The Sick Rose

By Brenda Mothersole

Isobel Keenan is researching a wartime connection between her late grandmother and a young woman Betsy Unwinton who reputedly disappeared from the women’s internment camp on the Isle of Man in 1940. Her research leads her to the autobiography of a seventeen-year-old Austrian refugee, Josef Kronfeld, who describes a romantic relationship with Betsy. His autobiography explains how he came to arrive in England as a Kindertransport refugee. However, Josef’s autobiography falls short of revealing the connection between Betsy and Isobel’s grandmother. This remains a mystery Isobel still wants to resolve. Meanwhile, Isobel has own local race discrimination problems to deal with and the storylines begin to merge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781326402624

Book preview

Chapter 1

Autumn 2000

It was the mystery of the same name seen in two very different circumstances that had aroused Isobel Keenan’s curiosity, and had brought her to the reading room of the London Imperial War Museum.       

The morning spring sun had fully opened out the purple crocus scattered on the lawns of the museum. The two massive metal barrels of the giant naval guns shone steadfastly in the sun’s delicate rays. All seemed at peace: the usual school parties had yet to arrive. In the subdued atmosphere of the reading room the sun had barely touched the glass domed ceiling. Two library assistants sat Buddha-like in alcoves cut into the book-lined walls in readiness to assist any one of the handful of readers who sat at the circle of desks. Here Isobel sat turning over the pages of a manuscript.

She wasn’t quite sure what she could expect to find. Her visit to the London museum was the result of a particular exhibit she had seen last summer at the Manx Museum on the Isle of Man. A torrential rainstorm had caused her to take shelter there.  With raindrops trickling from her wet hair down onto her face and misting up the glass of a large display unit, she was intrigued to learn about the history of the island’s internment camps during World War 2: that much of the small island had been fenced off to accommodate many of those who in war-time Britain had been suspected as possible enemy aliens, mostly Germans and Austrians. Although she had read history as well as law at university, neither discipline had led her to this small piece British history seemingly overlooked yet acknowledged by many as a shameful and inhumane episode of mass internment at the commencement of the war. 

A display of photographs of people in the camps and letters written by them had particularly intrigued her.  She had been drawn to one letter in particular, written in a neat hand and signed ‘Hety’. Intriguingly, the writer had made reference to the sudden mysterious disappearance of one Betsy Unwinton from the women’s camp at Port Erin, describing how neither Betsy nor her body had ever been found, although some items of her clothing had been discovered on the beach suggesting she had gone for a swim and maybe drowned.

It was the name, Betsy Unwinton, which had immediately caught Isobel’s attention: for had she seen not so long ago some reference to that particular name among papers belonging to her recently deceased grandmother?  It was because the name was so unusual that she was able to recall it from among the usual paraphernalia of personal letters and photographs which the elderly tend to hoard during a lifetime: she was certain she had seen it in an un-posted letter obviously intended for a confidant friend called Henry: in which her grandmother had described Betsy Unwinton as, ‘a quite a remarkable young woman but also something of an enigma. Sometimes I did wonder where her loyalties lay’. There had been no address on the envelope in which the letter, written in the 1950s, had been mysteriously tucked away for so many years: there was no clue as to who the intended recipient had been, except that his forename was Henry. This intriguing coincidence had inspired her to do some research on her grandmother’s role in World War Two, anxious to know what connection, if any, she had had to Betsy Unwinton. Could this Betsy be the same woman who had so mysteriously disappeared from the Isle of Man camp in the 1940s?  Could she have known her personally? And, if so, how?  Where?  In what circumstances? And, even more intriguingly, when, before or after Betsy allegedly disappeared? 

Anxious to find out more, she had found a local Manx historian who had told her that various stories, rumours, and speculation had grown around the woman’s disappearance at the time, but once the camps had been closed and the barbed wire cleared away, life on the island had been restored to normal and the mystery of an internee’s disappearance had mostly been forgotten.  What steps the camp authorities took to find her no one seemed to know.  There was just that one letter of reminder in the Douglas museum.

This apparent mysterious coincidence, if there was one, continued to fascinate Isobel long after her week’s holiday on the island: now curious to know what had been her grandmother’s role in the 1939-45 war?  Until now she had not given it any thought.  As children, she and her two brothers had loved going to stay with grandma in her Dorset home. Such a vibrant person she had been, always ready to find them exciting and interesting games to play, like tracking in the woods in the summer and puzzles and conundrum games in the long winters!  So responsive was she to their childish world!  How they had loved her and had mourned her death even at the age of eighty-two.

In this her second visit to the reading room she was scanning autobiographies and biographies of the women who had been wartime internees on the Isle of Man - although as yet she had not come across that one name, Betsy Unwinton. She briefly glanced up as an elderly man with thin greying hair, a visitor’s pass hung around his neck, was quietly being ushered to an empty desk next to her. There a stack of books was awaiting him. The titles on the newcomer’s desk suggested that his interest was the armouries of the First World War. He nodded to her briefly as he sat down.

As Isobel lived and worked in London, another trip to the Isle of Man had been out of the question. Her initial search for Unwinton birth and marriage certificates at the Family Records Office had not given a satisfactory answer. She had tried the Central Public Office of Information online for information of wartime internees also without success.  During her pursuits, Isobel constantly reminded herself that there could have been two quite different women with the same name. However, undeterred, she tenaciously persisted with her task of finding out whether the two Betsy Unwintons were one and the same person, and if so, to discover what had actually happened to her on the Isle of Man, and more significantly if she had any connection to her own grandmother’s wartime role. It was when she made an impromptu enquiry to the librarian of the Imperial War Museum, that she was told that many autobiographies and biographies of men and women interned in the camps were held there. Hopefully, she may have found a positive resource? It was possible that the testimonies of women detainees, describing life in the camps and people in them, could throw some light on the existence and strange disappearance of Betsy, and even mention her own grandmother – if she had been there. 

Her resolve to search for more information had suffered a personal setback when Simon, her lover since their university days, had declared he was leaving her to live with Sandra a fellow solicitor.  This was devastating news, particularly cruel as they were about to celebrate the Millennium. Normally, a self-assured woman, his deception had plunged her into a deep state of despair. While the nation was celebrating the commencement of the year 2000, she had shut herself in the apartment they had shared, joylessly alone, away from the unceasing whooping cheers and the merry-making of the singing mobs.  All appetite for celebrating was gone. The deafening whizzes, bangs and sparkling displays of fireworks beyond her drawn curtains had struck painfully, like splinters of glass at her inner self. During the ensuing dark winter evenings she had felt emotionally adrift: when on returning to their shared flat after a day at the office, a deathly silence would greet her, no sounds of another moving about the place; no shirts scattered around, no electric razor in the bathroom; no warm body besides hers in bed as she stretched out her hand into the empty place under the duvet. Even when daylight eventually dawned, heavy, sombre clouds and unceasing rain ran like tears down the windowpane. She struggled against self-pity. 

Then with the first signs of spring, emerging green buds on the trees outside her window and the gentle nodding snowdrops in the gardens defying wintry blasts, her mood changed, a surge of defiance took over, now pleased that Simon had gone and that she had the flat to herself. Why, for God’s sake should she wallow in a trough of self-pity for that bastard!  Moreover, she had received a promotion to the position of Chief Personnel Officer at Berber and Chambers Ltd. Now she would dedicate herself to her career, and in her spare time would renew her research on the mystery surrounding Betsy Unwinton and her own grandmother. Once again, she was immersing herself in the personal testimonies of the internment camps which continued to intrigue her.

Suddenly the peace of the museum reading room was disrupted by the querulous voice of a woman addressing one of the library assistants. It was one of those cultured voices which project well in any environment; it also bore traces of an east European accent.  Isobel could hear only fragments of the discourse. Why, the woman appeared to be asking, could she not have documents which rightfully belonged to her family returned to her?  Her late father had made a dreadful mistake by donating them to the Museum.  She wanted certain papers returned. A stirring movement of heads ruffled the tranquillity of the room. The elderly grey-haired gentleman, seated next to Isobel who had only recently settled down to his reading of First World War armouries, glanced disapprovingly over his spectacles clearly annoyed by the disturbance. The librarian, torn between giving courteous regard to his enquirer and being deferential to the requirements of the other readers present, made a low murmured reply. But the querulous woman was not satisfied, she continued to reiterate her request with imperious ‘tut tuts’ of exasperation. Finally, she was offered photocopies of the documents ‘for the time being’. Tranquillity was once more restored.

Isobel glanced at her watch: she had been reading for two hours and was ready for a break. After being escorted out of the main door of the library, down a lift and into the main concourse of the museum, she made her way towards the refectory through groups of chattering school parties and other visitors viewing the military tanks, aircraft cockpits and various other exhibits of warfare. As she queued for a coffee and a sandwich, a voice from behind her was complaining about the exorbitant prices being charged.  It was the same querulous voice that had disturbed the peace of the reading room. Isobel hastily paid for her items and found a small table for herself behind a large white pillar. As she seated herself on a wired-backed chair, she was dismayed to find that the woman with the voice had followed her to the table and, with an indignant clatter of cutlery was placing her tray at the empty space opposite her.

‘I hope you do not mind if I sit here,’ said the loud imperious voice in its slight accent, ‘Saw you in the reading room.  We are fellow researchers, eh?’

Isobel, not readily welcoming the intrusion, replied with guarded politeness, ‘Yes, er..hello, I’m Isobel Keenan.’

‘And I am Minna Luggar; please call me Minna. You know I’m so annoyed; this museum has diaries and letters which belonged to my family and I cannot get them returned. What am I offered?  Photocopies, would you believe! You see, Isobel, my family were very much involved in the war, fighting and some sent to the evil concentration camps.  My father, he bequeathed these documents giving his war time experiences in his will to this museum.’  She paused giving a deep sign and then added dejectedly, ‘I wonder if I will have to go to a special court to get them back.’

‘That must be a great disappointment for you, Mina. Can’t you speak with the curator to see if he can do something for you, and perhaps resolve the problem some other way?’

‘I suppose I could try, yes. You see Isobel, I’m writing the biography of my father, a very brave officer.  He would not agree with the Nazis, he defected because he, a German, had married a Pole and he suffered much.’ She added resignedly, ‘I suppose I have to make do with photocopies.’

Minna Luggar was probably aged about sixty-five. Although she was only of medium height, she exuded a commanding presence. Her eyes were small and dark, her dark grey hair was combed back into a neat pleat at the back of her head.  Despite facial lines of ageing and a bulbous nose, her chin and cheek bones were finely modelled.  She wore a loose black dress and draped over her thin shoulders a sage-green scarf. Both garments were of a good quality cloth. She looked across and smiled at Isobel who was sinking her teeth into a tuna and cucumber sandwich.

‘Do tell me, Isobel, what you are researching?’

Isobel hesitated: she was reluctant to disclose the nature of her research before it had got well underway. Moreover, she had not warmed to this seemingly truculent woman and felt unable to take her into her confidence as is sometimes the case with strangers.  She gave a general, half apologetic reply: ‘I’ve just begun my research and I’m not sure where it will take me. I’m reading about the British internment of enemy aliens in the Second World War.’

    ‘Well, well, what an interesting coincidence!’ Minna laughed as if she had been told a joke. ‘You see, I was an internee on the Isle of Man, or at least my mother was; I had to go there with her as I had nowhere else to go at the time.  I was a small child of five when we were released. I remember being taught some English and paddling in the sea in the sun.’

Isobel looked over her large mug of coffee at her companion with considerably renewed interest. It suddenly occurred to her that Minna was a Jew; her physical appearance certainly was characteristic of a Jewish woman.  The majority of internees had been Jews who had fled Nazi Germany and Austria.  Her initial reserve about the woman instantly evaporated.

‘Minna, you may be able to help me. Are you able to remember anything about the people you were with in the internment camp? You see, my research is concerned with tracing a particular woman who had some connection with the woman’s camp at Port Erin. I don’t have much to go on. She may have been an internee or someone in charge of the camp. I just don’t know.’

‘I remember some women who were in my mother’s house; it was a small group in a small lodging.’

‘Do you recall someone by the name of Betsy Unwinton?’

‘Betsy Unwinton, Betsy Unwinton: it is not a name I can recall. You see I was only five years old at the time. No, I do not know it. I’m sorry, I’d like to help.’ On seeing Isobel’s disappointment, she generously added, ‘But I tell you, Isobel, what I will do. My mother may have known her. Mother is long dead, but she left a kind of journal of her experiences in the camp mostly written on a roll of wallpaper she found in the boarding house.  It’s written in Polish but I can translate it for you.’

Isobel expressed her gratitude and gave Minna her name and telephone number.  After Minna had left to go home, she returned to the reading room. She was not sure she had found a useful lead.  She spent another two hours reading and then left for home herself.

Standing in front of the tall window of her first-floor apartment, Isobel resumed her habit of surveying the small green area opposite squeezed between similar Edwardian residences like her own in west London. The area bordered a footpath which led to a neighbouring street. She glanced down at the familiar scene below, a quiet street lined with lime trees and black lamp posts of a previous era, the lights of which sat beneath black tin hat shaped shades. The evening sun now set low in the sky, beamed blood red rays through the dark skeleton shapes of the trees, causing splatters of red to glimmer on the metallic tin-hatted lamps. She knew the green in all seasons: when the glittering hoary frosts and virgin snows draped the bare branches of the plane and sycamore trees, and the snow on the ground was crunched into packed ice and then melted into gritty, grey slush; when spring determined the appearance of fresh green leaf shoots patterned against clear blue skies and then dampened by sharp showers; and when the blades of grass optimistically pointed skywards in readiness for summer growth only to be shorn back to ground level by the council’s regular mowing. In the summer’s heat and storms the heavy foliage of the plane trees provided a welcome shade or shelter. Then came autumn with its rich variations of green, yellow, and red leaves, which when the cool breezes came, dropped as brown leathery furls to the ground for children to playfully rustle through on their way to and from school.  To this small open space local residents came all the year round. She liked studying the comings and goings of her neighbours with comforting possessiveness: there was the elderly woman in a brown coat and red scarf taking her dog for a daily walk; the black lady from the flat below who seemed to work shifts; those two giggling Asian schoolgirls in their navy blue uniforms, their bags laden with books and gym shoes, and the middle-aged balding businessman always in a hurry to catch his morning train. As the nights became lighter and the weather warmer, young people would gather after school, joggers would appear, and lovers would walk and embrace in the dusky, balmy evenings.  Although physically detached from this outside world from within her cosy modernised flat, she protectively felt this was her community.

Moving away from the window, across the spacious sitting room with its high coved ceiling, she paused before a large mirror over the fireplace to push back a strand of hair. Reflected there was her thin face, a determined chin, a high forehead covered by a generous fringe of dark wavy hair. The fringe emphasised her high cheek bones and, what Simon had termed as, her ‘tantalising grey eyes’.  Today, she was wearing her long hair loose: but when at work, she chose to neatly pin it back with a comb.

She had some letters to write and e-mails to send.  So, sitting down at her computer she gazed at the screen then gradually began to tap at the keys.  After two hours of writing and feeling tired, she decided to stop and make herself a cup of drinking chocolate in the warmth of her small kitchen. Taking the drink into the sitting room, she gazed down into the street from her window. The black tin-hatted streetlamps were casting their light in spreading circles on the pavement. The shadowy trees stirred, disturbed by the evening breeze, their dark leafy patterns shattering the concentricity of light.

Then she noticed other movements under the trees of the grassed area. In the shadows a group of youths was gathering there, some drinking from lager cans, others smoking and treading out cigarette butts into the grass. For some minutes, they called to each other in gruff, raucous voices, but she was unable to hear what they were saying. Then, as one body, they moved off down the road towards the shopping centre, their short-cropped heads momentarily gleaming as they passed under the streetlamps. She could not be sure, but had she seen two of their number holding baseball bats? An uncomfortable sensation gripped her; she had heard of 'Paki-bashing' by so called skin heads taking place at a club near the shopping centre. However, because of her uncertainty over what she thought she had seen which could have been quite innocent, she dismissed the notion from her mind and retired to her bed after a long day.

After two more visits to the reading room of the Imperial War Museum to study a number of autobiographies of women in the camps Isobel had found no mention of Betsy Unwinton.  She had half hoped that Minna Luggar would have contacted her by now but she had heard nothing.  Minna had either forgotten her promise or as yet found nothing of importance to communicate.  Isobel's spirits had become deadened by her lack of progress.  Perhaps she was making the mistake of pursuing something of no importance, a mere rumour about Betsy Unwinton’s disappearance, or an insignificant coincidence of two similar names. Yet, she was not ready to give up the task: some inner compulsion, like a back-seat driver, was urging her to carry on.  She decided to make one visit to the museum and then try another avenue of research.

As she was ushered to a seat at the round table of the reading room where some unpublished papers requested by her in advance had been placed, she again found herself sitting next to the elderly man with thinning hair still apparently absorbed in the topic of First World War armoury.  He looked up and gave her a shy smile; he had been kind to her on her last visit by suggesting that she looked through some of the male biographies: Betsy Unwinton may have been somehow connected to a male internee  a relative or a welfare visitor perhaps? Although Isobel thought this was unlikely, she was taking his advice and had requested some male autobiographies written in the Isle of Man camps.

Once seated, she casually and half-heartedly flipped through one of the manuscripts of an internee. Then suddenly the name 'Betsy Unwinton' seemed to flash peripherally in front of her from one of the pages. With clumsy haste she turned back the pages; had she really spotted the name, or had she been deceived by an optical illusion evoked from a subconscious desire to find it?  Then, there it was, tantalisingly on the page before her. This was no trick of the subconscious. So thrilled was she with the discovery, she only just refrained from calling out