by David Lodge
– Oh, we’re here all right. And jolly nice it is too. He leaned back in his chair and sipped the cold, clean drink. I love sitting outdoors at night, it’s never warm enough in England. I remember that was one of the things I enjoyed about Germany – d’you remember my first evening in Heidelberg? Dining outside that restaurant halfway up the mountain?
– The Molkenkur. You had Chicken-in-the-Rough, remember?
– Could I ever forget!
– How you ate!
They laughed together at the memory.
– I ordered Chicken-in-the-Rough in Denver a couple of weeks ago, he said. But it wasn’t the same.
– I suppose you can get as much chicken as you like, now, in England. It must be difficult to remember what rationing was like.
– Mm. Though I don’t think you ever forget it really. There’s a gap opening up, getting wider all the time, between those who remember the war, rationing, austerity and so on, and those who were too young to remember, or born afterwards.
– You talk like an old man, she teased him.
– Well, thirty is old nowadays. You know what the students say: never trust anyone over thirty. If you work it out, thirty is just about the dividing line between those who can remember the war and those who can’t.
– They seem to cause so much trouble, these days, students.
– They take more for granted, so their dreams are more ambitious. Growing up in the war and just after, one didn’t really expect much. Any improvement was something to be grateful for.
– Yes, she sighed, the younger generation don’t know how well off they are.
– Well, you can be so grateful for being where you are that you don’t want to move on, in case things get worse. I recognize that tendency in myself.
– You, Timothy? But you’ve done so much.
– Not all that much. And I have to push myself all the time. Like that trip to Heidelberg. I didn’t really want to go, but I made the effort – and was I glad! I doubt whether I’d be here now, otherwise.
– Really?
– Really. It was a turning-point for me. It brought me out of my shell, enlarged my horizons. I learned an awful lot in those few weeks.
They fell silent, thinking back. The bathers had departed from the pool, and the only sound was the rhythmical hiss of the water sprinklers, rotating in the shrubbery beneath the palm trees.
– Do you ever hear from Vince and Greg? he asked at length.
– Never. A girl friend of mine said they went to South America, but I don’t know.
– Did anyone ever discover the truth of that Berlin business?
– I don’t think so, no. It was hushed up. There was an inquiry, of course. The story going round was that they tried to make contact with the East Germans to sell them a list of ex-Nazis in high places in the Federal Government, but the East Germans wouldn’t do a deal.
– But it was never proved?
– No, it was never proved. It just smelled badly enough for them to have to resign. Then there was the Rudolf affair – that alone would have made them security risks. You know what that was all about, I suppose?
– Some kind of homosexual thing, I suppose?
– They never, er, tried any funny business with you, did they?
– No, never.
– Thank goodness, she sighed. It often worried me, but I could never bring myself to put it in a letter.
– Did you know they were gay?
– It never entered my head. Shows how innocent I was.
– They were pretty discreet, I suppose.
– Some people must have had their suspicions. Don certainly did. But as they were always going round with me . . . I was a kind of alibi. She gave a short, dry laugh.
– Why did they try to do a deal with the East Germans? They weren’t fellow-travellers, surely?
– No, I think they just needed the money. Vince had been losing a lot at gambling. I used to think they had unlimited funds, but I guess they were living above their incomes all the time.
– It makes me feel badly, in a way, he said. All the time I was sponging off them, letting them pay for me everywhere, they must have been desperate for money.
– I shouldn’t let it worry you. They were like that. They took a pride in being extravagant. Childish, really.
– All the same . . .
– I can’t work up much sympathy for them, I’m afraid. I feel they made a fool of me.
– It doesn’t mean that they didn’t like you, Kate, he said gently. It’s society that makes them deceitful.
In the silence that followed, this last remark sounded more and more pompous and affected. He broke it desperately.
– What about Don? You know that he’s full professor at Ann Arbor, now?
– Yes, we still exchange Christmas cards, but that’s about all.
– You know, Kate, I thought perhaps the two of you . . .
– What?
– Well, I was only a kid, of course, but it seemed to me that you were quite keen on each other.
– We had a brief affair, actually.
– An affair? He hoped he sounded surprised.
– It started that week in Garmisch. You remember? When I twisted my ankle.
– Oh yes, I remember.
She laughed a little selfconsciously.
– I don’t know why I’m telling you this after all these years. I’ve never told a single soul before. But I’d just like one person in the world to know. Does that seem silly?
– No, of course not.
– Don asked me to marry him, actually.
– Did he? This time his surprise was genuine.
– Yes, the week after you went home.
– And you said no?
– I said no.
– You didn’t think it would work?
– I didn’t see how it could. He was determined to go to college in London . . . I just couldn’t see myself as a student’s wife, living in a bedsitter, working in some crummy office to make ends meet. And then I’m not the intellectual type, never was. There were times when I’d say something about the news, or a book, or a movie, and he’d sort of look at me, as if he was wondering whether to set me straight or let it pass. I could imagine him looking at me like that for the rest of our lives.
– I know what you mean, he said. Don was ah intelligent man, a sincere man. He taught me a lot. But he was a bit of a moral bully at heart.
– He’s been married and divorced since.
– Has he?
– Who are you talking about? said Sheila, as she came out on to the terrace.
– Oh, no one you know, darling, he said. Like a drink?
– No thanks, not just now.
She sat down on his knees.
– Children all right? said Kate.
– Sound asleep, both of them. This is a super place, Kate. We’re ever so grateful to you for finding it.
– I thought it was the best kind of place for you, with the children. And as the season is just over, it’s quite cheap really.
– I was amazed, said Timothy, fondling Sheila’s waist. He thought to himself: two rooms – tonight we can make love.
– Gosh, it’s so warm still, Sheila said.
– Some people were swimming just now.
– That sounds fun. What about it, Tim?
– I’m too comfortable here.
– I’ll just have a quick dip.
– She’s got such energy, said Kate, as Sheila went indoors to change.
– Wears me out, sometimes, he said. Would you like another drink?
– No thanks. How do you manage about religion, if I’m not being nosy?
– Oh, no problems. Sheila doesn’t mind the kids being brought up as Catholics. I don’t mind her planning when to have them.
– I’ve gone back to the Church, you know.
– Have you?
– As you get older, you feel the need of something, especially living on your own.
Mind you, it’s all changed, it seems to me.
– Not before time.
– More like the Protestants, now, wouldn’t you say? It’s funny, I miss the Latin mass, though I used to find it boring.
– Mum and Dad will be glad you’re still practising.
– Did they ever know I’d stopped?
– I think they guessed. D’you ever think of coming home, Kate? I don’t mean for good, but for a visit.
– It’s the old story, I keep putting it off. I don’t fancy the journey either. I was in a plane that nearly crashed, and it’s put me off flying. But since you arrived I’ve been thinking that perhaps I really should make the effort. I’d like to see you and Sheila and the children again. I think it was the idea of going back and finding everybody older, the same but older, that depressed me.
– You can stay with us as long as you like, he said. We’re going to get a bigger house when we go back.
Sheila came out through the french windows, a towelling robe over her two-piece swimming costume, and passed them with a wave of her hand.
– Have a nice swim, Kate said.
They watched the white robe move like a ghost through the shrubbery.
– Talking of Heidelberg, Timothy said, I suppose you never heard anything about a girl called Gloria Rose, did you?
– It doesn’t ring a bell. Who was she?
– Oh, just a girl I met at that party on the river-boat. Don taught her.
– Party on a river-boat? Oh, yes, I remember. Something happened, didn’t it? Someone fell overboard or –
– Someone fused the lights.
– That’s it, it comes back to me now. What about this Gloria, then? Kate was full of womanish curiosity.
– Oh, she was just a girl I got friendly with. We wrote to each other a few times after I went home, then we lost touch. It was just a long shot, asking you.
They heard a splash from the pool, as Sheila dived in. He looked towards the sound, rather yearningly it must have seemed, for Kate said:
– Why don’t you join her?
– I wouldn’t mind a dip, actually. Won’t you come too?
– No thanks, I’m getting too old for midnight swims. I’ll stay here, in case the children wake.
– Well, perhaps I will.
He went indoors, and changed into his swimming trunks. Coming out, with just a towel over his shoulders, he said humorously:
– Hmm, it doesn’t seem quite so warm now.
– What?
There was a catch in her voice, and he realized she was crying quietly.
– Kate, what’s up?
– Nothing . . . take no notice.
– You’re upset.
– No, it’s just . . . I haven’t talked to anyone about those days for so long.
– I understand.
He stood, hesitating.
– Go on, have your swim.
Arc lights fixed in the palm trees illuminated the pool, but did not penetrate its depths. Sheila disturbed the reflections as she swam up and down in a tidy, deliberate crawl. She was a much better swimmer than he was. Seeing him, she stopped and trod water in the middle of the pool.
– Coming in after all? she called. It’s gorgeous. Warm as anything.
– They heat the water, he said.
– I know. Doesn’t it seem extravagant, in this climate? Delicious, though.
He dropped his towel, kicked off his sandals, and dived into the black, lukewarm water. He surfaced and swam over to Sheila. He put his arms round her waist and kissed her wet lips. They sank slowly together, separated, and bobbed up again into the air.
– Idiot! Sheila spluttered.
He came close again, stroking her body under the water.
– Make love tonight? he said.
– Mmm.
He tried to put his hand inside her bikini briefs, but she wriggled away and swam off, too fast for him to pursue. She dragged herself out of the pool, and paddled along the side to the diving boards. He floated on his back and admired the sleek, supple movements of her limbs as she climbed the ladder. She stood on the top platform and pushed back wet tendrils of hair from her face, panting from the climb. Rocked in the warm water, under the huge serene sky, he felt an excess of happiness well up inside him. It seemed to be a moment of perfect content. He could not think of a single, even trivial care or dissatisfaction troubling him, and in the big things of life he had always been lucky. He was so lucky it was almost a scandal, he thought to himself, mindful of Kate weeping in the shadows on the other side of the courtyard. And Don, divorced, Vince and Greg driven out into the wilderness, his parents growing dully old, shedding one human interest after another, like leaves falling singly from a tree on a windless day. When one thought of all the thwarted, broken, cramped lives . . . and the deaths. The unnumbered dead of the war, of his war and all the wars, lives cut off unseasonably, at random, with no reason. For he could think of no particular reason why it should be Sheila who stood on the diving platform now, her breasts rising and falling as she drew the air into her lungs, and not Jill, who had been born in the same year, whose breasts were ghosts – not even ghosts, never grown.
Then it came on him again – the familiar fear that he could never entirely eradicate – that his happiness was only a ripening target for fate; that somewhere, around the corner, some disaster awaited him, as he blithely approached. A car smash. A mortal disease. A madman scattering bullets. He fought it down, as he had fought it many times before, treading water in the middle of the pool. But he called out:
– Better not, Sheila! It’s too dark for high diving.
She pulled a face, rose on her toes, and dived. Her body flashed through the air and cleaved the dark water. The shattered reflections of the lamps rocked and danced crazily across the surface, and then began to re-form. A craven prayer forced itself to his lips, and he bit it back. He began to count, instead, silently.
When he reached nine, she surfaced several yards behind him, gasping for breath.
– Sheila! he cried, and struck out towards her.
Afterword
In 1951, at the age of sixteen, I travelled unaccompanied to Heidelberg, West Germany, to spend a holiday with my aunt Eileen, my mother’s sister, who was working there as a civilian secretary for the U.S. Army. A single woman, she had been employed at the American military headquarters at Cheltenham before D-Day, and volunteered for service in Europe during the closing stages of the war and the occupation of Germany. For her, the experience was a personal Liberation. From a life of limited means and possibilities, further depressed by the common privations of wartime on the Home Front, she was suddenly taken under the protection of the richest, most powerful and most privileged nation in the world, and launched into a life of travel, excitement and high living such as she had previously only dreamed of. A vivacious and attractive lady, who always looked at least fifteen years younger than her real age, she made friends easily and was socially popular. First in Paris, later in Heidelberg, her off-duty life was full of parties, restaurant meals, dances and excursions. As Europe recovered from the devastation of war, and tourism revived, Eileen eagerly took advantage of her opportunities to travel further afield. The American Army, and its civilian establishment, were almost alone at that time in having the money, and the freedom of movement, to make Europe their playground. For a few years, they had the run of its luxury hotels, fashionable resorts, first-class restaurants, golf-courses and casinos – years when most Europeans themselves were struggling to rebuild their war-scarred cities and coping with food rationing and other shortages.
In Britain, “austerity” seemed to continue longer than anywhere else west of the Iron Curtain. Many basic foods were still rationed in 1951, six years after the end of the war. The weekly meat ration was increased in August – to a value of one shilling and eightpence per person. The Government actually tried to reduce the cheese ration, in the same year, from three ounces to two, but was defeated by a snap vote i
n the Commons. Just across the Channel, in France and Belgium, food was plentiful, and even the Germans (who, it was often ironically observed, were supposed to have lost the war) were better off in some respects than the British, who were not even able to enjoy Continental fare on holiday because of the absurdly mean currency allowance for non-essential travel abroad. It was only because my aunt Eileen sponsored my visit and guaranteed to cover my expenses that I was able to make the trip to Heidelberg.
For a boy of my age and background (lower-middle-class-London-suburban) it was an unusual and somewhat intimidating venture. I had always enjoyed a good relationship with my aunt, and her reports of the American expatriate way of life in Heidelberg were inviting. But Germany, the land of the hereditary enemy, still perceived through the distorting lens of a wartime childhood, was not an inviting holiday destination: and the journey there by rail and sea, with all the unknown hazards of foreign languages, customs, currency, etc., was a somewhat daunting prospect for someone who had never made an unaccompanied journey of more than thirty miles from home in his life. My parents, inexperienced in such matters, could not offer much help or advice. I remember that I spent long weary hours queuing for a passport at Petty France and for a visa at the German Embassy, because I had left the completion of these formalities rather late. There were moments when I wondered whether I would ever get away by the appointed date, and times when I was half-inclined to abandon the attempt.
But I persevered – and how glad I was, subsequently, that I did so, for that visit to Heidelberg was one of the formative experiences of my life. The successful completion of the long and tiring journey; the initiation into a world of relatively sophisticated adult pleasures and pastimes under the auspices of my aunt and her friends; exposure to the historic and picturesque aspects of Germany, and a limited intercourse with Germans themselves – all this greatly strengthened my self-confidence (never very robust before), and opened new horizons for future aspiration. Two years later, as a university student, I returned to Heidelberg and had another enjoyable holiday; and in 1967, long after my aunt had left the place, I went back again to do some research for Out of the Shelter. But it was the first visit that was crucially important for me; and although I drew on impressions and experiences from all three visits to Heidelberg in my novel, I did not hesitate to set it at the time of the earliest, and to make my central character sixteen years old, as I then was myself.
