‘I shall do no such thing,’ said Albert. ‘I don’t trust you in the least.’
Henri laughed.
Lulled by the rhythm of the road, Albert fell asleep, waking only as they drew up outside the airfield. He opened his window and showed his papers to the guard on duty. It was dark, the stillness broken only by the far-off rattle of the guns. The guard returned after a few minutes and opened the barrier, waving them through. After he stopped the car, the driver raced round to open the doors for his two passengers. Albert and Henri stood on the silent airfield, glancing round at the half-dozen or so planes. A small shed stood at one end. Henri shivered. Albert drew his coat under his ears and walked quickly to the shed, Henri behind him. Albert opened the door and the smell of sweat, engine oil and sleeping bodies spilled out into the night air.
‘Hello,’ called Albert. ‘I need Goldfinch made ready.’ He turned to Henri. ‘There’s no need for you to wait.’
Henri grinned. ‘Wouldn’t miss it. I want to see you fly.’
Albert shrugged. They sat for some time, finishing the brandy and watching as a pair of engineers pushed to the start of the little runway the aeroplane, a Sopwith Camel painted dark blue instead of army green, with small wooden struts separating the wings of the biplane, and a soaring goldfinch painted on the tip of each wing.
They waited until a watery dawn light began to seep along the edge of the sky. Albert stood and an engineer approached with Albert’s leathers, hat and flying goggles. The two men shook hands and exchanged a few words. Henri watched as Albert climbed into the Sopwith and the engineers cranked the propellers.
‘Don’t fly too close to the sun,’ shouted Henri. Albert waved back cheerily, unable to hear over the din. It made an awful clatter and, Henri considered, it looked faintly comical as it trundled along the runway, like a novice bird fresh from the nest on a maiden flight. Then it was up and scrabbling towards the clouds, the orange light of dawn catching the gilding of the goldfinch on its wing and briefly transforming it into a blazing phoenix. He was relieved to have the telegram in his possession no longer and felt unimaginably lighter.
‘Monsieur?’ said an engineer, calling to him from the bunk shed.
Henri turned.
‘We have a pilot returning to Paris in a two-seater. Would you like to join him?’
Henri smiled and then shrugged. ‘Why not,’ he said.
He glanced back up at the sky, but Albert’s plane had gone. The sky was empty except for the tidal drift of the clouds.
HAMPSHIRE, JANUARY
They quietly dropped the word ‘Finishing’ from the Fontmell branch of the ‘Miss Hathaway’s Gardening School for Women’. Greta instructed that one of the potting sheds be transformed into a makeshift classroom, where they set up half a dozen chairs, and while Ursula or Winifred spoke about acidity and soil types or the effect of sea air there was rapt attention, accompanied by the rhythmic suckling of several babies. Greta wanted the classes to be practical and for the mothers to bring their babies along – to the kitchen gardens or the glasshouses for demonstrations on planting out seed potatoes or the propagation of sweet peas.
The take-up for the school was not what Greta had hoped for – they did not have space for whole families, and those women with other children vanished back to London as soon as they were declared fit, or very often before. She fretted about the fate of those who left, but there was little she could do. Often it seemed that no sooner had she learned their names than they had gone.
Greta watched in admiration as Joan and Bertha, a pair of young mothers from the East End, strapped their babies to their fronts, each using a shawl; she longed to try the same technique herself. She paused to admire the infants.
‘A girl or boy?’ she asked Joan.
‘Girl,’ answered Joan.
‘Your first?’ asked Greta.
‘The first to live,’ answered Joan.
Greta murmured her sympathies and retreated to sit on a bench in the cool January sunshine. She decided not to ask such casual questions again. Nanny brought her Benjamin for his mid-morning feed, and Greta unbuttoned her blouse with creeping weariness. Her nipple was sore and chafed. She searched Benjamin’s face for his father’s, but she couldn’t see it. Benjamin still had the coiled, unfinished look of a new infant. Nearly three weeks old and he still had not met his father. ‘Leave not granted’ was all the telegrams stated. Albert was scrupulous about not calling in favours. ‘Busyness is better than loneliness,’ Greta rehearsed.
A rogue bramble wound its way along the struts of the bench, its prickles tiny and sharp, its leaves sugared with frost. From across the garden she spied Celia being led out by a nursery maid for her morning walk. She hesitated for a moment before calling out, too tired to play and longing to sit for a moment longer in the peace of the winter sunshine. Celia stopped to peer beneath a snowdrop, looking carefully under its petticoat, prodding at it with a stubby finger.
‘Can you see the snowdrop’s bloomers?’ Greta called, and Celia jumped and, on seeing her mother, skipped over, chattering and hopping from foot to foot. To the nursemaid’s dismay, she sneezed and wiped her nose along the back of her sheepskin mitten, leaving a shining trail of snot.
‘Let’s do watering, Mama.’
‘It’s January, my darling. The plants aren’t thirsty.’
Celia eyed her mother contemptuously. ‘That’s silly. Celia get water can.’
She trotted off, returning a minute later with her painted watering can.
‘You’ll get frightfully wet,’ objected Greta.
Celia blinked up at her, indifferent to such irrelevant observations. She wanted to do watering at this very moment; there was no room for any other thought. Greta sighed and, handing Benjamin back to Nanny, accompanied Celia into one of the glasshouses.
‘Let us check on the edelweiss.’
Celia obediently dawdled beside her, dribbling a line of water from the spout of her watering can behind them and splashing it all over her button boots. She paused only to smash a snail with her heel.
‘Bad snail,’ she said to the grisly remains, with considerable satisfaction.
‘When did I teach you to be such a brute?’ asked Greta.
Celia smiled. ‘Withers hates snails. Little bastards eat lettuce.’
Greta made a note to discuss appropriate language with the garden staff, although she did have some sympathy with them. Celia had a remarkable talent for hearing and remembering things she ought not to. Greta led her daughter over to a bench where trays of edelweiss had been propagated from her single alpine specimen. She’d planted out some in the limestone rockery beside the terrace, but remained anxious in case it should be damaged by drought or pest, and kept some in the glasshouse to be nurtured, the seeds carefully collected and stored.
‘Here,’ she instructed Celia, ‘sprinkle on a few drops of water. Not too many.’
‘Can I eat it?’ asked Celia.
Greta shook her head, and Celia retired to hunt for woodlice amongst the flowerpots.
‘Nancy said they is choppin’ off a bit of Benjimmy’s finger,’ said Celia.
Greta winced. Poor language overheard by the garden staff was one thing, gossip about Jewish customs by the nursery staff quite another.
‘No one is chopping off Benjamin’s finger,’ said Greta.
Celia looked disappointed. ‘But they is choppin’ off something?’ she asked hopefully.
‘A rabbi will come and give Benjamin a tiny cut, and then we will have a little party.’
Celia beamed. Greta hoped it was at the prospect of a party rather than at her brother’s misfortune.
Lord and Lady Goldbaum’s disapproval at the delay of Benjamin’s bris had reached such heights of sighs and unhappiness that Greta felt she could not delay any longer. While planning the new season’s herbaceous borders, Withers observed to her that shepherds trimmed lambs’ tails when they were as young as possible, so that they felt less pain and quickly forgot. Gret
a wondered if perhaps it would be worse for poor Benjamin if they waited, so she reluctantly agreed to Lady Goldbaum’s suggestion that the mohel attend later in the afternoon.
Celia was carefully tucking in the woodlice on a bed of straw, complaining as they scuttled out from under their covers, refusing to stay put for a story. She flicked one in angry retribution.
‘Stay a-bed, lous-ey. Do what you’re bloomin’ told.’
‘That’s not very kind, Celia.’
Celia blinked at her, eyes round with distaste.
‘Woodlice aren’t really insects at all,’ said Greta half to herself. ‘Daddy would tell you that they’re land shrimps. A miniature marvel.’
The edelweiss safely watered, and the surviving woodlice tucked in, Greta steered Celia up to the nursery for her rest before the festivities. A little later she stood in her dressing room, with Anna lacing her into a tea-dress, trying to conceal her soft stomach. Greta felt a shiver of dread crawl up her spine like a draught of cold air. This was supposed to be a celebration of Benjamin’s covenant with God, but did it have to be marked with a tiny act of barbarism and blood? This, she realised, was why the baby’s father was supposed to be here. A father would not suffer from such nervous sentimentality. The cut was nothing, a mere pruning of dead wood – no worse than the snipping of last year’s withered hydrangea heads or the browning petals of a rose.
She wore a dark dress, so that if her breasts leaked when Benjamin cried, it could not be seen. From habit, she sprayed herself with scent – gardenia – and selected a shawl. She had never dressed so miserably for a party. She felt a cramp deep inside her belly, like the clenching of a fist, and then a rush of blood between her legs, soaking through her underclothes as her womb contracted.
Lord and Lady Goldbaum greeted their guests with warmth and enthusiasm. Amongst the family and friends were scattered a dozen wounded officers who were staying at Temple Court during their recuperation. They understood that an invitation to such an event showed great attention, and they wore their dress uniforms along with uneasy expressions, uncertain what to expect. Greta drifted amongst them, Benjamin clutched tightly in her arms. From across the room she eyed the mohel with distaste. He spoke with earnest dignity to the family rabbi and smiled at Greta with warmth. She nodded, but did not move to speak with him. She felt sick and had nothing to say.
‘He’s going to be quite all right, dearest,’ said Lady Goldbaum, appearing at her side. ‘I went through it with both my boys. The mother suffers more than the child, I promise you.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Greta.
‘I remember. They don’t.’
‘Have you asked them whether they’ve suffered since?’
‘Well, no,’ agreed Lady Goldbaum, colouring at the outlandish suggestion. ‘But it doesn’t seem likely. And, my dear, I should have thought you’d be more able to answer that question than me.’
Albert had certainly never voiced a complaint, and she had noticed nothing untoward. Not that she had any point of comparison.
‘Benjamin will cry for a moment, and then it will be over,’ continued Lady Goldbaum.
‘Let’s get it over with then,’ said Greta.
Lady Goldbaum signalled to her husband, who crossed the room and, with great tenderness, took his grandson in his arms.
‘I’ll take excellent care of him,’ he said gently.
Greta did not reply. There was a lump in her throat and she could not speak. Lady Goldbaum took her by the arm and led her away into the Blue Drawing Room. Ladies were not present for the circumcision itself. Greta perched on the sofa, then stood and circled the room, picking up priceless knick-knacks and putting them down again. She held an exquisitely jewelled box that she had not seen before and then shoved it back.
‘It’s a reliquary box, supposedly containing a shard of the Cross. It was sent by the Pope for Benjamin. It’s the traditional gift sent at the birth of a king,’ said Lady Goldbaum.
‘An interesting choice for a Jew,’ said Greta archly, trying to smile and failing.
Lady Goldbaum glided over to the drinks trolley and poured her a brandy. Greta took it, swallowed it in one gulp and handed her glass back to Lady Goldbaum. Outside the window, rain began to fall, a fine misting that gave way to fog, blowing in from the Solent and concealing the white cyclamens and low hedges of the parterre. A filmy towel of fog hid a naked Aphrodite bathing in one of the fountains, so that it appeared as if she were coyly drying herself.
A footman appeared at the door.
‘It is done, madam,’ he announced.
Greta pushed past him and ran along the East Gallery to the saloon where the deed had been performed, hearing Benjamin’s howl. She snatched her son from Lord Goldbaum and clutched him to her, noting the tiny spot of crimson on his gown.
‘It’s all right, my darling,’ she said.
She plucked uselessly at her clothing, unable to reach her bosom through the complicated pleats of her tea-dress. Nanny appeared with a bottle, but Benjamin was red-faced and furious, outraged and wriggling and quite unable to eat.
‘Let me take him,’ said Nanny, perfectly calm and matter-of-fact.
Greta held him away from her. ‘No, thank you.’
She rested him against her shoulder, rubbing his back and whispering to him as he trembled and sobbed. The guests toasted and drank champagne, looking with sympathy towards poor Benjamin.
‘Adelheid, I’m going to take him somewhere quiet for a minute,’ said Greta.
The footman opened the door and Greta hastened out. She jiggled the baby, smoothing her face against his hot cheek, aware of a figure at the other end of the gallery. It took her a moment to realise who it was.
‘Albert,’ she said, helpless with joy, sweat patches and roses of leaking milk blooming on her dress.
He walked swiftly towards her, stopping at her side to examine the small and furious baby. He reached out and stroked his cheek, and Benjamin bucked and screamed, red from his toes to his scalp.
‘He’s such a good boy,’ she said, defensively. ‘He never cries.’
She hadn’t wanted Albert to meet his son like this. She felt like crying herself. But, perfectly calm and unperturbed, Albert lifted him out of her arms. Benjamin was promptly and thoroughly sick on his shoulder and then, exhausted, went to sleep.
IN THE CLOUDS ABOVE YPRES, JANUARY
Henri had imagined that being up in the Bristol would be more like the flight of a bird, the noiseless drift of a gull or kite, but in front of him was the engine, and its roar and clatter made his ears hurt. He felt the rattle in his teeth and throat like the dentist’s drill. Beyond the battle, Henri observed the flatness of the land and then the shimmering marshes and the narrow roads like pencil lines, the glow of the sun on the reddish roof tiles. The plane turned again – the pilot taking a winding path, for safety – back towards the front. There was an awesome magnificence to war from this height, the jewel-like flames glittering against the charcoal wasteland.
Henri noticed a squadron of half a dozen other machines approaching, and he waved and felt a childish stab of glee when one of the gunners in the other craft waved back. He looked again and saw a pair of German Fokkers rising skywards, the friendly Nieuports manoeuvring into position to fire upon them. The pilot of his own plane banked sharply and turned away from the looming scuffle, but, craning round, Henri saw an arc of flame from the Nieuports’ tracer round and then, to his horror, he saw the other Fokker close behind, in his own pilot’s blind spot. He yelled and yelled, but the pilot couldn’t hear. He craned forward to hammer on his shoulder but, fastened into his seat, couldn’t reach him. The pilot glanced round and, seeing the enemy plane, banked sharply again, so that Henri was initially forced back into his seat and then, a moment later, nearly hurled out of it. He clung on, gripping the belt and screaming, his voice lost amongst the howl of the engine and the racket of the surrounding machine guns.
He saw the moment his pilot was hit. Blood flowered
instantly like a red rose on his cheek, streaming down and soaking his jacket. Yet, somehow, he managed to carry on flying. The plane zigzagged like a blackbird stunned from colliding with a windowpane, aiming for behind the French lines. For a moment it seemed they would make it. Then, as Henri watched, the pilot leaned forward, lower and lower over the controls. The nose of the plane sank and then, with an explosion of earth and a plume of flames and mud, they crashed.
Hands were yanking him from the wreckage, dragging him out of the fire. He heard German voices. ‘Leave the pilot. He’s dead. This one isn’t a soldier. If he’s a spy, we shoot him.’
‘Please don’t,’ said Henri, aiming for German, but feeling dazed and uncertain whether he spoke French or even English. ‘I’m not a spy. I’m a civilian.’
‘British?’
‘French.’
They pulled him away from the plane and he felt himself being passed from one set of arms to another, and then fumbled down and down into what, he realised, was a dugout. Hands unceremoniously grabbed and shoved at him, and shakily he tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he slumped down next to an ammunition box. A Prussian officer scrutinised him.
‘Name? Rank? Occupation?’
Henri coughed, hoping to gain a little time to think, and dissolved into a choking fit, signalling for water. He was roughly passed a canteen. He sipped, shaking and spilling some.
‘Henri. Goldbaum,’ he said at last.
He fixed his gaze upon the Prussian officer who appeared to be in charge of the ragged band of men. He wore a field-grey uniform, the collar of his greatcoat pulled up against the cold. Between straight white teeth he clenched a pipe. The aeroplane crash had clearly taken them by surprise because, glancing about, Henri saw a makeshift table laid with breakfast and, to his intrigue, a copy of the Daily Mail. He studied the pips on the officer’s cap.
‘Leutnant—’ Henri began.
‘Oberleutnant,’ the officer corrected.
‘Oberleutnant,’ said Henri, hoping wildly, ‘I wonder whether you have heard of my cousins. Edgar Goldbaum? Otto Goldbaum?’ He cursed under his breath, realising he must be slightly concussed, for Otto was far away, on another front.
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