Our Friends in Berlin

by Anthony Quinn

  Traherne waggled his hand in dismissal of this delicacy. But Hoste was scrupulous, and would insist on repayment of the loan at his earliest opportunity. It was a rule with him never to be beholden to anyone, least of all a colleague. Having said their goodbyes, he wandered out again into the morning and breathed in its sulphurous air. The all-clear had gone an hour ago. From a few streets away came the wail of an ambulance, hurrying on to the scene of another disaster from the night before: a collapsed building, or a damaged shelter, or a body found blown into a basement. There was no end to it; you kept going, because there was nothing else to do. A line he’d overheard a few hours ago recurred to him – This war would give you the sick.

  He smiled, and shivered, and walked on.

  2

  Amy put down her pen and rested her chin on joined hands. This was getting them nowhere. From below the window rose the honk and grind of traffic on Brook Street. She suddenly wished herself down there, striding along the pavement. You could forget, during the raids, what a wonderful thing it was to be able to roam about the London streets. Instead, she looked across the desk at her client – first of the day – a lawyer’s clerk named Sidney Kippist, short, bald, fortyish, fussy. Dismay must have registered on her face because he leaned towards her and said, ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘To be honest, Mr Kippist, yes – there is. When we ask our clients to list their requirements, we expect a mixture of positives and negatives – “I would like this sort of lady, but not that; I prefer this sort of personality rather than that.” You see?’ She looked at his registration form again. ‘Yours are all negatives – “Not lazy or common. I don’t like them ‘made up to hell’. Must not chew gum … Not too old, not too fat. Not American.” It doesn’t seem to me the best frame of mind in which to set out on the road to matrimony. After all –’ you’re no bloody oil painting yourself, she wanted to say – ‘a successful marriage is based on mutual tolerance. Give and take.’

  Kippist shifted in his seat. ‘I thought it would be better to establish straight away what I didn’t want. Besides, they aren’t all negatives, as I recall –’

  ‘Well, yes,’ conceded Amy, ‘but I don’t think “a lady with capital preferred” is much to go on. A lot of gentlemen we interview “prefer” someone with money. It’s not very original. Can you tell me what personal qualities you admire? Someone modest and quiet, perhaps? Someone who likes to play the piano, or takes an interest in animal welfare, or likes to go for walks, or … what?’

  He protruded his lip thoughtfully. ‘Yes. Someone like that.’

  Amy stared at him. Well, which, for heaven’s sake? ‘I’ll just have another look through my files, if you’ll wait a moment.’

  As she riffled through her papers, she heard a thin clicking sound from across the desk. Kippist was gazing off into the middle distance, seeming not to notice the irksome noise his false teeth were making. Oh, the poor woman who got this one … She wished she might spare her.

  ‘I’ve three more for you. How about this – twenty-eight years old, Londoner, convent-schooled. At present in the WRNS –’

  ‘No one from the forces, sorry,’ Kippist said firmly.

  Fair enough, Amy thought. It was hard to plight your troth to someone who next day might be dispatched to the other end of the country. She returned it to the file and opened another.

  ‘This lady, thirty-seven, runs her own flower business in Walworth –’

  ‘No’.

  Amy tilted her head enquiringly. Did he object to Walworth? she wondered. Or to the fact she was in trade? Or to her being thirty-seven? Kippist wasn’t saying; he merely folded his arms and looked blank. She put it aside, and opened the last one.

  ‘Twenty-nine. Slim, dark-haired. Music teacher. Friendly, outgoing …’ She glanced up at Kippist, who had leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Do go on,’ he said.

  ‘Lived with her parents in north London until recently, now shares a flat with two girls … Would like to meet a gentleman between thirty-five and forty-five years old.’

  Kippist was nodding in approval. ‘Does she mention anything about children?’

  Amy read down the form. ‘Says she would like them, but would understand if her future husband would prefer not.’

  By now he was rising to enthusiasm. He began to crane his head around, hoping to peek at the file for himself. ‘What’s this lady’s name?’

  ‘Miss Ruth Bernstein.’

  At that Kippist drew in his chin sharply. He stared at Amy as though she had made a dreadful faux pas. ‘Oh, Miss Strallen – a Jewess?!’

  Amy blushed, though not for herself. ‘There is nothing on your application to suggest you objected …’

  He shook his head. ‘I should have thought that was understood.’

  A silence fell between them. Amy closed Miss Bernstein’s file and put it back in her drawer. She wondered if she ought to apologise, but decided that graciousness would be wasted on him. She rose and smoothed down her skirt.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have for you at present, Mr Kippist. We’ll be in touch when another suitable candidate comes up.’

  Kippist gave a little sigh of disappointment. ‘The search goes on, then.’ He was turning to go when something apparently occurred to him. ‘Will you amend my form regarding, um … ?’

  Amy said, with a tight smile, ‘Noted. And if you think of anything else to include on your proscribed list be sure to tell our secretary, Miss Ducker.’

  He hesitated a moment, perhaps hearing an insolence in her tone. But he said nothing, took up his hat and left.

  Once she heard the door to the street close Amy went out into reception and, with a quick double knock, put her head round the door of the adjacent office. Johanna looked up from her desk, strewn with registration forms she was busily matching up in pairs. Since there was no client in the room Amy sidled in and, with an exasperated oath, threw herself full-length onto the horsehair couch.

  ‘Sometimes I could just strangle them,’ she said to the ceiling.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Jo. ‘Who’s been in?’

  ‘Kippist. The lawyer’s clerk.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So what did he want?’

  Amy half snorted a laugh. ‘A fantasy! A feminine paragon – like the rest of them. You know, it never fails to amaze me how a certain kind of man considers himself absolutely entitled to a woman half his age – and twice as good-looking.’

  Jo smiled. ‘Women can be unrealistic, too.’

  ‘But not like men! Honestly, if you’d seen this fellow, just sitting there dismissing one nice girl after another, as if he were some Adonis …’

  ‘I know. Just think of it as a business transaction. We have his five guineas, that’s what matters. When’s your next?’

  Amy glanced at her watch. ‘Midday.’

  ‘Right, that gives us an hour for matching. Pull up that chair.’

  ‘Matching’ – or ‘mating’ if they were feeling silly – was their term for introducing people on the basis of their registration forms. They had been running the marriage bureau for just over two years. Johanna Quartermaine, born of a well-to-do family that expected nothing of her beyond marriage and children, had sickened of waiting for Mr Right and decided to put her mind, and social skills, to some use. Aware of the legions of single people (like her) on the lookout for a suitable partner, she saw the potential in setting up an agency that would do the matchmaking for them. Drawing on a small inheritance from a late aunt, in the spring of 1939 she rented run-down premises in Bruton Place, bought a few sticks of office furniture and devised a short brochure.

  There is no reason to feel ashamed because you wish to marry the right person. In fact, you ought to rejoice in your good sense for knowing it is better to seek out opportunity rather than simply wait in hope. You would consider yourself weak-minded and irresponsible if you did not make provision for other aspects of your life. How much more important is this question of making the right match!
>
  The Quartermaine Marriage Bureau will put you in touch only with people who fulfil the requirements you specify. It is our job to remove the inconvenience and embarrassment that so often block the path to romance. We cannot guarantee the ultimate prize of matrimony, but we promise to give you the best possible chance of it.

  Price on application to 36 Bruton Place, W., or telephone MAYFAIR 1629

  Her enterprise was rewarded even sooner than her optimistic spirit had bargained for. By the end of the first week, she had received fourteen applicants; by the end of the first month she had nearly a hundred. Once it became apparent she would not be able to cope with the numbers on her own she advertised for a business partner. From the moment Miss Strallen sat down opposite and offered her one of the cakes she had bought en route at Fortnum’s Johanna had a feeling she was the one. Her instinct was not misguided. Amy had been raised in a large gregarious family and would spend holidays with cousins organising theatricals and concerts. In her youth she had shown promise as a musician; she liked to play the violin and also had a fine singing voice. Her school thought her good enough to apply to the Royal College of Music, but in the event the examiners considered her playing ‘exuberant’ rather than accomplished. She bore the disappointment lightly, thinking they were probably right.

  Her good sense did not desert her as she grew older. She developed a shrewdness about people, and how best to deal with them. She put the shy ones at their ease and the cocky ones in their place. Her natural warmth, combined with a streak of irreverence, made her a favourite with clients, who began recommending the Quartermaine Marriage Bureau to others even if their own marital ambitions had yet to be realised. People continued to pour in, and the QMB moved to larger premises round the corner on Brook Street. A secretary was hired to deal with the appointments book. The Daily Mail ran an article reporting on the venture’s success.

  As the summer rumbled to a close, however, events in Europe might have spelled the end for the bureau. With war declared, Jo and Amy assumed that the lowering mood of dread would put paid to thoughts of marriage. Yet instead of a downturn in numbers, the business actually boomed. Young men about to take up arms urgently sought out wives they could write to – dream of – while they were away. Women, conscious of the previous generation’s loss in the Great War, wanted to secure a husband before it was too late. In fact the only danger to the bureau was the physical one from the sky; during the autumn Blitz their office building had had two close shaves. They discussed the possibility of moving to the suburbs while the bombing continued, but in the end neither of them could bear to leave Brook Street.

  As midday approached Miss Ducker called in to tell Amy she had three more appointments that afternoon.

  ‘I thought it was only two.’

  ‘Gentleman just telephoned to confirm. Four o’clock. His cheque’s come through, but no registration form.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Her twelve o’clock was a pretty twenty-year-old who worked in the office of a munitions factory nine till seven, Monday to Friday, and helped in a forces canteen every other Saturday afternoon – she barely had time to go out and find a man. Her two o’clock was a fiftyish stockbroker who had lived with his mother until her death last December; it transpired that her last wish was for him to find a wife. He himself seemed unenthused by the prospect. At three she interviewed an RAF pilot, a type so in demand she was able to present him with a choice of ten female clients straight off. Amy had talked about this with Jo, who reckoned that pilots were sought after because of their sense of proportion. ‘You can’t risk death in the air every day and still have a mind for petty quarrels.’

  Her last client of the day arrived at four o’clock on the nail. She was feeling rather beat, so she made herself a quick cup of tea in the tiny kitchen upstairs. Stubbing out her cigarette she cracked open her office door and asked Miss Ducker to send him in.

  He entered and met her eye with a little nod, which she interpreted as a sort of modesty, his way of saying ‘I am grateful for your help’. He was of average height, wearing a smart tweed jacket and club tie. Slightly pasty skin, but not bad-looking. He had a very deliberate way of checking his place, eyes to the left, then to the right, as if he were casing the room. She asked him to take a seat, and uncapped her fountain pen.

  ‘We’ll just go through the formalities of registration,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s Mr … ?’

  ‘Hoste. Jack Hoste.’

  She began writing. ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘January the 20th, 1899.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘The Russell. In Russell Square.’

  She looked up. ‘You mean – you live in a hotel?’

  ‘For the time being. I was bombed out a couple of weeks ago.’

  After a murmured consolation she continued the questionnaire, though his answers came in a distracted, halting way. He was more absorbed in looking about her office, his eyes glinting as they settled on this or that object. It was as though he were trying to memorise the whole room.

  ‘So, you’ve not been married before, Mr Hoste?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled at the idea.

  Amy smiled back, put down her pen and folded her hands on the desk. ‘May I ask what sort of lady you hope to marry?’

  He blinked at her, evidently taken by surprise at the question. The quizzical light in her eyes disconcerted him. ‘I’m open to suggestion.’

  She stared at him, equally puzzled. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I thought you had all the data – that is, the relevant information.’

  ‘I think you’ve got this the wrong way round. Our bureau is set up to match clients with suitable partners. The type of partner is decided by the client, not by us. We don’t know what you want until you tell us.’

  Hoste realised he ought to have been briefed. Preparation was key in his line of work; forewarned was forearmed. He had read the words ‘marriage bureau’ on the Section memo and ignored them, possibly because he didn’t know what a marriage bureau was. His long delay in replying prompted Amy to fill the silence.

  ‘You must have some idea of the lady you’re looking for …’ Her tone was encouraging, which made him want to help.

  It was not a question he had considered in some time. Now he heard himself reply as if it might have been a stranger speaking. ‘I should hope for someone – a woman who – if it were possible – would like me.’

  He really hasn’t got a clue, thought Amy, who nonetheless felt touched by the pathetic simplicity of his reply. ‘That’s perfectly reasonable. But you need to be a little more specific.’ She saw his blank expression and pressed on. ‘We look at things like compatibility. For instance, when a farmer has applied to us –’

  ‘You get farmers here?’

  ‘We get all sorts. As I was saying, with a farmer we will try and match him to a woman who enjoys country life, fresh air, looking after animals, and – clearly – doesn’t mind hard work.’

  ‘The farmer wants a wife,’ said Hoste with a wondering air.

  Ignoring this, Amy continued. ‘Of course compatibility involves so much more than one’s occupation – there’s also age, religion, social standing, family commitments, a preference for town or the country.’

  ‘That’s a lot to consider.’

  ‘Indeed it is. And that’s before we even address matters of temperament and personality. Do you want someone who’s the life and soul of the party, or the quiet and homely type?’ For a moment Hoste thought she was asking him a direct question. Amy saw the confusion in his eyes. ‘It was a hypothetical point. May I ask you a personal question, Mr Hoste? You’ve had lady friends, I’m sure …’

  (Though based on present evidence she wasn’t sure, at all.)

  ‘Yes, yes. Though not recently. The last one was about five years ago.’

  ‘I see. Can you perhaps describe her to me?’

  He squinted at her. ‘You mean – as a person?’

  ‘If you would
n’t mind.’

  He hadn’t thought of her, of Jane, in a while. Was it five years – or six? A nice girl. He wondered what she was doing now. As he was describing her, though, he found himself looking more closely at the woman, Miss Strallen, across the desk from him, concentrating. She had a funny way, in repose, of resting her tongue on her teeth. He supposed she was late twenties, maybe thirty. Her hair, mid-brown, shoulder-length, was very shiny. How did she get it like that? She had neat, slim hands, he noticed; altogether not bad-looking. He could not help warming to her open, approachable manner; it was so very different from his own.

  He was jolted from this reverie by the sound of her voice. ‘So from what you’ve told me, this Miss Temple – Jane – was confident and gregarious. She liked tennis, travel, cookery. Keen on dogs. Quite well off. Very interested in you and your work. I must say, she strikes me as an ideal girl!’

  ‘She was, I suppose,’ he agreed.

  ‘Perhaps, then, we could try to match you with someone similar?’

  She saw his face cloud. He looked away, and gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But why ever not?’ she said, perplexed.

  There was a pause while he searched for the words. ‘Because … because I don’t think I could bear to disappoint someone like that again.’

  She frowned, staring at him. ‘What makes you think you’ll disappoint her?’

  He smiled, but sadly, and rose from his chair. ‘Just an instinct I have. I’m sorry, Miss Strallen, I’m not really the right sort for your … business.’

  He held out his hand, which she took, somewhat at a loss. Like a lot of men he hadn’t really understood what her ‘business’ was – the idea of a marriage bureau was a new one – but he seemed suddenly eager to be gone.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ll have our secretary return your registration fee –’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Keep it. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

  He touched the brim of his hat, and was gone.