Through Different Eyes
Copyright© 2023 by Iskander
Chapter 18
Early January 1969
As I approached the tea shop, I realised I did not know what Mr Pollock looked like – nor he me. Once inside, I stood looking around, trying to imagine what a middle-aged, I presumed, Maths teacher looked like. I could see no middle-aged men by themselves and secured a table with a view of the door and ordered a coffee.
About five minutes later, a middle-aged man with a somewhat unruly head of black hair flecked with grey entered.
Mr Pollock?
But he waved across the room and joined another table.
Following him was a couple – a tall, stringy man with glasses and a much shorter woman. The man looked around and nudged his companion towards me.
“Excuse me, but would you be Miss Miller?” His manner was diffident, almost apologetic.
I stood up. “I am. You must be Mr Pollock.”
“Indeed.” He looked me over. “You claim to be some sort of distant relative from Australia?”
I summoned up a smile. “Why don’t you sit down? Would you like a pot of tea – or a coffee?” If I pinned them down with a pot of tea, it would be more difficult for them to walk away.
Mr Pollock glance at his female companion. “Tea, my dear?”
She nodded. I went across to the counter to order a pot of tea for two. Remembering how tough conversations around the table with Mutti, Willi and Lili had been eased by cake, I ordered the cake selection plate as well.
When I sat down, I could see suspicion in the woman’s eyes.
Mrs Pollock...
I breathed deep. “Mr Pollock,” I began. “Please forgive me. I’ve called you here under false pretences.”
He blinked and glanced sideways at his wife. Her eyes narrowed.
“I am not a distant relative and I apologise for the deception. But speaking with you away from the school is important to me and that was the best subterfuge I could think up.” I gave them a lopsided smile. “But I am recently arrived from Australia.”
I could see Mrs Pollock’s hand tighten on her husband’s arm and she seemed about to stand.
“Your pot of tea and cakes.” The waitress placed the plate of cakes on the table along with small tea plates for the three of us. I indicated the tea was for the Pollocks and she set up the cups and saucers, standing the teapot between them.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
Would the tea and cakes anchor the Pollocks to their seats for long enough for me to persuade Mr Pollock to help?
I offered the cakes across the table. “Cake?”
Mr Pollock chose a chocolate cupcake and gave me a piercing look. “Hmm ... why did you need to speak to me?”
I took a steadying breath. “Do you remember a talented Maths student who was also an excellent linguist? He would have completed his A levels in 1965, I think.”
Mr Pollock’s forehead wrinkled. “Perhaps...”
“He won a German essay competition in 1964. The prize was a two-week trip to East Germany.”
“Ah yes, that boy.” He glanced at his wife.
He had talked with her about Willi?
“I am hoping you can help me find him. I lost touch with him when my mother and I moved to Australia.”
“You don’t know where he lives?”
“No, not now.” The fear and loss pushed towards the surface.
Breathe, Col.
“I went to his house, but they had moved away some time ago.” I paused for another breath. “I tried to find him through a mutual friend, but she was killed in a car accident not long after we left for Australia.”
Mrs Pollock looked at her husband and poured two cups of tea. “I think I remember you telling me about this boy.” She glanced across at me, her eyes softening. “You were close friends with him?”
“His name was William Johnstone.” The name registered with Mr Pollock. “I asked at the school office, but they told me they could not give me the private information of students as I wasn’t a relative.”
Mr Pollock glanced at his wife. “He was a remarkable young man. Not a brilliant mathematician, but certainly talented in many areas.” His eyes wandered into the distance above my head. “I seem to recall that physics was his primary interest though...” there was silence for a few seconds before he leant forward to pick up his cup and take a sip of tea. “He was into nuclear physics, I think.” He pondered for a moment. “Did he go to Imperial to study in their nuclear engineering program?” he mused. He took another sip of tea and fixed me with his eyes. “You would like me to check the school records and pass the information to you.” He clattered his cup onto the saucer and I could hear disapproval in his voice.
Mrs Pollock gave me a thin smile. “Why did you not stay in touch by letter?”
What should I tell them?
“Because I couldn’t.” I picked up my coffee, stalling as I took a drink.
I replaced the cup, delaying further as I took a breath. “My name is not Karlota Miller, though I have a valid UK passport in that name.”
I could see surprise and confusion on their faces.
“I am Colette Schmidt, born in Leipzig – east Germany as it was until recently. My mother and I defected to the West in 1962. British security hid us here at first but then in Australia, as our lives were under threat.” I couldn’t bring myself to name my father. “We could not stay in touch with anyone here in England. That would reveal our location.”
Mr Pollock’s narrowed eyes regarded me. “Why should I believe you, help you?”
I dredged my memory, trying to think of something that might convince him I was Willi’s close friend.
“Um ... I think I remember Willi telling me you helped him on one occasion – with something other than Maths ... was it in the library?” The memory was vague, blurred. I struggled to retrieve it.
Mr Pollock fixed me with a stare, his brows furrowing in concentration before they relaxed, releasing his bushy eyebrows. “Yes ... Yes, I did. The newspapers were still in the librarian’s office and I retrieved them. He was anxious about something...”
Got it.
“He was. It would have been in February 1964 when the Soviets shot down a US plane that had wandered into East Germany. He was worried that it might disrupt his trip to East Germany at Easter.”
Mr Pollock’s head bobbed. “Yes, that was it.”
I looked across the table at him. “Willi held you in high regard, Mr Pollock. He thought of you as someone occupying the lofty heights of mathematics.”
That’s true – but Willi had included a reference to ‘ivory tower’ – which was a touch less complimentary.
Mr Pollock ducked his eyes from me in embarrassment and glanced at his wife; she was squeezing his forearm in delight at hearing this. He cleared his throat. “It’s always good to hear that one’s students respect you.” His eyes returned to me. “What information are you seeking?”
He was going to help.
“Anything that would allow me to find him. His mother’s address, the university he’s studying at. Whatever you can get me that would help me find him.”
He looked at me in silence before reaching into his pocket to pass me his card. “Ring me here on Monday night after six o’clock. I’m not promising anything, mind you.”
I smiled, putting the card in my handbag. “Thank you. That’s wonderful.”
Mr Pollock wagged a finger at me. “No guarantees, young lady.”
But I could see a faint smile on his lips.
“Can I order you another pot of tea?”
Mrs Pollock smiled. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”
When I sat down, Mrs Pollock leant across, almost conspiratorially. “Could you tell me about Australia? It sounds wonderful.”
“Well – I know Brisbane – that’s the capital of Queensland. I’ve not been anywhere else.”
I spent the next fifteen minutes as we finished the tea and cakes answering Mrs Pollock’s questions about Brisbane and Australia.
Mr Pollock nudged his way into the conversation. “It’s been most pleasant meeting you, Miss Miller.” He frowned for a moment. “Or should that be Miss Schmidt?”
I smiled. “At the moment, I think I’m still Miss Miller, although Mutti and I are hoping to reclaim our real identities.”
“Well, Miss Miller, thank you for the tea and cakes, but we must be moving on. We’ll speak on Monday evening.”
After they left, I settled the bill. At LeFevre, I looked at my packages and realised that managing everything on a bus would be a problem. I arranged for a taxi to pick me up. Dusk was falling as the taxi left the city – and for a second, frissons skittered across my skin as my previous taxi ride out of Canterbury flooded my brain.
Breathe, Col. Breathe.
When the taxi pulled up outside my hotel, I was still shaky. The taxi driver helped me carry my purchases into the hotel lobby. The eyes of the young man behind the reception desk followed me. He was examining the bags bearing the Lefevre name. My elegant New Year’s Eve outfit and now these bags were causing a reappraisal of me – not an ignorant colonial, perhaps.
“May I help you with these, Miss Miller?”
I smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He was about to turn away when he picked up an envelope. “There’s a message for you.”
He handed me the envelope and produced a luggage trolley. With my purchases loaded, he followed me to my room, unloading the trolley. Once alone, I opened the envelope: the Novaks had invited me to lunch the following day. I rang, thanking them for the invitation and Alice arranged to pick me up at eleven.
After eating in the restaurant, I spent the evening going over my purchases; I would need another suitcase.
I spent a pleasant few hours with the Nowaks on Sunday.
It horrified Alice to discover I didn’t know how to drive. “Once you’ve completed your search, get yourself some lessons and find a car.” She looked across at her father. “I’m sure Daddy would help you with this.”
Uncle Brian smiled. “An E-Type Jaguar?”
I had all day Monday to myself and was at a loose end after my morning run. Eventually, I dressed in some of my new warm clothes and headed out along the coastal path into the territory that Lili, Willi and I walked many times. The wind was blustery and the thin sunlight held no warmth – the antithesis of the Australian blaze. Few other people braved the cutting wind. The solitude of the cliff-top path drifted memories before my inner eye.
Almost without realising it, I ended up at Bishopstone Glen, where we three had stood on that first day together. I stared over the stream-cut gash in the cliffs, hoping the call with Mr Pollock would provide the information to find Willi. If that failed, there remained one possibility – Mrs Henderson and I quailed before that thought. If she consented to meet me, she would tell me whatever fitted her ends – with no regard to the truth or my needs.
Mr Pollock had to help me.
On the return, the wind cut deeper with a sharp, icy edge because the spectre of Mrs Henderson dogged my steps.
In my hotel room, I tried without success not to watch the hands of my alarm clock creep away the afternoon. Frustrated with its glacial movement, I wandered down to the TV lounge. I sat watching children’s programming for an hour but was in my room well before six o’clock with Mr Pollock’s card in front of me, a notepad and pen at the ready.
I delayed dialling until five past six. The phone rang for a while before they picked it up.
“Hello?” It was Mrs Pollock.
“Good evening, Mrs Pollock. It’s Karlota Miller. Is your husband home?”
“He is. I’ll get him.”
I heard her call out and put down the phone. Long seconds later I heard it scrape across a surface as Mr Pollock picked it up.
“Miss Miller? It’s Mr Pollock.”
“Good evening, Mr Pollock.” I could feel my hand sweating where it gripped the phone. “Were you able to find anything?”
Mr Pollock cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed.” He paused. “Before I tell you anything, you must promise me never to reveal how you came by this information. It would embarrass me or worse, if it came out I had passed on student information.”
“I understand, Mr Pollock. I’ll tell no-one.”
“Very well.” Another pause and I heard paper rustling over the thump of my heartbeat.
“As I thought, William Johnstone went to Imperial College to study nuclear engineering.”
I scribbled the information onto the pad.
Mr Pollock continued. “The most recent address I found is in Honiton, Devon. Twenty-five School Lane, Honiton, Devon. Unfortunately, there was no telephone number listed with that address.”
I repeated the information back to him.
“That’s correct, Miss Miller. I wish you success with your search.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr Pollock.”
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