They sat down on a fallen tree in the shade.
‘It’s a funny thing about foreigners,’ she said, ‘they’re much more attractive to me than Americans. Black men – at one time I found them madly appealing.’
‘Black men?’
‘Yes, black men. Lots of white women find black men attractive, though they don’t say so. And I’ve meant to say to you, I don’t like the way you speak about “niggers”. It’s a cruel term and it doesn’t become you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve travelled, I don’t in the least think white people are superior. I hate it when anyone despises other races because of their colour. Because you and I are educated and well off, we think we belong to a superior caste – but we don’t, we’re just lucky.’ She patted his knee reassuringly. ‘To continue my narrative, I went off my German professor around 1914. Then I don’t quite know which nationality I moved on to. . .’ Mark looked at her dumbly. ‘There’s Englishmen, of course. They can be a bit bloodless, but it does seem possible to be attracted to one.’
‘Does it?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, Mark. Oh, my dear, can’t you imagine a girl might be attracted to you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you, Mark. You. Shall I put it in a more English way? I do not dislike you at all, though of course only up to a point. And you don’t dislike me, do you?’
‘Of course I do. Don’t, I mean. . .’
‘My, this is passionate stuff. Was ever woman in this spirit wooed? Well, if you like me, I give you permission to kiss me. But only if you do it as though you meant it, not like a member of Her Majesty’s Diplomatic and Consular Service.’
After a while she drew herself away. ‘So, you can do it. Mark, I can imagine becoming not unfond of you. How about you, what do you feel?’
He blushed. ‘I’ve never been in love, to be honest.’ He put the thought of George out of his mind.
‘No? Well, you’ll recognise it when it happens, it’s unmistakable.’
She told him a lot about herself. He told her some half-truths about himself. She told him there was no chance of an engagement yet, they were not ready for it, and she’d certainly not come to Nevada. But when he looked doleful, she said she might visit him in his next posting when the war was over.
They were met with curious looks from the folks sitting on the verandah. ‘Been playing tennis? You look very cool.’
‘We’ve been talking,’ said Margaret. ‘A pleasant thing to do on a hot afternoon.’
Mark felt reassured, confused, hopeful, anxious, all at the same time. He liked her very much, more than any other woman he’d met. She understood him better than he did himself. Could they one day be happy together?
43
The journey from Cologne to Berlin was long and foul. The train was filthy, the windows broken, everything useful had been ripped out of the carriages. Every possible space – seats, luggage racks, corridors – was crammed with soldiers and unruly or intimidated civilians. He stood the whole way in the corridor. He was wearing uniform, he had no other clothes, but without insignia and under a civilian overcoat: officers risked having their epaulettes torn off, if not being thrown into a canal.
Almost for the first time in his life he felt he was not under some form of control. It was an unnerving sensation. Indeed, control seemed to have broken down in every sphere. When the Armistice had been announced, it was not clear what anyone should do. They said disorder had broken out in many cities, Berlin was in chaos, the Kaiser had fled. Thomas desperately wanted to see his parents. He spoke to his commanding officer, who shrugged. Thomas saw this as consent, and caught the next train.
He arrived in Berlin in the early evening. As the train pulled lethargically into the Lehrter Bahnhof, he was reminded involuntarily of meeting Freddy off a train years and years ago, of Freddy’s dropping his suitcase and waving enthusiastically with both hands when he saw Thomas. Perhaps on this very platform. Of all the people who’d died in the war, he missed Freddy most.
The station was calm, apart from groups of soldiers and sailors wandering about and shouting. There were no taxis. A few trams were running, but he did not want to be observed; he would walk.
It was his intention to go first to the Schloßstraße, and then, somehow, to Salitz. But he was consumed with curiosity about what was happening at the heart of the city. He took a back way past the Charité Hospital and the theatres to the Museums Island. The streets were quiet, the rumours had been exaggerated: only now and again did you hear gunfire, or see a lorryload of soldiers. The Museums Island was sepulchral. He edged along the Altes Museum, to peer across the Lustgarten towards the Schloß. It had been closed up since the beginning of the war, except for whenever a victory was announced from a balcony. Now it was full of activity. Soldiers and sailors stood guard at the entrances, but they were slouching, holding their rifles upside down. They stopped anyone except privates. The soldiers looked haggard, shabby, fierce; the sailors cleaner, more cheerful.
It was a strange sight, the Schloß with no Kaiser. The only thing that was certain was that he had abdicated. The newspaper placards announced in screaming capitals: ‘KAISER WEG!’ It was said he’d fled to the Netherlands, taking railway carriage after railway carriage of personal possessions, and that the enemy press was baying for him to be tried as a war criminal.
He walked down the almost empty Unter den Linden. There were no guards at the Neue Wache, nor at the Kronprinzenpalais. Only outside the Russian Embassy stood the usual policemen. Some cafés and hotels were open, with their lights low, their curtains drawn, a man at the door controlling admission. The electricity and gas services were apparently still working. If this was a revolution, it was an orderly one. But on the other side of the Brandenburger Tor, the Reichstag was brilliantly lit, people coming and going, watched by a shifting crowd.
As he gazed up at the Reichstag’s stony mass, he felt exalted. He’d always viewed the pompous building with scepticism: it had promised so much, achieved so little. Now, at last, it might become a real parliament, like the Palace of Westminster, where the nation’s fate would be determined by men – and women, too – chosen by the whole population. Here the spirit of a united Germany might flourish, with people of every Land united to shape a better future. Here, the spirit of 1848 might be realised. The thought uplifted him. A voice said in his ear, Thomas, your mind is always filled with dreams, you’ll be disappointed. But to this voice he replied, But the empire is gone, now at last we can create a better future.
It was late, and the Tiergarten was threateningly black: little bonfires here and there (how irregular this was) suggested possibly hostile encampments. He would walk briskly. He was glad he’d brought his revolver.
He had eaten nothing that day, there’d been no food at the stations or on the train. He was stiff from having stood for so long.
He arrived at the Schloßstraße an hour or so later. Under the dim gaslight, in the ominous silence, Thomas felt the precariousness of life in these streets. Mightn’t the inhabitants of these handsome houses be dragged out and slaughtered? Would his dear parents end their lives in violence, as in Russia? He must protect them.
He rang the doorbell. Silence. He rang again. Nothing. Again. He threw pebbles up at the windows, but they made only the thinnest noise. He wondered whether to shout, worried that he might wake the worthy couple on the ground floor, regular Sunday morning visitors in the old days. He decided against shouting. He would have to find a hotel, or wrap himself up and sleep in the garden. It seemed symbolic that the eldest son of the family, a husband and father, an architect, an officer, should sleep under a bush outside his parents’ house. Ludicrous. Uncomfortable, too.
A gust of wind blew towards him. He looked at the shrubs and decided against sleeping outside. Impatient, he picked up a stone and threw it at the window of the Salon. It made a dramatic crash. Then he shouted, as loudly as he could
, ‘Vater! Mutter! Hier ist Thomas, euer Sohn. Ich bin wieder in Berlin. Macht die Tür auf!’
Another long silence. Finally a faint light appeared upstairs, and a face peered from the window.
‘Ich bin Thomas,’ he shouted. ‘Laßt mich rein.’
The face looked down a little longer, then disappeared. The faint light in the Salon vanished. A while later the street door opened. In the nervous little man in a dressing gown that hung loosely upon him, Thomas hardly recognised his father.
‘Warum bist Du hier, Thomas, und nicht bei deinem Regiment? Bist Du krank?’
He felt an overwhelming sense of pity.
‘Nein, der Krieg ist aus. Ich wollte mich versichern, das es euch gut ihr geht.’
‘Es geht uns schlecht,’ said his father. ‘Deine Mutter, deine liebe Mutter, sie kann nichts mehr ertragen.’ And still he examined Thomas. ‘Du bist doch kein Deserteur, Thomas?’
‘Nein,’ said Thomas, ‘es ist nicht mehr möglich, Deserteur zu sein, die deutsche Armee ist am Ende. Darf ich hineinkommen, Pappa?’ It was a childhood name for his father, he’d not used it for years.
‘Ja, komm, Thoto.’ His father reached out, touched him on the arm. Up the familiar stairs they walked, which he’d always mounted in expectation of welcome and warmth. Now, dread crept over him. He saw dirty carpets, unpolished brass, as though a spirit of housekeeping that had once had a deeper meaning than mere cleanliness had fled. The flat was unbearably cold – that, he was familiar with – but there was a smell he did not recognise, a mustiness.
‘Will you go to bed?’ said his father. ‘It’s so late. I suppose there will be sheets on the bed in Freddy’s room, your mother could never bear to shut up that room. It is so long since anyone slept there, not since Freddy last came home on leave – when was that?’
‘I’ll sleep in my clothes, I won’t have much need for them in the future, thank God.’ He sensed the optimism he’d felt in front of the Reichstag draining away. Ignoring his father’s bleats, he made for the Salon.
‘No, don’t go in there.’
The room was a ruin. Everywhere chaos, but as though someone had tried to order the disorder. The pictures were piled up, leaving dark unfaded ghosts on the walls. Frames, some cut into pieces, lay in another pile. Coverings had been torn from chairs and thrown into heaps. The round table, the altar of hospitality, was pushed into the corner, battered, as though someone had hacked at it. Books lay jumbled on the floor. The Meissen had gone.
‘Yes, the porcelain,’ said his father. ‘Mathilde wrapped it up and hid it, it was the last thing she did for us.’ He was almost crying. ‘Your mother hates this room now, all she wants is warmth. She says she will burn everything we have, if only she can be warm. She is ill, the poor thing, her mind is touched. She may be better when she sees you. I must go to bed. My dear boy, I am glad to have you with us, even though I do not understand why you are here.’
44
While appreciating that Armistice Day was exciting in principle, Lady Benson sat on her own, feeling curiously gloomy. One heard shouting and singing outside, motorbuses hooting. The servants had gone out, chanting the catchphrase ‘Eleven eleven eleven eighteen’. She had no wish to follow them. Mafficking was for the young, and common people. She stared out at the communal garden with its allotments, thinking about all the people they’d known who were dead.
Her mind dwelt on Edward. He was not the man he had been. His mind was slower, he got tired easily. In the old days he’d been so forceful, but now it was clear – though unsaid – that he would not rise to the top of the firm. Under pressure he lost control, trembled and shouted for no good reason. She’d seen this once when little George had annoyed him, he’d struck the poor mite, before Victoria took the child away and soothed her shaking husband.
Victoria was an angel. If she had a fault, it was being too adaptable, too ready to work for money. At least now, with two of her brothers dead, there might be some money to spare.
Still, one was lucky. So many of her friends had been bereaved. But what use were her three children if they lived abroad? Irene could not come home, Mark only occasionally – which left her with Sophia. Well, this nursing business must come to an end. It was unfortunate, in a way, that the child was so good-looking, she might turn someone’s head. Well, now she’d had her fun and games, she must settle down and look after her poor old parents.
She looked drearily round her drawing room. It looked so old-fashioned, she wanted something modern, light, cheerful. It must be possible soon to buy attractive materials and furniture again. Of course, now they might finally move house, though William had been difficult lately about money. It was true everything cost more because of the war, but really there was no need to fuss.
She heard the sound of a cab, the front door opening, footsteps. William looked unwell, though that was usual.
‘I feel very weak. I’m going to bed.’
‘I’m so sorry, my darling.’ They needed a holiday. Cannes, perhaps.
What a disappointment, on a day like this, being alone with a sick husband. At least Edward and Victoria were coming to dinner. She’d told them not to change, it was absurd to put on evening dress for a dubious rissole.
45
After an uncomfortable night, Thomas found his mother in the kitchen. She was wearing an old bed jacket, and stirring some liquid in a pan. Her hair hung around her shoulders.
‘Morgen,’ she said, neutrally but with a look of surprise. She peered at Thomas, puzzled, as though wondering who this half-familiar person was.
‘Ich bin dein Sohn, Thomas.’
‘Nein, ich habe keine Söhne mehr, sie sind alle tot.’ Her sons were all dead.
‘Ich bin Thoto, Mamma.’
‘Nein, Thomas war ein junger Mann als er noch lebte. Er war schön. Wer bist du?’ She sounded reproachful, not angry, at the suggestion that this man might be Thomas.
He put his arms around her. She resisted feebly, softened for a moment, then extracted herself.
‘Der Herr ist mein Gast,’ she said. ‘Eine Tasse Tee für den Herrn?’
‘Ja, Mamma, ich nehme gerne Tee, aber nicht schwarz, sondern wie die Engländer Tee trinken, mit ein bißchen Milch. So hat Thomas immer Tee getrunken.’
‘Ja, das hat er,’ she said thoughtfully, as though wondering how he knew Thomas had always taken milk with his tea. She gestured towards the table. In her gesture, he saw a shadow of the old hospitality.
She looked at him searchingly. He returned her gaze, recognising in himself a mixture of emotions: pity, fear, sadness and, somewhere, analytical curiosity.
He decided to try an experiment on the lines of work he had read about in current psychiatric practice. It could not do any harm. He stood a little way from her and sang a lullaby she used to sing when he was a little boy, when she came in, wonderfully beautiful in her evening dress, to say good night:
Guten Abend, gute Nacht
dein Bett ist gemacht,
alle Freunde wollen jetzt ruh’n
gute Träume wünsch ich nun!
Morgen früh, da freut sich
schon der neue Tag auf dich.
Morgen früh, da freut sich
schon der neue Tag auf dich.
She seemed startled, as though a memory had been woken. As he sang, she stared at him with a tremor of eagerness, beating her hand. After a while, she did something he felt was significant, she gathered together the locks of her hair and pushed them up on her head, finding in the pocket of her bedjacket a comb to hold them in place. She seemed more like the mother he knew.
Did her expression change? He did not know; he thought he saw in her eyes something like the light of reason. Then she spoke again.
‘Bist du wirklich Thomas? Bist du mein Sohn?’
46
Her father’s death was a hard blow for Irene. She’d looked forward passionately to seeing him again, and she was determined to return to London for the funeral. After hours waiting at the booking office at
Schwerin railway station amid restless crowds, she discovered a train that would take her and Dodo to Hamburg, from where, with her British passport, they could reach Copenhagen and then London. To her astonishment the international telegraph system was working and she received messages from her mother and Mark.
‘I shall miss you so much,’ Thomas said.
‘I shall be back quite soon, when Mamma is settled.’ But back to what?
She packed only a few clothes for herself and Dodo, and her drawings.
‘What, are you taking those with you?’ he asked.
‘I may show them to some people in London. . .’
One other thing had to be done. On the evening before they left, she asked Thomas to take a farewell note to the big house, with an excuse about not coming herself. As soon as he’d gone, she fetched the jewellery case with the iron necklace and wrapped it in a piece of cloth. Beyond the children’s garden was a little orchard. The garden spade was ready, the ground prepared. With nervous speed she buried the case, her tongue protruding between her teeth. Over the ground she threw autumn leaves and leaf mould. Nobody would guess.
That night, she responded to Thomas tenderly, but they had to depart in the darkness of early morning.
She wondered, as she turned back to wave, whether she would ever see the little house again.
47
The tea party after the funeral resembled those infinitely distant At Homes before the war. The same drawing room, the same cups and plates (though much less to eat), many of the same people. But it was not really like old times. The room was filled with black clothes, some of them rubbed from over-use. Today, meeting an old acquaintance, you’d rapidly calculate their wartime losses. And now there were other dangers to fear, not least the flu epidemic that had killed Sir William.
The entire family was there, except Thomas. Irene had arrived the day before, with her little daughter tightly grasping her hand. Sophia was back from France. Mark was living in London before his next posting. Edward was in evidence. The aunts and uncles attended, with a remnant of children. A large congregation mourned this witty thoughtful man, including a surprising number of strangers who thanked Lady Benson for her husband’s kindness.
The Iron Necklace Page 22
