Our Friends in Berlin

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘Ah, where the witches lived,’ said Marita when Amy pointed it out.

  As the distance between them expanded and contracted, their talk became desultory. In the woodlands they tracked through Amy liked to pause and admire the flowers – bluebells, wood anemones, dog violets – the names learned from her mother. Marita was impressed.

  ‘What about these, the pink ones?’

  ‘Those are red campions,’ said Amy. ‘Also known as the cuckoo flower, because they announce spring.’

  Marita, hands on hips, smiled wonderingly. ‘A cuckoo flower! That’s very quaint. I had no idea you were a botanical whizz.’

  ‘Oh …’ Amy waggled her hand dismissively, and they walked on. The truth was, flowers were perhaps the single area of knowledge in which she had an advantage over her friend. Compared with what Marita knew about books and clothes and politics and history – about everything, in short – Amy was quite clearly the dunce. It was embarrassing, for Marita herself could hardly be unaware of the gulf between them; and yet she made no great thing of it. Maybe she enjoyed being so much brighter than her friends …

  And so much fitter, too, she thought, watching the figure ahead of her advance at a very smart bat. She had taken charge of the map, stopping to consult it now and then like a soldier on manoeuvres. Even granted these pauses Amy struggled to keep up. One wide sloping field gave way to another, the tussocky grass still damp from the rain. In the next field stood a herd of cows, mooching, their gazes blank and steady. After a while the sound of the river floated across the air. She couldn’t see it yet, but the water seemed to be chattering with itself. The sun had tweaked its dial a little higher. They had passed through another kissing gate when she hurried to catch up with Marita.

  ‘Shall we have a rest?’ she asked, somewhat breathlessly. She sank down on a dip in the grass.

  Marita gave a shrug, and sat down just behind her, propped on her elbows. She wasn’t tired in the least; walking holidays in the Bavarian Alps, she explained, were much more demanding on the legs and lungs. ‘It’s my favourite place in all Germany. I hope to go back this year.’

  ‘Your father has family over there, I suppose?’

  She nodded. ‘Some distant cousins I hardly know. Things might have been very different. My father had gone to work in London for a year. He was about to return to Berlin – literally, he had two or three weeks left to go – when a young secretary started at the firm. They took to one another immediately, which was fortunate. That secretary was my mother.’

  ‘How romantic! Did he consider taking her back to Germany?’

  ‘He may have done, but my mother wouldn’t have gone. She had close family, up in Maidenhead. And a very strong will.’

  That I can believe, thought Amy, who closed her eyes as the sun broke from behind a cloud and warmed her face. Lying there, she felt a rush of pure contentment. The weather had been atrocious, but this one day had rescued the whole trip. Shielding her eyes she looked across to Marita, whose expression had become pensive.

  ‘What business was your father in?’ Amy asked presently.

  Marita seemed to wake from her reverie. ‘Munitions. He ran a factory. It did very well, of course, when the war came. He might have become very rich.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  A pause followed. He was a victim of sharp practice, she explained. Two years after the war a new programme of extracting nitrogen pioneered by German explosives experts came to light. Under the terms of the Armistice the Allies took it over, and a contract was tendered – it should have gone to a number of competing businesses, but instead a large fertiliser company named Crewe-Devlin got the entire thing. Nobody knew how, until it was revealed that Sir Alfred Lawton, a government minister, had arranged the contract privately. He also happened to be a director at Crewe-Devlin. ‘So they got the monopoly on this new nitrogen technique, kept the price of fertiliser high and eventually drove my father out of business. He had to start again, at the bottom.’

  ‘That must have been hard,’ said Amy quietly.

  Marita nodded. ‘It was. There will always be war profiteers, though few have been as successful as Lawton. And do you know how he got away with it?’

  Amy shook her head, and waited.

  ‘Because, my dear, Sir Alfred is a Jew, and enjoyed the protection of his powerful Jewish friends. It’s the old story. So remember it, next time you think I’m being too harsh on the Chosen Race.’

  Two more hours of walking took them back in a circle to the village. They wandered about the lichen-shawled headstones in the church graveyard, before reclaiming their bicycles round the corner. Amy’s legs ached as they pedalled back to the inn; again she lagged far behind Marita, who breezed along the lanes without appearing to break a sweat.

  As they were readying themselves for dinner Amy returned to the subject of holidays.

  ‘So you’ll definitely be going to Germany?’

  ‘Yes. Late August, if I’ve saved enough by then.’ There was a pause. ‘You should come with me.’

  Amy smiled; in truth, she felt flattered by the suggestion.

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  It being their last night, they had drinks in the bar after dinner. The man who had tipped off Amy about the weather the previous evening stopped by their table. Had they enjoyed their walk? Amy assured him they had, and after a further exchange of pleasantries he wished them a good night and withdrew.

  After a moment Marita said archly, ‘I believe that fellow is very sorry to see you go.’

  ‘What? I don’t think so.’

  ‘My dear! He clearly wanted nothing more than to sit here and flirt with you all evening. Why deny it?’

  ‘Because it’s not true,’ said Amy, incredulous.

  ‘Then why are you blushing?’

  ‘If I am, then it’s because I’m embarrassed that you should misread a perfectly ordinary moment of friendliness.’

  Marita pulled a face and fell silent, as if she were backing away from an argument. Amy stared at her, wondering how this wild misapprehension had suddenly come between them. Absurd to think the man had been flirting with her! For one thing, he was a good twenty years her senior. For another, he had addressed his few remarks to both of them, not just Amy. She took a deep swallow of her gin and lemon.

  ‘Let’s not fall out,’ she began gently. ‘You know, it’s nothing to me whether he was flirting or not. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested.’

  Marita nodded, warily appeased. ‘I have a suspicious nature – I’m sorry. Though I’m surprised you seem not to notice men “giving you the eye”. You are, if I may say, rather innocent.’

  Amy gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps I’m just slow on the uptake. To be honest, a man would have to make a dead set at me before I got the message.’

  ‘But why? Why be the shrinking violet?’

  ‘I don’t mean to. But I’m not confident, really. Not like you.’

  ‘You must have felt twitches on the fishing line …’

  ‘A few. There was one chap I was keen on, but he – well, I think he lost interest.’

  Marita stared at her appraisingly. ‘Then he was a fool.’

  Later, back in their room, Amy felt licensed to turn the enquiry around. ‘That man you introduced me to a few weeks ago. Is it serious?’

  ‘Oh, Bernard. We get on pretty well. He’s witty, and clever, and ambitious. Knows his own mind, too – he says he adores me.’

  Amy laughed at her nonchalant tone. ‘Do you reciprocate the feeling?’

  Marita pulled an ambiguous expression. ‘Too early to say. Bernard wants to hurry it along, but he’ll have to wait. I’m not yet ready to cash in my chips. There’s no telling who may be round the next corner.’

  ‘There may not be anyone,’ said Amy uncertainly.

  Marita smiled distantly. ‘That’s a gamble I must take.’

  Amy went off to the bathroom to prepare for bed. As she undressed she felt a wave of fatigue crash over her, the cumula
tive effect of the day’s walking, the fresh air and, possibly, the strain of long hours in Marita’s company. All things considered their first holiday together had been a success. But the awkward little tiff in the bar just now reminded her of the need for caution; with a nature as prickly as Marita’s there was no telling the ways in which one might give offence. If she could fly off the handle over a stranger’s small talk how would she cope with actual misbehaviour?

  On returning to the room she found her absorbed in her book. With a yawn Amy brushed her hair, put some cold cream on her face and got into bed. She called goodnight across the room, but Marita seemed not to hear her. Amy shifted herself to face the bedroom wall, hearing only the soft flip of another page being turned. When it stopped she waited for the sound of Marita getting ready for bed. Instead, her footsteps padded over, and she perched herself on the edge of the bed, like a mother about to read her child a story. Amy looked round, startled.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked.

  Marita shook her head. It was too dark to make out the expression on her face. Without warning she placed her hand very tenderly on Amy’s head. ‘Such lovely hair you have.’ She began to stroke it. Amy, disconcerted, lay very still. Then: ‘You should let someone take care of you.’

  There was an appeal in her tone as she continued to caress her hair. At a loss for something to say, Amy simply waited. She felt – she knew – that a response was required of her; and that what she was minded to say would not please Marita. The silence lengthened. When there came a pause in the stroking, Amy said, as softly as she could, ‘Goodnight, then.’

  Marita stayed there, for some moments, watching her. Slowly, without a word, she rose and returned to her own bed. Amy lay in the dark, not daring to move. She had been about to drop off – but no longer.

  In the morning they dressed, and breakfasted, and returned to their room to pack. What had passed between them last night was not mentioned; it was as though it had never happened. Marita seemed quite normal, indeed a little cheerier than usual – they had had their fun, and now she wanted to get back to London. It was Amy who sensed a breach in the mood, the hangover of something unacknowledged, like a death one couldn’t talk about. She felt her speech to be slightly mechanical, her movements self-conscious. Much as she wished to forget all about it, she couldn’t.

  Fearing a silence between them she filled the bus journey back to Clitheroe station with a determined flow of chatter. It sounded, to her own ears, inane. Relief came once they had changed for Euston and settled themselves opposite one another in a compartment. Marita had her detective story to finish, and Amy buried herself in the Manchester Guardian with unwonted concentration. The landscape, and the hours, rattled by.

  On the steam-swathed platform at Euston they hauled their suitcases along. The dreary station bustle soon enveloped them. In years to come Amy would remember the peculiar burnt-tar smell of the place – works were going on – and the dim glare of the lights beneath the arches that confounded day with night. They had reached the entrance to the concourse when they saw it, a newspaper placard, with its inconceivable headline: MRS RATTENBURY STABBED AND DROWNED.

  Amy cried out in shock. She could almost feel the blood drain from her face as she stood there, rooted to the spot. Marita, frowning, bought a copy of the Standard and shepherded her stricken friend to a bench against the wall. The woman had killed herself. Amy tried to take in the details as Marita read out the report – Alma Rattenbury had stabbed herself five or six times, then fallen into the River Stour at Christchurch. It had been witnessed by a passing labourer, who had hurried down to drag her from the water. When he reached her she was already dead.

  But why? thought Amy. She’d been absolved of the crime, she was free … Why did she have to kill herself?

  She found that she was shivering, and numb, though it was a June evening. And she felt suddenly the terrible loneliness of the world, bereft of comfort or kindness, except for Marita, hand in hers, muttering Don’t cry, don’t cry. It was the ideal moment for a prayer, really; but in her distress she couldn’t even think of the empty phrases that might once have consoled her.

  14

  The jovial little foursome entered the bank just before closing. They loitered in the central hall, with the air of men used to being waited upon. One or two of the tellers shot them a noticing look. Eaves, whose view from the desk was obscured, first registered the changed atmosphere when the assistant manager almost skidded to a halt behind him. He quickly opened the side door to step out and welcome the men before leading them away to the manager’s office. The ripple of interest the newcomers had left in their wake widened across the floor.

  Belton, who sat next to Eaves, whistled softly. ‘You know who that is, don’t you – the stout party in the brown fedora?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Eaves.

  ‘That’s our sainted chairman. Monteith.’

  Eaves, who had only joined the Euston Road branch eight months before, could excuse himself for not recognising the man. His minor position was no more likely to earn him a personal audience with Sir Alexander Monteith than an infantryman with his general. Belton was now talking across the table to one of the clerks, who reckoned that the other ‘older feller’ in the party was an MP, though he couldn’t honestly put a name to him. The bantering speculation continued while they closed up. Was Mr Bowman, their manager, about to be promoted? Or sacked, even! Maybe he was going to take retirement. God knows he’d been there long enough …

  Ten minutes later the assistant manager returned to the floor and made a beeline for Eaves. ‘The manager would like to see you in his office,’ he muttered, and with a glance added, ‘Straighten your tie.’

  Belton, who had overheard, was now staring at him. ‘Oh my aunt! What’s this about, Eddie?’

  Eaves, fiddling with the knot, shrugged. He looked down at his shoes, which hadn’t been polished in a while. Too late now. As he rose from his desk he felt quizzical glances fasten on him from all sides of the room. Pity mingled with relief; somebody was for the high jump, but not them. It reminded Eaves of school, of being called up before the beak.

  At the end of the stone-floored corridor he stopped and knocked. The manager’s name was inscribed across the door in gold leaf. A muffled voice called, ‘Enter.’ The men he had seen arrive were seated in a huddle around the fireplace, where Mr Bowman himself stood in proprietorial ease. Cigar smoke, and the scent of alcohol, permeated the room.

  ‘Do join us, Mr – er –’ he began, beckoning him over. As he reached the fireplace Bowman clapped him on the shoulder. ‘This, gentlemen, is one of our deputies – Edward Eaves.’ He had recalled the name just in time.

  He introduced his guests: Sir Alexander Monteith; next to him Roland Hoyle, MP; opposite them on the sofa Monteith’s private secretary, Lewis. In the corner, watching from the window seat, was a man of about Eaves’s age, dressed in an expensive-looking navy pinstripe. This was Philip Traherne, who greeted him with a lazy waggle of his cigarette hand, as if they had known one another for years. Bowman meanwhile had started to recount the story. The branch had for some weeks been subject to fraud. Certain wealthy clients were systematically targeted, and huge sums of money had disappeared from their accounts. No one at the bank could understand how it was happening, until one employee took the initiative and began his own investigation. He made a study of the clients’ signatures and realised there was an expert forger at work; what’s more, he was plying his dishonest trade around several other banks in the vicinity. By degrees, the employee-turned-detective compiled a dossier of names and accounts that were being plundered and worked out a common link: they all used the services of the same Savile Row tailor. The trail led him eventually to the tailor’s accounts manager, whose professional intimacy allowed him access – literally – to his customers’ pockets while they were being fitted for a suit. Wallets, documents, signatures: he had in his hands all the material required for his nefarious project.

>   ‘And he might have pursued his scheme indefinitely had it not been for that employee – who I’m proud to say is this fellow here.’ He beamed at Eaves, who had not yet been invited to sit down. Perhaps they only wanted a look at him.

  Hoyle, a plumpish, plain-faced man with watery eyes, rose from his armchair. ‘Well, I’ve a personal reason to thank you,’ he said, offering his hand to Eaves. ‘Mine, as you know, was one of the accounts looted by the swine!’

  Laughter rang around the room. Monteith also stood to shake his hand, and called him a good fellow. At the same time he chaffed Bowman for not hiring a professional snoop to catch the thief, to which Bowman replied, ‘I thought it incumbent upon me to save the bank money, sir.’ More laughter, and more chaffing, as the men digressed to talk about an upcoming game of golf on which money was riding. Eaves wondered for how long he would have to keep the smile pasted to his face. It was him they had asked to meet, but it was themselves they wanted to talk about. The only one who hadn’t yet spoken, Traherne, now took him aside.

  ‘You still haven’t told us how you snared the fellow,’ he said with a smile that hid a shrewdness.

  Eaves explained: he had presented himself at the tailor’s as a customer, D. Strawson – a name he had dreamed up for the purpose. He wrote the accountant a cheque as part instalment on the togs he was supposedly purchasing, and he waited. Sure enough, the forger showed up at the bank the following week with a cheque, signed by and made out to D. Strawson: a perfect forgery, but drawing on an account that did not exist. Eaves had got his quarry cold, and after contriving a short delay he telephoned the police from the bank’s private vestibule.