Walking Alone

by Carolyn McCrae

  I glanced at Ted and saw him smiling at them with approval. There was a nod of the green hat. Perhaps Ted knew them.

  There were two recordings to be played at the service. The first, introduced by Max as one that was of particular significance to my Mother, was her singing, very lightly and quietly a song by Nöel Coward. I noticed my grandmother weeping quietly into the handkerchief David had handed to her.

  I’ll see you again, whenever Spring breaks through again,

  Time may lie heavy between, but what has been, is past forgetting

  He, too, looked close to tears as we all listened to the beautiful voice.

  I had never known that about her.

  Susannah introduced the second tape saying Alicia had recorded and re-recorded the poem until it was exactly as she wanted to be remembered. The congregation was silent as we listened to the perfect diction.

  ‘There’s a breathless hush in the close tonight,

  Ten to make and the match to win”

  It was a poem I knew well. I wondered why it had been important to my mother.

  It was a relief from the tension of listening to those recordings for us all to stand to sing the first hymn.

  An hour later I stood in the hallway at Sandhey welcoming the large number of people who had come back either out of respect for my Mother or simply out of curiosity about our family and the household at Sandhey which had frequently been the centre of local gossip and scandal.

  I was pleased when the two girls walked through the door.

  I was interested to know who they were and why they had come.

  “Thank you for coming.” I began and barely listened as the usual pleasantries were exchanged, ‘Such a sad day.’ ‘Even when you are expecting death it is no easier when it actually happens.’

  “I know this is dreadfully rude” I interrupted “but how did you know my mother?”

  “Oh I didn’t.” the redhead replied enthusiastically. “I’d better explain. I’m Linda Forster. “

  “Ah.” The penny dropped very quickly. “Carl asked you to come.”

  She spoke quickly with confidence “Obviously, he couldn’t come himself though he wanted to because he really liked your mother. He spent quite a lot of time with her when she was first ill, you know, in Surrey. But he couldn’t could he?” She answered her own question in a rush. “Not with, you know, your sister, and everything.”

  “So I suppose you will be reporting back to him?” I asked, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. She was unashamed. “Afraid so. He wants to know exactly what happened, who was here and everything.” I decided to be amused, I hoped my smile expressed generosity and understanding though I probably simply looked pompous and condescending.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I brought my friend Holly, Holly Eccleston.” I wished I could talk longer with these two but I was conscious of the line of people lengthening behind them so, distracted, I spoke the hurried clichés of the moment. “Of course, nice to meet you Holly, thank you both for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much of an ordeal.” I tried to move on to the next in line but Holly didn’t move, she answered my rhetorical question in a gentle voice with a noticeable American accent. “Oh no, thank you. It’s the first funeral I’ve ever been to and it was so beautiful. I really wish I’d known her, she must have been a lovely person, she had such a lovely voice.”

  “Yes. Yes she did.” I had to move on down the line. “Help yourself to food and drink won’t you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.” Graham, who must have been amongst the first back from the church, and certainly amongst the first at the wine, pushed past me positioning himself between them with an arm on each girl’s shoulder “I’ll make sure they’re well fed and watered.” He barely glanced in my direction.

  “Perhaps they would prefer to look after themselves.” I was rewarded by a look of gratefulness from Holly but there was little I could do as he steered them away from me and I had to turn my attention to other guests.

  Some while later I was standing with a group of women whose gossip I had no interest in when I heard the gentle American accent and began to listen to their conversation.

  “At least we’ve got rid of him now. He’s disappeared. I hope we managed to put him off.”

  “Such a boring question, you know ‘What do you do?’ and he wasn’t really interested was he?” Linda began.

  “Although he’d asked me,” Holly interrupted trying to be light-hearted but there was an edge to her voice, “it was you who always answered.”

  “He seemed pretty pissed to me.”

  “Then why did you chat on and on about what we were doing and where? If it had been up to me I wouldn’t have told him anything. Why did he keep asking me how long I’d been in this country and why my family were over here?”

  “He hardly seems the type to want to make polite conversation, more the type that wants something.”

  “Then you made the mistake of asking him about himself. That was just plain stupid! Well you don’t get a degree from a Poly so that was a lie. So he’s not only rude and ugly he’s a liar.”

  I was rather pleased they hadn’t liked him either.

  By the time most people had left it was dark. Just those who were staying overnight at Sandhey remained in the drawing room, subdued and exhausted by the day.

  I was talking to Maureen when I noticed Graham leaving the room. He had been drinking pretty steadily all afternoon and his absence was understandable, but I didn’t like the idea of him wandering around the house, despite it being highly likely he had taken every opportunity to do just that in the 24 hours since his arrival.

  I was surprised how much I liked Maureen. I had re-appraised my view of my mother, perhaps I should do the same for Maureen’s sister, my father’s mistress, who had eventually married him to become, briefly, my step-mother.

  I was beginning to doubt all the fixed ideas I had had of the people in my life when Maureen pointed out that Graham had been gone for a while. She said she didn’t trust him. Perhaps he was having a nose around where he shouldn’t. She spoke as if she knew there were things he should not find.

  “Go and check, Charles, that one’s a nasty piece of work.”

  I walked into the hall and was immediately worried to see a light under the door of Max’s study.

  As I opened the door I saw Graham sitting behind Max’s desk, he seemed to be putting something in his pocket but there was no way I could be sure so I said nothing. The pale blue blotting pad was covered with scraps of paper and photographs.

  He looked up, unembarrassed, and deliberately sorted through the papers to pick a specific one that he began to read aloud.

  Ted, I leave it up to you whether or not you destroy these papers. My advice is you should not, despite their content. These are important and should not be lost. It is the testament to the very brave person you have known as Monika Heller.

  I said nothing as he picked up another sheet, written with a different pen and in different ink, but in the same tight almost italicised handwriting.

  Monika, I should have told you myself. I should have told you before. Somehow the appropriate moment never came….

  “What the hell are you doing?” I had finally found my voice. “Get away from there! I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

  He didn’t jump up, ashamed at being caught, as I’m sure I would have done; he just leant back in the chair as if he had every right to be there

  “Do you know what these are? I found them last night. You all thought I was pissed but I thought I’d have a look around. Spent hours in here I did and no one found me. You all thought I was sleeping it off but it takes a lot more booze than that to make me lose it. I’ve spent most of the afternoon in here too. Very interesting it’s been. And not just for me. I know someone who’d be very interested in what I’ve got here.”

  I could say nothing, watching as he sorted through the papers again and found the one he wanted. He began t
o read in a forced cartoon of a pseudo-German accent that I found extremely offensive.

  Monika, I should aff told you myself. I should aff told you before. Somehow ze appropriate moment never came. I have lovved you as any fazer might for all your life. Your name is not Monika Heller, it is Rebecca Rebmann. Your mozzer vas my sister. You are my dear niece – but I could never tell you for all ze memories I knew it vould bring. As ve grew to know each other ze detail of our true relationship could not make us any fonder of each other zo I let it be.

  I was stunned. I could not find the words to stop him though at least when he continued he began to speak more normally.

  It was not by accident that I found you in Audierne at the end of the war. I had always hoped you had kept that map I had drawn. I prayed to whatever God still existed in those times that you would follow it and I would find you there. Ours was not a close family, but over the years I couldn’t lose touch with you…

  I had had enough. “Put those down! Get away from the desk! You have no right…. I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

  “But you had no idea did you? If I’d lived in this house I’d have read everything, I’d know everything. You must have had enough chances.”

  “I would never do that. They’re private. If Max had wanted me to read them he would have shown them to me. Get up and get out!”

  He didn’t move. He just sat in Max’s chair and smiled. “Perhaps you were too busy doing other things!”

  I tried to grab his arm to pull him up but I wasn’t strong enough and he had no difficulty in shaking me off.

  “Go and call your boyfriend to help you.”

  Whether it was the emotions of the day or the tone of voice I hit out. I flailed with my fists with more anger than skill. I hadn’t been in a fight since I was a young boy at school. I was taller, and my reach must have been longer, but Graham was far stronger and, although quite drunk, an instinctive fighter. He must have had a lot of practice. He stood up facing me and, ducking under my attempts to punch him, he landed a single blow on my face that knocked me back. I had neither the brute strength nor the experience to hurt him back.

  “You’re pathetic! A pathetic little ponce.” He pushed past me leaving me holding my bleeding nose.

  After a few moments during which it was all I could do to hold back tears of frustration and pain I started to clear the papers up, putting them together, back into the envelope.

  “I suppose you can explain this.”

  Max stood in the open door.

  “What are you doing with that envelope? You’re bleeding. What in hell’s name is happening here?”

  “Graham. He was in here. I saw the light. He was reading. I tried to stop him but….”

  “He hit you.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at fisticuffs.”

  “Thank goodness for small mercies. There is nothing to be proud of in being good with violence.” He was looking at the envelope in my hand. He seemed to be weighing up what to do. Whether to take the papers without explanation and ignore anything I may have learnt or to find out what I knew and control that knowledge.

  He sat down and I began to think he was going to talk to me, actually tell me some of these secrets.

  I had seen how he had reacted the previous evening when he had recognised David. He hadn’t acknowledged that he knew him, he had said nothing all day that would indicate he knew him but I had seen that he did. I certainly didn’t think I needed to know everything about him, everyone had the right to privacy and Max’s generation, the generation that lived through the war, seemed to have a great many secrets that were better kept.

  Since the previous evening I had been doubting my long held preconceptions about people; my mother, my step-mother. Now did I have to think again about Max?

  “How much have you seen?”

  “Not much – these,” I handed some sheets of paper to him. “He began reading them to me. I couldn’t stop him.”

  “So what do you know from them?”

  “That Monika isn’t Monika and she’s your niece.”

  “I suppose that puts it in a nutshell.” Max’s face was grim.

  “That’s why you gave me a home wasn’t it? You didn’t give a home to Monika because of me, it was the other way around, you gave me a home because of Monika.”

  “This is not about you Charles. I gave you both a home because of your Mother and because it was the right thing to do.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why haven’t you ever told her?”

  “If you know the truth you will keep it to yourself. If you know the pain behind that truth you will understand better why you must hide it. And hide it you will. You must keep it to yourself. Always.”

  It was obvious he was struggling to know what to do, a situation I had never seen him in. I wondered who else knew of the relationship; obviously not Monika herself, perhaps only Max and me; and now Graham.

  “You had better read these.” He slowly pulled the papers from the envelope, sorted them and then handed a few, perhaps one tenth, to me. “Perhaps I should have told you more, years ago, but while things were getting on so well it seemed I shouldn’t upset our applecart. But maybe now is the time. Sit. Read. I will bring you some wine.”

  Max took a small key from his waistcoat and, removing two books from a shelf, inserted and turned it, revealing a hidden cupboard. The shelves, lined with real books, hid a door. In the years I had lived in the house I had never known of its existence.

  “When I first moved here from Millcourt I undertook many renovations.” he spoke conversationally, as if nothing unusual was happening. “I installed this store where the temperature is regulated and my wines would be secure.” I saw him looking around the cupboard as if looking at something I could not see.

  “Some of what you will soon learn,” he continued “I had expected only to be known when I am gone. For 30 years I have given nothing of this away to anyone. I have allowed people to think what they wanted about me, about why I brought you and Monika into this house. Now I must give some of these secrets to you, Charles. I trust you to treat them well.”

  Choosing a bottle from the bottom rack he lifted it carefully, unscrewed and checked the cork and then carefully poured the dark liquid into a crystal decanter. I watched the ritual, aware that this was a symbolic, almost religious, act of Max’s to show the importance of what I was about to learn.

  “You will need this.” He placed the decanter and a glass on the desk by the papers. “I will leave you to read what you can.”

  I turned the sheets over in my hand, they were filled with Max’s tight handwriting with many crossings out and words written at angles around the edges of the variously sized pieces of paper. It seemed that this was not a completed work, many of the crossings out and written amendments had been made in different inks and some seemed quite recent.

  I turned to the first sheet and soon lost myself in a world I could not recognise.

  When I first talked to Monika I asked her name. She answered ‘Fotze’. I said that could not be her name. It was not a name. I asked what else people called her and she gave me another word ‘Hexen’. Again I said that could not be her name. I asked what her mother was called, she answered ‘Mutter’, and her father? ‘Vater’ she replied as if she could not understand how I could not have known that. I asked what other people called her parents and she looked at me blankly. She knew neither her family name nor the names of her family so I gave her the name Monika Heller.

  Monika had been born in September 1930 in a farmhouse outside a small village in western Austria. She did not leave that house for the first eight years of her life.

  She was an unwanted, unexpected and unprepared for child, perhaps they even hoped she would not survive. Despite the harshness of her life she grew through childhood accepting without question her position in the household. ‘Mädchen’ they called her when they called her anything. Girl. She did much of the household work from a very y
oung age while her family were in the fields. She had been told always to do as she was told without question.

  That much she remembered.

  The farmer drove his family hard. His eldest son had some incentive as he would inherit, but the other was less interested as he would have to find his own way. The girl would find a husband as soon as she was old enough. There was no need for her to go to school as long as she learned the ways of the house. In many ways it was a backward community.

  When I talked to her of these days what few memories she had were vague and unformed. She talked of herself as if of another person, without emotion. It was I, who understood what she meant by the words she spoke, I who felt the pain.

  The summer when Monika was seven years old the brothers did no work on the farm, instead, despite the arguments of their father, they spent their time with new friends playing at being soldiers. They wore uniforms, mud coloured shorts with leather belts and heavy buckles with shirts with shiny buttons and badges. She remembered them shouting at her.

  She remembered other things that I wish she had forgotten.

  She told me how they would take her into the barn and make her watch as they unbuttoned their shorts and showed off to each other in front of her uncomprehending eyes, demonstrating what they could do to themselves, to each other, and to her. She could not argue with the power that came with their masculinity, their approaching adulthood and their uniforms. Each took their turn, laughing at the others, the brothers included. She understood the times in the barn to be just one more chore to do around the house. Why would she tell anyone? She did not know that what they were doing was wrong.

  She had no memory of individual experiences, simply the feeling that sometimes it hurt, sometimes it didn’t. Her main memories were of temperature. She remembered the cold times more than the warm ones. They hurt more.

  Even if anyone had known what was happening to her could they have done anything? The power of these young men stretched far beyond the control they had over her. They had guns, old shooting rifles, and they marched through the village with them on their shoulders, terrorising the older people who had known war. They practised shooting, first at bottles on fences then at any animals that got in their way. What could anyone do against them? What could their parents do? They were old and tired. They were not strong, and had no power to stop these young men from doing what they wanted.