‘Need to get some ciggies,’ he said. ‘I’ll be just a wee minute.’
He stepped into the shop, and Alfred leaned up against the wall and took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He felt his appetite growing in the pit of his stomach and wondered what Mrs McAllister was planning to serve for dinner.
Then: Alfred. Go inside and buy a newspaper.
‘What? Why?’ he asked silently.
Go and buy a newspaper. There’s something you might like to see.
Alfred wasn’t in the mood for arguing, although he felt hot and cross at what he presumed was yet another of the voice-women’s language learning exercises. His English was almost fluent by now. He pushed open the door to the shop. The little bell above the door tinkled brightly and Harding and the newsagent looked over at him.
‘Be just a minute,’ Harding said, fishing in his pocket for change.
‘I . . . ’ Alfred began, but then he spotted the rack of newspapers, and realised why he had been sent in. The headline was the same on all of the front pages, in a number of verbose or vulgar variations. It announced the wedding between German prisoner of war Heinz Fellbrich and his English sweetheart, June. It was the first such marriage to take place. Below the headline, most papers carried the same photograph: a couple, separated by a white fence, leaning forward to kiss, and behind them a large sign reading ‘402 P.W. Camp’.
Harding followed Alfred’s gaze and grinned. ‘Aye, dinnae let that be giving you any ideas, son.’
Alfred, flustered and feeling the heat rise to his face, shook his head. ‘No, I – ’
Harding paid for his cigarettes and came to stand next to Alfred. ‘Good luck to them,’ he said, looking at the couple in the photograph. ‘It’s about time they let love grow where the seed’s been planted. Better than a war, any day. And who knows how long this peace will last?’ He nudged Alfred with his elbow. ‘Come on, lad, let’s get you home.’
As soon as he arrived at the hostel, Alfred bounded up the stairs to his room, washed his face and hands hastily in the basin, and changed into a fresh shirt. He met Mrs McAllister on the stairs on the way down.
‘Tea’s ready in ten minutes,’ she said, but he just grinned at her and rushed to the front door.
‘I have something to do,’ he blurted out. ‘I will hurry.’
‘Oh, and there’s a letter for you,’ he caught her saying. He stopped, one foot already on the pavement, and turned around. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him the envelope.
He tore it open, and could hardly contain his excitement. His request to stay in the country had been granted. He took Mrs McAllister in his arms and kissed her square on the mouth. Then he rushed out. He ran all the way to the vicarage, side-stepping dog-walkers and women pushing prams, scooting through bicycle traffic, not caring what any of the passers-by thought. When he got to the cottage, he stood on the doorstep for a moment, rehearsing his words breathlessly and trying to compose himself as best he could. His hand was shaking as he rang the doorbell, and after a long few moments, Drummond answered.
‘Alfred!’ he said, a broad smile on his face. Then his face darkened. ‘What’s the matter? Has there been an accident? You’d better come in.’ He opened the door wider and let Alfred step in.
‘Reverend Drummond,’ Alfred said, still somewhat out of breath but not stopping in case his nerve left him at the last minute, ‘I would like . . . no, I wish . . . no, verdammt! Please, Reverend Drummond, may I marry your daughter?’ It came out in a rush, not at all like Alfred had planned it, but at least he’d said it. He stood, hardly daring to blink, waiting for a response.
Drummond breathed in and out heavily. ‘I cannae say I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said finally. ‘But – ’ he stopped and his gaze went to a point past Alfred’s shoulder. Alfred turned, and saw Isobel standing at the door to the kitchen. She was holding a plate in one hand and a dish cloth in the other, and from the slight tremble in her hands Alfred guessed she had heard everything.
Drummond continued, ‘In that case, I suppose you’d better ask the lass yourself.’
Day Three
Alfred sat at the kitchen table while I cleared our dinner plates away. Twice, I banged myself – my elbow and then my hip – against one of the kitchen cabinets. I was beginning to get worried. I could hardly keep Alfred here indefinitely. Somebody would have to be informed sooner or later.
He read my thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, Julia. I won’t be on your hands for much longer.’
I turned away. This particular phrase stung me unexpectedly. ‘When I’m dead . . . ’, ‘I won’t be around much longer . . . ’, ‘You’ll soon be rid of me . . . ’ I hated it when my dad said these things. In fact, I hated a lot of the things he did and said towards the end, and I hated myself for it.
‘I mean it,’ Alfred said. ‘Listen. I’m well aware how this sounds, but . . . ’
‘It’s all right. We don’t have to discuss it.’
‘No. I mean, yes. We do have to discuss it.’ He sounded urgent. ‘Please, Julia. Sit down.’
I put the final plate into the dishwasher and sat down. ‘You’re welcome to stay for a while longer, Alfred,’ I said, ‘but we do have to sort out . . . ’
‘Three days,’ he said.
‘As long as you like – ’
‘No. I have three days left.’ He spoke slowly but resolutely.
‘Alfred, I . . . ’
‘Please, Julia. Let me explain.’ He glanced around the kitchen as though looking for the right words. Finally, he said, ‘I have three more days.’
I shook my head. ‘Stop it, Alfred. Please. We’ll wait until the holidays are over, and then . . . ’
‘Julia.’ He reached over and held my hands. ‘I understand how ludicrous this must sound. But I need you to trust me. I have three days to live and this is why I need you to listen to my story. So you can tell Brynja. I need you to trust me,’ he repeated more urgently.
I didn’t speak.
‘My voices – ’ He paused and rubbed his face with his hands. When he next spoke, his voice was unsteady. ‘My voices have told me. Three more days. Please, Julia. I know it sounds extraordinary.’ He reached over again and squeezed my hands.
‘Okay,’ I said with a sigh, pulling my hands away from his. ‘Whatever you say.’
We sat silently for a moment. ‘Then may I continue with my story?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ I said quietly.
Hours later, the bells from the Apostel Paulus church on Klixstraße began ringing out, calling to midnight mass. Alfred had finished talking and was sitting on the armchair with his head resting against the back. He looked exhausted. I was about to suggest turning in for the night, when he spoke.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘And please tell me if it’s none of my business.’ He leaned forward. ‘I was wondering why you’re alone at Christmas.’
My stomach fluttered but I forced a smile. ‘Well,’ I said, nodding in his direction, ‘I’m not alone, am I?’
‘Of course.’ His hands began trembling, and he clamped them between his thighs. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . ’
‘It’s all right, Alfred. It’s no big secret. I’m single – well, divorced – and I’ve spent the last year and a half caring for my father. He died two months ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t be. He was very old, and very sick, so . . . Anyway, I took some time off work to look after him, and I suppose I lost touch with . . . well, it’s hard to cultivate friendships when you’re . . . busy like that. When he died, I felt exhausted. But more than that, I felt relieved. I just needed a break, you know? And for the first few weeks I kept thinking that when I’d recovered my strength, I could go back to caring for him. But of course . . . ’ I shrugged, and when I looked over at Alfred, I realised I was talking to myself. He had fallen asleep, and he breathed in and out slowly with a gentle snore. I
covered him with a blanket and went to bed.
1948
Alfred woke to a sound he couldn’t quite identify. He opened his eyes, and although the bedroom was still dark, he felt rested and realised that it was almost morning. He turned over, but Isobel’s side of the bed was empty. He checked the bedside clock. It was quarter past six, half an hour before he usually got up. He heard the noise again coming from downstairs; it was an intermittent splattering sound, as though someone were slopping water into a pail every few minutes.
‘Isobel!’ he called, getting out of bed and slipping into his dressing gown. He had to switch on the light to find his slippers; they hadn’t yet put down carpeting in the bedroom and the floor was icy cold. ‘Is that you? Why are you up so early?’
He made his way downstairs quickly, towards the sound, which was coming from the kitchen.
‘Alfie, I . . . ’
‘Isobel? What’s the matter?’ he said, coming into the kitchen and seeing her, on her knees, retching into a bucket on the floor. She looked up as he came in and gave him a tight smile, but turned again immediately to vomit into the bucket.
Alfred rushed forward. ‘Isobel. Are you sick?’ He went to gather her hair with his hands, to stop it falling into her face, but she pushed his hand away. Her face was ashen and a few strands of wet hair stuck to her cheeks. ‘You’re freezing,’ he continued, feeling her cold skin through the thin fabric of her nightie. He ran into the living room and grabbed a blanket. He draped it around her shoulders, as she shivered slightly and vomited yet again. The contents of the bucket were a watery, brownish mess.
‘Shall I call a doctor?’ he asked, but she shook her head. ‘Then let me make you a cup of tea,’ he insisted, in his helplessness, and when he thought he saw her nod began to fill the kettle. As the tap spluttered and then gushed freely, the helplessness gave way to anxiety, rising in him swiftly and inexorably and making his hands tremble. Isobel coughed and groaned. Alfred set the kettle on the gas stove and waited for the water to boil. She was sick. If he’d paid more attention, he would have spotted the signs earlier. For it was true: over the past few weeks, Isobel had been going to bed earlier and earlier, and even when Alfred joined her only minutes later, was already fast asleep. She’d complained of headaches and tiredness, and the seemingly inexhaustible capacity for lovemaking they’d experienced for almost an entire year after the wedding had given way to the barest of touches. He poured out the tea while his imagination went on a wild rampage of illnesses she might have acquired – pneumonia, diphtheria, tuberculosis, fatal food poisoning . . . Then suddenly, incredibly, he heard laughter. It came at first from a distance somewhere to his left, but then grew louder and louder, until it was right between his ears, blocking out the sound of Isobel retching.
Tee hee, hee hee! Ha ha, ha ha ha! HA HA HA!
He wanted to shout out ‘Shut up! How dare you laugh?’, but then the laughter faded and he crouched down beside Isobel, placing the steaming cup of tea on the floor next to her. Finally, it appeared that her stomach had settled, and she sat back on her knees and gestured for him to pass her a tea towel. After she’d wiped her mouth she looked up at him, her face pale and blotchy. She swallowed painfully, but then gave him a wide smile. ‘Oh Alfie,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I wanted to save the news till tomorrow, as your Christmas present. But … Alfie, we’re going to have a baby!’
Alfred leaned forward and kissed her sour-smelling lips and then began to laugh, loudly, filling up the tiny kitchen with the sound of his joy.
The terrace house they lived in was small and cramped, with a bedroom and box room upstairs, and a living room giving way to a kitchen downstairs, but it was the best Alfred could afford on his wages. It was a world away from the spacious grandeur of Franziska von Markstein’s apartment, but Alfred was more than content. Since becoming officially released from his prisoner-of-war status in the summer of ’48, he was now earning £ 4/6s. a week, doing much the same work as before, but now, he was an employee of the East Ayrshire council outdoor amenities services and Harding was his colleague, rather than his guard.
With Isobel now expecting, her rations were increased to include an extra half pint of milk and cod liver oil, and the local greengrocer, Mr Whitlaw, was known to reserve oranges for expectant mothers. However, more often than not, Alfred was the beneficiary of these additional nutrients. The morning sickness, which in Isobel’s case may just as well have been termed ‘morning, afternoon and evening sickness’, took its toll. Rather than putting on weight, she grew alarmingly thin, her eyes appearing even rounder and larger in her increasingly gaunt face.
‘Promise me you will eat something,’ Alfred said every morning before he left for work, and she would nod tiredly, but when he returned home, he would often find her lying on the couch, a damp cloth on her forehead, and when he checked the larder, could see that she hadn’t eaten a thing. The physician, Dr Cummings, told them that this extent of sickness was not terribly common, but nothing to be worried about. Yet Alfred worried nonetheless. It didn’t seem right, a pregnant woman losing weight like that. He tried to picture the baby inside her – how was it to grow if the mother didn’t eat?
Then, one morning, he woke to the smell of bacon and eggs. He dressed quickly and went downstairs to the kitchen. Isobel was standing at the stove, taking four rashers of bacon from under the grill and putting them on a plate.
‘Morning, Alfie,’ she said brightly, and went over to kiss him. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘Sit down, breakfast’s almost done.’
‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked, taking a seat at the table. The smell in the kitchen was delicious.
Isobel let out a small giggle. ‘Aye, I’m feeling much better. In fact,’ she said, placing a plate of bacon, eggs and toast on the table, ‘you’d better eat that quickly, or I might just have it.’
Overnight, her debilitating nausea had passed, and during the next few months, her waist began to fill out and her skin turned soft and rosy. Even their lovemaking, which had been suspended for over three months, resumed, though tentatively and in the main restricted to stroking and petting – neither of them felt quite comfortable at the thought of penetrating what they considered the baby’s home.
‘What do you think we should call it?’ Alfred asked one night, as they lay in bed. Isobel was lying with her back to him, curled up against his chest and thighs. His arm was wrapped around her, his hand on her belly.
‘Oh no, that’s bad luck,’ she said.
‘What is?’
‘To name the baby before it’s born.’
‘All right, then, but what do you think it’s going to be? What does it feel like to you?’
She breathed out a gentle laugh. ‘Amy says it’s a wee lass.’ Amy Fraser, a war widow with a lively three-year-old, was their next-door neighbour. She was only a few years older than Isobel. ‘She dangled her wedding ring over it, on a string, like this see?’ She raised her hand and mimed a pendulum. ‘When it goes from side to side, that means it’s a girl.’
Alfred smiled. ‘Does it work even if it’s not your ring?’
Isobel shrugged. ‘Cannae get mine off. The fingers are too fat.’
They both laughed. ‘Just the fingers?’ Alfred said and moved his hand down to her thigh, pinching it playfully.
‘Oi, you rascal!’ she said, knocking his hand away. He waited a moment, then slid his hand back onto her stomach. They lay like this for a while, and he had almost slipped into sleep when her belly moved beneath his fingers. At first, he thought Isobel had shifted her position slightly, but then he detected it again, a slight flutter and then felt a small lump moving just beneath her skin.
‘Isobel,’ he whispered, not daring to speak too loudly in case the moving stopped, but from her slow regular breathing he could tell that she was asleep.
The lump moved again; he could picture the baby squirming against the confines of its soft, dark cave. Was it a foot, or perhaps an elbow? He was feeling childishly exci
ted now. He spread his fingers wider to see if he could catch any other movement, but presently, the lump receded and all he could feel was the warm skin of Isobel’s belly.
‘Is it really a girl?’ he asked silently.
The response was so low, as though coming from a great distance, that he had to strain to hear it: Wait and see, Alfred, wait and see...
In September, Alfred took a series of examinations at the encouragement of Harding, which he passed effortlessly. He returned home with the first formal qualification he had ever held in a large envelope clasped under his arm – a diploma confirming that he had achieved Level I of the Principles and Practices of Horticulture. He turned the key in the lock excitedly. He would take Isobel out to celebrate; a fish supper – a rare treat to eat out – and then to the pub, where she could have that glass of stout the doctor was always going on about. He called her name as he entered, but there was no response. Thinking she might be upstairs, napping, he ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, but she wasn’t there, either. He finally found her sitting in the kitchen in the gloom, in front of her on the table a cup of tea that must have turned cold hours before.
‘I called you,’ he said, at that moment picking up on the eerie atmosphere in the room, as though the air were filled with a thousand tiny malevolent charges. ‘Isobel?’
She looked up and he could see that she’d been crying.
‘She’s nae moving,’ she whispered.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 15
