The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  John put up his hand, palm outwards. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  She breathed in. ‘Vasily,’ she said. ‘Do you think—’ She broke off, unsure what she thought. ‘Kidnap?’ she said. ‘If the Russians want him, why don’t they just take him?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Betty,’ he said. ‘Governments don’t do that sort of thing.’

  ‘But they did,’ she said. ‘At the end of the war. The British took my father.’

  ‘They didn’t kidnap him,’ he said. ‘He came of his own free will. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. There’ll be a simple explanation. Perhaps he’s ill. Or asleep. Where’s his bedroom?’

  He was probably right. But her father’s hearing was acute, as sharp as his eyesight or his sense of smell. He was a light sleeper, too, would have heard them. She led the way up the stairs to his bedroom in the front of the house, opened the door, turned on the light. His bed was made, the candlewick bedspread unruffled, a pair of shoes tucked beneath the bedroom chair, their polished heels just visible.

  She looked at John. He isn’t here. She backed out, opened the door to the small room above the hall. They used it as a box room to store her father’s DIY tools. It had been cleared. A treadle sewing machine was under the window, a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner.

  Her old bedroom was in the back. She flicked on the light. Her bed behind the door had a new pink ruched eiderdown on top of the blankets. There was a kidney-shaped dressing table with chintz drapes under the window where her desk used to be, and on its glass top a vanity set and perfume bottle with a pink atomiser. The wardrobe hadn’t changed, filled the alcove as it had before. Betty went over, flung it open. It was full of women’s clothes, dresses and skirts and blouses smelling of cheap perfume and Daz and Mrs H.

  The tutu dress had gone, the last memento of her, erased. The hurt burned, white hot.

  She could hear John opening the bathroom door, the lavatory door, closing them, click.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘She’s moved in,’ Betty said. ‘Mrs H has moved in.’ She didn’t know why she was shocked. Anyone could see that’s what the woman had angled for from the day she arrived. It was more than shock. It was a slash, a cut so deep it could never heal. Her father loved that woman more than her.

  ‘Then they’ll be out somewhere,’ John said. She wanted to scream Weren’t you listening? ‘Let’s just check the other rooms, and we’ll go.’ His step was lighter. He was uncomfortable here, she could tell.

  The sitting room was as dark and empty as the other rooms. There was only one room left, the dining room at the back of the house with French windows leading to the garden. They always ate in the dining room, her father one end of the table, she the other, with her back to the outdoors. It was where she sat when he reprimanded her too. Had he ever praised her? Had he ever said, You’ve done well, Betty, I’m proud of you? John opened the door, felt for the switch, turned on the light. The room had a pungent smell she couldn’t identify.

  Her father sat in her chair, his back to the garden, facing the blank wall. His head had lolled to the side, his mouth twisted, a livid tongue protruding, like some grotesque gargoyle. His grey eyes were open, as hard and empty in death as in life. She could hear herself breathing, struggling to drag the heavy air in, out, her chest rising and falling. She stood, numb, dead to herself, thoughts and feelings moiling like debris in a storm.

  She felt John’s arm around her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry, Betty,’ he said, pulling her towards him. She was limp, fell against him. ‘So sorry.’

  Betty tried to speak but a lump of anger and grief blocked her throat. He had left her, abandoned her, again. There was a bang. She jumped. One of the French windows had been pulled open by the gusty wind, slammed shut. That was strange. Why were they unlocked in this weather?

  ‘Does your father have a telephone?’

  She nodded, pointing to the hall. She watched as he walked away, listened as he dialled the emergency number.

  ‘Ambulance. Police.’ Called out, ‘Betty, what’s the address?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Why didn’t he know that? ‘Forty-seven…’ She listened as he repeated it, gave his name again, gave hers. ‘Yes, dead. His daughter.’ He put the receiver down.

  Her father had lost his power to terrorise her. She should go over and close his eyes, shut his mouth, but she didn’t want to touch him. He repulsed her in his crude, brazen death. She had never loved him. Was that a terrible thing?

  She waited for John’s steps along the hall, for his hand to pull her away, but she heard him dial another number, the soft purr of the rotary. A moment. His voice was muffled as he spoke, but she could swear he said birdcage. It made no sense.

  Her eyes were fixed on her father, his purpling, flaccid flesh, his hands on the table, the fingers stiff and white. There was a small brown glass phial next to him, a tiny cork beside it. Betty stood, transfixed. Frau Weber had had one the same, looped on a cord round her neck. The Baumanns too. Handed out like chocolates at the end of the war.

  John stepped behind her. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let me take you away.’

  ‘Cyanide,’ she said. ‘He took cyanide.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  She pointed at the ampoule. ‘Why? Why now? He’d had his chance in 1945.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ John said.

  She was shaking her head. ‘How would you?’ Her voice was soft but vibrated with rage. ‘After the war. So many people, one after the other. It was an epidemic.’ Sitting with Greta behind the Biedermeier sofa, the Baumanns’ chamber pots, memories shoved for space, overlapping like a montage, Berlin at the end, Germany at the end. ‘They couldn’t come to terms with their own idiocy.’ She looked at John. ‘Or their defeat. You see…’ His face was searching hers and she knew he was listening hard. ‘They’d swallowed Hitler and everything he promised. But it was a chimera.’ Was she making sense? Could he comprehend how people coped with the criminal calamity that had been Germany? That they had been party to? ‘He just took longer to grasp it than most.’

  John placed his hand on her elbow, leading her away into the front room, helping her into an armchair as if she was an invalid. The room was cold, the fire unlit.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ she said.

  He didn’t answer but reached over to the mantelpiece for the matches, struck one and lit the gas poker, nestling it in among the coals.

  ‘That’ll make it warmer,’ he said. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘You don’t know where anything is,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  She rolled off her damp coat and sat back in the armchair, pulling out from beneath her a pleated cushion in synthetic silk. She looked at the familiar room. The wooden standard lamp with its fluted shade and tassels, the coffee table, the bureau. The grey carpet with the red diagonal slabs, parquet-patterned linoleum round the edges. There was a new clock on the mantelpiece, a brass carriage clock, and either side were two plaster Toby jugs. They looked cheap. The more Betty looked, the stranger the room became. A picture calendar had been tacked to the wall. The animal for November was a hedgehog, and two crocheted antimacassars were draped over the back of the sofa.

  She heard the bell of a police car, an ambulance, could hear John opening the door to them, the tread of boots to the dining room, hear him talking. She could see Mrs H through the window, standing outside, her voice shrill, her words indistinct. Betty waited. Listening. John came back with the everyday teapot and cups.

  ‘I found some biscuits,’ he said, placing a tray on the table. ‘The police are here.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Betty said. ‘Mrs H?’

  ‘She’d been out all day,’ John said. ‘Visiting her sister. Has just come back. A bit of a shock, I imagine.’

  ‘I don’t want her in here,’ Betty said. ‘I don’t want to see her.’

&nb
sp; ‘Let the police take care of it.’

  He poured the tea and handed her a cup, checked his watch. He’s going somewhere, she thought. He’s going to leave me. She could hear another car draw up in the street outside, the door slam. Voices in the hall, yes, sir. John was nodding, as if he knew, as if he was expecting someone. The door opened and an older man entered, grey hair matching his suit.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Fielding.’ He held out his hand to her, his face sombre, like a pallbearer. ‘I’d like to offer my condolences for your loss, Miss Fisher,’ he said. ‘It must be very hard for you. A dreadful shock.’

  Betty nodded. Shock. That was the word. She fixed her eyes on the fire, the glowing red coals, the flicker of blue and orange flame drifting in and out of focus. She was cold, shivery.

  ‘I’m so sorry to intrude,’ he went on. ‘But your father’s death…’ He paused. ‘We have to investigate, you understand, to find out how he died.’

  ‘Won’t a post-mortem show that?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the DS said. ‘It’s just that your father was a rather’ – he searched for the word – ‘prominent man.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There may be some official interest. I’m afraid this means asking you some awkward questions which you may find intrusive.’

  She nodded. I know.

  He smiled then. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’ He looked at the fire. ‘I think this has caught now, don’t you? Shall I turn the poker off?’ He didn’t wait for her answer, reached down and turned off the gas tap.

  ‘Can you tell me more about him?’ he said. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘I don’t know what I can say,’ she said. I never really knew him, she wanted to add. ‘He was strict, liked his own way. He was a bit of a bully, to be honest, at least with me.’

  ‘Well, sometimes fathers can be overprotective, you know, especially with daughters.’ He smiled, I know all about this. ‘Your father’s fiancée—’

  ‘Fiancée?’ Betty said. ‘You mean Mrs H? She’s just the housekeeper.’

  The detective shifted his position, raised an eyebrow. ‘Mrs Henderson said you and your father were estranged.’

  Betty shook her head. ‘That’s none of her business.’

  ‘Were you? Estranged?’

  ‘We had a disagreement, yes.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘In the summer. July, I think.’

  ‘May I ask what it was about?’

  ‘Politics,’ she said.

  The detective nodded, scribbled in shorthand. ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Betty said. ‘It’s not important, not now. It’s too complicated.’ It was about politics, but it was about denial, too, and how could she explain that to this detective?

  ‘Why did you come back?’

  Betty swallowed. ‘He’d lied to me about something, and I wanted to—’ She was about to say confront him, but checked herself. ‘Find out what he had to say.’ She looked at the policeman. ‘Ask John. It was he who told me.’

  John sat on the edge of the sofa, his teacup still in his hand. He was staring at it, as if reading the leaves. The room was silent save for the hum of their breathing, the faint rumble of a train in the distance, the muffled tones of people coming and going in the hallway. The fire needed more coal, but she didn’t have the energy to shovel more on.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not being any use.’ She flapped her hand towards the window. She suspected Mrs H pulled the curtains to each night. There, that’s cosier, isn’t it?

  ‘Is there anyone who would wish your father dead?’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered?’ she said. What secret operations had he been caught up in, this little man in big man politics? John would know.

  ‘He committed suicide,’ she said before he could answer. That was obvious.

  ‘You seem sure,’ the detective said, but his voice hinted at a question. ‘Is there any reason why he would want to take his own life?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t think of any.’ Had he felt remorse? ‘He swallowed cyanide, didn’t he?’

  ‘Only a post-mortem will tell us that,’ DS Fielding said. ‘What makes you think he took cyanide?’

  ‘I recognised the phial on the desk.’

  ‘Had you seen it before?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not that one. Not since we came to England.’

  The detective flicked through some notes, took a glance at John. ‘In 1945,’ he said, looking up at her as if for confirmation. ‘From Germany.’

  It was supposed to be a secret, she thought. We will not talk of it. But the detective was aware of it, about her father. Highest security. Of course. Everyone knew about her father. She was the only one who didn’t.

  ‘Did you know your father had it?’

  Betty shook her head. ‘I had no idea,’ she said.

  ‘But you recognised it.’

  She breathed in deep, gathering thoughts, words. ‘We came here in 1945.’ In all the years in England, she’d never gone against this injunction of her father’s, We do not talk of Germany, but the detective knew this anyway. Arnold Fisher, aka Hermann Fischer. ‘People talked about suicide, all the time. Anyone could put their hands on phials of potassium cyanide at the end of the war,’ she went on. ‘Just like that one. They were that easy to come by.’ She wanted to shake her shoulders, feel the shackles of silence as they slid away. ‘Cyanide was the weapon of choice, you must know that. Zyklon B. Mass murder. Individual suicide. It was no coincidence that Eva Braun took cyanide. Or the Goebbels. You’ll have heard of them. But not the thousand others like them.’

  DS Fielding took notes, squiggles of shorthand. ‘Where did your father keep it?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I had no idea he had any.’

  ‘Did he have a safe? Or somewhere under lock and key?’ She thought of the secret compartment in Mutti’s bureau in Berlin. Did her father have one?

  ‘Not that I know,’ she said.

  ‘His passport? Documents? A will? Things like that? Where did he keep all those things?’

  Betty shrugged. They’d never been abroad, had no need of a passport, but now, she thought, there must be something official, somewhere. ‘Perhaps in the bureau,’ she said, pointing. ‘That was always locked.’

  ‘Do you have the key?’

  ‘No.’ She sniffed. ‘Sorry. You must think me hopeless.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll find it. Perhaps Mrs Henderson will know.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Betty said. ‘She seems to know everything.’ She hoped the detective didn’t hear the cut to her voice.

  ‘May I just ask, what were you doing today?’

  ‘Today? Before I came here, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I met John at four, at the British Museum.’

  ‘John? The gentleman here?’ The detective looked across at John. ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ Betty said, screwing up her eyes. She sounded petulant, she knew, but she didn’t want to be associated with John.

  ‘And you both came here then?’

  ‘We left when the museum closed, about five, and came straight here.’

  ‘Before you met John, what were you doing?’

  The detective’s tone was silky, like a spider, but she sensed a menace there. Did he think she’d come to Hatfield, poisoned her father?

  ‘I was writing,’ she said, adding, ‘An article.’

  ‘Where? Did anyone see you?’

  She laughed. The absurdity of the question. ‘I can’t write at home,’ she said. ‘My room’s too small and the house is too noisy. So I go to the public library, the reference part, Willesden Green.’ She looked at him. ‘Near where I live. Then I went to the Partisan—’

  ‘The Partisan?’

  ‘It’s a coffee house, in Soho,’ she said. ‘And a sort of meeting place. I can use their typewriters, so I typed up my article. T
hen I walked to meet John.’

  ‘And others can vouch for you?’

  ‘Loads,’ she said. ‘I even walked with someone to meet John.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Nick. I don’t know his surname.’

  John reached forward to put his cup on the tray, glanced at her. Yes, she thought. His name’s Nick.

  ‘And you, sir?’ the detective said. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was at home marking,’ he said. ‘And no, no one can vouch for me. I live alone.’

  DS Fielding flicked his notebook shut. ‘That’ll be all for the moment,’ he said. ‘Miss Fisher. Thank you for your time. You’ll be contacted later, I’m afraid. Others will need to talk to you.’ He stood up, held out his hand. ‘My constable will take your details.’ He turned to John. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, may I have a word in private with you?’ He led the way out of the room and John followed.

  Betty turned to the fire, absorbed by the glowing coals and the warmth that was finally seeping into her body.

  §

  A Major Goodfellow rang her a few days later, wanted to meet her for a quick chat. He gave an address in Millbank, not far from the Tate. She took the morning off work, said it was to do with her father’s arrangements. The building stood behind innocuous ivy-clad walls. There was a bell by the gate, but no indication of what the building was used for. No plaque, no sign. The windows were dark and she sensed that even if she pressed her nose against them, all she would see would be her own reflection.

  The gate swung open, clicked shut behind her. She walked to the front door. Another bell, another silent entry. She stepped inside. If he hadn’t been a major and therefore, in some way, official, she’d be worried, a young woman, alone, stepping into an empty building with no street number, no name.

  ‘Follow me, miss.’ A young soldier appeared and led the way up the main stairs, skirting round the landing, along a corridor. He knocked at a door, opened it. ‘She’s here, sir.’ He indicated for Betty to enter.

  ‘Miss Fisher.’ A tall man stepped from behind a table, smiled at her, his hand outstretched. ‘How very kind of you to come. I’m James Goodfellow. Let me take your coat.’ He walked towards her, standing close as Betty slipped the coat off, handed it to him, watched as he hooked it onto a stand.