They stayed still on the sofa, they turned carefully towards one another, their eyes met.
‘For me, it’s best. I’m not easy. I don’t like many men, not in that way. . . And as I remarked, I love this brother of yours.’
3
When Mark opened the door of their bedroom, the light was still on. Margaret lay with a book in her arms, asleep, her mouth open. Her suitcases were not immaculately ordered as was usual for her, but strewn with clothes. He had taken his shoes off when he came into the apartment, and he crept round the room, undressing as quietly as he could.
It was three in the morning.
He found his pyjamas and slipped them on. He went round to her side of the bed and turned off the light. He thought he’d managed not to wake her.
He slid gratefully between the sheets. Her presence beside him was comforting, but he did not touch her, he must not wake her. He probably smelt of tobacco, he hoped not anything else. She was always swift to sense such things.
‘Is that you?’
‘Shhh.’
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s. . . it’s one o’clock, I think. I had a drink, I met an old friend, it was fun. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t. You don’t.’
There was a silence. He thought she’d fallen asleep. And when she did speak, it was as though from the bottom of a well of somnolence. ‘Quite understand. . . Berlin is Berlin after all, not like Moscow. . . When we married. . . Do be careful, darling.’
‘Careful?’
‘Not everyone. . . so understanding. Do be careful. Good night, Markie.’ And this time she did fall asleep, he could hear her steady breathing.
He lay in bed thinking, a long time. Careful – yes, careful was what he always had to be. How fortunate he was, such a wife. . .
He’d taken a taxi to the Cosy Bar. It was still there, hardly changed. He did not want to meet Karl, of course not, and happily Karl was not there. But the barman recognised him even though it was a long while since they’d met. He said, ‘Ah, the friend of Karl. Are you visiting Berlin, dear sir?’ Mark asked how Karl was, they’d lost contact. The barman said Karl had moved to Paris, he had an excellent job in a big hotel there. Which hotel, Mark wondered. The barman laughed, he did not remember. But he did recall Mark’s favourite drink and gave him one on the house.
A young man sat down on the banquette next to Mark. Blond, well built, very German.
4
They like each other at once. Pandora sees in her great-aunt a woman like her own mother, but calmer. The apartment is large, all painted white, with fireplaces and wooden floors, and blinds over the windows, and many books, and solid oak furniture. The paintings must be by Irene, with a few by other hands. It is very light, and the view is everything the doorman promised. Sophia (‘Please don’t call me Aunt Sophia, it makes me feel so old’) remarks that Pandora must not let herself feel sleepy until at least ten. ‘Or so they say. I’ve never flown to New York from the east.’
Sophia sees again her sister at the time of her wedding.
Pandora catches her gaze. ‘I know what you’re going to say. I think.’ Sophia laughs. ‘But you do, you know, you really do look like Irene, except that you’re a child of today, your hair’s not like hers. . . I can’t tell you what a joy. . . I’ve missed you all so much. . . Of course Irene was often over in New York. And Mark and Margaret.’ A clock strikes. ‘It’s six thirty, would you like a cocktail?’ Pandora hesitates. ‘Oh you have to drink cocktails now you’re in New York, people drink a lot here. I used to drink rather too much myself, it was not a good idea, but my friend Laura saved me, do you know Laura Caldecott? She’s been so successful in the fashion business. . . Since you’re making your first visit to Manhattan, why don’t we have a Manhattan? They’re delicious, though they’re quite out of fashion.’
Pandora likes her Manhattan.
‘Come and sit here, let me hold your hand. You don’t mind? I find my grandchildren are quite easy about being touched. When I was young we were nervous about it.’
‘You know, I don’t know how many grandchildren you have?’
‘I have two children of my own, and they have four children between them, and then there are my step-grandchildren, so seven in all. You will be meeting the youngest grandchild tomorrow – Tom, I think you’ll like him.’ She stretches and points to a framed photograph of a young woman. ‘That’s me, you know, in 1920 or so. I was half-crazy at the time and drinking, but I look all right, don’t I?’ She turns and looks directly at Pandora. ‘By the way, your mother says you are thinking of writing a life of Irene.’
Pandora shifts around in her seat. ‘Well, possibly. It’s just an idea. There’s nothing much written, as you know, and I admire her work and there are so many people to talk to. . .’
‘You mean, people who won’t be alive for long. I don’t know whether Irene would have liked a biography. You know, when she was older she never gave interviews.’
‘I would be writing a tribute, it would be very sympathetic. Surely it’s best to have a biography written by someone who knew her and loved her?’
‘She adored you, she told me all about you. When she was older, you know, she concentrated so much on her work, she hardly had any time for living. . . She told me, she preferred to be judged by her art – the character of the artist was irrelevant, she claimed. But as for papers, well, I only have a few things.’ She hesitates. ‘There’s Margaret, she’s back at Atholl, you know, now that Mark’s died, but she’s rather vague now. Something to eat?’
Pandora is extremely hungry and she enjoys the Maine lobster and potato salad. ‘I thought you should have a very American dinner. After this, I’m giving you apple pie with a vanilla sauce.’ They talk until Pandora droops and yawns, and her great-aunt takes her tenderly by the shoulders and leads her to her room.
5
Only a few hours after Mark’s return from the Cosy Bar, he and Margaret made a disorganised rush for the train. Thomas left for work that hardly existed. Irene tried to work but felt uninspired. At dinner, they scarcely spoke except to their daughter. She looked at them anxiously from time to time. Thomas played a game with Dodo. They went to their room.
‘Why does Mark know what I did in the war?’
‘He doesn’t know much. He only knows you were in Cologne.’
‘And what I did there.’
‘I must have told him, carelessly. What does it matter now?’
‘It was a secret. From you, too. How did you know where I was? I was under instructions not to tell you anything, you were under suspicion as an enemy alien. I was very scrupulous, I even concealed my rail passes. All you knew was that I was out of Berlin.’
She sat at her dressing table looking into the glass, he stood in the middle of the room, looking in his shirtsleeves like a weary pugilist.
‘You must have dropped some remark. Really, I don’t remember.’
He took off his shirt. She looked at him in the glass, and thought, do I still find him attractive? He was rather red-faced this evening.
‘How did Mark know I was in Cologne during the war, designing military installations?’
What was she to say? Mark had pulled her into this deception, all those years ago, Mark with his penchant for spying and deceit. Well, she was not going to deceive her husband, not on this occasion. Thomas met her eyes in the glass, accusing. She asked herself, how much does this all matter to me? I am a huge success as an artist, I have exhibitions all over the world, there are men wanting to sleep with me in every major capital, I have been faithful to this man because after Julian I vowed I would be, and because of Dodo, and because of my mother and her first child. I have nothing to apologise for. Except. . .
‘How did you know?’
She had to tell the truth. Actually, she felt terrible. Yes, she must tell a version of the truth, at least.
‘You left some papers on the desk in the office at Salitz. I read them. I was cur
ious, I wanted to know what you were doing.’
He did not answer at once. He had become quiet and controlled.
‘I don’t remember ever leaving papers on the desk. I don’t do such things, especially not in the midst of war.’
Must she go on lying? Or, at least, half-lying?
‘I took them out of your case.’
‘How did you do that? My case was locked.’
‘I unlocked it. You always left a set of spare keys in your drawer.’
‘You unlocked it?’
‘Yes. One evening when you were out, with Dodo. Very late in 1917. One evening, it was snowing. You went to the big house, I stayed at home. I was ill. I said I was ill.’
‘I remember, I think.’
‘I unlocked the case and read your papers. They gave me the information I was looking for.’
‘The information you were looking for?’
‘You had a senior position, no? You were well informed about the plans of the High Command. I wanted to find out what I could.’
She could see him in the mirror. He was motionless and pale, as though facing a firing squad. She loathed herself. But since he wanted the truth, the truth he must have.
‘It was Mark. Mark asked me to find out anything I could about German military strategy.’
‘Mark? He asked you to spy on me?’
‘If you put it that way. Oh God, Thomas, it’s so long ago.’
‘He asked you to spy on your husband, and you agreed?’
‘He persuaded me. He said it would help shorten the war. I wanted that to happen, I knew Germany could not win in the long run. I wanted the war to end. I wanted you to come home.’ This last statement struck a false note, she wished she’d not said it.
‘Ah, you wanted me to come home, did you? That was not the impression you gave. And you did not think you were betraying your husband and your child, your German-born child, and the country that had become yours? At least, I thought it had.’
‘I did, endlessly. But he persuaded me. You know well, in times of war one becomes a different person.’
‘Yes, that is the reaction of weak people to difficult times. Of people who have no real values, who cannot hold to the truth.’
She saw he had sat down, that was at least better than having him glare at her in the glass.
‘I don’t think I am weak. I did not go back to England in 1914, I stayed in Germany. I put up with things.’
‘You did not physically go back to England, but your heart was there, isn’t that true? You wanted England to win the war, didn’t you? ‘
‘I didn’t want the Germans to do to England what they did to Belgium.’ As soon as she’d said this she felt ashamed, it was the sort of thing the Daily Mail was always saying. Nationality stood between them like a transparent, impenetrable barrier.
He laughed contemptuously. ‘Yes, that old business of the fiendish Hun. Perhaps we should never have married. Perhaps we would have been happier, each living in their own country.’
‘Do you believe that, Thomas?’
He did not answer. He took off his clothes, put on his nightshirt. She wondered if he was willing to share a bed with her. In silence she brushed her hair. In silence he left the bedroom. In silence she climbed into bed. She could not imagine feeling more miserable. She thought about Mark, resentfully for a moment. But it had been her decision in the end.
Thomas came back, smelling of the soap she’d bought him in Paris. He walked over to her dressing table, with its lines of photographs in silver and ebony frames, the English family on the right, the German family on the left, Dodo and Thomas in the centre under the looking glass. He peered at the English family. He looked at the German family. He raised his left arm, swept the whole gallery onto the floor. Tinkling glass, sounds of breakage, a jagged pile of abused affection.
And then he picked up the photograph he’d given her years ago, of him wearing the light suit she said she liked, wrenched it out of its frame, tore it in half, and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.
He got into bed, turned away from her. After a while she reached out a hand. He thrust it back, roughly.
6
Pandora wakes early. She lies in bed, alert but not energetic, looking at the shelves of books, the rag rug, the framed sampler, the semi-abstract watercolours of landscapes. Through the window she can see the brick mass of the next-door building, a glimpse of another apartment, someone moving, lives observed across yards of emptiness. She is hungry.
Sophia is sitting in the kitchen, the newspaper spread in front of her. She says her grandson is coming round at ten and will take Pandora anywhere she’d like. ‘Tom’s writing his PhD at Columbia on an aspect of neurology that I can never quite understand. Do you want to try waffles with maple syrup? English muffins – such curious things people have for breakfast here. You know, your room, that was where Irene used to stay. I asked her once how she felt in a room surrounded by her own work, she said she was used to it.’
‘Are they all her pictures?’
‘Well, one or two are by me. I paint a little, but it’s not serious, I always felt overshadowed. And tomorrow I want to take you to MOMA, there’s an exhibition about women artists of the twentieth century. Irene’s there. Do you like bagels, part of the US experience?’
At ten, precisely, the house phone rings. Sophia goes to the door. A tall figure appears, dark against the light, and bends down and kisses her.
‘Tom, Pandora. Pandora, Tom.’
Tom is even taller than she’d realised. A mass of black curly hair, a powerful smile. She’s more aware of the smile than the face.
He takes two steps towards her. She has taken one step towards him. As they are to recall much later, they freeze for a moment. Sophia is standing in the darkness of the hall and they are aware of her benign presence as though of an officiant at some ceremony. They each experience a moment of recognition, as though they’ve always known each other.
‘Hi, Pandora.’ He puts out his hand.
‘Hello,’ she says, in her English way. But really it does not matter what she says.
The strangeness passes. They drink coffee, they talk about the family and about Irene, they discuss what Pandora would like to do, they invite Sophia to join them but she has things planned. ‘Don’t be late home for dinner, or I shall worry.’
‘I’ll take care of my cousin,’ says Tom.
7
It fell on Victoria and Wilson to clear Lady Benson’s flat after her death. Her children were all living abroad except for Edward, who refused to help and in any case his wife knew he would not have been much use. The work took longer than expected, the cupboards were crammed with theatre programmes and school reports and the minutes of long-defunct committees. In one drawer they found £1,000 in banknotes. This Victoria gave to Wilson. She shook her head but Victoria said, ‘You deserve it, Wilson, truly you do. How long since you came to work for Mamma?’ And when Wilson said it would be thirty-eight years in November, Victoria cried, ‘Thirty-eight years deserves at least a thousand pounds.’ Delicately Wilson suggested that the money might be useful to Victoria with her husband not working, but Victoria said she was well paid, that was not a problem. She was pleased at how open she could be with Wilson.
It was a hard few days. Looking around at the heaps of papers, Victoria cried at one point, ‘Oh, Wilson, there is so much stuff here, shall we just throw it all away, what use is it to anyone?’ But Wilson would not allow that, she would sort through the papers, it would give her an interest. And since she was close to tears, Victoria promised to take another week off work and help her.
They found many letters. But the most curious thing was a pile of photographs of Lady Benson’s children, kept in a large red lacquered box. The children as babies, the children at school, the children in adulthood, alone or posed in groups. As time passed they were shown in increasingly informal Kodak prints.
They sorted the photographs into piles. The smallest was Soph
ia’s. Some of her photographs were scuffed, one had been torn quite across and then replaced in the box. The next smallest was Irene’s, and included photographs of her paintings. Mark’s pile was much larger, and showed him at every stage of his life, including a fine image of him wearing the uniform of the Diplomatic Corps. But what most surprised them was Edward’s pile, which was twice as high even as Mark’s. It contained a series of little formal images of him as a young boy, each with a date pencilled on the back, evidently sent every year from Canada; and dozens of pictures of him as a married man, including a large set of wedding photographs and a wedding album; and views of him in military uniform; and more recent images.
Victoria and Wilson started this process as though it were a game. ‘One for Sophia. Two for Edward,’ they would say, pushing the photographs across the table. But as the piles rose, they ceased to laugh.
‘Poor thing. She loved Edward so much,’ remarked Victoria towards the end. ‘And he was so unkind to her.’
‘It’s a shame, it’s a great shame.’
‘He never could get over her being his mother. He hated her for it, I think. I suppose we’d better give these photographs to the subjects, don’t you think? Unless you’d like some for yourself, dear Wilson.’
‘I would indeed. I have my eye on some, if I may say so, particularly Miss Sophia in her first nurse’s uniform. Always such a dear girl, that Sophia, I almost brought her up, you know.’
They tied up the photographs in bundles. Later Victoria threw away many of the images of Edward. He was not to know of his mother’s feelings. It would only make him feel even more guilty than he did already.
8
Thomas did not accompany Irene to her mother’s funeral. Six months after their discussion about Cologne, they were on reasonable terms, though Irene was often away, and when she was in Berlin she went to parties and openings he did not care to attend. But they slept in the same bed and looked after the children together and were perfectly cordial. Irene hoped, when she had time to think about such things, that they might become close again.
The Iron Necklace Page 33
