Gang of Four

by Liz Byrski

  ‘Ha! That is more snow up there, Isabel, that is what makes the light this way. You will like it less after a few more weeks,’ Klaus said, gripping her elbow to guide her across the street. ‘Everything slows down, everything is more trouble. But ja, I know, it’s very beautiful. I can’t believe you didn’t see the snow before. Come, we go to a café in that street and I introduce you to good German hot chocolate.’

  Isabel had fallen instantly in love with Nuremberg and with what she had seen of Germany, even before the snow started to fall, before she woke on that Christmas Eve morning. As the train had carried her from the south of France along the borders of Italy and Switzerland and into Germany, she wished she had left earlier and given herself more time, more stops along the way Travelling north from the mild Mediterranean winter the temperature dropped rapidly, and from the window of the train she frequently caught sight of snow-clad mountain tops as the landscape changed to the dense forests of Switzerland and Germany, and to towns and villages that looked like a series of operatic sets. Klaus had met her at the station and driven her home to his apartment on the fourth floor of an elegant old building on the banks of the river.

  ‘The apartment is ready for you in two days,’ he explained. ‘It’s just ten minutes from here. It belongs to a friend from the university. He is leaving to go to England for a few months and he is happy to have someone stay there. Until then, please, be my guest.’

  Since then she had moved into the apartment and started to find her own way around, shopping for food in the nearby supermarket, and even finding an Australian newspaper at the bookshop on the same street.

  ‘So you like Germany with and without snow?’ Klaus asked, steering her between the slow-moving traffic. ‘And your husband? You think he will like it too?’

  ‘He’ll love it, I know he will. You know, Klaus, I never imagined it would be so beautiful, and the people are so friendly.’

  ‘It is just because they see your Australian smile, Isabel. We are not very friendly to strangers, but if you ask us something or give us a task to do, then we will break our backs to answer the question or do the job.’

  Isabel had left Monaco with a folder of photographs and photocopied documents from the Théâtre des Beaux-Arts, and she had held high hopes of Klaus as a source of information about Antonia. But in this respect he had disappointed her. Their families had been friends during their childhood and they had met again in the mid fifties when Klaus was doing some research in Portugal. They saw each other from time to time over the years, in Monsaraz or in Germany.

  ‘It’s strange,’ he agreed when Isabel told him of Antonia’s letter and showed him the photograph taken at the theatre. ‘But then maybe she forgets. It is a long time ago, much of the river has flowed under the bridge. You will go back to Monsaraz, yes? The photographs are very good. You must be happy to find all these pictures, Isabel.’ And he moved her on to other subjects, seemingly unaware of the tension that had dominated the days after their visit to Évora. Isabel almost began to doubt the intensity of her own memories, but she returned always to the fact that if Antonia had remembered the performance and found the program, she must also remember that she met Eunice at the party. Why hadn’t she mentioned that in her letter?

  But there was nothing more she could do until she returned to Portugal, and that she would do after Doug’s departure. He was due on New Year’s Day and would stay until mid January. All she could do until then was enjoy the fairytale beauty of Germany in winter, with Christmas trees twinkling and the shop windows decorated with all the trappings of a northern Christmas. This was what she had wanted, what she had yearned for last Christmas Day as she sat at the table in the early afternoon heat of a Perth summer, watching the dismay on everyone’s face when she mentioned that she might not be around next year. Something, somewhere totally different was what she had wanted, and that was what she had got. Tomorrow they would all be seated around that same table, without her. She would call them and tell them how she loved them. Missing them would be a small price to pay for an experience so new and exciting, something she might never enjoy again. And the freedom from preparations delighted her. Christmas could happen without her working herself to exhaustion in the preceding weeks – this year she could sit back and let it happen around her.

  The day after she arrived in Germany, Klaus had taken her to a department store in Nuremberg where she bought a couple of thick sweaters, a pair of boots, socks, some warm pants and a polar fleece jacket, which was light but incredibly warm. She thought Sara would have been proud of her, not only for the practical choices but for her restraint in buying only what she really thought she would need. She had considered buying something glamorous to wear for Klaus’s Christmas dinner to be held on Christmas Eve, in true German fashion, but had held back, knowing that it would be another thing to carry with her when she left. But then, as they crossed the street, an olive-green velvet skirt caught her eye in the window of a shop. ‘How far away is the hot chocolate, Klaus?’ she asked.

  ‘Here.’ He indicated with a wave. ‘Two more shops from here.’

  ‘Look, just give me ten minutes, will you? I want to try on this skirt. Go to the cafe and I’ll join you there.’

  He wandered off to the coffee shop and she slipped inside the boutique. ‘Das Rock bitte,’ she said to the smiling sales assistant, indicating the window display, and a few moments later she was unzipping her jacket in a fitting room.

  The skirt came with a fitted, long-sleeved jacket with embroidered frog fastenings in a darker green, and she had bought a cream silk blouse to go with it. As she stood in front of the bedroom mirror that evening, Isabel was delighted that she had given way to the last-minute shopping impulse. It was the first time since leaving home that she had actually dressed up, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a skirt. ‘Forgive me this moment of madness, Sara,’ she whispered to her reflection, ‘but I think it was worth it.’

  She picked her bag up from the dressing table and looked at the photograph of the Gang of Four propped against the mirror. She picked it up, perching for a moment on the nearby stool. What were they doing now? Robin? Probably sleeping – it was the middle of the night in Australia – but was she all alone in her remote little cottage or would she have gone back to Perth for Christmas? And Grace, somewhere not so far away, perhaps also seeing her first-ever snow. And finally, Sally – no snow in California, what would she be doing this Christmas Eve in a country that was just waking as Isabel set out for the evening. She had hated writing her letter but longed for theirs. They had sent them to Doug, who would bring them to her in Germany, and she was impatient for their news.

  She stood the photo against the mirror again. In a few days Doug would be here with her, in this apartment. She stared at the small photograph of him that she always carried with her. She had taken it one cool winter morning when he came back from playing golf. His fine grey hair was blown back from his face by the sea breeze, and she snapped him as he turned towards her with his characteristic half-smile. She moved the tips of her fingers lovingly across his face. She was ambivalent about his visit. Part of her longed to see him, hold him, talk to him, and another part wanted to be left to finish her European journey alone. There were the conversations they had to have about change, conversations best left for home, but she was not sure they could be postponed until then. She put Doug’s photo back beside the Gang of Four and stood up, smoothing her skirt with a sigh. Then she switched off the lights, made her way down the stairs to the street and the nearby taxi rank.

  ‘Isabel!’ said Klaus, drawing her into the warm brightness of the hall. He had invited a dozen people to his Christmas dinner, which he had been organising for several days. ‘Bitte, kommen Sie rein. How beautiful this dress you bought. Wunderschön. Now everyone is here. And there is a surprise.’

  He tossed Isabel’s coat onto a bench seat in the hall and led her through into the living room, which was already full of people. Isabel str
aightened her jacket and pushed back her hair. She had forgotten to ask Klaus if anyone else spoke English, but she realised suddenly that she didn’t care if she went through the whole evening unable to speak to anyone. To be here at this time was like being in one of Eunice’s Christmas stories, which were always full of dinners the night before Christmas, cosy interiors and log fires, cities cloaked in snow, children throwing snowballs and sliding on the ice, and horse-drawn sleighs decked with bells and red ribbons.

  Klaus shepherded her between the guests towards the sideboard, where a small silver tureen rested above a blue flame. He tilted it to fill a tall glass. ‘Here, Isabel – Gluwein. It is what you call, I think, mulled wine – warm, very good, very strong.’ He handed her the glass and she sipped it cautiously. It was certainly strong, spicy and delicious. She sipped again.

  ‘Gesundheit!’ She smiled.

  ‘Ja, Gesundheit! Now the surprise, not just for you, Isabel, for me too! I come home after our chocolate-drinking this morning, and my telephone is ringing. Who is there when I pick it up? Well, come in the kitchen, see who it is!’

  And as he pushed open the door Isabel found herself face to face with Antonia once again.

  NINETEEN

  Late in the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, Grace lay on the couch in front of the fire in Vivienne’s living room reading Sally’s letter just one more time. It had arrived that morning bringing relief as well as news. Letters from Isabel and Robin had arrived the week before Christmas, but there had been nothing from Sally and as the days between Christmas and New Year unfolded, Grace had grown increasingly uneasy.

  Isabel’s letter was confusing: part travelogue, part detective work about her mother, and she constantly mentioned a woman she had met in Portugal who had once seen her mother dance. She sounded distant, confused about what she was doing and why. Six months ago a letter like this would have infuriated Grace, but now it was a relief to discover that at least one of her friends seemed as disorientated and confused as she was. Robin, by contrast, was clear and focused, although the fact that she made no mention of Jim McEwan spoke more of denial than resolution to Grace. She was selling her house and her partnership in the law firm and buying a bookshop in Albany. Grace’s initial reaction was shock and fear at the decision to relinquish a brilliant career for a quiet life in a country bookshop. She had tossed and turned into the small hours, worrying about Robin’s future, but next morning she admitted to herself that her anxiety was really about her own plans, which also involved radical and risky changes.

  But now here was Sally’s letter, a long, painful and passionate story, an apology, and an explanation of her real reasons for going to California. The tone was sad but hopeful, she loved the course and using the camera was helping her to see things in a different way. She felt more confident and she had met a man who seemed to be more than just a friend. The letter, photocopied and sent to the others, had a remarkable tone of maturity and self-knowledge. Folded inside it was another letter, a personal one to Grace. Two pages of flimsy airmail paper closely covered with Sally’s small neat script, a letter with a story undisclosed to the others, a story that Sally needed to tell and which she thought Grace, more than anyone else, would understand.

  She wrote about her anger that exploded in a devastating attack on Lisa’s adoptive mother, about the black hole of depression into which she had fallen, and the way she had sent this new man flying so that he broke his leg. Grace laughed and cried and laughed again each time she read it. Finally she put the letter down, got up from the couch and checked the time. It was five o’clock, nine in the morning in California. She dialled the number on the letter and waited for the ringing tone, but the operator told her that lines to the US were busy and she should wait a while before trying again.

  Freda, Vivienne’s Labrador, barked at the kitchen door and Grace let her in and fed her from a tin of Chum. The cold, still air from the garden battled the heat from the Aga. The forecast snow had not fallen, although Grace had hoped for it all day. ‘You won’t be so keen once it arrives,’ Vivienne had said, laughing, when she called from Oxford that afternoon. ‘It looks wonderful at first but it soon deteriorates into loathsome slush.’

  ‘It’s okay for you,’ Grace said, ‘you’re just blase. I’ve never seen snow and I’m going to be so disappointed if it doesn’t arrive soon.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy it, and I’m very grateful to you for staying in the house. I always worry about frozen pipes when I go away in winter.’ She had left a couple of days before Christmas to spend the festive season with her daughter, who was married to a farmer and lived just outside Oxford. ‘Come with me,’ she had said. ‘Jennie and Sam have heaps of space, and my other daughter and her family, and Gary and his boyfriend will be there. It’ll be a real English family Christmas.’

  But Grace had not been in the mood for meeting new people, let alone staying with them. Since the day that Vivienne had brought her face-to-face with herself, she had felt unable to concentrate on anything other than how she would restructure her life when she got back home. A week later she had called the office and told Denise that she would not be back until the end of February. And then, at Vivienne’s suggestion, she had given up the Brighton flat and moved to the house in Hurstpierpoint. It was a financial relief as well as a pleasure, but there was no way she could cope with a full-scale family Christmas.

  ‘Well, then, it’s my good luck to have a house and dog-sitter over Christmas. Are you sure you won’t be lonely and depressed on your own?’ Vivienne had asked.

  ‘I think a couple of weeks alone sounds like heaven,’ Grace said. ‘Total self-indulgence and no need to worry about any of the usual Christmas stuff.’ And that was how it had been. Apart from sending presents and cards to Japan, and to her father in the nursing home, Grace had thankfully exempted herself from Christmas and spent the days taking brisk walks and drives through the wintry countryside, trying to understand the past and reconstruct the future. For a woman who, a few months earlier, had always been on the go and rarely alone, she had come to an abrupt and surprising halt.

  Grace made herself a cup of tea and a chicken sandwich, carried them back to the lounge, picked up the phone and dialled California again.

  ‘And you didn’t mind being alone over Christmas?’ Sally asked when she had overcome her delight at the surprise phone call. ‘You didn’t want to race off somewhere and organise something or look after someone?’

  ‘Nothing was further from my mind.’ Grace laughed. ‘In fact, talking to people is the last thing I want to do at present, except that once I’d read your letter, I just had to talk to you, tell you how brave you are to do all this.’

  ‘I thought you might be hurt or annoyed that I’d never told you. We’ve been friends so long, but I’d locked myself into silence, you see …’

  ‘Of course I see, and of course I’m not hurt or annoyed, but I’m so glad you’ve told me now. And when it comes to being locked into things, well, I’m the world champion at that. Is it today you’re going to lunch with the Mendelsons?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I was seriously panicking when you called but talking to you is making me feel better. I have to be very careful that I don’t stuff it all up a second time. Be on my best behaviour.’

  ‘Just be yourself, Sally,’ Grace said. ‘They liked you the first time or they wouldn’t be giving you a second chance.’

  ‘Being myself is more complicated since I uncovered bits of me that I didn’t know existed. I keep discovering a stranger.’

  ‘Me too. Can you imagine me lying around for hours reading books, watching movies and crying?’

  ‘Sounds very un-Grace-like but also pretty healthy,’ Sally said. ‘Especially the crying.’

  ‘Well, then, I should be the healthiest woman in England. I cry constantly about everything and nothing. This morning I cried for an hour because I saw a robin dragging a worm out of the ground.’

  Sally laughed and paused for a moment. ‘You do so
und very different, Grace. Softer, more vulnerable, I suppose.’

  ‘Vulnerable with a capital V. I only came here for a holiday, because I didn’t want to be alone when you lot had gone. Now look what’s happened! That Isabel has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘When are you going home? When do you have to start work again?’

  Grace took a deep breath – telling Sally of her decision would be a test of her own feelings. ‘I’m not going back to work.’

  ‘Sorry? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not going back to work. I didn’t put it in the letter because I didn’t really decide until Christmas. I phoned Denise the day after Boxing Day, and then I phoned the dean’s office. I’m taking early retirement.’ The silence at the end of the line unnerved her. ‘Are you still there, Sally?’

  ‘Yes, yes – of course. I’m just taking it in. Early retirement, I see, okay, and you’re sure about this?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d help me be sure, now you’re making me nervous.’

  ‘Sorry! Don’t be! I’m just so amazed. Tell me more, what are going to do?’

  Grace took another deep breath, to steady herself. ‘I’m staying on here for another month or so and then I really have to go back to tie up things at work, do a handover. Then, well … I’m not really sure yet. I’ll take my time, smell a few roses, try to concentrate on just being instead of doing. But I’ll have to find a part-time job. There might be a bit of consultancy work with the health department. That would suit me, as long as I mend my spending habits.’ It sounded good, she thought, it sounded clear and confident. She breathed more freely. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon it’s fantastic, Grace, really brilliant. But you were always worried about money. Will you manage okay?