Chapter 23

23

POOLE – MAY 1941

Charlie sat on the edge of his bed, rocking back and forth and holding his head in his hands. How had it all come to this? Just a year ago, his life had ended when the Germans took his wife and baby from him in the bombing of Rotterdam. The flight to England had seemed the only way to survive and, to begin with, it had appeared that Poole would be a good place to make a new start.

His short stay in England as a refugee had not gone anything like he had expected; although, he thought again now wryly, he had barely had time to consider the idea before he'd fled Rotterdam, and his soul had been in tatters. It still was. He could have laughed if he wasn't already crying. Back then, after he'd been allowed off Brownsea Island, he had stayed in Poole for just a few weeks before he found the intense scrutiny from the locals about his life in Holland to be too much to bear. His Dutch accent sounded German to them, and where was his family? A lone man with no wife or children, and an accent that sounded distinctly like the Hun meant he was treated like an outcast at best, and an enemy at worst.

The first time he'd tried to buy a beer in the Poole Arms on the quay, it had ended with him being asked to leave, after the local fishermen had been muttering and murmuring in his direction. So, he had upped and left, and made it to London where it was easier to hide. He found a small room for rent not too far from the river Thames, where he liked to walk and listen to the sounds of activity on the water. It hadn't taken him long to find work on the docks; a man who could handle a boat like he could was always wanted on the water, despite his pronounced limp and the way it slowed him down.

He chose not to speak unless absolutely necessary and soon learnt how to mimic some of the locals and the way they spoke, hiding his origins as much as possible. London was where he had holed himself up and let the second wave of grief wash over him. With each nightly air raid, in what he now knew had come to be called the Battle of Britain, he refused to leave his bed, almost willing the bombs towards his roof to knock him into the next world where Katrijn and Anika waited for him. Time after time, he asked himself what foolish whim had made him run from Rotterdam. Why hadn't he just lain down and died there with his girls? Or been a better husband and father, and got them out of there before the city was destroyed by Nazi bombs? Hans hated his own body for its natural instinct for survival. But he continued to live on, existing, and the longed-for end never came.

But everywhere in London, it was hard to explain why he wasn't in uniform. Even those with obvious injuries still wore their uniform and played some part, however small, in the defence of the nation. One night, in a pub around by the docks, he'd overheard a young man talking about the injuries he'd got on the beach at Dunkirk, and how he would never be allowed to fight again, but could still do his part for King and Country. The young man now wore the uniform of the Home Guard and stayed in London to help wherever he could – however he could.

Hans realised this was his way out and so he lied about where and when he had injured his leg, worked on honing his accent to sound more naturally English, and become someone else instead: an injured Englishman from London. But then he had decided to return to Poole. He'd left his boat there and though it had since been used by the navy and taken to Dunkirk to help with the evacuation, he had hoped to retrieve it, presuming it had come back in one piece. He had thought he might be able to travel westward to another English port, and maybe even sleep aboard the boat that held such precious memories of Katrijn. And the bigger problem, as Klaus had reminded him so forcefully today, was that he'd left his German identity papers on board the boat.

Hans had travelled back to Poole by train, looking every bit like an Englishman in his Home Guard uniform, and when he stepped off the platform in Poole, before going to find the lodgings with Mrs Rogers, he went into a pub for a beer. This had been his first chance to hear his new English accent practised in public where nobody could possibly recognise him as the Hans who had arrived on Poole Quay as a refugee last year. Hans Meyers had chosen his new English name, Charlie Edwards, because it sounded so perfectly British and friendly to his ears.

He changed his story to say he'd had the limp from childhood, to help avoid details about where and when in the war he'd been injured.

Back then, when he first arrived in Poole last year, he'd spent a few weeks boarding with a family in Denmark Road, a little way from the centre of things around the quayside. Then he'd left for London, telling the family he'd got a job working in the docks on the river Thames. As it turned out, he did spend a little time working for a haulage company, unloading and reloading barges. He'd stayed away long enough, he hoped, for everyone in Poole to have forgotten the faces of the Dutch refugees.

Meeting Peggy had changed everything. He had been relaxing into this new and beautiful friendship with her. Peggy, the wonderful woman who had welcomed him, shown him kindness, and had seemed to be giving him every reason to believe they might have a future together.

He hadn't thought it would ever be possible, but he knew the feelings that were beginning to grow were the seeds of love. He would never stop loving Katrijn, or grieving her loss, but his heart had made room for Peggy too. At first, he had thought she had already been tied to that Australian, but then it seemed that she had time and eyes only for him. Yet, how could he ever have a loving relationship with a woman like Peggy when she hadn't even known who he really was? It was all bound to come out some time. And now it was over.

Charlie lay back on the bed and stared at the images of his life that seemed to flash across the dark ceiling: a life with Peggy, and a life without her. Was there still a chance to save it? To hang on to this new possibility of happiness? He had two choices. He could either let Klaus threaten him and wreck his chances of a new life as Charlie, or he could deal with Klaus and move on. Perhaps once Peggy vouched for him, and explained he was not a threat to England, he would be allowed to carry on here in Poole as before. The spark between him and Peggy was real. He knew that, and she'd confirmed it tonight with that tender kiss on his cheek.

He sat up, knowing at once that he had to go and deal with Klaus before morning. And he knew exactly where he would be hiding.

Peggy woke with a start, knowing so well the sound she could hear, but not understanding why she could hear it now, here. The sound of the BOAC launch, as it left Poole Quay, was so familiar to her and it carried across Fisherman's Dock and in through her bedroom window, into her dreams at first, and then she was fully awake. She looked at the alarm clock on her bedside table: half past one in the morning. There was no good reason for the launch to be out at this time, and yet she knew instinctively who was at the helm and where it was going.

Peggy dressed quickly into her dark-navy slacks and jumper, and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, grabbed the pistol from under her pillow and stashed it into her canvas satchel, slinging it over her shoulder. She tiptoed down the stairs and crept out the back door to where her dad kept his small dinghy.

If anyone on Ballard Road noticed anything strange on the beach out the back of the houses that night, it wasn't enough to stir them outdoors. Within a few minutes, the dinghy was in the water, the Seagull engine had been fetched from the shed and attached to the boat, and Peggy was disappearing into the moonlight, two crisp, white lines of wake wash separating eternally behind her.