The Mind's Eye Page 9

  “Don’t mind her,” Clive told me with a patient smile, “She’d be more understanding if she had your problems.”

  My eyes flicked to Ness Fach, who sat on the kitchen floor giggling and playing pat-a-cake with a very patient Leighton. If my suspicions were anywhere near correct, then Blod had enough problems of her own.

  I was granted the sanctuary of a free hour in the little sitting room at the front of the house to rest after my big exertion that morning. Mam promised that I could read or do whatever I wanted in peace until Bampi Idrys arrived for Blod’s party lunch at two o’clock. ‘Whatever I wanted’ sounded extremely appealing. As soon as the door was closed I prepared myself for my usual ritual and though my arms were aching I raised them eagerly up to my forehead.

  I was confused when I first found Henri, until I realised he had his hands over his face. His vision was blurry and his shoulders were heaving, stunted breaths were hot and ragged where they raged against his fingers. Wherever he was, it was dark and empty. And he was crying.

  Henri, what’s happened?

  For once he wasn’t surprised to hear my voice in his head; he had far too many emotions going on inside him for that. He wiped his tears away hurriedly until I could see his vision clearing, uncurling himself from his cramped position. He was in what seemed like a tiny little attic room where everything was brown and grey. The windowless space was lit by a dim lantern sitting on a little box beside the bed he was settled on. Henri sucked in his last sob, wiping his face on an old handkerchief before he replied.

  “I’m sorry Kit, I wouldn’t have intended for you to see me like this.”

  Don’t be silly, I answered, We all cry sometimes. I cried yesterday, just because I was sick of peeling vegetables.

  Henri laughed but it was hollow and sad. I could feel him rubbing his palms against his legs; a vein in his neck was throbbing too. He must have been upset for quite some time before I found him.

  Whatever’s the matter? I pressed.

  “I will show you,” he answered, shaking out his final tears before dabbing his eyes dry.

  Henri rose from the bed and brushed himself down; through his eyes I saw his brown trousers were scuffed and dirty, his shirt un-tucked, his shoes covered in scratches. He walked slowly out of the dark room into the rest of the roof space where a dirty white door was ajar. He pushed it open with the swing of one smooth hand, revealing a dark little wash room with a grey sink.

  “I shan’t turn on the light,” Henri continued, “You’ll see me well enough.”

  Above the worn old sink was a small mirror and, a moment later, there was Henri’s reflection. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been imagining what he might look like, running hundreds of debonair faces through my mind, all foreign and interesting and all terribly handsome. Henri would have been handsome, if not for the huge purple bruises all over his face. Cocoa brown eyes stared out of his damaged face, sad eyes with red rings enclosing them from his crying fit. He had dark hair, almost black, that fell about his face like it was due for a cut, under his fringe on one side was a huge gash that had only recently finished bleeding. It had two poorly-done stitches in it; I shuddered to think he might have done them himself.

  “Well? Do you see me?”

  Gods Henri, who did this to you?

  He laughed that empty, humourless chuckle again.

  “Who do you think Kit?” he answered.

  Of course I knew who. But why? I felt a surge of guilt. Was it because you threatened that officer?

  Thankfully Henri shook his head, looking straight at himself with a stare so intense I almost forgot he couldn’t see me. He had high, arching cheekbones that were almost black in the worst parts of the bruising and his face would have been sharply triangular if not for one part of his jaw that jutted out with swelling.

  “His name is Kluger,” Henri explained, spitting out the title with such a strong sneer that it hurt his face to pull it, “He’s what you would call a captain, I think. But he was never really here for me.” He hung his head suddenly and I found myself looking into the old sink and its watermarked rings. “It was Mr Hoffman he was looking for.”

  The shop owner? I pressed, confused. Why do the Germans want him?

  Henri let his face rise back into the mirror’s path, giving me a sad look with his lovely eyes.

  “Can you stay a while?” he asked.

  I think so, I replied.

  Without another word Henri left the wash room and made for a little staircase at the end of the dark upstairs corridor. He was indeed in the attic of the large building; his feet found two flights of stairs before I recognised the corridor near the store room where we had had our first conversation. Henri carried on beyond that space, passing some sad looking women who were smoking. They shook their heads when they saw him; I felt one pat him on the shoulder as he passed without acknowledging them, but he didn’t stop. Henri didn’t stop until he was down in the shop front itself where, like the store room, everything had been overturned.

  He surveyed the destruction for the briefest of moments; I had enough time to take in the finest fashions ripped to shreds all over the floor. I saw the brown suit Henri had been finishing; it had been ripped off a model near the till so only half the jacket remained, the other sleeve and lapel lay in torn pieces not too far from it. I could remember so clearly the precision and the concentration Henri felt when he was working on that suit. I was livid at the cruelty of it all, but Henri’s awful emptiness swallowed up my rage. He walked quietly through the destroyed shop and out into the street.

  I felt his sore face start to sting in the light spring rain that was failing. Henri pushed his unruly hair back against his head, walking the deserted pavement until he turned to face the shop window. The title of the tailor’s was in Norwegian, but the name Hoffman was clear enough within the words. Below the title someone had taken a tin of white paint and created a huge six point star. The Star of David. I had seen it a few times in London when we travelled through the posher bits. Another message was daubed underneath it.

  Henri, what does that painted bit say?

  “Protect yourself; don’t buy from Jews,” he whispered, “It appeared yesterday morning, then last night they came to take Mr Hoffman for questioning, just like Mr Bavistock.”

  Your English teacher, I mused, What became of him, after the questioning?

  “Nobody has seen him since,” Henri answered, “The people who go to be questioned… None of them have come back.”

  I’m so sorry. I felt helpless, totally useless and unbelievably guilty. Here I was, sitting in my cosy little room in North Wales looking forward to cake and party food, whilst people like Henri would be all over Europe mourning the loss of friends they’d known. I couldn’t think of anything else to say except to repeat my regret. Henri, I’m so, so sorry. I just wish I could help.

  “You’re here with me,” he murmured, “That’s something.”

  And they can’t take me away, I added.

  Henri pressed his fingers deep into his palms as he stood staring at the painted star. As his vision refocused I saw his full frame, a blurred reflection in the dark window. He was dishevelled, his shoulders hunched and deflated, but he was a broad boy with long arms and legs. His face was too obscured in the window to see his bruises; there was just an outline of his jaw and his ears sticking out a little against his messy hair. I wanted to hold his hand, to tell him that things would be right when England won the war, but I wasn’t sure I even knew that to be true.

  “When they came to take him today, I fought against them,” Henri said softly, “My face is a warning to everyone against supporting a Jew. Hoffman was a charitable person, but his widow is not. I think she will turn me out soon.”

  Despicable, I seethed, and after you defended him.

  He shrugged. “I think it’s practical. I have made myself an enemy to Kluger now. I would cause her too much trouble if she let me stay.”

  So what will you do?


  “I don’t know yet,” he replied with a sigh.

  I’ll come back, Henri. I’ll come back every day that I can. It wasn’t much to offer, but it was all I had.

  “I hope so Kit,” he whispered, “I could use a friend right now.”

  And that’s exactly what you’ve got, I replied.

  Henri took us back to his room and I stayed until his clock ran out my hour, letting him run his gambit of abuse about the Germans and the occupation. When he swore he did it in Norwegian for what he called ‘gentlemanly reasons’, but I agreed with every slur even though I could only guess their meaning. By the end of the time it hurt to let him go, but as I went I felt his aching face break into a smile.

  The end of Blod’s birthday weekend meant saying goodbye to Clive, Thomas and Ieuan, which was a tearful affair for Mam, especially since this time they were actually going to England instead of back to the Welsh coast. With Leighton’s help I managed to stand up from my chair to wave them goodbye, watching their tall navy blue figures cut a dash through the muggy spring afternoon as they started the walk to the village. Clive put his arms around his boys’ shoulders as they disappeared down the grassy path and Mam turned away with a hanky to her nose. I watched Clive’s smart RAF hat until it was totally out of view, hoping with pride that he and the boys would be there to bash the Germans and end this war all the quicker.

  I was eager to get back to Henri, but my plans were scuppered when Mam received a telephone call from Doctor Bickerstaff saying he had an appointment free that day. She had sent him a message on Friday about my great excursion to the wash basin and now the rotten doctor wanted to interrupt my life to see it for himself. As much as I was happy to have taken a few steps, there were far more important things I could be doing, things that I couldn’t justify to anyone, unfortunately. We trundled up over the big hill in the doctor’s nice white car but all the while I could only think of how pleasant and safe things were in the damp spring climate of Bryn Eira Bach compared to Oslo, where perhaps at this very moment Henri would be walking the streets with his battered face looking for somewhere new to live and work. Alone.

  Seething frustration filled me up like a kettle ready to boil by the time I was in Bickerstaff’s waiting room. It was always crowded on a Monday with people who had gotten poorly over the weekend and he was late seeing me. Mam didn’t ask about my livid expression, I supposed she was used to that kind of drama having raised Blod; she just read her magazine patiently and occasionally showed me what she thought was an interesting photo. I nodded sometimes, biting my lip, until she got into a very animated conversation with another mother figure that had just walked in and finally left me in peace. When Bickerstaff called me in, Mam was still chatting to her friend, but she gave the doctor a respectful nod.

  “I’ll come in when you’re ready, Doctor,” she offered.

  He nodded curtly like he always did and waited for me to wheel myself into his room. I came at him so fast that the wheels of my chair flew over the bump between the flooring with ease and he had to jolt out of my way unexpectedly. I pulled up to his desk without so much as looking at him.

  “I see you’re feeling stronger, Kit,” he observed flatly. I didn’t answer, since he was never really listening anyway, and I was proved right when he carried on talking. “I have some walking aids that you’re going to try and use.”

  He was off to fetch them without awaiting a response, because there wasn’t even a question about having to do as I was told. It was one of the things I resented most of all about my illness, above any of the pain and the inconvenience it brought, the fact that I had to just sit there and put up with the people around me. If there was ever a motivation to learn to walk, it would be that walking was the first step in learning to run away. If I could run away now, I could hide somewhere and find Henri, but instead I was stuck with Bickerstaff and his constantly disappointed expression.

  The doctor returned with two tall wooden structures that had grips about a third of the way down and padded rests at the very top of them. They were long, triangular things that ended in a point where they met the floor. Bickerstaff leant them against his desk then offered me his hands.

  “Up you get then, chop-chop,” he said in that expectant way.

  I wished I could have jerked myself up to show him how annoyed I was, but my attempt at a haughty leap only resulted in me failing the first attempt to rise. The second time I took it slower, standing and locking my knees as best I could. I looked down at the floor, colour creeping into my face. I had someone who needed me to be there for him, and here I was performing like a circus monkey instead for the beastliest ringmaster in Christendom.

  “This soft part of the crutch rests under your arm,” Bickerstaff said, shifting one of the walking aids under my left arm, “Lean on it whilst I get the other.”

  Soon I had one crutch under each arm propping me up where I stood. I felt like a heavy washing line drooping between the two. Bickerstaff put my gloved hands on the grips where I took hold of them with a vicious tightness; he nodded approval more to himself than to me, standing back and making some space between us.

  “Let’s see you walk then,” he urged, “Use the aids one at a time to help you get your feet forward.”

  My feet, it turned out, were not the problem. The huge wooden structures were wickedly heavy, heavier even than the splints that bound my limbs at night. I struggled to get the first one forward even a few inches before I brought my foot to meet it, then the other crutch snagged on the lino for ages before I was able to haul it up level. I managed about four of these awkward movements before the pressure under my arms was too much to stand. I felt bolts of electricity shooting down from my shoulder to where my fingers gripped the handles of the wood, my eyes burning with tears from the strain.

  “Your arms are still shocking,” Bickerstaff snapped, “This really isn’t good enough Kit, you’ll never strengthen your legs without your arms for support.”

  He reached for his file like he was just going to leave me standing there in agony. I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat, bit back my tears and let my frustration get the better of me.

  “I think you ought to start being a bit nicer to me, Doctor,” I began, my breathing sharp.

  He laughed at me without looking up. “Oh? Does that mean you’re going to start making better progress for me?”

  “I know about you,” I said, narrowing my eyes on the top of his blonde head.

  “Know what exactly?” he asked, still not looking.

  “About you and Blod… and Ness.”

  It was a slow, surreal process when Doctor Bickerstaff next let his big blue eyes meet mine. His face was much younger when he wasn’t scowling; his mouth was limp and open slightly as he studied my face. I hoped that the pain of leaning on my crutches was showing, adding to the anger in my burning eyes and gritted teeth. He didn’t bother to deny anything, so I knew my suspicions were close enough to the truth.

  “You dare to threaten me?” he demanded, leaning his hands hard into the wood of his desk. His mouth contorted back into its usual sneer, but his eyes were too shocked to comply.

  “Yes I do,” I spat angrily, “because you're a cold, nasty man who's horrible to me. Perhaps this will help you to change.” It was satisfying to be the disapproving one in the conversation for once.

  Bickerstaff’s chest rose and fell a few times as he huffed. He looked at me, then away again, and then back again until eventually he dropped himself into his chair, running one hand through his hair that messed up its slick, smart look.

  “I suppose Blod told you?” he asked, looking at his desk.

  “Of course not,” I scoffed, red hot anger making sweat pool at the back of my neck, “She hates me.”

  Bickerstaff snapped his head up again at that, his brows crashing down to hood his eyes. “Then how do you know?” he pressed.

  “That’s my business,” I said, borrowing the smug smile he usually wore.

  Th
e doctor pointed at me wordlessly for a moment then slammed a fist down on his desk that made his pencils rattle off the table. I flinched; my breath was hot and furious still.

  “You kids,” Bickerstaff spat venomously, “you think you know everything at fifteen, don't you? Think you can control the world around you. Well this kind of behaviour gets people hurt, young lady, I hope you mark that.”

  I wanted to shout at him, to answer him back with the same poisonous tone he was using, but the heat and the sweat and the pain from leaning on the crutches was suddenly too much. I had been standing for minutes, too many minutes taking all the strain of my tired limbs. I looked down to my aching arms, feeling my face turn clammy with a sheen of hot sweat. My eyes widened in horror at the salmon coloured rash all over my forearm, creeping up under the sleeve of my blouse. I looked down at my unstockinged legs, seeing the same hideous orange-pink blotches breaking out on my feet and ankles.

  Bickerstaff was out of his chair and saying something about my face. I felt his arm close around me and heard the heavy wooden crutches fall away, but my vision was turning slowly black. I could smell the clean, soapy scent of the doctor’s hands as one came up to feel my head, slipping all over it because I was caked in the salty water rapidly seeping from my skin. I knew for just one moment that the fever had returned before everything went black.