Free Losing Nicola by Susan Moody

‘He’s got a radio,’ I said reluctantly. ‘One of those ones that spies use, with bits sticking out of the top. And headphones.’
    â€˜It’s true,’ said Nicola. ‘I’ve seen it myself.’
    â€˜A crystal set,’ said Orlando. He was staring at me with astonishment and a hostility that made me hot with shame.
    â€˜What kind of headphones?’ asked Julian.
    I backtracked quickly. ‘But of course he can’t be. The war’s been over for ages.’
    â€˜There’s still lots of spies about,’ announced Charles. ‘I heard about it at school. It’s because of the Cold War.’
    We could see that he didn’t know exactly what the Cold War was and politely refrained from asking him.
    â€˜Maybe national security’s at stake,’ Jeremy said importantly, made knowledgeable by the
Rover
, which he borrowed surreptitiously from a friend.
    â€˜I think we ought to investigate,’ said Julian. ‘I mean, if he’s a spy and everything.’
    â€˜How’re you going to do that?’ scoffed Nicola.
    â€˜We could keep a watch on him.’
    â€˜Yeah, follow him and everything. See where he goes.’
    â€˜Why would a spy be living here?’ I said.
    â€˜Precisely,’ added Orlando. ‘What’s there for him to spy on in a place like this?’
    â€˜The Marines,’ said Charles. ‘It’s a naval establishment. They might be researching all sorts of stuff here.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    Charles shrugged, trying to look as though he knew what he was talking about. ‘Submarines, or something. Technical breakthroughs in naval warfare.’
    â€˜That’s what they do in Portsmouth, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Not here.’
    â€˜What does it matter?’ Nicola had that dangerous little flame in her eyes that I was coming to recognize. ‘He’s German, isn’t he? That’s evidence enough for me.’
    The boys nodded doubtfully.
    We went home, me hating myself, ashamed, Orlando haranguing me furiously. ‘How could you have said something like that?’ he demanded. ‘You know as well as I do that the poor man’s not a spy.’
    The incident caused a rift between us all. For years we’d all spent our summers together, never articulating our affection for one another, but nonetheless relying on it, as part of the changeless predictability that was our childhood. Now Orlando would have nothing to do with the others and I found that I too didn’t want to join them as they hung about on the green, swinging on the silver railings outside Mrs Sheffield’s house, staring up at Sasha’s window. Led by Nicola, they gave the Nazi salute if they saw him, or sang the Horst Wessel song in voices loud enough for him to hear if he listened. They followed him when he walked past the lifeboat into town; they followed him home again. Julian produced a notebook and pencil and kept an ostentatious record of his comings and goings.
    Did he notice? Was he hurt, angered, or merely indifferent? I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
    Darkness came late on those hot August evenings, and our mothers could see no point in keeping to normal bedtime hours, so we were allowed to stay up much longer than usual. Miserably skulking along the back road to avoid them, I could see them lined up along the railings, taunting and catcalling.
    Orlando finally told Fiona what they were doing, without divulging my part in it.
    â€˜
What
?’ She was outraged. ‘Tormenting that poor young man? But why?’ She stared at me. ‘Do you know why, Alice?’
    â€˜They . . .’ I swallowed, avoiding Orlando’s accusing gaze. ‘They think he’s a spy.’
    â€˜A spy? What, for Germany?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Are they so pigheadedly ignorant that they think a Jewish refugee would spy for Germany?’ As she spoke, Fiona was walking towards the