by Esther Freud
John shuffled and turned to look at his car, waiting neatly on a meter. ‘There was something I wanted him to sign.’
I offered to take it in to him, sitting on the flat top of the gatepost to show that I was quite prepared to wait.
As soon as John drove away, beeping as he turned the corner, my father appeared at the door. He looked out, nervous as a bird, and grinned over at me. ‘I thought he’d never go away.’ He took the clean brown envelope that John had given me, tucking it under his arm as if he’d been expecting it.
I had to help him find his glasses. We trawled through magazines, searched under towels and found them in a saucer of dried paint. Sonny started to grizzle. I held him up to the mirror and watched him beam into his eyes. ‘Now you see him,’ I swept him away, ‘now you don’t.’ He gave a throaty chuckle, like a rude old man. ‘Now you see him –’ But I was interrupted by my father scrabbling and cursing as he began a new search for a pen.
‘What’s it about?’
‘The same old thing,’ he muttered, plucking up a biro with a splintered side. ‘Gaglow.’ And I watched, delighted as he set his signature, scrawling across the blank space for his name.
By the time we settled down to sit, the sky was clouding over. It was a thick August afternoon with warm fat drops threatening to fall, and Sonny, whose sleep had been delayed, sank heavily against my arm.
It was impossible to imagine what more there was to do. I had a slanting view, too close and harsh, but even from there the picture looked quite finished. My father stared at it, a brush clenched in one hand, and I waited, the breath short in my throat, for him to come to some decision. He looked from me to it and then to Sonny, his face all strained and burrelled up with pain, and then he stood back, nodding. He mixed new paint in a flurry of activity, and as he stepped forward, raised up on his toes, I saw that he was working on the yellow plaster, uncovered, just above my head. Sonny only sleeps for forty minutes now, I wanted to tell him, but I kept quiet, tense with concentration, feeling my part in the way the paint went on. ‘Is it warm enough?’ he asked, as the rain splashed sideways against the glass, and two lights had to be switched on above our heads.
I nodded and tucked the towelling corners tight around the baby’s feet, feeling his padded palm for warmth. I loved the rain. The sound of it thudding against glass and the day-time gold of the electric light mixing in with grey. I could lie like this for ever, and then I remembered that in another ten minutes my hip would start to ache, and by the end of the afternoon I would be wrung out and miserable with trying to keep still. Natasha had shrieked with triumph when I said the painting needed one last go. ‘What if you had a life?’ she teased me. ‘What would you do then?’
And Kate had taken pity on us all. ‘Sarah and Sonny are the only ones he has left, now we’ve both retired from the modelling world.’ And she laughed and said, ‘So he does need his family, after all.’
I closed my eyes and waited, resting while I had the chance, and when I glanced back at the picture I saw the plaster wall exactly as before. There it was, pale yellow, but now I could see into it, behind it. Green and gold and blue. I could even tell that it had been there for a hundred years. I smiled and wondered what I was going to do if I held firm against another picture. I’d written notes to call my agent, week after week, but had never managed to pick up the phone. It didn’t seem worth leaving Sonny for a three-month tour of Don’t Forget Your Trousers. Even if I was lucky enough to get a part.
I lay so still and waited for so long that eventually my father had to suggest a break. It was something I knew he hated to do. He liked to hold up his strength against yours and win. I pulled on the dressing gown quickly to show I was relieved.
‘Did I tell you about the Belgard curse?’ He had gone through to the kitchen and was peering into the envelope to check the papers were still there.
‘No.’ I was half listening out for Sonny, sleeping through the break. ‘What kind of curse?’
‘The woman my uncle married, the prostitute, she was so incensed about the wedding not being grand enough, not taking place at Gaglow as she wished, that she put a curse on the family.’
I felt a small electric shiver run under the skin. ‘For some reason she turned on my grandfather, Wolfgang, blaming him particularly. Not long afterwards he died.’
‘Wait one minute,’ I said, and raced into the studio to check that Sonny hadn’t rolled off on to the floor. He was awake, staring at the window, watching squashed drops of water rolling down the glass. I scooped him up and brought him through. ‘How did he die? Was it immediate?’ And I imagined the long crook of her finger, striking him down.
‘It’s possible she was a gypsy or something,’ my father said, ‘or she came from the South. But I’m not quite sure how he died.’
‘So she wasn’t Jewish?’
‘God, no.’
I laughed. I’d always assumed my father had been the first to look outside his faith.
‘What I’ve been meaning to ask,’ I remembered quickly while he was in the mood, ‘is, tell me about Bina.’
‘The loathsome Bina?’
‘Yes. I mean, was she really so terrible?’
My father thought for a while. ‘Absolutely.’ It was how he liked things to be.
‘But why? There must be some reason.’
I expected a sharp look, a warning to cut out the cod analysis, but he was nodding, mulling over some forgotten news. ‘You know the story about Van Gogh?’
I wasn’t sure. I imagined I did, assuming it was the ancient one about his ear.
‘Well, there was another Vincent who died when he was very young, beautiful, perfect, a blessing to his parents in all ways, and so of course the new Vincent Van Gogh was meant simply as a replacement.’
‘Poor thing. He didn’t stand a chance.’
‘It happens surprisingly often. Well, that’s what happened in my mother’s family. There was another child, who died after six months. Also called Bina. But, of course, it didn’t work. I think when the second Bina was born my grandmother, Marianna, went into a decline, went off to a health spa, could hardly look at her. She was brought up by some governess or other.’
‘How terrible.’
To my surprise he put the kettle on for a second cup of tea.
‘I don’t think she ever knew.’
‘Really?’
‘My grandmother told my mother, right at the very end, just before she died. I remember them crying together, holding hands.’ The kettle whistled as it reached the boil, and as if remembering himself he switched it off and ordered us back to work.
The remainder of the afternoon turned into a struggle. Sonny had woken up refreshed, wanting to be entertained. He wanted to be rocked and kissed and played with, shown the view and taken for a walk. I sang to him as he lay beside me, introduced him to his toes, and wondered why we were needed there at all while layer after peeling layer of plaster went on above our heads.
When we finally got out, the rain had stopped. The clouds were thin and scattered and the sodden heads of flowers lay strewn across the street. I noticed the first fallen leaves burnt brown against the puddles and, breathing in the city smell of raspberry, hot against wet walls, I walked on past my bus stop. Shrubs and bushes were bursting out on to the street, cleared of their dust, and I brushed them with my shoulder to shake the last glass drops of rain against my face. And then the sun came out, streaking the pavement pearl, and the glint of it on the curved roof of a postbox reminded me of the Gaglow letter I’d promised to post. Without slowing I rummaged for it in my bag, hoping to slide it in as I walked past, but the envelope was too wide for the slot and I had to stop and curve it round to make it fit. I could bend it carefully so that it might unfurl in the wide inside without creasing, but as I stopped to free up both my hands I noticed the address. It was a street above Camden Town and I realized that simply by staying on my bus for several extra stops, I could deliver it myself. I pushed the envelope back
into my bag and, glancing behind me to check I hadn’t been observed, walked quickly on.
The door was answered by a woman. She had soft grey hair cut into a square, and fragile arms and legs. ‘I have something to give to Johann . . .’ I glanced down at the name ‘. . . John Godber.’
‘John,’ the lady called, ‘John.’
He trod slowly through, ignoring her urgency, and only startling when he saw me. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I held out the envelope, ‘but I was passing so I brought you this.’
‘Of course, how kind,’ and he insisted, as I’d hoped he would, that I come in.
‘This is Sarah.’ He opened his eyes wide at his wife. ‘Michael’s daughter.’ I could tell from the angle of her head that she’d been told.
Their house was cool and comfortable, and he laid the envelope on a table of dark wood. ‘This is my wife, Elisabeth.’ John introduced us, and she clucked and kissed the air at Sonny as she went out for a tray of tea.
We sat in silence as the pot was left to brew.
‘So you live nearby?’John asked, and I nodded, saying quickly that I was taking the baby to look at other children on the Heath.
‘Do you have children?’ I asked, and he told me eagerly that they had three, two sons and a daughter, and together they began counting off grandchildren proudly on their hands.
‘And this is your first child?’ Elisabeth asked.
‘Yes, my first.’ I knew that my ringless finger had been caught as I came through the door, and it made the questions stop up politely in their throats.
‘You do look like your grandmother.’ They turned to each other, relieved to have found a subject on which they both felt safe. ‘Very like dear Eva.’ Agreeing, they spent the next ten minutes nodding over it while I kept my head lowered so that they might see the uncanny similarity of our chins.
‘And as for this little fellow,’ Elisabeth stretched out her arms to him, ‘he looks . . . ?’ We all stared into the wheat and cornflower of Sonny’s smiling face.
‘Just like his father,’ I explained, and they both laughed, accepting that I had found a civil way to introduce him. ‘He’s an actor.’ It seemed my duty to explain. ‘Working away.’ And I smiled, twisting my mouth against the sudden knot of pain. The envelope was lying where I’d left it, smooth and brown across the swirls of polish. ‘Is everything nearly sorted out?’ I turned the conversation, and without meaning to I stumbled. ‘My father tells me you went back to Germany, to Gaglow.’
John frowned as he took a long swallow of tea. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘We both went,’ Elisabeth said, and she laid a hand on his arm.
I lifted Sonny onto my knee. It gave me confidence, having him in my arms, and quickly, before the moment passed, I asked John, ‘Do you think, before the place is sold, I might go and visit?’
He looked surprised. He turned and pulled the envelope towards him. ‘Of course.’ He flicked quickly through the contents. ‘After all, it was Eva, your grandmother, who loved it best.’
‘What . . . how would I go about it?’ I asked, as I stood up. And he wrote down his telephone number and said that I should call him when I’d decided on the date.
‘Thank you so much.’ I smiled. ‘It was nice to meet you.’ They both waved at me as I pushed Sonny off along the street.
In order not to cheat them I walked up on to Parliament Fields, stopping to watch the last children prancing, like small horses, back and forth across the bright blue paddling pool. The sun was sinking, dusty again and hot, and the grass on the great swoop of the Heath had turned to hay.
I walked slowly up under the avenue of trees, pushing against the path, avoiding bicycles and joggers, whole families laden down with rugs, and then with one last open stretch of hill I came out on the top. A small cluster of people, panting and amazed, were all looking out over London, identifying the Post Office tower, the green dome of St Paul’s. I stood with them, taking in the still, high air, and then I turned and looked the other way. The hill dipped down and up again to a thin circle of pines, and in the distance I could see the reedy edges of the row of lakes. There were no buildings here and no sights, nothing to break the view, but in the distance, just below my breath, I could still hear the roar of city noise.
‘Pam?’ I had to call out to her through the shield of her machine. ‘I know you’re there.’ And, breathless, she picked up the phone. ‘Pam . . .’ I started, but she hissed at me that it wasn’t a good time.
‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Pam.’ I tried to warn her, but she didn’t want any of my words, and still whispering my meaning, I was cut off.
I didn’t hear from her until the next day. ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know,’ I said.
But she was adamant that the news was good. ‘Listen, he’s not an actor.’
‘Not . . . an . . . actor?’
‘Can you believe it?’
‘Not really. What’s the catch?’
There was an ominous pause. ‘He’s an accountant.’
I couldn’t think what she meant.
‘He’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘Every morning he wakes up at eight and goes straight off to work, and when he’s finished he’s all happy and lighthearted and wants to meet up for a drink. It’s quite amazing.’
‘But, isn’t . . . isn’t he . . . ?’
‘What? Boring?’ she answered for me. ‘I’m forgetting, you never met Bradly Teale.’ And we both laughed, relieved that he was over with.
‘Listen,’ I said, once she’d calmed down, ‘have you thought any more about our holiday?’
I could tell she hadn’t. ‘How would you feel about going to Germany? You know, just for a few days.’
‘Germany?’
‘There’s this house there, in the country.’
‘The country?’
And before I’d even explained about the attic bedrooms and the lake, the rose garden and the steep, straight drive up to the porch, I knew that she’d lost interest.
‘The thing is Alan might be going away on business.’
‘Alan?’ And I pretended Sonny had been sick right down my dress and that I’d call her back when I had time.
‘Oh, Mum.’ I lay prostrate under her plum tree while she sat with Sonny, introducing him to her fish. ‘I haven’t got anyone to go away with.’
‘What about Kate? Or Natasha.’
‘Yes.’ But neither of them had a break coming up for months and I needed to go now.
‘I’d come with you,’ she said, fluffing Sonny’s hair into a spike, ‘but I’m going to a conference about websites, and then I’ve got a great build-up of work.’
‘It’s such bad luck,’ I said sulkily, looking up into the sticky branches of the tree. ‘Maybe I’ll just go off on my own.’
‘You should,’ she said, ‘it’ll do you good.’ And she handed Sonny back.
When I left the travel agent I was trembling with the shock. I’d used one of Mike’s cheques to buy the ticket. A four-day return to Berlin and a slip of a ticket for Sonny at a fraction of the price. I would have liked to go for longer. If I was on my own, I told myself, but I knew that if I’d been on my own I wouldn’t have had the courage to go at all.
That night I sent off my passport to have the baby added. I marked the envelope Urgent, and explained that I was leaving in ten days’ time. I danced around the room with the tickets in my hand, wondering whom I could tell. Sonny was sick of hearing about it. He lay on his back with his legs in the air, looking with amazement at his toes. And then I thought I’d better call John.
‘Mr Godber? Hello. It’s me, it’s Sarah Linder.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He sounded distant, as if he only just remembered who I was.
‘I’ve decided to go, definitely. The week after next. To Gaglow.’ And it was only then that I stopped to ask if I’d called at a bad time.
‘It’s just my wife,’ he faltered. ‘Elisabeth. She’s unwell.’
‘I’m so sorry.�
�� I held the phone too hard against my ear, desperate for the words. ‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you.’
‘It’s all right.’ He sounded vague, as if his strength was all used up with worry.
‘I’ll call back another time.’ I heard him fumbling to replace the phone.
I sat with my head in my hands. ‘I don’t have to go,’ I told myself. ‘I don’t have to go.’ But somehow I felt I did.
Chapter 19
Eva and Martha agreed that someone should force Kaiser Wilhelm to put an end to the war. But Bina was adamant, insisting that every surviving man be called upon to force a great last fight. ‘I thought you longed to have a revolution,’ Eva taunted her. ‘It’s what Schu-Schu would have wanted.’
‘A revolution.’ Martha was flushed and afraid, and she recounted how a group of officers, returning to the front, had been forced out of their train and made to return home. ‘The soldiers threatened them with hand grenades,’ she said, biting hard into her lip. And she wondered if it could really be true that the Emperor of Austria had run away, taking with him the Crown Jewels and followed by eighteen buses full of furniture.
‘It’s true, it’s true.’ Eva stood up, ‘I heard it in the street.’ And then, remembering what she had also heard, she sat down again. ‘There are people breaking into the big houses,’ she whispered. ‘Raiding them for food. Some families are slipping off in the middle of the night, taking anything that they can carry.’ And she had a sudden image of the Samson girls balancing a crate of soft white rolls between them.
‘Well, they won’t find anything at Gaglow,’ Martha said sadly.
‘No, they won’t find anything, not even ice.’ And Eva wondered how Manu would escape if he was hiding, like Gruber, in the ice-house cellar.
It was Dolfi who came in with the news. ‘The Kaiser has abdicated!’ Her face was bright red, her mouth delighted.
Marianna found that tears were in her eyes, but Wolf jumped up and struggled to pull open the window. He leaned out into the street and watched the stream of people marching solidly, the gold of girls’ uncovered heads bobbing in the sun. Soldiers carried long red flags, and in the bright November sunshine children played, whooping on the fringes of the crowd. Wolf looked quickly at his daughters and, touching his wife’s hand to let her know, he slipped away. ‘Wolf,’ Marianna called, but the front door had slammed, and instead they hung out of the windows to try to find him in the crowd.
