by Jan Casey
The lawn leading down from the grounds to the river was lush and thick and verdant. A secretary at the department told her that she had gone to the May Ball at King’s a couple of years ago and run through that grass in bare feet, down to a waiting punt to be whisked away for breakfast in Grantchester. Viola could picture the joy on the girl’s face as the blades of grass tickled her feet.
Two years previously, Fred had been asked to chaperone at Emmanuel’s May Ball and she had gone along for a few hours as his sidekick; they’d made time for two or three dances across the polished floor of the ballroom. So many different bands played myriad types of music from waltzes to foxtrots to jazz. Buffet tables were laid out with salads, cold cuts of meat, breads, cheeses, pyramids of fruit, meringues rich with cream. And the flowers. If she breathed deep into her lungs and closed her eyes, she could smell the lilies, the roses and lilac; it had been intoxicating. All the girls were lovely in their ball gowns, and the men handsome in their dinner jackets. It had been delightful. If she’d known then that a war would stop them all in their tracks, she would have held Fred closer as they danced, savoured the mountains of food and stayed until the bitter end. Now she doubted there would be any semblance of a May Ball any time soon. And if there was, she would never attend without Fred.
Viola looked behind her and there was a bench not too far away – soaking she presumed. But her face was damp, her light brown hair darkened with dripping rain and her legs and feet drenched and bedraggled. So what were the odds? She smoothed the back of her mac and sat on the wet bench, shivering when the cold hit her flesh through her thin dress and undergarments. The streak of sunshine had passed and the façade of King’s was grey and stately and shadowed again. There weren’t many people about although a few young men hurried, heads down, backwards and forwards to the university library, books and notepads under their arms; next month when Michaelmas Term began the crossing would be packed – the students jostling, laughing and shouting out to each other.
Then she wondered if that would be the case or if by October the students would have left this self-indulgent place to selflessly do their bit. She imagined that the transition would hit them hard. When she looked at the crossing she could see their ghostly images moving in obscurity, their limbs and torsos transparent and unearthly. There was Fred and hurrying behind him a taller, broader Robert. Then there was David in brown corduroy trousers, a smile on his face, books in one hand, a tennis racquet swinging from the other. She wanted to reach out to them but knew that if she did, her hand would slip through a gauzy haze. Another shudder ran through her when she remembered the generation lost during the Great War. But the thought came and went and she dreaded to think that complacency was becoming her standpoint so soon.
Her handkerchief was quite sodden when she fished it from the depths of her pocket, but she found a corner and wiped it with harsh, rather unkind sweeps over her face. She fidgeted around for the shape of the ring under her clothes, but was glad she hadn’t grabbed the letters from Fred that she’d read numerous times and usually kept about her person; they would be as saturated as the hanky and that would have caused her spirits to plummet, if they could drop any further. Three had arrived from him since he’d crept from her bedroom last July and made his way to Germany to try and bring Annie home. The first two had been six or seven pages long and full of hope about him and his sister setting foot on British soil again very soon, despite politics and bureaucracy and combative officials tightening their grip around them and doing their best to cut them off irretrievably.
The last letter, which had arrived a week ago, consisted of one paltry, dog-eared, censored page and in it Fred made no bones about the fact that there was now no way or means for them to return. He was blunt and in a sentence that finished abruptly, said there was no point in deceiving themselves that a passage would be clear for them to cross the Channel. Then nothing more than a blank space where words had been cut raggedly from the paper. She supposed, hoped, that he’d stated he would not stop trying, no matter the circumstances, to find his way back to her.
Annie had written once, or at least one letter had arrived from her; many more might have been sent but become victims to interdiction. In it, she wrote about late summer in Ulm and Munich, how lovely it was to have Fred around despite the fact he seemed distracted and rather frantic for much of the time, their Oma’s declining health, salad from the garden and pork schnitzel for dinner, the doctor’s son who seemed to be naïvely courting her and so on and so forth. So vivid were Annie’s descriptions, that Viola felt as if she were there with her sister-in-law-to-be. She smelled the sap and vegetation of the forest as they walked through it together, looking for a knoll on which to spread out their picnic of bread, cheese, tomatoes and thin, leftover slices of beef. They lay on soft dandelions and read, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun.
She imagined Saturday mornings, choosing a hen for Sunday’s dinner from the flocks flapping around the outdoor market in the shade of the Minster then meeting Fred in a café for coffee and a slice of Bundt cake. An afternoon holding Oma’s hand, offering her tea or soup from a spoon, talking to her about anything that came into her head. Could Annie’s reality be so idyllic? Hers wasn’t and she didn’t know anyone in England who could claim that it was for them either. Like the girls on the punt, Viola thought Annie was either oblivious to what was happening or was blocking out the truth of the situation. She had read the letter over and over again, wondering if there was a cryptic message in amongst the sentences that spoke of an indolent Indian summer; but she could not decipher any such thing.
The rain had settled into a constant, fine drizzle and was soaking through her mac and dress. She pushed back her sleeve and looked at the dainty gold watch on a jewellery bracelet Mum and Dad had given her for her twenty-first birthday and was surprised to see she’d been almost an hour and a half. Holding the watch to her ear, she could hear it ticking faithfully, so knew the time was correct. Great St Mary’s should have alerted her to when her hour was up and it was time to head to The Eagle; the reliable church bell could be heard all over the city. Then she remembered and anger bubbled up again. St Mary’s was silenced for the duration, as was every other public bell and chime in the country, including Big Ben. How dare he? Bloody Hitler.
*
The Eagle was heaving. Academic types of all ages spilled from the door onto the pavement, from the side entrance onto the flagstones of the sheltered courtyard with its lush bountiful summer flower baskets hanging like the Gardens of Babylon. Viola excused herself through the assembled crowds of people talking in earnest close to each other’s faces. She caught the occasional word, all of them connected in some way to the war: Chamberlain, Germany, Hitler, troops, bombs, strategy, Parliament, announcement. Intermittent laughter volleyed from the shadows of one or two cubbyholes, but for the most part the atmosphere was sedate and fervid. No one gave her a second glance or seemed to notice the mess she was in, everyone looking as if they had rushed to be together in a familiar setting without a care for their hair or clothes or makeup. She heard snatches of conversation. ‘Thank heaven the suspense is over,’ from a man with dark green patches on the elbows of his worn brown jacket. Momentarily wedged between a group of women on one side and a group of men on the other, an older woman in wire spectacles said, ‘At least now there will be a clear-cut contest.’
‘Yes,’ one of her drinking companions said. ‘And however distant victory may be, we must be intent upon that end.’
Peering between arms and over shoulders, she tried to glimpse Lillian who, she knew, would be fretting about her tardiness. Finally, Viola spotted her friend, her back to the fireplace in the dark, low-ceilinged bar; Lillian raised her hand in exasperation. Viola didn’t recognise any of the others gathered there, so presumed they were acquaintances. Viola watched as Lillian extracted herself from the group who immediately closed ranks around the gap she left to carry on their discussion without missing a beat.
> ‘Where have you been?’ Lillian grabbed Viola’s arm. ‘I have been so worried. I was about to go out and look for you.’
‘I’m sorry, Lil,’ Viola said. ‘I was depending on St Mary’s for the time, but forgot the bell had been silenced. Sorry.’
‘Well.’ Lillian looked a bit put out, although her voice was forgiving. ‘I’m glad that’s all it was.’
‘What else could have possibly happened?’ Viola’s laugh sounded dispirited. ‘No bombs have fallen yet, have they?’
‘Don’t make fun,’ Lillian said. ‘It’s not a laughing matter.’
‘No, you’re right. It’s not.’
‘But this is.’ She glanced at a group of young men and said, ‘Do you think we can get them to buy us a drink?’
That had been one of their favourite sports when they were out together, no dates in tow. But that had been before Fred and the thought of batting her eyelashes at a strange man in return for a gin or lager tops or whisky and soda made Viola shudder with repulsion.
Lillian waited for her response, her face bright and her eyes twinkling.
‘Perhaps not today,’ Viola said. ‘It doesn’t seem appropriate somehow.’
‘Oh, tosh,’ Lillian countered. ‘Especially today. We’re a distraction.’
Giving in, Viola followed Lillian to the to bar and lingered behind her at the back of the three-deep pack. Shuffling forwards when pressed, Viola felt a tap on her shoulder. It was George, Fred’s closest friend. He raised his eyebrows, put his fist to his mouth and mimed drinking. ‘Thanks, George, two Gin and Its, please.’
Lillian cleared her throat behind Viola’s back. ‘See?’ she whispered. ‘It’ll take more than a war to stop us.’
‘Stop you,’ Viola said. ‘I have Fred to think about and besides, it’s only good old George.’
‘Well, let’s see what good old George thinks about you calling him that.’
‘No, don’t, Lil,’ Viola said. ‘At least let me have my gin first. Besides, you were the one who started it, ages ago.’
Turning, George smiled at them and pointed to a crammed table on the other side of the room, where a fair few members of the Modern Foreign Languages teaching staff, assistants and lectors were gathered.
Lillian made her way to join the others, but Viola hung back and squirmed through to George. ‘Can I help you with the drinks?’ she asked. ‘I doubt if there will be any trays available.’
‘Thanks, Vi,’ he said, strands of his dark, wavy hair sticking to his forehead. His spectacles had fogged up in the mugginess and he wiped them with care on his hand-knitted waistcoat. ‘I was going to ask Matteo to help, but as you’re here. You won’t tell Fred I’ve been using you as a packhorse, will you?’
Tears sprang into her eyes at the exact moment an elbow in her back sent her stumbling forward. ‘Ouch,’ she said, grabbing George’s jacket sleeve.
‘I felt that.’ He glowered in the direction of the man attached to the responsible limb. ‘Oh, you’re crying. That must have been some jab.’
But Viola knew her tears had nothing to do with the dig in the ribs. They were brought on by the thought that it should have been Fred’s arm she clung to for support. ‘Don’t worry about it, George,’ she said, not looking him in the eye. ‘Can’t be helped in here on a day like this.’
He reached the bar at last and reeled off his order. Handing the first two drinks to her, he smiled and told her to join the others, which she did without arguing. The floor was sticky and uneven and she watched her steps.
‘Oooh, thank you,’ said Lillian reaching for the drink as if she and Viola hadn’t been knocking it back for the best part of the day.
‘Thank George.’ Viola nodded towards their friend who was somehow carrying two glasses in each hand.
‘Here, let me.’ A young man who might have been Italian or Spanish – if his swarthy skin and dark, oily hair were anything to go by – leapt towards George to help. Viola recognised him, but they had never met.
‘Lillian, Viola.’ George nodded to each of the women in turn. ‘Matteo,’ he said gesturing towards the young man. So, Italian then.
One of the men stood and offered Viola and Lillian his chair and they squeezed into it together.
The tiny table they shared was chock-a-block with drinks and empty glasses. The pub staff seemed to be much too busy supplying alcohol rather than cleaning, but that was the least of any of their worries today – or should have been.
She looked around at the milling crowds, talking about such a critical event and yet appearing to be so confident and rather smug with themselves, their surroundings, their safety, their ideals, their rights. How long, she wondered, could it remain so? How long would the alcohol last out? And their food? Electricity, running water, institutions such as Cambridge, hospitals, medicine. How long could all of those things and more exist in their present state? A day, a month, a year… Gradually it would all be eroded away. That thought was too gloomy to dwell on. She set her drink on the table, but picked it up again right away and took a deep draught. Better make the most of things whilst she could. When someone called for another round, she didn’t hesitate.
‘What do you think, Viola?’ George was trying to get her attention. ‘Vi?’
‘Fine, as I said, George,’ Matteo, in his benign accent, answered instead. ‘Some, like you, Viola, Lillian and many others, have British passports or dual citizenship, so will, inevitably, not be worried about the department being disbanded. You will get jobs elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘But us?’
‘Vi…’ George’s eyes were imploring, as if he was determined to get her to join in. ‘Do you think the whole department will be dissolved?’
Viola thought for a moment about what Matteo was suggesting, based she guessed on the premise that the vast majority of staff in the Modern Foreign Languages department were from other countries in Europe, which indeed complicated the matter. ‘It will, of course, depend on so many factors,’ she said, making an effort to be thoughtful and measured.
Matteo spread his palms skyward, a gesture that seemed to be universally accepted to mean, but of course – that is a given. Or: please tell us something we don’t know.
‘And those being?’ George asked.
‘First and foremost must be call for the subject,’ she said. ‘If no one wants to study languages, or if there aren’t any students available to study, then the department would have to go, I suppose.’
‘That is what I mentioned,’ said Matteo, nodding his head. ‘And next there would have to be staff, like us, available to teach. But many of us are without British passports. Well…’ He shrugged again. ‘Who knows?’
‘The university may very well honour your contracts,’ said George.
‘Surely,’ said Viola, ‘that would depend on what the government decrees should happen to non-citizens.’
Matteo’s voice rose to a passionate level. ‘They will round us up like animals and pen us in together somewhere like a camp… or a prison.’
‘Steady on, old chap,’ said George. ‘I don’t think the British government would think of—’
But Matteo was in full flow, other groups close by quietening their discussions either in alarm or to listen in with curiosity. ‘But what I say is true. We will be no more use to them than that.’ He blew on his fingers and shook them as if trying to shift something distasteful. Viola pushed her chair away from the table and snatched her drink to safety. ‘They will throw away the keys and forget about us. Or worse, trade us for British citizens held in their camps.’
‘Hang on,’ George said. ‘Who are they?’
‘They,’ Matteo said, less animated now, ‘are the authorities. The government. Or governments.’
‘I think you’re speculating wildly,’ Lillian said. ‘The truth of the matter is we have no idea what is going to happen.’ She looked around the table. ‘Have we?’
But George seemed not to have heard her and continued to address Matteo. ‘Surely you’re no
t suggesting the British government would negotiate with the Germans in order to swap detainees?’
Viola interjected, ‘And if they did then Fred might…’
George looked down at his thumbs; Matteo used his hand to wipe the condensation from his glass; someone coughed and a Frenchman who had been listening in turned to greet a man at a table behind him.
Matteo opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped suddenly and rubbed his calf. ‘What was that for?’ he said, accusing George with a dark look.
Viola knew it was something to do with her. Or Fred. And she wanted to make it clear, in a general way, that although she appreciated their concern and discretion, she didn’t want anyone to adjust their thoughts and words to spare what they thought might be her discomfort. Drinking the last drop from her glass, she felt emboldened and said, ‘Oh dear, there’s something heavy hanging in the room and it needs to be aired. And that something is named Fred.’
Lillian nodded.
George slumped back and said, ‘I suppose you’re right, Vi. But we just don’t want to upset you any more than you must be already.’
‘Dear George.’ Viola raised her glass to him. ‘Dear friends.’ She saluted the others, too. ‘How compassionate and gracious all of you are. But we must continue speaking about Fred as if… as if… well, not as if he’s here but as if we are thinking of him constantly and willing him to be here.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Does that make the slightest bit of sense?’
George nodded along with Lillian and Matteo managed a thin smile.
‘I mean, none of you must be embarrassed or frightened to speak of him for fear of offending me. In fact, I want to know what you think about the situation. I need to hear your frustration and fears for him as well as yourselves. Listen, I’ll go first. Fred is in a very different position from those of you who are here on a visa or work permit. He is in Germany on his German passport.’
