A Parachute in the Lime Tree

by Annemarie Neary

  ‘But couldn’t they just come over here?’

  Abrahamson looked straight at him. ‘It’s not for want of trying. We’ve had people onto it ever since she arrived. In fact, it looked like we might be getting somewhere until this time last year, and the Germans blasted their way into Holland. I’d say that’s put the kibosh on it, for the time being anyway. No, Byrne, right now my main priority is Elsa herself. It was tougher for them over there than either of us can appreciate. It’s up to me to make sure she doesn’t suffer like that again.’ He looked levelly at Charlie. ‘You might be aware that, even in Dublin, there’s people only too happy to make problems for a Jew.’

  Charlie had never met a Jew before, much less made problems for one. He didn’t know what he was expected to say.

  ‘If our friend Esther had her way we’d have Elsa up at Dublin Castle filling in forms. Becoming Official, whatever that means. Sure you wouldn’t want to be taking any risks with officialdom. She’s grand where she is.’ He leaned over and gave Charlie a brisk pat on the leg. ‘I’m just telling you all this, Byrne, so you’ve the bit of background. So you know the score.’

  Charlie nodded, swallowed.

  ‘As for how much you should talk about the war and all that, it can be hard to know how to handle it, sometimes. There’s been no word from the parents this last while, you see. Not a dicky. Elsa is like you or me on the surface of it but life’s not easy for her.’

  There was a break in the conversation and for the first time Charlie could hear the sound of a piano in the next room. Bethel seemed unaware of it, his eyes on the carpet. Charlie looked down to try and see what was engrossing him. He seemed to be following the intricate path of one of the boughs on its tree of life pattern. Charlie began to rack his brain for something to say. ‘It’s hard lines, being far from home,’ he said at last. The longer the statement hung there, the more foolish he felt.

  Bethel looked up and gave him a half smile. ‘It is,’ he said, nodding slowly, ‘but it’s hard to get your head round, isn’t it? People scattered, like that. Not able to live with their own people in the place they were born.’

  Charlie felt inadequate, suddenly, in the face of so much turmoil. His own upbringing seemed impossibly dull and self-satisfied by comparison.

  ‘That’s a miserable state of affairs, Byrne. Living somewhere you’ve no real love for because it’s not safe for you to be anywhere else.’

  ‘So I’d imagine,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘You don’t feel that yourself, Sir, I hope?’

  Bethel looked taken aback and Charlie hoped that the question didn’t seem too personal.

  ‘Sure I’m Dublin born and bred.’

  Charlie felt clumsy, embarrassed. He felt his face redden.

  ‘But you’re right, of course, for all we’re born and bred, we’re always set apart a little bit. In these times, now, we have our worries, sure we do. Between you and me, Byrne, I’d say we’re on some list already, somewhere in Berlin. If it came to it and there was a German invasion, we’d be in the soup.’ Bethel seemed to be thinking aloud now. ‘Don’t know where we’d go if that happened. Not many places left when you boil it down. My own father, now, he left Kovno fifty years ago. From there, he went to Konigsberg, then onto Halle. Leipzig, Magdeburg, Hanover.’ He reeled off the placenames like a well-worn litany. ‘They stayed there a month or so with some relatives, then off on the road again. On again, to Amsterdam this time. He used to say sometimes that maybe he should have stayed in Amsterdam. He liked the size of the place and the canals. But he travelled further. Antwerp, though I don’t know why, and then back to Rotterdam, where he got the boat to England. A place called Hull, a port over there on the east coast. Then Leeds, then Manchester. They stayed in Manchester a long time. Some of the family still live there but our side came over to Dublin and we’ve been here ever since.’

  Charlie nodded, eager to show interest, but he could see the posy on the floor out of the corner of his eye and he was worried the flowers would have wilted by the time he got to see Elsa, whenever that might be. Bethel seemed to detect Charlie’s impatience. ‘But none of this is why you came visiting,’ he said briskly. ‘So, Byrne, you’re a medical student, then. You liking that?’

  Charlie wondered whether he should bother pretending but Bethel didn’t wait for an answer anyway. ‘In this house now, it’s music, music, music.’ That seemed to cheer him up. ‘And not just Elsa, either. She has my own two at it as well now.’ Charlie laughed along with him, wondering whether he would get to see Elsa today at all.

  Hilde nudged open the door with her shoulder. She laid a tray of tea on one of the heavy sideboards, gave Charlie a brief smile and nodded over at her husband.

  ‘Elsa’s ready for us, now,’ Bethel said. He began pouring the tea, and placed a cup and saucer on the arm of Charlie’s chair. It was all very like how his grandmother had described courting in the old days. He uttered some inanity or other and slid himself forward onto the edge of the chair in preparation. When he ran his hand around his chin, he remembered the little nick he’d made that morning, trying to shave without a mirror.

  Elsa was even smaller than he remembered. A smile flickered across her face and was gone almost before he could catch it. Charlie gripped the arms of the chair to lever himself out of it and almost knocked over the teacup in his haste. Avoiding that disaster, he managed to trample on the posy. He could tell that Elsa had taken all this in but she didn’t say anything. No one said anything for a moment.

  ‘Elsa, this is the Charles Byrne fellow I told you about. The boy who tracked you down from the Feis Ceoil.’

  He didn’t like ‘boy’. He didn’t much like ‘tracked down’ either. It began to dawn on Charlie that he really had no pretext for being there, and his cheeks flared.

  ‘Do you remember I told you Mr Byrne here has a bit of an interest in music himself?’ Bethel said.

  Put kindly enough, thought Charlie. ‘I’m in the Rathmines and Rathgar,’ he said. ‘We could do with an accompanist.’ It must have been the need to explain his presence; some urge to justify himself. Anyway, it was out before he could stop himself.

  ‘It’s light music, Elsa,’ Bethel put in. ‘An operatic society. Amateurs. Sociable fellows.’

  Charlie nodded, wondering how he was going to get out of this.

  ‘They probably need someone to help out at rehearsals. Would that be it?’ Bethel asked, clearly trying to help him along.

  ‘It would.’

  Bethel poured the tea and for a moment the room was quiet but for the clink of teaspoons.

  ‘That piece you played at the Feis,’ Charlie said. ‘Is there any chance you could give us that again? When you’ve had your tea, would you play it, maybe?’

  She gave him a quick smile, and after that he could barely keep track of what Bethel was saying about the spring this year being the worst he’d ever known it. When the tea was done the three of them trooped next door to the piano.

  As she’d done at the Feis, Elsa twisted the knobs on either side of the stool to trundle it up to the right level for her. When she turned back to the piano, her body slackened. She took a long breath and began to play. She seemed unaware of anything but the music. He didn’t recognise the piece she played but the melody sang out like the song of a bird. He found himself trying to interpret the expression in her shoulders, just as he’d tried to read that elusive look on her face the first time he saw her. When Hilde put her head round the door, Bethel got up and left the room while Elsa was still playing.

  Elsa played on for a little while and then she stopped. She sat silently, with her back to him. Charlie’s eyes leapt around the room looking for a conversation piece. When finally she turned around to face him, his cheeks were hot with the effort of appearing in control. They both started to speak at the same time.

  ‘Isn’t that a girl’s name?’ She looked at him from under her lashes, her head to one side.

  For a moment, he didn’t know what she was talking
about

  ‘Caroline. That’s how you signed your letter: Charles Caroline Byrne.’ She rolled the syllables so that they sounded incapable of being applied to anything male.

  ‘No,’ he said, flustered. ‘It’s Carolan. After Turlough O’Carolan, the blind harper. It’s a man’s name.’

  ‘Harper?’

  ‘Fellow who plays the harp, musician.’

  She looked amused. His face was burning.

  ‘Did your mother want a musician for a son?’ she asked.

  The idea had never occurred to him before.

  ‘Something different,’ he said. ‘I suppose they wanted something different.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She sat in the chair opposite him and placed her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t want to be an accompanist,’ she said.

  He felt such a great surge of relief that he must have smiled. ‘Oh that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it would be up your alley anyway. It’s Gilbert and Sullivan, mainly.’

  She wrinkled her forehead, then dismissed the whole thing with a wave of her hand.

  ‘Would you come out with me, Elsa Frankel?’ he asked quickly, in the half hope that it would slip out without her noticing. ‘We could go to a concert, if you’d like?’ He had the spring concert in mind. In the Damer Hall.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and he felt like he was stepping off an old, half-dead planet onto one that was fizzing with life.

  Reeling

  It was Friday night, and Mrs Curran stopped in her tracks as Charlie came down the stairs. ‘Begod, you’re the cat’s whiskers,’ she said. ‘Is there a dance on?’ Her behind swayed off through the living room door in its business-like way. He’d had Clark Gable in mind when it came to the hair and he hoped he hadn’t overdone the Brylcreem. He glanced at himself in the mirror and decided he’d do, then he took his bicycle clips out of the drawer in the hall stand and walked out the door.

  When he arrived at Elsa’s house, he thought he could hear the sound of girls laughing. Twittering would be a better word, he thought, like little birds. Mrs Abrahamson showed him into the front room and gave a little nod of approval as her eyes travelled from the polished toes of his shoes to the Clark Gable hair. She closed the door behind her with a little click. Moments later, there were shuffles and whispers ouside, and more of the twittering. He eased himself towards the door. When the moment was right, he dropped down suddenly so that his eye looked straight through the keyhole. The eye on the other side blinked. There was a sharp intake of breath and then the sound of muffled shrieks, feet pounding up the stairs.

  Seconds later, Elsa was in the doorway like a kind of a vision. Her hair gleamed and the ribbon was yellow tonight.

  He felt it would be rude just to leave without a word to the Abrahamsons but there was no sign of either of them. Then, just as they were moving out into the hallway, Bethel came out of the back room. ‘Take good care of her now,’ he said. He patted Elsa on the back and his hand looked like the paw of a bear against the narrow span of her shoulders.

  Charlie decided he didn’t know her well enough yet to invite her onto his crossbar, so he left his bicycle propped up against the railings. He didn’t know whether he should offer her his arm, so he didn’t. She was only as high as his shoulder but every sinew of her seemed more fully alive than most other people.

  ‘So, harp man, we’re going to hear some music?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a variety concert. It won’t be top notch, just a bit of everything.’

  He’d hoped that by understating his expectations the concert might be a pleasant surprise but the first couple of items were dreadful. First, a lady whose feet spilled out over the top of her shoes took to the stage to warble mournfully about the spring. Then, it was a trio of pale girls who sang ‘Three little maids from school are we’ and fluttered their paper fans and batted their eyelashes so ferociously it was exhausting just to watch. One girl let go in mid-flutter and her fan went flying off over the heads of the audience and landed with a clatter at the back of the hall. Maybe Nelson Eddy would have been a better bet.

  Charlie had tried to position himself so he could to see her face without gawking straight at her. As the performances went from bad to worse, he contented himself with looking at her hands. By the time they’d heard a hooting contralto, a recorder ensemble and a histrionic recitation of ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’, Charlie had plucked up the courage to lay his hand gently on top of Elsa’s. When she didn’t move it, he mustered up the courage to look at her only to find her doubled up and shaking. He was alarmed for a moment, tried to remember if they’d covered fits and convulsions yet, until he realised that she was laughing fit to burst.

  He longed for the interval. When at last it came, they stood by the wall in the foyer and drank bright-coloured minerals, and Charlie tried to find something appropriate to say.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not better,’ he said at last. ‘We don’t have to stay, you know.’

  Elsa looked horrified. ‘But of course we must stay. I would hate to leave. That spring lady, she might even have another song for us.’

  He must have looked confused because she dug him in the ribs and threw back her head and laughed and laughed. He was glad she was enjoying herself, even if he was not sure it was right to laugh at people who were only trying their best.

  Sure enough, the spring lady led the second half of the programme. She sang in Italian this time; something tragic for which she wore a feather headdress. Elsa ruffled his sleeve with delight. Next, a group of Irish dancers filed onto the stage. They stood there stiffly; black-stockinged knees raised and cross-laced feet pointed. There was a wheeze from the accordion at the side of the stage. The girls lifted their arms to form a chain and they were off. The fiddle sawed out the melody and the girls wavered across the stage. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three, one-two-three. Then curled into two circles. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Then in pairs. One-two-three, one-two-three. Elsa sat forward in her seat. She moved her head in time to the music and soon she was tapping out the rhythm on the edge of her chair. It wasn’t the kind of thing you do for Irish dancing, but no matter. He noticed a few people looking at her with curiosity and he felt proud that he was the one she was with.

  When it was all over, they walked back up towards Portobello.

  ‘What was that last one they were doing, those four girls?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, that would be an eight-hand reel,’ he said.

  For some reason she found that hilarious. When she laughed, her laugh seemed almost too big for her, as though she would snap in two with the force of it.

  The rain came down and before they knew it they were in the middle of a downpour. They sheltered in a doorway not far from Kelly’s Corner. Charlie knew they were so near Stamer Street they could almost make a run for it but he didn’t want to leave the stillness of the doorway. He couldn’t bear the thought of saying good night. She’d only a light cardigan on, so he took off his jacket to drape it over her shoulders. Her hair was drenched now, hanging in rats’ tails down her back, but she still looked beautiful, even though she was paler than any girl he’d ever seen. He wondered would she be offended if he asked about her iron intake. He realised that this was not the moment to mention it, but made a mental note to remember to talk to her about her diet.

  ‘Let’s dance in the rain,’ she said suddenly.

  He wished she wouldn’t do that to his jacket, but before he knew it she was whirling him around. Round and round in the pouring rain. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three, one-two-three. She was light as a feather and threw her head back and laughed at his clumsy, scooping clodhopper of a waltz. He was a little offended, until he realised that she was enjoying herself hugely with him. The laughing was nothing to take offence at.

  Maybe next time a dance would be the thing, and maybe by then he’d feel he knew her well enough for the crossbar. The rain had eas
ed off by the time they got to the bridge. They were just turning the corner to walk home along the canal when he heard the hollering, like an Indian war cry: the type of sound you make when you’re a little boy climbing a tree and you fan your hand back and forward over your mouth.

  ‘Charlie Byrne.’

  There were two figures in the road in front of them. He noticed that Elsa had slipped a little behind him.

  ‘Charlie Byrne. You’re a dark horse, boy.’

  As they got closer, Charlie realised it was Bobby Coyle, drunk. The other fellow was an old schoolfriend of Bobby’s he’d met once or twice in O’Neill’s, a civil servant of some sort. They were both in their LDF uniforms.

  ‘Come here to me, Byrne, and show me your young lady. Don’t be shy, now, she’s a fine-looking girl. Isn’t that a fine-looking girl, Sullivan?’

  Charlie sensed Elsa move closer to him. He reached out and took her hand. When he caught her eye, he realised that she was trying to interpret the situation from his own reactions, so he did his best to smile at Bobby. ‘This is Miss Elsa Frankel,’ he said.

  Bobby looked over at Sullivan and made a face. Sullivan tittered like a girl. ‘Was that a reel you were attempting, Elsie?’

  Elsa turned into Charlie’s shoulder and he put his arm round her in response. ‘Leave her be, Bobby, she doesn’t understand a word you say.’

  ‘So, you’re not a Corkwoman then, Elsie?’ said Bobby. He and Sullivan collapsed in laughter. Sullivan was wrapped round the lamppost at his friend’s wit, clapping his hand on his thigh. ‘You’re some fella, Bobby. No bout adoubt it.’

  But Bobby wasn’t listening. ‘What name, did you say? Rankin? Franklin?’

  Elsa said nothing but her grip was tightening on Charlie’s arm. He put his hand on hers, rubbing it in what he hoped was a reassuring kind of way, but she gripped tighter still.

  By now, Sullivan was recovering from his laughing fit. ‘You’re a right dark horse, Byrne. Where’ve you been hiding this one? A bit backward in coming forward isn’t she, Byrne? A dark horse like your man, are you Elsie?’