. ‘Fanks, sis.’ While Helen went off into the adjoining back parlour, Frankie slipped off his shorts and put on his father’s old raincoat which was hanging on a hook on the scullery door. ‘’Ave they got the wireless on, then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ groaned Helen from the parlour. ‘Music ’All.’

  Frankie knew what that meant. It was Saturday night, and that meant In Town Tonight on the wireless, followed by Norman Woolland introducing Music Hall. It was the highlight of the week for both Gracie and Reg Lewis, especially when their favourite comedian, Robb Wilton, was on the bill. Frankie and Winston joined Helen. She was threading a needle with some black cotton. ‘I wish they’d let me sleep in the ’ouse,’ said Frankie, kneeling in front of the remains of the fire in the coal stove. ‘I’d sooner take my chances wiv the doodle-bugs than go down the Cell.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, if one landed on the roof, Frankie.’

  Frankie’s ears were almost numb from the cold and, as he rubbed them, they really hurt. Although there were only a few embers left in the fire grate, Winston was leaning his chin on the brass fender.

  Helen took Frankie’s shorts and started to sew up the seam that had ripped apart. ‘You shouldn’t keep goin’ on at that old girl in ’Adleigh Villas,’ she said, scoldingly. ‘It’s not fair.’

  Frankie looked up with a surprised start. ‘Wot yer talkin’ about?’

  ‘Yer know what I’m talkin’ about!’ Helen stopped sewing for a moment, and glared at him. ‘That poor woman at number 19. You and Jeff and Alan should learn ter grown up, and leave ’er alone.’

  ‘We ’aven’t touched ’er!’

  ‘You’re always playin’ that stupid game – knockin’ on ’er door and rushin’ off. You’re like a buncha kids!’

  Frankie looked indignant, and glared back at her. ‘I’ve never knocked on ’er door!’

  ‘Well, if you ’aven’t, that stupid Jeff Murray ’as. And all the rest of ’em.’

  ‘The old Kraut deserves all she gets. She’s a Nazi.’

  Helen looked up from her sewing again. ‘You’re bonkers! They wouldn’t allow a Nazi to live in the middle of Islington. Why d’yer ’ave ter keep ’angin’ round the streets upsettin’ people? Knock Down Ginger’s a kid’s game! Why don’t yer try an’ find somefin’ useful to do fer a change?’ She finished her sewing, tied a knot in the thread, then bit off the end with her teeth. ‘There!’ She threw Frankie’s shorts back to him. ‘Be more careful next time!’

  ‘Fanks, sis!’ Frankie grabbed the shorts, got up, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Let me know anytime I can ’elp you out.’

  To her brother’s surprise, Helen came straight back at him. ‘Fanks, Frankie. I’m glad you said that, ’cos there is somefin’.’

  Frankie looked at her suspiciously. Helen was the one person in the world he could trust. Ever since they were small kids together, she was always the one he could turn to when he was in trouble. But he had never considered the possibility that there might come a time when he could help her.

  Helen went to the parlour door and closed it. Then she knelt close by him on the floor and whispered, ‘Listen, Frankie. I’ve met someone. We’ve bin seein’ each uvver for the last few weeks.’

  Frankie looked puzzled. ‘Seein’ each uvver? Yer mean – a boyfriend?

  Helen lowered her eyes shyly. ‘He’s more than that. I love ’im.’

  ‘Love ’im!’ Frankie roared with laughter. ‘You ain’t old enuff!’

  Helen shushed him. ‘I’m nearly eighteen, and I’m old enuff ter know when I’m in love wiv someone! I tell yer, Eric’s really nice.’

  ‘Eric?’

  ‘He’s in the Army – Royal Fusiliers. I met ’im at that Servicemen’s Dance at the church ’all.’

  Frankie scratched his head. His sister had had boyfriends for years, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she would get serious about someone. ‘Well, what d’yer want me ter do about it?’

  Helen bit her lip anxiously, and looked guilty. ‘E’s asked me ter go away wiv ’im – for a weekend.’

  ‘Go away wiv ’im? What for?’

  Frankie’s rampant naïvety caused Helen to blush. ‘Eric’s goin’ away on active duty any day now,’ she said, awkwardly. ‘I might not see ’im for ages.’

  Frankie got up and struggled to put his shorts back on under his father’s old raincoat. ‘Where’s ’e wanna take yer, then?’

  Helen stuttered with embarrassment. ‘We’re – we’re goin’ ter stay – wiv – wiv his aunt and uncle. They live near Bognor Regis somewhere.’

  ‘Bognor Regis!’ Nobody Frankie knew travelled that far these days. Ever since the war started, the family hadn’t even been away on a day out.

  ‘Well, are yer goin’ ter ’elp me or ain’t yer?’ Helen was getting guiltily irritated with Frankie’s questions.

  ‘What am I supposed ter do?’ snapped Frankie. ‘Why don’t yer just go?’

  ‘Yer know very well I can’t just go. Not wivout tellin’ mum and dad.’

  ‘Then tell ’em!’

  Helen clutched her forehead in despair. Why was Frankie so naïve? Why couldn’t he understand about these things? ‘Mum’d kill me!’

  ‘Just because you wanna go away wiv a friend for the weekend?’

  Helen got up from her kneeling position. In a low voice she whispered, ‘Listen, Frankie. Mum and Dad ’ave always said they’d never mind if I spent a weekend in Essex wiv Ivy and Joyce and their family. All I want yer to do is ter back me up when I tell ’em I’m goin’ wiv ’em.’

  ‘Back yer up? ’Ow?’

  ‘By tellin’ ’em that you’ve bin invited too, but that yer don’t wanna go.’

  ‘But Ivy and Joyce are your pals, not mine.’

  All of a sudden, Helen felt as though she could strangle her young brother. Why couldn’t he have a girlfriend of his own so that he’d know what she was trying to say? After all, most boys of his age knew about girls, and asked them out for dates and things. ‘It doesn’t matter whether they’re my pals or yours,’ she sighed, desperately. ‘Just tell me – will yer do it, or won’t yer?’

  As she spoke, the air-raid siren wailed intrusively from the roof of Hornsey Road Police Station just around the corner. Not even the fog was going to keep Hitler’s doodle-bugs away that night.

  Early on Sunday morning, the Merton Street gang were out as usual, searching for bits of shrapnel that had fallen from anti-aircraft shells during the night. It was quite a risky task, for it involved climbing up on to flat roofs and poking around people’s front gardens. The shrapnel pieces came in all shapes and sizes, and were usually jagged and very dangerous to handle. Every piece that was collected was taken to the ARP post, which was situated in the playground of Pakeman Street School, and sent back to the munitions factories for re-use in Allied bombshells.

  Frankie and Prof usually teamed up and, together with dozens of other kids in the neighbourhood, scoured the streets, filling their old enamel buckets with the remains of the night’s deadly aerial bombardment.

  By about nine o’clock, most of the surrounding streets had been covered, and the gang met up in the playground to pool their catch. It was only when they had deposited the contents of their buckets at the ARP post that Frankie was able to tell the others about his horrifying encounter with the old Kraut.

  Jeff Murray laughed the loudest. ‘It’s yer own fault, Frankie. I told yer ter run as soon as yer heard me shout!’

  ‘I did run!’ insisted Frankie, who was sucking a small gash on one of his fingers, caused by careless handling of a piece of jagged metal. ‘But there was so much fog, I ran straight into ’er.’

  Jeff, watched admiringly by Patty, ran his fingers through his long blond hair. He was the tallest of the gang, making him look a year or so older than his
real age. ‘I say we ’ave anuvver go at ’er ternight.’

  The others all agreed. All except Frankie, who suddenly panicked. ‘No! We can’t!’

  ‘What d’yer mean, we can’t?’ asked Alan. He had rather a flat way of speaking. ‘She’s a Kraut. We should make life as difficult for ’er as we can.’

  Frankie picked up his enamel bucket and draped it across his shoulder. ‘There’s no point, Alan. We should try someone new. What’s the point of goin’ to the same ’ouse every time? It’s borin’.’

  Patty grinned at Frankie. She was a thin, but attractive girl, with long brown hair tied with a ribbon behind her head and she loved to tease Frankie, who always got shy and awkward whenever she talked to him. ‘Of course, you don’t ’ave ter come if you’re too scared, Frankie Lewis,’ she said. mockingly.

  Frankie squared his shoulders defiantly. ‘I’m not scared!’

  ‘Good!’ announced Jeff, immediately. ‘It’s your turn to knock anyway. So you can take the old Kraut.’

  Frankie’s face crumpled with horror.

  That evening, a thin layer of mist still hung over Hadleigh Villas. It was very cold, and the pavements were already glistening with frost. Of course, there wasn’t a light to be seen from any of the houses, for the blackout blinds were drawn for the night. Two Air Raid wardens, with torch beams preceding them, made their way around the cul-de-sac and quickly disappeared into the Seven Sisters Road. As they passed Pascall’s Bicycle Shop, they didn’t notice the Merton Street gang crouched in the doorway.

  Patty had her arms around Jeff’s waist and, every so often, kissed the back of his neck. She loved the excitement of the moment, and watched eagerly as Frankie left the group and hesitantly made his way across the road towards number 19.

  Frankie felt as though his knees would give way before he even reached the other side of the road. Why, he asked, had he allowed himself to be talked into this? Suppose the old Kraut telephoned the police and then sent them round to see his mum and dad? By the time he had reached the stone steps leading up to the front door of number 19, a cold chill was running up and down his spine.

  The house itself was in total darkness, and Frankie could just see the outline of it against the night sky. To him it looked like the giant’s castle he’d seen in a Walt Disney film, alive and just waiting for him. To his terrified mind, it looked ugly and distorted.

  ‘Get on wiv it, then!’ Jeff was calling from across the street while the others whistled and jeered.

  Frankie cursed them then took a deep breath and made his way up the stone steps to the front door. The first thing he noticed were the Victorian stained-glass panels in the door itself. It was too dark for him to see them in detail, but as the moon kept ducking in and out of the clouds, he could just catch a glimpse of what looked like a man on a horse slaying a dragon. Hardly daring to move, he gently put his ear to the door, and listened. There was absolutely no sound at all coming from inside, and this made him even more nervous. Before he made his move, he decided to wait until the moon had disappeared behind the clouds again.

  It seemed to take ages. Gradually, however, the thin beam of moonlight on the stained glass door vanished in the darkness and in one swift movement, Frankie reached up to the large door knocker and banged hard three times. But just as he was shouting at the top of his voice: ‘Knock Down Ginger!’, the door suddenly opened and he was grabbed by his coat collar and yanked inside.

  Across the other side of the road, the remainder of the Merton Street gang looked on in horror as the sound of Frankie’s panicked yells disappeared, and the door of number 19 slammed with a thud behind him . . .

  Chapter Two

  ‘Was wunschen Sie?’

  Frankie could hear the low, sinister voice, but couldn’t see the face that it was coming from. Apart from the penetrating torch beam that was shining straight into his eyes, he could see nothing, for it was pitch dark. All he knew was that he was sprawled out on the hall floor of 19 Hadleigh Villas, his back pressed against the front street door.

  ‘Was wunschen Sie!’

  This time the voice was louder and to Frankie, it sounded like someone from every war-time spy film he had ever seen. He wanted to say something, but his voice was so dry the words just wouldn’t come out. Suddenly, the hall light was switched on, but the bulb was of such a low wattage that he still couldn’t make out the features of his captor. All he could see was that it was a woman who was standing over him, a small woman who did not look to be even as tall as Frankie himself, but for the moment she was merely a silhouette, with the light bulb and its multi-coloured shade dangling from the hall ceiling behind her.

  ‘Was wunschen Sie!’ His captor was growing impatient. ‘What do you want – boy?’

  At last, Frankie was able to understand what his captor was saying. Summoning up all his courage, he croaked, ‘Nuffin’. I don’t want nuffin’, miss – ’onest.’

  ‘If you want nothing, why do you knock on my door?’

  Frankie found his captor’s accent to be quite different to what he had imagined, it was not hard and ugly, but really rather soft and gentle. ‘It’s only a game, miss. Just a game,’ he said desperately squinting from the penetrating beam of his captor’s torch, which was still directed straight into his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean no ’arm, miss – ’onest I din’t. We do it to all the ’ouses ’round ’ere. All the kids do it.’

  ‘But you are not a kid. You are a young man.’ She finally switched off her touch. ‘Get up, pleass.’

  Frankie struggled to his feet. But when he eventually managed to stand up, his legs felt as though they were about to give way.

  ‘Wie heissen Sie?’

  Once again, Frankie didn’t know what his captor was saying.

  ‘What is your name, pleass, young man?’

  For a moment, Frankie hesitated. He was fearful that if he told the old Kraut his name she would pass it on to the police. ‘It’s Francis, miss.’ Almost as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. ‘But my mates call me Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie?’ The old Kraut considered this briefly, then nodded her head, which Frankie could still only see as a silhouette. ‘Yes. And what is your family name?’

  Now Frankie was really starting to panic. This time he did not answer, but lowered his head guiltily.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.’ As the woman spoke, she noticed that the boy was shivering with the cold. She was not surprised. The hallway was almost as cold as the street outside. ‘If you want, you can come and warm your hands by the fire.’ Without another word, she disappeared into a room off the hallway, leaving the door open behind her.

  As soon as she had gone, Frankie tried to open the front door but he found the Yale latch was down, and he was so agitated he didn’t know how to release it.

  ‘It’s much warmer in here.’ The old lady’s voice was calling from the room she had just entered. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

  With his back to the door, Frankie waited a moment. His hands were frozen, and he blew into them to try to warm them up. Eventually, he plucked up enough courage to walk a few steps into the hallway. To Frankie the Nazi’s house seemed like a huge mansion. On either side of the hallway were doors to other rooms, and the staircase was wide and curved perfectly up to the first floor. Beneath the stairs were two more doors, only just visible because there was no electric light turned on back there. Frankie found this very sinister and, remembering all the thriller films he had seen, imagined that they led to the kitchen and the cellar, where no doubt the old Kraut sent back all her morse-coded messages to the Nazis in Berlin. The wallpaper was old and faded, so much so that it was almost impossible to make out what must have once been a rich yellow-and-blue floral pattern.

  ‘Why don’t you come in?’ The woman’s voice again called from the room off the hallway.

  Frankie slowly made his way to the open doorway of the room and his eyes widened in astonishment. The room he was lookin
g at was completely different to the shabby hallway outside, with elegant antique furniture and a vast, rich-coloured Persian carpet that covered almost the entire room. The ceiling was very high, fringed with delicate blue-and-white plaster mouldings, and was sharply reflected in a huge gold-leaf mirror which was fixed to the wall over the wide, open fireplace. But the real shock was the books. There were hundreds of them, crammed on to heavy oak shelves which covered every available wall-space in the room. Frankie was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of them, the different shapes, colours, size. The only time he had ever seen anything like it was when he once reluctantly visited the Islington Public Library in the Holloway Road. But this was different. This wasn’t a library. It was a house, a place where someone lived . . .

  ‘If you want, you can come and warm your hands by the fire.’

  Frankie was still hesitating in the open doorway. But at least he could now see his captor quite clearly – and she wasn’t at all what he had expected. The first thing he noticed was that she wasn’t old at all – well, not really old. She was probably about forty-five, and her hair puzzled Frankie. It was an odd gingery colour, although her eyebrows were dark brown, like her eyes. At this point Frankie realised that he had seen his captor somewhere before, but for the moment, he couldn’t quite remember where . . . Taking a deep breath, he entered the room and made his way to the fireplace, where the not-so-old Kraut was warming her hands by a crackling coal fire.

  As Frankie approached, his captor moved away from the fireplace and eased herself down in a favourite armchair with a high back, but she didn’t say anything until she had given Frankie the chance to use the warmth from the fire to rub some life back into his frozen hands. ‘And so, young man’, she said finally. ‘What do you have to say for yourself – Frankie Lewis?’