by Ken Follett
‘I want us to have children. But not until we’re married. To each other.’
‘I get that,’ she said. ‘So . . .’
‘We have to wait.’
Men were slow to pick up hints. ‘I’m not much of a girl for tradition,’ she said. ‘But, still, there are some things . . .’
At last he saw what she was getting at. ‘Oh! Okay. Just a minute.’ He knelt upright on the bed. ‘Daisy, dear—’
She burst out laughing. He looked comical, in full uniform with his limp dick hanging out of his fly. ‘Can I take a photo of you like that?’ she said.
He looked down and saw what she meant. ‘Oh, sorry.’
‘No – don’t you dare put it away! Stay just as you are, and say what you were going to say.’
He grinned. ‘Daisy, dear, will you be my wife?’
‘In a heartbeat,’ she said.
They lay down again, embracing.
Soon the novelty of his odour wore off. They got into the shower together. She soaped him all over, taking merry pleasure in his embarrassment when she washed his most intimate places. She put shampoo on his hair and scrubbed his grimy feet with a brush.
When he was clean he insisted on washing her, but he had only got as far as her breasts when they had to make love again. They did it standing in the shower with the hot water coursing down their bodies. Clearly he had momentarily forgotten his aversion to illegitimate pregnancy, and she did not care.
Afterwards he stood at her mirror shaving. She wrapped a large towel around herself and sat on the lid of the toilet, watching him. He asked: ‘How long will it take you to get divorced?’
‘I don’t know. I’d better speak to Boy.’
‘Not today, though. I want you to myself all day.’
‘When will you go to see your parents?’
‘Tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Then I’ll go to see Boy at the same time. I want to get this over as soon as possible.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s settled, then.’
(iv)
Daisy felt strange going into the house where she had lived with Boy. A month ago it had been hers. She had been free to come and go as she wished, and enter any room without asking permission. The servants had obeyed her every order without question. Now she was a stranger in the same house. She kept her hat and gloves on, and she had to follow the old butler as he led her to the morning room.
Boy did not shake hands or kiss her cheek. He looked full of righteous indignation.
‘I haven’t hired a lawyer yet,’ Daisy said as she sat down. ‘I wanted to talk to you personally first. I’m hoping we can do this without hating one another. After all, there are no children to fight over, and we both have plenty of money.’
‘You betrayed me!’ he said.
Daisy sighed. Clearly it was not going to go the way she had hoped. ‘We both committed adultery,’ she said. ‘You first.’
‘I’ve been humiliated. Everyone in London knows!’
‘I did try to stop you making a fool of yourself in Claridge’s – but you were too busy humiliating me! I hope you’ve thrashed the loathsome marquis.’
‘How could I? He did me a favour.’
‘He might have done you a bigger favour by having a quiet word at the club.’
‘I don’t understand how you could fall for such a low-class oik as Williams. I’ve found out a few things about him. His mother was a housemaid!’
‘She’s probably the most impressive woman I’ve ever met.’
‘I hope you realize that no one really knows who his father is.’
That was about as ironic as you could get, Daisy thought. ‘I know who his father is,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘I’m certainly not telling you.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps I should just have a lawyer write to you.’ She stood up. ‘I loved you once, Boy,’ she said sadly. ‘You were fun. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you. I wish you happiness. I hope you marry someone who suits you better, and that she gives you lots of sons. I would be happy for you if that came about.’
‘Well, it won’t,’ he said.
She had turned towards the door, but now she looked back. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I got the report from that doctor we went to.’
She had forgotten about the medical. It had seemed irrelevant after they split. ‘What did he say?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you – you can have a whole litter of pups. But I can’t father children. Mumps in adult men sometimes causes infertility, and I copped it.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘All those bloody Germans shooting at me for years, and I’ve been downed by a vicar’s three little brats.’
She felt sad for him. ‘Oh, Boy, I’m really sorry to hear that.’
‘Well, you’re going to be sorrier, because I’m not divorcing you.’
She suddenly felt cold. ‘What do you mean? Why not?’
‘Why should I bother? I don’t want to marry again. I can’t have children. Andy’s son will inherit.’
‘But I want to marry Lloyd!’
‘Why should I care about that? Why should he have children if I can’t?’
Daisy was devastated. Would happiness be snatched away from her just when it seemed to be within her reach? ‘Boy, you can’t mean this!’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life.’
Her voice was anguished. ‘But Lloyd wants children of his own!’
‘He should have thought of that before he f-f-fucked another man’s wife.’
‘Very well, then,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll divorce you.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Adultery, of course.’
‘But you have no evidence.’ She was about to say that that shouldn’t be a problem when he grinned maliciously and added: ‘And I’ll take care you don’t get any.’
He could do that, if he was discreet about his liaisons, she realized with growing horror. ‘But you threw me out!’ she said.
‘I shall tell the judge you’re welcome to come home any time.’
She tried to stop herself crying. ‘I never thought you’d hate me this much,’ she said miserably.
‘Didn’t you?’ said Boy. ‘Well, now you bloody well know.’
(v)
Lloyd Williams went to Boy Fitzherbert’s house in Mayfair at mid-morning, when Boy would be sober, and told the butler he was Major Williams, a distant relative. He thought a man-to-man conversation was worth a try. Surely Boy did not really want to dedicate the rest of his life to revenge? Lloyd was in uniform, hoping to appeal to Boy as one fighting man to another. Good sense must surely prevail.
He was shown into the morning room where Boy sat reading the paper and smoking a cigar. It took Boy a moment to recognize him. ‘You!’ he said when comprehension dawned. ‘You can piss off right away.’
‘I’ve come to ask you to give Daisy a divorce,’ Lloyd said.
‘Get out.’ Boy got to his feet.
Lloyd said: ‘I can see that you’re toying with the idea of taking a swing at me, so in fairness I should tell you that it won’t be as easy as you imagine. I’m a bit smaller than you, but I box at welterweight, and I’ve won quite a lot of contests.’
‘I’m not going to soil my hands on you.’
‘Good decision. But will you reconsider the divorce?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘There’s something you don’t know,’ Lloyd said. ‘I wonder if it might change your mind.’
‘I doubt it,’ Boy said. ‘But go on, now that you’re here, give it a shot.’ He sat down, but did not offer Lloyd a chair.
Be it on your own head, Lloyd thought.
He took from his pocket a faded sepia photograph. ‘If you’d be so kind, glance at this picture of me.’ He put it on the side table next to Boy’s ashtray.
Boy pick
ed it up. ‘This isn’t you. It looks like you, but the uniform is Victorian. It must be your father.’
‘My grandfather, in fact. Turn it over.’
Boy read the inscription on the back. ‘Earl Fitzherbert?’ he said scornfully.
‘Yes. The previous earl, your grandfather – and mine. Daisy found that photo at Tŷ Gwyn.’ Lloyd took a deep breath. ‘You told Daisy that no one knows who my father is. Well, I can tell you. It’s Earl Fitzherbert. You and I are brothers.’ He waited for Boy’s response.
Boy laughed. ‘Ridiculous!’
‘My reaction, exactly, when I was first told.’
‘Well, I must say, you have surprised me. I would have thought you could come up with something better than this absurd fantasy.’
Lloyd had been hoping the revelation would shock Boy into a different frame of mind, but so far it was not working. Nevertheless he continued to reason. ‘Come on, Boy – how unlikely is it? Doesn’t it happen all the time in great houses? Maids are pretty, young noblemen are randy, and nature takes its course. When a baby is born, the matter is hushed up. Please don’t pretend you had no idea such things could occur.’
‘No doubt it’s common enough.’ Boy’s confidence was shaken, but still he blustered. ‘However, lots of people pretend they have connections with the aristocracy.’
‘Oh, please,’ Lloyd said disparagingly. ‘I don’t want connections with the aristocracy. I’m not a draper’s assistant with daydreams of grandeur. I come from a distinguished family of socialist politicians. My maternal grandfather was one of the founders of the South Wales Miners’ Federation. The last thing I need is a wrong-side-of-the-blanket link with a Tory peer. It’s highly embarrassing to me.’
Boy laughed again, but with less conviction. ‘You’re embarrassed! Talk about inverted snobbery.’
‘Inverted? I’m more likely to become prime minister than you are.’ Lloyd realized they had got into a pissing contest, which was not what he wanted. ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to persuade you that you can’t spend the rest of your life taking revenge on me – if only because we’re brothers.’
‘I still don’t believe it,’ Boy said, putting the photo down on the side table and picking up his cigar.
‘Nor did I, at first.’ Lloyd kept trying: his whole future was at stake. ‘Then it was pointed out to me that my mother was working at Tŷ Gwyn when she fell pregnant; that she had always been evasive about my father’s identity; and that shortly before I was born she somehow acquired the funds to buy a three-bedroom house in London. I confronted her with my suspicions and she admitted the truth.’
‘This is laughable.’
‘But you know it’s true, don’t you?’
‘I know no such thing.’
‘You do, though. For the sake of our brotherhood, won’t you do the decent thing?’
‘Certainly not.’
Lloyd saw that he was not going to win. He felt downcast. Boy had the power to blight Lloyd’s life, and he was determined to use it.
He picked up the photograph and put it back in his pocket. ‘You’ll ask our father about this. You won’t be able to restrain yourself. You’ll have to find out.’
Boy made a scornful noise.
Lloyd went to the door. ‘I believe he will tell you the truth. Goodbye, Boy.’
He went out and closed the door behind him.
16
1943 (II)
Colonel Albert Beck got a Russian bullet in his right lung at Kharkov in March 1943. He was lucky: a field surgeon put in a chest drain and reinflated the lung, saving his life, just. Weakened by blood loss and the almost inevitable infection, Beck was put on a train home and ended up in Carla’s hospital in Berlin.
He was a tough, wiry man in his early forties, prematurely bald, with a protruding jaw like the prow of a Viking longboat. The first time he spoke to Carla, he was drugged and feverish and wildly indiscreet. ‘We’re losing the war,’ he said.
She was immediately alert. A discontented officer was a potential source of information. She said lightly: ‘The newspapers say we’re shortening the line on the Eastern Front.’
He laughed scornfully. ‘That means we’re retreating.’
She continued to draw him out. ‘And Italy looks bad.’ The Italian dictator Benito Mussolini – Hitler’s greatest ally – had fallen.
‘Remember 1939, and 1940?’ Beck said nostalgically. ‘One brilliant lightning victory after another. Those were the days.’
Clearly he was not ideological, perhaps not even political. He was a normal patriotic soldier who had stopped kidding himself.
Carla led him on. ‘It can’t be true that the army is short of everything from bullets to underpants.’ This kind of mildly risky talk was not unusual in Berlin nowadays.
‘Of course we are.’ Beck was radically disinhibited but quite articulate. ‘Germany simply can’t produce as many guns and tanks as the Soviet Union, Great Britain and the United States combined – especially when we’re being bombed constantly. And no matter how many Russians we kill, the Red Army seems to have an inexhaustible supply of new recruits.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘The Nazis will never admit defeat, of course. So more people will die. Millions more, just because they’re too proud to yield. Insanity. Insanity.’ He drifted off to sleep.
You had to be sick – or crazy – to voice such thoughts, but Carla believed that more and more people were thinking that way. Despite relentless government propaganda it was becoming clear that Hitler was losing the war.
There had been no police investigation of the death of Joachim Koch. It had been reported in the newspaper as a road accident. Carla had got over the initial shock, but every now and again the realization hit her that she had killed a man, and she would relive his death in her imagination. It made her shake and she had to sit down. This had happened only once when she was on duty, fortunately, and she had passed that off as a faint due to hunger – highly plausible in wartime Berlin. Her mother was worse. Strange, that Maud had loved Joachim, weak and foolish as he was; but there was no explaining love. Carla herself had completely misjudged Werner Franck, thinking he was strong and brave, only to learn that he was selfish and weak.
She talked to Beck a lot before he was discharged, probing to find out what kind of man he was. Once recovered, he never again spoke indiscreetly about the war. She learned that he was a career soldier, his wife was dead, and his married daughter lived in Buenos Aires. His father had been a Berlin city councillor: he did not say for which party, so clearly it was not the Nazis or any of their allies. He never said anything bad about Hitler, but he never said anything good either, nor did he speak disparagingly of Jews or Communists. These days that in itself was close to insubordination.
His lung would heal, but he would never again be strong enough for active service, and he told her he was being posted to the General Staff. He could become a diamond mine of vital secrets. She would be risking her life if she tried to recruit him – but she had to try.
She knew he would not remember their first conversation. ‘You were very candid,’ Carla told him in a low voice. There was no one nearby. ‘You said we were losing the war.’
His eyes flashed fear. He was no longer a woozy patient in a hospital gown with stubble on his cheeks. He was washed and shaved, sitting upright in dark-blue pyjamas buttoned to the throat. ‘I suppose you’re going to report me to the Gestapo,’ he said. ‘I don’t think a man should be held to account for what he says when he’s sick and raving.’
‘You weren’t raving,’ she said. ‘You were very clear. But I’m not going to report you to anyone.’
‘No?’
‘Because you are right.’
He was surprised. ‘Now I should report you.’
‘If you do, I’ll say that you insulted Hitler in your delirium, and when I threatened to report it you made up a story about me in self-defence.’
‘If I denounce
you, you’ll denounce me,’ he said. ‘Stalemate.’
‘But you’re not going to denounce me,’ she said. ‘I know that, because I know you. I’ve nursed you. You’re a good man. You joined the army for love of your country, but you hate the war and you hate the Nazis.’ She was 99 per cent sure of this.
‘It’s very dangerous to talk like that.’
‘I know.’
‘So this isn’t just a casual conversation.’
‘Correct. You said that millions of people are going to die just because the Nazis are too proud to surrender.’
‘Did I?’
‘You can help save some of those millions.’
‘How?’
Carla paused. This was where she put her life on the line. ‘Any information you have, I can pass it to the appropriate quarters.’ She held her breath. If she was wrong about Beck, she was dead.
She read amazement in his look. He could hardly imagine that this briskly efficient young nurse was a spy. But he believed her, she could see that. He said: ‘I think I understand you.’
She handed him a green hospital file folder, empty.
He took it. ‘What’s this for?’ he said.
‘You’re a soldier, you understand camouflage.’
He nodded. ‘You’re risking your life,’ he said, and she saw something like admiration in his eyes.
‘So are you, now.’
‘Yes,’ said Colonel Beck. ‘But I’m used to it.’
(ii)
Early in the morning, Thomas Macke took young Werner Franck to the Plötzensee Prison in the western suburb of Charlottenburg. ‘You should see this,’ he said. ‘Then you can tell General Dorn how effective we are.’
He parked in the Königsdamm and led Werner to the rear of the main prison. They entered a room twenty-five feet long and about half as wide. Waiting there was a man dressed in a tailcoat, a top hat and white gloves. Werner frowned at the peculiar costume. ‘This is Herr Reichhart,’ said Macke. ‘The executioner.’
Werner swallowed. ‘So we’re going to witness an execution?’
‘Yes.’
With a casual air that might have been faked, Werner said: ‘Why the fancy dress outfit?’
Macke shrugged. ‘Tradition.’
