All she had suspected of Nils had been true, including that last vengeful attempt to eliminate Karl, no matter how many other lives would have been lost. At last she knew for certain that she had not been mistaken in believing that Nils’s finger was already on the switch.
It was her shot that had prevented the catastrophe. Even Ulman’s bullet would have been just too late. Then Nils in his last moments, all rage gone, had still tried to hold her to him with a lie. He had been as fanatically obsessive about her as he had been with Nazism.
She did not hear a taxi-door slam or see Karl as he came running down the bank to her.
“Anna! What’s happening here?” He stared incredulously at all the objets d’art being collected up, knowing enough about antiques to recognise the value as well as the rarity of the tiny Japanese lacquered boxes to the carved jade and ivory. Somebody had taken a rolled up painting from a container that was unmistakably a Degas. Others were looking at a Munch. “Where did all these things come from?”
“They were Aunt Rosa’s,” Anna replied in a choked voice. “Nils must have betrayed her for his own ends. Just as he destroyed others throughout the Occupation. He was a traitor, Karl!”
“My God!” Karl breathed, tight-faced, and drew her close to him. They turned together as the dive-master gave an exclamation.
“Look at this, everybody !” He had picked up a leather medal-case stamped with a gilded swastika. Opening it, he revealed a medal awarded to Nazi Norwegians for exceptional service to the Third Reich. It was dated 1942, the year in which the Resistance had suffered some of its heaviest losses.
Karl took Anna’s hand and pressed it encouragingly. “Tell him.”
She explained, hesitantly at first and then her voice gathered strength as the shadow across her life began to slip away. All there listened intently.
“There is something to Nils Olsen’s credit,” she said in conclusion. “In spite of his Nazi ideals he was instrumental in saving the life of a Jewish child. That is all I wish to remember about him.”
Before leaving the lakeside Anna handed back the ikon. Although Rosa had bequeathed everything to her, except for a life income to Frida and the Oslo apartment, her legal claim to these particular treasures would have to be established.
“How did you know I’d be here?” Anna asked as she and Karl went up the bank on their way to the road, his arm around her shoulders.
“My colleague heard a news item about it on the radio. I left him as deputy and caught the next flight out of Washington.”
“I’m so glad you came,” she said thankfully, resting her head against his shoulder.
When he had paid off the taxi that had bought him from the airport, they strolled along to her hired car. He kissed her before opening the door. “Is it back to Oslo now?”
Suddenly she wanted to be completely on her own with him. “Not yet. Nobody knows that we’ve returned from abroad sooner than expected. Let’s drive to Molde and be at the country house for a few days.”
He nodded approval. “That’s a great idea! I can’t remember when we last had time to ourselves.” Briefly he cupped her face in his hand as he had first done on a snowy quayside and they exchanged a smiling look. “So let’s go,” he added softly.
He took the wheel and Anna did not look back as they drove away. She felt wonderfully released. No longer held by the past she could look wholly to the future. Soon she would present the ikon to the Hermitage.
If you enjoyed The Fragile Hour by Rosalind Laker, you might be interested in Homefront by Jill Barry, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Homefront by Jill Barry
Chapter 1 - The Flying Circus
Charlotte craned her neck, determined not to lose sight of the tiny speck she’d watched take off minutes before. In the distance the fragile aeroplane banked steeply above the shimmering sea before heading back to the field. The plane loomed larger, its boxy wings looking fit to snap clean in half, like a biscuit.
But Charlotte’s visits to the field where the flying circus had thrilled fans for the last few days told her the small craft was in expert hands. She held her breath as the plane lost height, its nose pointing towards the grass landing strip. The mix of showmanship and judgement on the pilot’s part produced a lump in her throat as the plane’s tyres kissed the ground.
“Are you waiting to have a go, Charlotte?”
She whirled around. Suddenly she felt shy and her heart seemed to beat a little faster. Robert Costello was a couple of years her senior and only recently had she begun to think of him as someone other than one of those bothersome boys her older brother knocked about with. Annoyingly, she felt warmth flood her cheeks, a warmth having nothing to do with the August sunshine bathing the countryside.
“I don’t think so, Robert. Dad would probably have me hung, drawn and quartered!”
Robert laughed. “I reckon you’d have to land in one piece before he could arrange that. How anyone can trust those flimsy things beats me.”
“They’re sturdier than they look.”
“You’re an expert then?”
She knew he was teasing. Probably he still thought of her as a fourteen-year-old in ankle socks.
“You know very well I’m not,” she said. “It’s just that …”
“Just that you’ve watched this particular pilot lots of times?” His eyes were curious.
“How did you know that? I mean, why would you think that?” Light dawned. “Ah, Don’s been talking.”
“This has nothing to do with your brother. That fancy fly-boy over there came to watch the Wall of Death last night. He and his mechanic were boasting about all the pretty girls flocking to take a pleasure flight.” Robert squared his shoulders. “I told him the Wall of Death riders attract their fair share of admiration from girls.”
“Well, here’s one girl who hasn’t flown with Philip.” She bit her lip, cross with herself for letting slip the pilot’s name.
Robert looked at her quizzically. “First name terms is it? I didn’t know you were such a fast worker. I expect he likes blondes … oh, there’s some beetroot cheeks for you.”
Charlotte drew herself up to her full height. “It’s none of your business who I’m on first name terms with, Mr Costello.”
“Ouch! All right, Miss Moore, let’s call a truce.” He nodded towards the little aircraft taxiing over the bumpy ground towards the big sign proclaiming Pleasure Flights. “But don’t go losing your heart to someone who won’t take good care of it. I’d hate to see you hurt.” He looked at his watch. “I’d offer you a lift but I see you’re driving Daddy’s Vauxhall.”
The words were spoken with resignation rather than envy. She watched Robert walk off towards the cluster of vehicles parked near the gate. When she turned her attention back to the flying circus crew, Philip the pilot, leather jacket unbuttoned, white silk scarf fluttering in the breeze, was signing autograph books for three or four girls, the friend who’d accompanied her, among them.
Charlotte saw Philip treat Pearl to a full-beam smile and shook her head ruefully. The pilot must have made a big hit with her. Maybe Pearl was the one Robert Costello should warn not to fall in love with someone unattainable. It certainly puzzled Charlotte as to why Robert cared whether her own heart got broken or not.
She strolled towards the entrance to the roped area. As she approached the group, the darkly handsome aviator glanced up and smiled. “Good afternoon, Charlie. Changed your mind about taking to the skies?”
“I’m afraid not, Philip. I must get back so Dad can have his tea. Ready, Pearl?” Her friend nodded, hands clutching a red suede autograph book as if she might tuck it beneath her pillow when she went to bed that night.
Philip stood, hands on leather-clad hips. “It’s been a pleasure to talk to you, Pearl. I’ll call at the garage to say goodbye before we leave town, Charlie. I’ve enjoyed your dad’s company the times we’ve talked engines.” He hesitated. “And yours, of course.”
“Two more for you, Phil,” called the mechanic. “Last trip today.”
The pilot gazed at Charlotte. “Sure you won’t hang on till I finish? I could take you and your friend here up for a short flight.”
Charlotte heard Pearl’s surprised gasp but wasn’t about to trample all over her dad’s wishes. Despite his love of engines, he shared Robert Costello’s wary opinion about aviation.
“Thanks, Philip. You’re very kind but I must get back. I’ll see you soon, then.” She turned to Pearl. “Ready?” Charlotte rummaged in her handbag for the car key as she and Pearl walked back to the parking area.
“I wish we could’ve gone up,” said Pearl longingly.
“I thought I heard you say on the way here, you’d probably be sick if you got airborne?”
“That was before I met Philip,” said Pearl. “How come I haven’t seen him when he’s called at your dad’s garage? Have you been hiding him from me?”
“When you’ve been working in the office, he’s been in the workshop with my father,” said Charlotte. “I got enough teasing from Robert just now without you starting. I’d be crazy to want such a daredevil for a boyfriend and so would you.”
She shot her friend a quick glance as they arrived at the car. Charlotte went round to the passenger door to unlock it and Pearl stepped daintily over the running board and settled into the leather bucket seat.
“Why do you think Robert was teasing you?” Pearl pulled the door closed with a clunk.
Charlotte already sat behind the steering wheel. “Because he enjoys ruffling my feathers? Because he seems to think I don’t have a mind of my own?” She started the engine.
“But you like him all right, don’t you?”
Charlotte tucked her dark green cotton skirt around her legs as she selected reverse gear.
“Who?”
“Why, Robert, of course!”
Pearl received no answer.
Chapter 2 - The Girl on the Pumps
“There you are, Charlotte. My stomach’s beginning to wonder if my throat’s been cut.”
“Sorry, Dad. I dropped Pearl off on the way back because her shoes were pinching, then I had to change. There’s a ham salad on the table all ready for you – potatoes in the pan on the stove.”
“Thanks, love. I won’t be long putting that away. You might get Mr Graham calling on his way back from work. His spare tyre’s mended and the bill’s written out ready.” Mr Moore scratched his head. “Blimey, I almost forgot. Your brother’s gone to Browns to collect some parts needed for tomorrow. Oh, and Pump Number Three’s out of action. I’ve put a padlock on.”
“Dad, you don’t want to miss the five o’clock news. I’ll be fine.”
“You always are, love.” Her father hurried towards the entrance leading to the family’s house.
Left alone, Charlotte walked on to the forecourt. As usual, everything looked tidy, petrol pipes looped neatly and airline hose coiled inside its little wooden box ready for the next customer. The curls of black rubber tubing reminded her of a Catherine Wheel, or the liquorice sweet her dad always picked first from the pack if they opened a bag of Allsorts.
She stood in the evening sunshine, trim in her dungarees, thinking how much she liked working for the family business. The garage had occupied this spot since the 1920s when her dad, helped by his father, had scraped together the purchase price to obtain the land. Charlotte wasn’t old enough to remember the construction. During that time, she, her brother and her mum and dad were all still living with an elderly aunt, a widow with a house she’d told them made her feel like a pea rattling around in a pan before they moved in.
Charlotte waved as a double-decker bus trundled past, the driver giving her a cheery salute as he slowed his cumbersome vehicle ready to pull up at the nearby stop. The Corner Garage lent its name to the stop and some passengers had been using that same local bus service for years. The vehicle following the bus was a small black car driven by the customer Charlotte awaited.
She disappeared inside and reappeared, rolling a tyre along the ground. The customer pulled up outside the workshop entrance and jumped out. “How’s my favourite girl, then?”
“She’s not here, Mr Graham. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.” Charlotte grinned at him.
He laughed as he opened his boot. “You’ll make some lucky fellow very happy one day, Charlie. Prince Charming hasn’t come along yet, by any chance?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think petrol makes a very good perfume, Mr Graham. And boys don’t like it when they find out I know more about engines than they do.”
Mr Graham followed her into the office, to settle his bill. He looked shrewdly at her as she slipped behind the counter.
“Then all I can say is, they must have a screw loose. You have to be the prettiest girl in Peel Bay. My wife said she saw you in the high street the other day and got quite a shock. “Young Charlie’s turned into a beauty” she said.”
“Gosh,” said Charlotte. “I don’t think Mrs Graham would say the same thing if she saw me in my dungarees and lace up shoes.” She grimaced and took the big white five-pound note Mr Graham held out to her.
“All the fine clothes in the world can’t disguise a plain face. Mark my words, Charlie, some young fellow’s going to pull up here for a gallon of petrol one day, take one look at those sparkling brown eyes of yours and be putty in your hands.”
Smiling, she handed over the change. “Better not tell my dad you’re trying to marry off his right-hand woman.” Her cheerful tone didn’t disguise the seriousness underlying the remark. Charlotte had lost her mother three years before.
“Your father thinks the world of you all right.” Mr Graham pocketed his change. “But you deserve a bit of fun. I bet your mother would say the same, God rest her soul …” His voice tailed away and he bit his lip.
“Well, who’s to say whether any of us will have time for fun unless things change dramatically?” Charlotte picked up a duster and gave the counter top such a vigorous rub, the dust motes danced a jig in the shaft of sunshine beaming through the window.
“It’s not looking good,” he said. “Not good at all. But don’t forget what I say.”
Charlotte walked the customer back to his car and watched him drive off just as her brother turned up, driving their little blue van, its white lettering stating Corner Garage and Peel Bay 642 telephone number on the sides. He drove into the workshop and parked.
Donald Moore’s lanky frame unravelled itself from the front seat while Charlotte unfastened the rear doors to see what was inside.
“Don’t go lifting those boxes, our kid,” said Don, arriving beside his sister. “They can stay inside the van ‘til tomorrow.”
“Why so chivalrous all of a sudden?”
He grinned. “Kitty’s influence I expect. She keeps telling me I should be nicer to my little sister.”
“She’s quite right. Are you seeing her this evening?”
“Would I waste a precious night off? I’m taking her to the flicks.”
“Which one?”
“The Carlton’s showing A Yank at Oxford.”
“Pearl said Angels with Dirty Faces is on at The Capitol.”
“That means driving to Coynesbury. D’you think Kitty would like a gangster film?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re a girl. Do girls like films about gangsters?”
“Pearl and I do. Are you scared Kitty might faint?”
“All right, all right. She can decide.”
“You’d better get a move on. Dad’s eating his tea and yours is waiting.” She gave him a friendly shove. “Don’t forget to have a good wash. You’ve got oil on your left ear lobe.”
“What would we do without you, little sister?”
“You’d have to manage, wouldn’t you?”
As her brother hurried off to the house, Charlotte wondered how she and her dad would cope when war was declared and Don had to go away to fight.
A shiver rippled down her spine. Far better she concentrated on counting the day’s takings and leaving a sensible float for the morning. On a fine evening like this, her father would probably remain open until nine o’clock. If she remained on duty with him, she’d be lucky to sit down with her library book for half an hour before bedtime.
She’d almost forgotten what it was like to look forward to an evening out. It wouldn’t just involve putting on a crisp cotton frock instead of her practical dungarees. A night out would mean applying her English Rose lipstick and a dab of gardenia cologne behind each ear. She wondered what it would be like to sit in the stalls, holding hands with a young man. Had she become too serious, too intent on making a good job of her domestic role as well as helping out in the garage? Was that what Mr Graham meant when he told her she deserved a bit of fun?
The sound of a horn tooting roused Charlotte. She hurried on to the forecourt where a big black Daimler stood. Her heart sank. Stanley Greener was one of her dad’s best customers. She’d better stop daydreaming and serve him with his usual four gallons of best petrol. Mr Greener, perspiring as usual, clambered out of the driver’s seat, ready to engage her in pointless conversation. She prayed her father would finish his tea soon.
Just as she was wondering how Mrs Greener tolerated her husband’s highly scented and extremely greasy hair cream, a couple of lads came round the corner. One of them carried an empty jerry can, which he placed on the ground. The youngsters stood, chattering and scuffling while Charlotte served Mr Greener with petrol.
“I shan’t be long, boys. Paraffin for your mum is it, Jack?”
Jack wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yes, please, Miss. Hey Mister, I like your car.”
Mr Greener looked slightly mollified. “Thanks, son. Do you want a look inside?”
Charlotte restrained from giggling as the boys kept her customer busy with question after question. Everyone knew Mr Greener considered himself as a ladies’ man and the arrival of this pair of lads saved her from having to put up with inane comments from the smarmy so and so!
The Fragile Hour Page 29
