A moment after she’d passed him, she did something she’d never done before, and glanced back. He was standing looking in her direction, quite intent, it made him even more attractive. She wavered, almost turned back, then in her head rang admonitory tones, and she hurried down the street. When she reached the corner she thought that she’d made a mistake, but he had gone. She was furious with herself, then and for a long time after.
30
Irene and Dorothea and Gretchen travelled to Schwerin by train. The family coachman who collected them talked all the way about country matters, the number of deer shot by the master, the state of the horses, the lake overflowing. They found the house creaking a little, but welcoming.
Settled in Salitz, she was surprised she’d not moved there sooner. When you went out of doors you encountered cheerful ducks rootling in the grass. The barn beside their house was centuries old: with its great overhanging roof, its wooden struts and plaster walls, it looked like a part of nature, a hulk surviving from an older way of life. Beyond was the pond where a chapter of interesting events took place daily. Then more farm buildings, the half-empty stables, the cowshed, the granary, the piers and modest gates leading to the Gutshaus. And the kind, sheltering woods all around.
The village sprawled along the country roads, its one-storey houses well cared for, with thatched roofs and cheerful gardens. A few years ago she would have despised such a place. Now it seemed a refuge.
Here they were not cold or hungry. Wood was delivered every week by the estate forester, and they were given eggs, milk, cabbages, potatoes, occasionally venison. She told Tante Sibylle that she should pay, but her aunt patted her hand and said, ‘Heinrich and I must look after future generations of the family, mustn’t we? Who better to eat our food than the wife and child of our dear Thomas?’
Spending so much time in her house, Irene appreciated Thomas’s feeling for colour and materials, the revival of old skills he’d inspired in the estate carpenter. She often contemplated the motif he’d designed for the house: a linked T and I, intertwined with roses and oak leaves, carved on the beams of the parlour, in the hall, on the wall above their bed. She was also aware of the practical problems, the draughts, the smallness of the kitchen.
Tante Sibylle often called to play with the baby, and perhaps, Irene thought, to keep an eye on them. Every Sunday they were invited for lunch. The talk would be about the farm and the neighbours and the hunting, which was Onkel Heinrich’s favoured sport and made a major contribution to everyone’s diet. Tante Sibylle would reminisce about the Mecklenburg of her youth. The Lützows had straightforward views on the war, which had been caused by the English desire to prevent the expansion of Germany’s empire and commercial reach, but they did not blame her as an individual. They’d ask Irene about her family and life in England. ‘We understand that living conditions in London are as bad as in Berlin.’ This seemed to console them in an unmalicious way. They asked often about Sophia, who’d become an almost angelic figure for the German family: they had all read the long letter she’d written to Frau Mamma after Freddy’s death.
One issue divided them at first. Every Sunday the Lützows went to church, occupying the family pew in the modest building filled with memorials and records of charitable giving. Irene did not attend. But when Tante Sybille had said more than once, ‘Shall we see you in church this Sunday?’ or ‘There was a fine sermon today,’ she realised what was expected. She found the experience soothing, the plain old hymns and forceful sermons reminded her of ancient values.
It was a quiet life: tending the garden, reading to Dodo by the fire, helping Gretchen. In the afternoons she would walk alone in the woods and through the meadows, choosing on rainy days the long straight roads lined with trees that ran between the swelling hills with their broad fields and low hedges. The countryside absorbed her. Even going into Schwerin, as she occasionally had to do, became painful. She only went to Berlin – which she saw now as a place of cruelty, a colony of rats hurrying up and down their runnels – to collect mail, hurrying away as fast as she could. Salitz began to seem like her proper home.
Now and again Thomas would visit, after official business in Berlin. Am I pleased to see him? Irene would ask herself. She was glad to have her husband in the house and to sleep beside him during the cold nights. She was happy to talk to him about how they might improve the garden and the orchard, and about their child, but he never mentioned his work in the army, or even where he was stationed. What she did not like was when he became physically affectionate. She wondered why she’d become almost indifferent to him. Her quiet routines and creative solitude were disturbed by a man who saw the house as his property and its inhabitants as his dependants. When he left, she almost forgot him.
She was done with feeling guilty. She felt ashamed only when Thomas said to her, ‘Mein Liebling. . .’ He stopped and looked at her, and said, ‘Bin ich immer noch dein Liebling?’ It was not said flirtatiously. Kissing him tenderly, she was sure she had kissed away his fears, but her heart told her she was play-acting once again. She knew she did love him, in her way, and could love him properly again, but for the war.
The months went peacefully by. The birth or death of a duck or a cow was a great event at Salitz, comparable to a regiment’s death at Passchendaele. Dorothea was a happy child. Though Irene depended on Gretchen, she hoped Gretchen might meet a young man. Gretchen had saved money; in normal times she could have left domestic service to marry, but there were no available single men in the village, only one or two war-damaged cripples who were already in demand.
The most important thing was her work. She made the dining room into a studio, sealing up the window that looked south. When Thomas questioned this arrangement she adopted an unfamiliar stubborn expression, and he changed the subject. At first she would sit there looking at her old sketchbooks, playing with drawings of almost indecipherable forms. Gradually she gained confidence, drawing unspecific sketches derived from her imagination – until one day of hard grey rain, when the outside world was entirely excluded from the softly lit little house, an idea struck her and she gave a cry of recognition. She could make something of this idea: it would be different to anything she’d done before, more difficult, more interesting.
31
In September 1917, on doctor’s orders, Sophia was sent home to rest, and told not to return without medical approval. She’d refused to go earlier, told the senior nursing staff she didn’t need leave, they didn’t have enough auxiliaries with her experience. What she did not say was that she was afraid that her mother would press her to stay at home, or that the discipline of the hospital sustained her.
In the end they insisted. ‘You are exhausted, Nurse,’ Sister said. Sophia asked whether her mother had intervened, but Sister replied curtly that the nursing staff were quite capable of making such decisions. What Sophia did not realise was that she had worked too long at the military hospitals without any proper break. Though she had become an excellent nurse, she had begun to drop things, to lose her temper, in a way that disturbed her colleagues. The battle of Passchendaele, which had flooded the hospital that summer, had turned her into a machine, ruthless in carrying out her duties. Her white skin had become paler than ever, lit only by a flaming spot of colour on each cheek. Whenever her hair threatened to grow into its natural richness, she would chop it off, the auburn locks piling on the floor and leaving her head a spiky muddle, until Sister said, ‘Nurse, you should ask another nurse to cut your hair. A neat appearance is more than ever important, it reassures the men.’ People tended to be frightened of her, though with the patients she was always gentle. She worked almost entirely on the prisoners’ wards.
She was driven to Boulogne in a crammed lorry and collapsed immediately into exhaustion, sleeping whenever she could, her head, which felt as if it were stuffed with warm damp flannel, falling on the shoulder beside her. She slept again in the crowded troopship full of men going on leave. ‘It’s Dover, Nurse,’ they said
out of the darkness, ‘don’t you want to see Blighty?’
Up and down the steps she dragged her luggage, into another troop train. It crawled through Kent, stopping now and again for no apparent reason. Then they were enveloped by dull houses and autumnal trees and allotments, the air growing dirtier and foggier as they progressed, until the train steamed into grey, dripping Victoria Station. The fog had crept into every crevice so you could hardly see the ceiling. But from the fog emerged a blur of expectant faces.
The doors of the carriages were thrown open, the men threw their kitbags on their shoulders, surged towards the barriers. The nurses stayed in their compartments till the crowds cleared. Sophia, now half-awake, was reminded of what they had heard about similar crowds in St Petersburg. Ultimately, what was the difference between those revolutionary-minded men and women, and these peaceful types? Could British soldiers and workers be relied on to stay friendly and co-operative?
She was one of the last to leave the train. On the concourse stood her mother, with another woman. Struggling towards them, Sophia wondered who this other person might be. The woman came forward, holding out her arms – it was Victoria. Sophia had dreaded greeting her mother, fearing tears, exclamations, melodrama, but she’d forgotten her warmth. When Mamma put her arms round her, Sophia thought, this is bearable, better than bearable. She’d not been embraced for a long while, though people had offered. In her mother’s arms, she couldn’t feel angry.
On the way home Sophia sat still, perfunctorily answering questions. As she’d feared, her mother had made Plans.
It was odd to go home. ‘It’s just the same, darling, though I don’t have many flowers now. You know, you’ve been away two whole years. Now, what would you like to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
Victoria, firm and competent, intervened. ‘In my opinion, Sophia needs to go to bed, and stay there till she is positive she wants to get up.’
‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘D’you think so?’
‘There’s a fire lit in your room, darling,’ cried her mother, ‘I ordered it specially. You must be comfortable.’
‘Lunch in bed,’ said Victoria. She led Sophia upstairs.
‘Don’t forget my bags,’ said Sophia. In hospital one had to be constantly careful.
They put her to bed, and she slept for three days. The Plans were postponed.
She grew used again to quiet and privacy and attentive service. Though her mother talked about the shortages, there was quite enough to eat. Her father asked her, gently, about her experiences. She found that they agreed about the need for immediate peace negotiations, were both concerned about the alarming enthusiasm of British workers for the revolution in Russia, the discontent over conscription and living conditions. ‘The government,’ he said, ‘must be willing to make compromises with the working classes.’ He seemed much older than when she’d left.
One morning, Sophia woke up full of energy and announced she wanted to see her friends. ‘Which friends?’ her mother asked. This checked her: which friends indeed? But she rang up Laura.
‘Darling, how divine,’ Laura said. ‘I thought you must be dead, like everyone else. Let’s have tea this afternoon.’
Sophia said she was convalescing.
‘Oh don’t be a bore – let’s meet at Gunter’s at five, I have to do my job until then.’
Laura was ecstatic when Sophia arrived among the little gilt tables and the chairs filled with prosperous-looking people consuming ices. ‘Let me look at you. I want to see how a heroine looks.’ She scrutinised Sophia. ‘This is Laura’s diagnosis. You still look exhausted, darling, and much too thin and pale. But you’ve grown up, my goodness you have, you’re a dazzler. You just need feeding up, not impossible even today. . . I call myself pretty, but I call you beautiful.’ Laura had always been softly pretty, with skin you wanted to stroke, blue eyes, wavy fair hair. ‘And that dress! It’s heaven! Where on earth did you get it?’
‘I bought it in Paris,’ said Sophia, blushing rather.
‘So that’s what you’ve been doing, buying clothes in Paris, you naughty girl. We’re going to be best friends again, aren’t we? Pick up exactly where we left off ?
‘You may think,’ Laura went on, ‘that I sit around all day drinking tea. Actually I do work, though not heroically like you. I’m a nursing orderly in Lady Dorset’s hospital for officers, it’s in her house. I have to be there at six in the morning, such a bore, but I can have fun in the evenings. We certainly do have fun. We almost never sleep. You must come to our parties, just tell your mother you’re going on a thrilling evening course to learn about a new type of bandage – she won’t object, parents are easily kept under control these days. But don’t tell her about our parties, they’re a secret. And strictly, strictly, no chaperones.’
32
Travelling back to Schwerin one misty afternoon in September 1917 with a package of envelopes, Irene was startled to see the hands of two people who normally never wrote.
Mark wrote that he would be visiting Copenhagen in October, on business, and wanted to see her, it had been so long. Could she visit Copenhagen for two or three days?
She was delighted, though she worried a little when she thought about the arrangements; it had never occurred to her that she could escape Germany. She must speak to Thomas. Or perhaps it would be better if she did not speak to Thomas. In the end she merely told him that she would be away for two nights.
She was not pleased to recognise the handwriting on the other letter. How on earth had Julian found out how to write to her? She pushed the letter into a drawer. The next day she took it out, intending to tear it up. But, she reflected, that would be cruel: she could guess his emotions when he was writing the letter. Dodo fell over and wailed and she put the letter away.
Three days later she peered at the envelope to see if he’d added any of his comic squiggles. In a corner she made out a tiny snake, with a doleful face. Smiling reluctantly, she hid it again.
The following morning she opened the letter.
Dear Irene,
I wanted to let you know that I am still alive, but wounded, just a bit. I joined the Artists’ Rifles and have been on active service in France. They gave me a commission, God knows why. Personally I would discharge myself for incompetence.
It was unspeakable in France. Fortunately I got a bit of a wound in my right leg, and was sent home, which is why I’m writing from hospital. I may get better quite soon and have to go back. I wish I were brave enough to be a conchie.
I did a few drawings in the trenches, but it seemed perverted, drawing disembodied limbs sticking out of the mud. But now I’m planning a grand series of pictures about peace, and love, and Resurrection. I think I may become a Christian, that must surprise you.
I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who heard from your good mother (she would not like to know I’m writing to you) that you are a mother. What a lucky baby, I’d love to wake up to see you bending over my cot. She must be a very special baby. Is she going to be an English person, or a full-blooded Hun?
(Sorry, break here while I drink immensely strong cup of tea provided by blushing female orderly.)
Reading that last bit, I’ve crossed it out. It was meant to be a joke, but it’s not funny. I should write this page again but to tell you the truth writing is a strain. They give me some potion which slows me down. By the way, there was no amputation, I am still the fine figure of a man you remember, with all my fingers, though rather grey in the face.
One day the war will be over, and perhaps we’ll meet again as friends, if the Germans haven’t finished me off.
The awful thing is I love you as much as ever. I know it will only put you in a rage if I say that, but I can’t help it. I won’t ever not love you.
Always, dearest Irene, very much love, J
She folded the letter, wondered whether to tear it up, put it in her writing box. She would never write back. But she might send a brief message. She was glad h
e was alive, but she wished he would meet another woman. As she’d told him, it was pointless for him to go on loving her.
She fixed her eyes on the photograph of Thomas beside her desk. ‘Thank God I’m married to him,’ she said aloud.
She shook herself and went to the kitchen where Gretchen was playing with Dodo. Dodo chortled and waved her arms and was reluctantly surrendered.
Private domestic virtue, Irene said to herself, perhaps that was one answer to this hideous world, however modest it sounded. For a woman trapped like her in an alien place, love and loyalty to the husband, rearing children, maintaining a happy home – those were the things to value, weren’t they?
‘Do I believe that, Dodo? Do I? What do you think, my little treasure?’ Dodo gurgled and waved her hands.
Irene gave her a kiss and forgot about the letter from Julian. Dodo had most sensible ideas, even though she could not yet express them. Above all, Dodo embodied, in her tiny cheerful form, hope for the future.
At least out of this horror something positive might grow. And her mind moved back to her drawings.
33
Sophia wore the blue-green chiffon from Madame Lanvin for the party. She was afraid it might look out of date, or not fit: it was so long since she’d been to a party.
‘I’m going to be out this evening, with Laura,’ she told her parents. ‘She’s having a few people to dinner.’ Mamma said she hoped she wouldn’t be late back, what with the raids and those wild American soldiers.
Sophia put her hair up, twisting it round her head and pinning it with an arrow pin from her mother’s jewellery case, leaving her neck (which was long and, she’d been told, fetching ) naked. Naked, that is, except for the emerald earrings that Andrew had given her ages ago. She then thrust a mackintosh cap onto her head, and wrapped herself in a gabardine of her father’s.
The Iron Necklace Page 19
