House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  Yet despite his girth, his movements were quick and light. Had a woman been tempted to dance with him, she would have discovered him to be quick-footed and musical. Perhaps, as a legacy of the horrors of the Jew-hunts that he and Albert had been subjected to at school at Harrow, he’d learned to conceal himself in small spaces, unnoticed. Imagining others’ disgust, he avoided company whenever possible and, when forced into it, he said little, until it was universally acknowledged that Clement Goldbaum was extremely fat and extremely shy. He did not wish to subject others to either of these weaknesses (and his father made it abundantly clear that they were both failings of character), so he politely declined all suggestions of marriage. When his mother had suggested he might consider Greta Goldbaum, of the Vienna Goldbaums, as a wife, he had intimated that his younger brother Albert would be a much more suitable match.

  That morning Clement sat opposite Greta in the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost specially commissioned in gold, ready to join the parade through Temple village. It was everything that he loathed: to be displayed before the public in a festooned open-topped car: the grotesque son and heir. He heard their hisses of mirth, whether or not they voiced them. Though as the church bells rang out in celebration, Clement began to regret his decision, but he was amused by Greta’s rapture at the decorations and carnival atmosphere.

  ‘Look, look,’ she said, pointing to the multitude of Union Flags fluttering above each shop and clutched in countless small hands, weaving in the wind like shoals of tropical fish.

  Greta sat beside Albert, their knees carefully not touching. She looked fetching in a yellow summer dress and white cotton gloves, clasping to her side a furled umbrella, which would reveal a vast and resplendent Union Flag, when opened. She’d demonstrated it to them after breakfast, sending flying a coffee pot and three rounds of toast and marmalade.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I had it specially made. I should have liked a petticoat to match,’ she’d announced.

  Albert had not remarked on the umbrella, merely venturing drily that he was glad she had restrained herself regarding the petticoat.

  ‘I’m an Englishwoman now, you see,’ Greta declared, polishing the ivory handle. ‘And this fabulous umbrella declares me so.’

  Albert muttered to Clement, seated beside him in the motor car, that in fact it did quite the opposite. No English lady – Goldbaum or not – would sport such a garish item.

  Greta apparently decided not to hear her husband’s remark, and in any case the crowd adored the umbrella. The drizzle began and, as Greta unfurled it, displaying its bold silken stripes, the crowd pointed and hollered and cheered. She smiled and waved back, twirling the brolly round and round between her hands, and Clement decided she looked the happiest he’d seen her since her arrival at Temple Court. As a man who’d spent most of his life duelling loneliness with games of chess, he recognised the symptoms in others. He also knew that Albert, for all his good looks and the way that smiling women rushed at him during the season, was not good at noticing unhappiness in others. Yet despite his rigidity, Albert was not entirely unfeeling. Clement, hopelessly bullied at school, would often find a small beetle or moth inside his pillowcase tucked in tissue paper, and he would understand that this was not a further act of cruelty from his tormentors, but a piece of tenderness from his brother, who knew that he himself would have been infinitely comforted by sleeping on a rufous-minor moth or a rhinoceros beetle. Clement could only hope that one day Greta would find beetles tucked beneath her pillow.

  After the parade Greta, Albert and Clement lingered on the loggia sipping champagne, toasting His Majesty and looking out across the gardens, the low hedges like emerald beads in a necklace around the throat of the chateau. The leaves glistened now from the recent rain, a haze of steam rising from the ground so that it appeared unreal, otherworldly in its perfection.

  Servants hastily dried the terrace and furniture, bringing out cushions and rounds of cucumber sandwiches. Clement ate, while Albert and Greta talked at him with such animation and focus that they did not need to address one another.

  ‘So colourful! Such a crowd, didn’t you think, Clement?’ enthused Greta. ‘It’s wonderful to have a young king. It breathes vitality into a nation. Our Emperor,’ she corrected herself. ‘The Austrian emperor is so very old.’

  His mouth full of sandwich, Clement nodded.

  ‘Yes, it all went off jolly well. All we have to endure now is luncheon and the sporting afternoon.’

  ‘And the meat tea,’ added Albert without relish.

  ‘A meat tea?’ asked Greta, turning not to her husband but to Clement.

  Clement smiled. ‘In England events of great significance, like funerals, christenings and coronations, are marked by a ham tea. I believe,’ said Clement, warming to his explanation, an expert on all matters food-related, ‘that traditionally the ham is served so pink and finely sliced that a newspaper could be read through the meat. Not that I’ve tried,’ he added, a shade disappointed.

  ‘How funny,’ said Greta. ‘And you serve a ham tea here?’ she asked, intrigued.

  ‘No. Here on the Temple estate, the ham is quietly replaced with rather more thickly sliced roast beef. No one has ever objected. The “ham tea” has simply been renamed the “meat tea”. We might not attend the church service to celebrate His Majesty, but since we’re funding the celebratory tea for the entire village as well as those on the estate – nearly twelve hundred people in all – our absence has been overlooked,’ he added with a wry smile.

  ‘Who knows how long we shall be able to continue?’ Albert commented. ‘Within a generation we’ll be taxed beyond such acts of generosity. It’s the charities that’ll suffer, the hospitals and free schools and the widows, no matter what they say.’

  Clement sighed. ‘Albert, Father isn’t here. There’s no need to pontificate and echo his opinions. He can’t hear you.’

  Albert turned to his brother, his expression furious. ‘My views are my own.’

  ‘In that case, let me reassure you, there will still be money for sandwiches.’

  They remained in an irritable silence for some minutes. A robin landed beside Clement and began to peck at the crumbs on his plate. They sat perfectly still and watched the jerking dance of the tiny bird.

  ‘Little schnorrer,’ muttered Greta with a smile. ‘That’s what Otto used to call the sparrows that thieved at breakfast.’

  ‘At Temple Court we try to avoid speaking Yiddish,’ said Albert coldly.

  Greta bit her lip and looked out over the parterre, her expression blank and unseeing, despite the glories of the garden. Albert cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s nearly twelve. We ought to ready ourselves to greet our guests.’

  With Lady Goldbaum absent, this was Greta’s first occasion as hostess of Temple Court. A dozen of the country’s second-best were to join them for luncheon, the younger sons and lesser baronets whose titles weren’t sufficient to allow them to attend the coronation at Westminster Abbey.

  ‘It will all go off splendidly,’ Clement said softly, trying to reassure her.

  ‘I’m not worried,’ answered Greta with a smile. ‘Everyone is kind to a bride. They only want to look at her and say how well she appears. I have at least a year in which I may say and do anything.’

  Albert, catching this last remark, turned and contemplated his wife with some anxiety.

  ‘Within reason, my dear,’ he admonished.

  He seemed to exist in a state of permanent embarrassment, waiting for her to say or do something unbecoming. His expectations lay before her like snares ready to snap, whenever she disappointed him.

  After a hot and dismal luncheon, they were driven out into Temple Court’s park. The sea was close, but not visible, instead lending a temperate climate that enabled delicate and exotic plants to thrive. For the most part, nature was not allowed to intrude unless it was imported from elsewhere: the tropical birds in the aviary with their extravagant fascinators, and the family of flami
ngos that fished forlornly in the river, as though they’d missed their train home from their holiday and were now marooned.

  They motored along the driveway that snaked for three miles, edged with rhododendrons and camellias, alighting at the edge of the park, ready for the culmination of the day’s celebration: the village races. They walked in pairs, the ladies sheltering under white parasols. Greta walked beside her husband, her gloved hand resting on his arm. Clement could not help observing that they did not exchange a single word with one another during the entire ten-minute stroll.

  The party ambled to where a vast marquee had been constructed at the far end of the park, large enough to seat all twelve hundred guests invited for the meat tea.

  ‘It’s quite a spread,’ remarked one of the gentlemen.

  ‘The Goldbaums look after their tenants,’ replied Clement.

  ‘Is it true you bring coffee and rolls to the farm workers at eleven o’clock each morning?’

  ‘Don’t you like coffee and something sweet at eleven?’ enquired Albert.

  ‘Well, yes… ’

  ‘There you are then,’ replied Albert. ‘Wait, look!’

  He pointed to where a brilliant blue butterfly rested on the side of the marquee, its wings iridescent against the white canvas.

  ‘A male Adonis Blue,’ murmured Albert, reaching into his pocket. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve never seen one here. It must have flown across the Solent, all the way from the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘Or perhaps it caught a lift on a skiff,’ said Greta. ‘It’s here for the party.’

  Albert produced a small collecting jar, opening the lid like glass jaws.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Greta.

  ‘I don’t have a male Adonis Blue. Only a female,’ said Albert.

  He reached out, but before he could catch it, Greta snatched the butterfly, cupping it in her palms, and released it out of the side of the tent.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Greta,’ said Albert, profoundly annoyed.

  ‘It’s a visitor. We must be hospitable to our guests.’

  Albert turned away, muttering in irritation about the whimsy of children and women.

  The games were about to commence. White lines had been painted on the flattest part of the grass, and the vicar stood in sunhat and dog collar clutching a notepad, calling out the title of the latest race: ‘Men under forty, seventy-yard sprint.’ The gamekeeper fired the starting gun and they were off. The villagers cheered and whooped, the ladies clapped in their white cotton gloves. Half a dozen races went off in the same manner: ‘Men over forty, half-mile dash’; ‘Egg-and-spoon race’; ‘Boys under fourteen’; ‘Single ladies’ sprint, one hundred yards’; ‘Married women’s race, seventy yards’.

  ‘Oh, I should like to join in that one! Wouldn’t that be fun?’ said Greta, scrambling up from her chair and removing her shoes. Any moment she would be hitching up her skirts above her ankles.

  Albert, who had barely looked at his wife, now strode over and whispered something in her ear. She shook him off.

  ‘You don’t know everything,’ she said, loud enough that everyone could hear. ‘They liked the umbrella, even though you didn’t approve. I might even win. And they will like it, if I run.’

  ‘But I will not.’

  Albert seized her arm and pulled her towards the back of the awning. Greta had only succeeded in removing one of her shoes and she stumbled, off-balance. Albert held her up, his fingers tight around her arm.

  ‘I forbid it. You will sit and you will watch.’

  The guests all chattered loudly, remarking to one another upon the weather with forced interest. Greta sat in her chair with one shoe on and one shoe off, and removed her shawl so that the red marks from Albert’s grip were clearly visible along the white flesh of her arm. She did not cry, simply stared ahead, furious, unseeing and unhappy. Albert crouched beside her, pressing a glass of water into her hand, murmuring apologies. He hadn’t meant to hurt or embarrass her. He simply didn’t wish her to make a spectacle of herself. Things were different here. He was terribly sorry. Greta pushed the water away, and Albert, not ready to take it, fumbled the glass so that the contents spilled all over his trousers. He stood, infuriated. Greta did not apologise. Albert stalked away and made conversation with his guests.

  Clement had never seen his brother being angry or unkind. Up until now he’d been puzzled by the cool antipathy that existed between Albert and Greta. From that moment on, he was worried.

  Clement sought out his mother the evening she returned from London after the coronation festivities. Lady Goldbaum’s private sitting room looked out beyond the parterre to the green shadow of her rhododendron walks. She declined to have her suite furnished with the same quality of carpets and paintings as the rest of the house, preferring the curtains and shutters to be left open to see her shrubs. Those were her treasures. Clement found her seated at her dressing table, supposedly attending her toilette, but actually reading a letter.

  ‘Julian Stein has sent me some seeds from his expedition to China. Look at that colour.’

  It was of a cerise rhododendron blossom that looked to him like any of the countless bushes she’d planted, but he also knew that, from the outside, one game of chess looks very much like another.

  She kept up an enormous correspondence with dozens of adventurers across the globe, assisting financially with their expeditions, asking only for seeds, cuttings and voluminous descriptions in return.

  ‘Well, darling,’ said his mother, reaching for his hand, ‘it’s always a pleasure, but did you need something?’

  Clement smiled. After being in Greta’s company, he was aware for the first time in years of his mother’s slight German accent. Once upon a time she too had been a young Goldbaum bride sent from the continent to marry an unknown Englishman. His parents were resolutely unalike, yet after more than quarter of a century together they shared a bemused affection for one another, even if they shared nothing else.

  ‘I don’t believe Greta is happy,’ said Clement.

  ‘And Albert?’

  Clement shook his head.

  Lady Goldbaum sighed and set down her letter, rhododendrons for once forgotten. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. But I’m not terribly sure what I can do, my darling.’

  Clement took his mother’s hand and kissed it affectionately. ‘I know you’ll think of something, you always do.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ replied his mother. ‘Do I?’

  Lady Goldbaum took Greta for a walk before dinner. It had been another hot day and the air hummed with insects. They walked briskly through the arboretum, the damp air full of unfamiliar smells.

  ‘These are mostly plants from the Himalaya,’ said Lady Goldbaum. ‘I might never see the mountains myself, but I like to think I’ve visited them in my own way. Wait until next spring. A camellia and rhododendron garden sleeps for most of the year, but in April and May,’ she stopped walking for a moment and clapped her hands in joy, ‘wunderbar! It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.’

  Greta noted that Lady Goldbaum wore stout leather boots, sensible rather than elegant. She was sure-footed and walked fast, so that soon Greta was trotting to keep up. Lady Goldbaum was attractive, her skin lightly weathered from hours spent outdoors. She was of average height with mousy brown hair, turning to grey at the temples, and bright, intelligent eyes. She listened rather than spoke. Her tastes, except in plants, were frugal for a Goldbaum, and during the day Greta had never seen her wear any jewellery other than her wedding ring.

  Swallows surfed the skies, while faint streaks of white clouds blemished the bold summer blue. They reached the edge of the park, where the huddles of trees and managed wilderness gave way to farmland in the west, and the Fontmell river and eventually the Solent to the south-east. Greta had only ventured this far once before, when Albert took her to show her what was to be their new house, and again she felt the closeness of the Solent before she saw it: gulls screamed overhead and the air began to smell
different.

  Lady Goldbaum held back ivy and more prickled ropes of brambles and blackthorn so that Greta could pass. Greta stung her ankles on a bed of nettles, feeling a blister bloom on her toe. Glancing at her mother-in-law, she noticed a fine sheen above her lip, which she did not bother to mop with her handkerchief. Albert had not inherited his fastidiousness from his mother.

  They emerged from the huddle of trees like swimmers into the open air. They stood at the edge of a vast field of grass, blueish in the late-afternoon light and dotted here and there with scarlet poppies like spatters of crimson paint. A knot of cornflowers wobbled in the breeze, while great streaks of bright-yellow buttercups striped the field in broad, loose strokes. Somewhere a curlew called. At the far edge of the grass snaked a black river, wide and smooth.

  ‘As far as the river, all this is yours,’ said Lady Goldbaum. ‘Your wedding present.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a hundred acres. You can have more, if you come to need it, but I think a hundred is a good beginning for a garden.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about gardens.’

  ‘Well then, you’d better learn.’

  Greta looked around the spot, taking in the sea of grass, the damp meadows beside the river and the dark huddles of trees.

  ‘Fontmell Abbey is behind that copse. The house is for you and Albert to rebuild together. But the garden is yours alone.’

  They pushed their way through the scrub, and Greta saw nestled in the bend of the dark river the small honey-coloured manor of local stone.

  ‘Of course you’ll need to knock it down and build something quite new, to your own and Albert’s taste. But the views are charming.’

  Greta blinked, as the sun sheering off the water dazzled her. Her skin felt tight and a little burned. Lady Goldbaum turned to her.

  ‘Don’t think about Albert. Don’t think about marriage. Think only of your garden. I didn’t like it here at first. My English wasn’t half so good as yours. I didn’t like the food or the climate, and I wasn’t so sure about my husband, either. But my English improved, we hired a better chef, and I discovered the climate is excellent for rhododendrons.’