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 fortyyet 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
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 fortyyet 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
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