The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

Day Five

  ‘Ah, I’ve been meaning to speak with you!’

  Alfred and I looked across at the cubicle door. A young, short, bearded man dressed in a white coat came in. He shook my hand and then Alfred’s, vigorously, as if to compensate for his small stature.

  ‘Is there any change?’ Alfred asked. He sounded desperately hopeful. And indeed, Brynja looked much better than last time: the tube running from her open mouth to the ventilator had been removed and now she just looked like she was in a very deep sleep.

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ the doctor said. ‘Though her vital signs are as good as we can hope for. She’s breathing on her own now, which is good, but she’s still in a coma.’ He sighed. ‘But you never know – she might come out of it tomorrow, or next week, or perhaps . . . well, never.’ He seemed to reflect on this for a moment. Then he said, ‘Ah, but I do have something interesting I’d like to show you.’ He plucked Brynja’s patient chart from the end of her bed. ‘We ran an fMRI this morning – standard procedure for brain injuries – and discovered something strange.’ He pulled out some colour images of what was, apparently, Brynja’s brain. Alfred and I both took a close look. They were really rather striking, like butterflies flecked with indigo and purple, and small patches of bright yellow.

  ‘What this suggests,’ the doctor continued, pointing at the patches of yellow, ‘is activity in the primary and secondary auditory cortexes. This is a bit unusual in coma patients – ’ And he went on to deliver a speech containing terms such as ‘morphosyntactic processing’, ‘superior temporal gyrus’, ‘arcuate fasciculus’, ending with, ‘akin to that observed during speech. Although no one was actually talking to her.’

  I had understood very little of what he had just said, and looked over to Alfred, but he was staring at the top left corner of the room, apparently miles away.

  ‘And what makes it even odder,’ the doctor continued, ‘is that certain parts of the medial forebrain bundle – I won’t bore you with the details – appear to be active at the same time.’

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘You know, the pleasure hotspot in the brain. But then again, the brain is very – how should I put it? – complex.’

  ‘Is this a good sign?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. Like I said, there’s no way of knowing with coma patients. Now I’m sorry, but I have to be getting on.’ He clipped the board back into place and turned to leave. As he strode towards the door, Alfred jerked back to life. ‘Are you telling us that she is processing speech in a . . . in a good way?’ he asked.

  The doctor turned. ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Stranger things have happened.’ And he left.

  On the drive home, neither of us spoke much. It was five p.m. on Boxing Day, and although traffic was light, the icy roads required my full concentration. Now and again, I looked over to Alfred, but he kept his gaze fixed forward during the entire journey. I hated to think what it must be like in there, inside his head, believing that he only had one day more to live.

  1958 - 1960

  Alfred’s thirty-second birthday brought some completely unexpected trouble. It was a Sunday, and Isobel had promised him a day of idleness, during which she’d ‘spoil him silly’. He got out of bed at around ten o’clock, putting aside the breakfast tray she’d brought him up, and got dressed at leisure, forgoing a shave. He passed by the window on the upstairs landing and looked out. It was raining silently outside, screening the meadow that stretched out from the back garden to the hills behind a sheer mist. He padded downstairs in the new slippers Isobel had bought him as a gift, made of burgundy leather and looking and feeling more expensive than anything he might have bought himself. He carried the tray into the kitchen, and received a mild scolding from Isobel for his troubles.

  ‘Now you just go and make yourself comfortable on the sofa,’ she said, taking the tray from him, ‘and stop doing my work.’

  She had flour dust in her hair; before her, on the kitchen table, sat a round birthday cake decorated with white satin icing and, in blue letters, Happy Birthday Dad.

  ‘Where’s John?’ he asked.

  ‘I told him he could have a second slice of birthday cake if he went to Sunday school. So you can have some peace and quiet.’

  Bribery was Isobel’s preferred parenting technique, something Alfred found distasteful and counter-productive. But he didn’t want to argue about it now, so instead, he leaned down to give her a kiss. Then the doorbell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Belle to fetch me for church,’ Isobel said, untying her apron. She looked up at the clock that hung on the wall above the back door. It was quarter past ten. ‘She’s early,’ Isobel said and smoothed down her hair with both hands, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. ‘But she’s probably come to wish you many happy returns.’

  She left the kitchen to answer the door. Fancying another cup of tea, Alfred filled the kettle and put it on the stove. Then he heard a familiar voice in the hallway, but it wasn’t Belle’s. It was Alice Singer-Cohen’s.

  ‘Is your husband in?’ he heard.

  ‘Um, yes. He’s through here, in the kitchen. I’ll just go and fetch him. May I take your coat?’ Isobel said.

  ‘No thank you,’ was the reply.

  Alfred stroked the stubble on his chin and for a moment regretted not having shaved. Perhaps she’d come to wish him a happy birthday, he thought, although she’d never done so in the past. He opened the kitchen door and went into the hallway. When he saw Alice Singer-Cohen standing there, he knew immediately that something was wrong. She was impeccably dressed, as always, but she wore no makeup and her face held a look of severity he’d never seen on her before.

  ‘It’s Alfred’s birthday,’ Isobel said, apparently oblivious to the tension he felt was oozing from Alice Singer-Cohen. ‘Won’t you join us for a slice of cake?’

  Alice Singer-Cohen didn’t look at Isobel. She kept her eyes on Alfred, and in a barely controlled voice, said, ‘I shan’t keep you long, Mr Warner. I have come to inform you that you are fired. You have two weeks to vacate the cottage, but I do not want to see you up at March House. Ever again.’

  She took a step back and bumped into Isobel, who looked quickly from the woman to Alfred, open-mouthed. ‘What? Alfie? Mrs Singer-Cohen?’

  ‘I – Mrs Singer-Cohen, what is . . . ?’ he stumbled over his words. But she didn’t stop to hear them. She turned and rushed down the path to the car, fumbled with the keys – she was driving herself – and pulled out before Alfred got to the front door.

  ‘Alfie, what’s going on?’ Isobel said. She was white and trembling. ‘Leave the cottage? What did she mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered, ‘but I’m going to find out.’ He put on his shoes, grabbed his jacket from the hook at the door and ran around the back of the house to fetch his bicycle.

  He cycled hard. And the harder he cycled, the angrier he felt; in fact, he couldn’t recall ever feeling this angry before, a white heat of rage starting in his gut that travelled up to just behind his eyes. The rain continued to fall, and he had to take care not to slip on the wet road. He thought of the look of distress on Isobel’s face, the fear Alice Singer-Cohen’s words had induced in her. How dare the woman threaten to turn him and his family out of their home! He had no idea what he would say to her, but he wouldn’t give all of this up without a fight.

  When he reached the wrought-iron gate, he stopped to swing it open and rode up to the house, having to push down hard on the pedals against the friction of the gravel. The grey Bentley was parked outside. He came to a skidding halt at the front steps, let the bicycle tumble to the ground and tugged at the bell-pull. Emma opened the door.

  ‘Is anyone expecting you?’ she asked, with a look to suggest that he wasn’t expected, and certainly not in his soaked-through jacket and muddy shoes.

  ‘Where is she?’ Alfred asked, taking a step forward.

  ‘Mr Singer-Cohen’s in Lond
on. Mrs Singer-Cohen is upstairs. She didn’t say you was coming.’

  ‘I need to see her,’ he said, pushing past her.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Emma said, shrugging. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you’d take your shoes off. It’s not you who has to clean up the muck.’

  Alfred hesitated, and then slipped out of his shoes. In his rush to get out of the house, he’d forgotten to put any socks on.

  Emma glanced down at his bare feet. ‘Mmm, lovely,’ she said sardonically.

  Alfred ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He had never been upstairs before, and he came to a stop at the sight of a large spacious landing, as cluttered as the entrance hall downstairs, with five or six white doors leading off. He turned and leaned over the banister. Emma was dusting some ornaments very slowly with a large feather duster, presumably waiting for some trouble to kick off.

  ‘Second door on the left,’ she said, without looking up. ‘But I’d knock, if I was you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alfred said, and strode across the landing to the door and knocked. As he waited for some response, he tried to gather his thoughts. There was no reason he could think of – absolutely no reason – why she should want to sack him. There were occasional disagreements over the garden; he’d sided – unusually – with Claxton a couple of weeks ago against her plans for an intricate water feature that would require too much maintenance to be worth the effect. But surely that was no reason to sack him! She was a highly intelligent woman, not one of those fickle rich who employed and dismissed their staff on a whim. Or had he misjudged her? He knocked again and waited for a ‘Come in.’ But instead, the door opened and he was suddenly confronted by a pale-faced Alice Singer-Cohen.

  ‘I told you I didn’t want to see you here again,’ she said, but there was a trace of resignation in her voice, as though she hadn’t expected any different. She wore a kind of housecoat – indigo satin with a cosmos of tiny silver stars embroidered on it – with matching slippers, and looked sad and tired. She rested the side of her head against the door and said, ‘Please leave, Mr Warner.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. He spoke softly. The sight of her like this, so tired and dejected, had cooled the heat of his anger. ‘I need to know why.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Leave, please.’

  But Alfred pushed the door open gently, and after a brief hesitation she stepped aside to let him in. The room was smaller than he’d expected; a canopy bed with ivory-coloured raw silk drapes took up most of the space, and facing the window was a dresser, cluttered with small pots and brushes and perfume flacons, with a tri-fold mirror attached to the back. Here Alice Singer-Cohen went to sit down. Alfred, in his bare feet and damp jacket, remained standing near the door.

  ‘I want to know why,’ he said. ‘I have worked for you for more than eight years. I’ve never taken sick leave. I’ve always done as was asked of me. My wife – ’ he paused briefly to calm himself. ‘That cottage is our home. We’ve always paid the rent on time.’

  Alice Singer-Cohen straightened up and looked directly at him. ‘Two of my husband’s relatives, an aunt and a cousin, paid us a visit last week. They enquired about the handsome young German man they’d met in the library.’

  Alfred felt a burning sensation rising up in him. She continued in a steady voice. ‘I had no idea who they were talking about, so they described the man.’

  Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with an angry look. ‘I didn’t quite understand, but she was adamant that you had spoken with a flawless accent. And I remembered something – do you recall, on the train? I wondered about the peculiar English you spoke?’

  Alfred swallowed and nodded. ‘I – ’

  She held up her hand. ‘Let me finish. So I had Miss Woolcroft make some enquiries. It was surprisingly easy, actually, to find out. I didn’t want to believe it. I have always liked you. And I’m not entirely sure what was worse, finding out that you are a former German prisoner of war, or that you have been lying to me all these years.’ This last sentence came out louder than her previous words.

  ‘Mrs Singer-Cohen.’ Alfred took a step towards her. ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, I’m sorry if you think I was trying to deceive you. I was nae trying to be dishonest, it’s just . . . it didnae seem to matter.’ He stopped, aware at how hollow his words sounded. Of course it mattered.

  Alice Singer-Cohen got to her feet. ‘How dare you!’ she shrieked, and all at once, the voices tumbled into his head, speaking in a chaotic medley that made it impossible for him to understand what they were saying. ‘“It didnae seem to matter”?’ she said, mocking his accent. Her face had grown even whiter; she looked as though she were about to faint. ‘I lost twelve members of my family!’ Her voice was crumbling away at the edges, as though she were finding it hard to fight back tears. But she continued. ‘Twelve people, including my three-year-old niece, boxed up and carted away like cattle, to be . . . to be . . . ’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

  A barbed silence hung in the room. Alfred’s voices had calmed to just a faint murmuring. Then he heard

  Close the door. Then tell her. Tell her you were not one of them.

  Almost mechanically, Alfred walked to the door. On the upstairs landing outside, Emma was making a fuss of straightening a lace cloth that was draped over a small side table. He caught her eye and she looked away, blushing. Then he closed the door. When he turned around, Alice Singer-Cohen had sat back down on her chair, no longer straight-backed, but looking very small and fragile.

  ‘I was not one of them,’ he said in a low, measured voice. ‘I was a German citizen until several years ago, it’s true, and I served in the Wehrmacht for a short time. I was eighteen years old. Before that – ’ He stopped, assailed by a sudden, intense memory of teaching Salomon how to use a sling-shot, sitting in a shady corner of the yard, both of them with dirty scabby knees and ever-hungry bellies. ‘I owe my life to the Jews,’ he said quietly.

  She looked up but didn’t speak. Alfred continued. ‘My parents died when I was young, and I was taken in by a Jewish orphanage in Berlin. They saved my life.’

  Alice Singer-Cohen began to shake her head, very slowly, as though she were underwater. Then Alfred closed his eyes. He concentrated hard, and then the recollection rose up, like a fish on a hook, struggling to begin with, but then rose to the surface swiftly and inexorably. And in a soft, low voice, he began to sing the Ma’oz Tzur.

  When he opened his eyes again, she had covered her face with both hands and was crying. She made no sound, but her slim shoulders were shaking beneath her satin robe. He went to her and crouched down, now oddly aware of the soft shag pile that lodged between his bare toes.

  ‘I’m so sorry for causing you pain,’ he said. He reached out his arm, touched by a strong urge to embrace and comfort her, but pulled back again.

  Tell her, a voice whispered, and he knew that he must, that he owed her this leap of faith.

  ‘I can hear voices,’ he said, so softly he feared his words might have been absorbed by the sound of the rain against the window glass. ‘I can hear voices,’ he repeated more clearly, and her hands slid from her face onto her lap. ‘Inside my head. Nobody knows about them. Not even my wife.’ He thought, not for the first time, how Isobel – sweet, oblivious Isobel – might react if she knew. Another secret he should have shared a long time ago, he thought shamefully. ‘I’ve heard them since I was a boy, and they’re the reason why I was taken in by the Jews. I was going to be sent to the asylum, but the Jews took me in and saved my life. People like me were killed by the Nazis, too.’

  When Alice Singer-Cohen spoke again, her voice was thin. ‘Could you please fetch me a cigarette?’ she said, pointing to a silver box on the bedside table. Alfred, feeling a cramp in his thighs from the crouching position, got up and did as she asked. When he’d given her a light, she inhaled deeply.

  ‘I cannot pretend that this is anything less than incredible,’ she said slowly. ‘I just wish you ha
d told me sooner.’

  ‘So do I,’ Alfred said, and meant it.

  ‘And I really don’t want to believe I misjudged you, Mr Warner, but you must understand that I will need some time to consider what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’

  She got to her feet and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. ‘I shall call you later,’ she said, and went to open the door.

  Emma was nowhere to be seen. Alfred paused at the door and caught Alice Singer-Cohen’s eye. He could see that he’d caused her great pain, and he was immeasurably sorry. They held the gaze for a moment, and Alfred knew she understood.

  ‘It’s a good thing I didn’t tell my husband,’ she said, before closing the door. ‘He would have wanted to kill you.’

  In the room at March House, alone with Alice Singer-Cohen, Alfred had had no sense of how much time had passed. When he arrived back at the cottage, to find a near-hysterical Isobel waiting for him, he was surprised to find out that he had been gone for two hours. There was a dull ache in his head and he felt a numb exhaustion, as though he hadn’t slept for days.

  ‘Oh God, Alfie, I thought you’d never be back!’ Isobel cried, rushing at him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She hugged him tightly and then pulled back. ‘Did you speak to her? What did she say?’

  Alfred took off his sodden jacket. ‘Where’s the boy?’ he asked.

  ‘He ate half the cake,’ she said. ‘I – I couldn’t stop him, because I was so worried and he just kept whingeing and whingeing. But then I took him round to Jane next door and told her I was feeling a wee bit under the weather. I didn’t want Johnnie to know something was wrong.’

  ‘She found out,’ he said. ‘She found out that I’d been a prisoner of war.’

  Isobel let out a moan. ‘So we have to leave? Where will we go?’ She looked around, panicked. ‘Oh God, Alfie, this is terrible!’

  ‘No, I explained everything,’ he said. ‘She said she would need to think before coming to a decision.’