Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Me first,” said James.

  “You first?” she asked, smiling at him. “Why should you be first, I wonder.”

  “Because of all sorts of things,” he replied. “Because I haven’t seen you for three whole years and because your hair is golder than ever — that’s two of them.”

  She turned on the music and slid into his arms.

  Robert Shepperton sat down beside Caroline. “I won’t ask you to dance this,” he said. “I’m not au fait with modern dances, but perhaps you’ll let me have a waltz?”

  “I should like that.” she replied.

  They were silent for a few minutes, watching the dancers. Leda and Derek were dancing together, Bubbles and Anne, James and Rhoda. Alister had been dashing and had secured as his partner the magnificent Miss Fane, but he was not a star performer and was finding her a little too much for him. Sir Michael had asked Mrs. Meldrum to take the floor (he had felt bound to do so, for the Meldrums had not been asked to dinner and therefore were on his conscience) and, Mrs. Meldrum having accepted, he was pushing her round manfully.

  The pattern changed with the next dance and changed again, Caroline danced with Robert and with Sir Michael and then with James. She sat out several times. She talked to Mrs. Meldrum about the Women’s Institute and tried not to disagree with her, and she listened to Mr. Meldrum talking about fishing. She noticed that James was dancing with Rhoda as often as he could, and she noticed Robert and Harriet dancing together and then sitting out together on the big sofa. They were talking earnestly. It was obvious that they found one another extremely interesting. Robert and Harriet, thought Caroline, looking at them. She ought to be pleased to see them getting on so well (she liked them both enormously so she ought to be pleased if they liked each other) but somehow she was not very pleased … there was an odd sort of pain in her heart … there was a queer sort of chill … as if two people had drawn up their chairs to the fire and left her out. But that’s selfish, Caroline told herself as she nodded at Mr. Meldrum. That’s absolutely horrible of me. Of course I’m glad … and she tried to forget about Robert and Harriet sitting together on the sofa and to listen to Mr. Meldrum properly with both ears instead of only one. But, instead of listening properly, she began to wonder why it was that people like Mr. Meldrum could never see what frightful bores they were. I should know if I were boring someone to death, thought Caroline. James would know, so would Harriet and Robert; Rhoda would know but not Derek. That’s interesting. I believe I’ve got something there. This was one of James’s expressions and Caroline smiled at the thought of how aptly it applied to the case.

  “Yes, it was rather amusing, wasn’t it?” Mr. Meldrum said.

  It was true that Harriet had found Robert Shepperton interesting, they had much in common for they were both refugees from the big bad world. They both knew London well and not only London. Harriet had travelled widely before the war and it appeared that Mr. Shepperton had travelled widely too. She got on with him so well that she found she could talk to him freely.

  “Yes, it was a flop,” she told him. “It was a poor play and we all knew it, so we couldn’t put it across. An audience is a strange thing; it’s a whole, you know. It isn’t just a conglomeration of individual people. The mere fact of sitting in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, seems to have a magical effect. An audience judges as one … and has a better judgment than the individuals who make it up.”

  “A mob is one unit,” said Robert Shepperton thoughtfully. “But a mob has less judgment than its individual members.” She nodded. “There was one exception,” she said with a humorous lift of her brows. “There was one person who liked Eve’s Dilemma. Caroline liked it. She would like anything if I happened to be in it.”

  “I’m sure she would,” he agreed, smiling.

  “She’s a wonderful person,” continued Harriet earnestly. “I’ve always admired Caroline. She had the most awful life with Arnold and she bore it with the most heavenly patience. Arnold thought himself ill-used by Fate. He considered himself a martyr and let everybody know it. Sometimes he was humble and declared that it was all his own fault, but usually it was other people’s fault, the fault of the World which had never appreciated him at his true worth. His voice used to drive me mad, it was a nagger’s voice with a high-pitched drone — a sort of whine like a Moslem beggar — it was sympathy Arnold begged for. Perhaps if he hadn’t begged for it so continually one might have given it to him. He was terribly gloomy — though sometimes, if he were predicting frightful catastrophes, he would smile and his eyes would gleam with pleasure and excitement. It was the only time he really enjoyed himself.”

  “He sounds insane!”

  “No, I think he was just spoilt — and gloomy. Some people enjoy predicting disasters. I believe Jeremiah did.”

  Robert laughed. Miss Fane amused him.

  “Don’t laugh,” said Harriet. “It isn’t funny — not really — not when you have to listen to a Jeremiah, day in and day out. He almost succeeded in breaking Caroline. I think he would have broken her if he had lived a year or two longer. I wanted to kill him. Honestly,” said Harriet, turning her head and looking at her companion with perfect gravity.

  “Honestly, I wanted to kill Arnold.”

  “I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he returned.

  “No, you wouldn’t have blamed me if you had known him. You’d have helped. We might have done it together,” said Harriet with the ghost of a smile.

  “The perfect crime.”

  “Of course. It would have been a success, I feel sure. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary. He killed himself. I don’t mean he took his own life,” said Harriet hastily. “I just mean that his nerves became affected and he got some strange nervous disorder which eventually affected the muscles of his heart. Caroline nursed him night and day. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Caroline must be there to give him his medicine, to feed him, to hold his hand while he slept … Did I tell you he had no consideration for Caroline’s health or comfort?”

  “You implied it, Miss Fane.”

  “Harriet, please,” she said with a confiding glance. “All my friends call me Harriet and I’ve been wanting to call you Robert for the last half hour.”

  Robert nodded. “It’s a bargain, Harriet,” he said.

  “Now,” said Harriet, changing the subject. “Now tell me about Leda and Derek. You’ve been here all the time and I haven’t. Caroline isn’t very happy about it, I’m afraid.”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand but after a moment’s hesitation he said, “‘Good faith, this same young, sober-blooded boy doth not love me, and a man cannot make him laugh.’”

  “You’re clever, aren’t you?” said Harriet, looking at him. “That just fits Derek. Derek is sober-blooded, but unfortunately he’s weak, too. It’s a bad mixture. Poor Leda, what was she thinking about to fall in love with him!”

  Their eyes strayed across the room to the young man in question. He was talking with animation to Joan Meldrum while Leda stood by, listening with a fixed smile.

  “Go and dance with her, Robert,” said Harriet urgently. “Please, do.”

  He rose at once and did as he was told.

  It was the first time, but by no means the last, that Robert obeyed the orders of Harriet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ROBERT WAS NOW quite at home with the inhabitants of Vittoria Cottage; with all except Leda. Robert was very intuitive, his life had made him so, and he could feel a definite enmity in Leda. The strange secretive girl distrusted him, perhaps she was jealous of him … or perhaps the whole trouble arose from his clash with Derek that very first afternoon. Leda was the type of person who will nurse a small grudge for months until it grows into a lusty hatred.

  Robert was thinking of this, and regretting it, when he called at Vittoria Cottage the afternoon after the dance to see how every one was feeling. He found James sweeping up the leaves under the direction of his aunt.

  “Look at him, Robert!
” cried Harriet. “He may know how to fight bandits but he doesn’t know how to sweep leaves.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked James, grinning.

  “You’re sweeping against the wind. Sweep with the wind, James.”

  James turned, laughing, and swept the leaves in her direction so that they rose in a cloud and swirled about her like coloured snowflakes.

  “Lovely!” cried Harriet, pirouetting and holding out her hands to catch them as they fell. “Lovely, lovely leaves … happy months!”

  Robert joined in the fun — for Harriet’s spirits were infectious — he laughed like a boy and pelted her with leaves.

  It was a gay scene, thought Caroline as she looked out of the window — it was like a scene in a play, with Harriet in the leading part — and once again Caroline experienced that odd feeling of being left out in the cold. But it was ridiculous, of course. She was fond of them all, James and Harriet and Robert, she wanted them to be happy … she wanted Robert to be happy. He had been through so much. When he first came to Ashbridge he had been a sick man, sick with misery; gradually she had seen him recover, she had seen his shoulders straighten and a brightness come to his eyes. She had helped — she knew that — and she had felt a warm glow of happiness to know it. Caroline had given him sympathy and friendship, her heart had gone out to him … but now it seemed that Harriet could do even more for Robert, Harriet could make him laugh. He had laughed like a boy.

  It was tea-time now and the three came in, somewhat breathless from their exertions.

  “It’s hard work sweeping leaves,” declared Harriet, sinking into a chair.

  “Sweeping leaves!” exclaimed James. “The leaves are scattered to the four winds thanks to the hard work you put in. I shall have to start all over again, that’s what it comes to.”

  Harriet and James were tremendous friends and enjoyed teasing one another, they continued to argue about the leaves while they ate their tea and the argument occasioned a good deal of laughter. Robert sat and listened and sometimes joined in … it was easy to see that Harriet amused him.

  The girls had gone over to the Meldrums, so, when they had finished tea, Caroline rose and began to clear the table.

  “Let me do that,” Robert said. “I haven’t done any work; I didn’t even help with the leaves.” He rose as he spoke and took the dishes from Caroline, piling them neatly, sweeping the crumbs on to a plate.

  “You should take him as your butler, Caroline,” Harriet declared. “If you don’t, I will. He’s fully qualified for the post.”

  Robert did not smile. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fully qualified. I was a waiter for years. It isn’t the sort of thing one forgets.”

  They had been talking lightly, having fun together, but they realised that this was serious. Caroline and Harriet were struck dumb with amazement. James was less surprised.

  “Was that when you were …” began James in doubtful tones.

  “When I was a spy,” nodded Robert.

  They were all looking at him, they were waiting for more, and Robert realised that he must tell them his story. He had felt for some time that the story would have to be told but he had shrunk from the telling of it. He had not spoken of it before, except officially, and that was quite different of course.

  These people were his friends, they wanted a personal story; they wanted to know what he had done and thought and felt. If he had had any doubts about their interest the doubts were soon dispelled. They listened spellbound.

  Robert began a little diffidently for it was not easy to go back and remember things which he had deliberately forgotten, but after a few minutes he got into his stride … soon he was remembering everything almost too clearly. He was remembering the big luxurious hotel in Berlin. The work was hard and extremely tiring, waiting at table, carrying trays, running to fetch the different dishes demanded by the diners … or waiting at parties given by German officers in the private rooms behind the big dining-hall … and always listening to the conversation, listening, weighing, noting it in his mind. Sometimes weeks passed and there was nothing worth sending through the complicated system which had been arranged for him, and for others of his kind, to transmit information to Headquarters … and Robert would despair, he would feel that all this misery was useless, he was bearing this terrible burden and doing his country no service, it would be better if he could do his part in the battle with a gun in his hand like other men. Then when he was least expecting it he would hear something — a few words, perhaps, passed casually from one friend to another — and he would realise what these few words portended. Yes, it was worth passing on. He would go out, dressed in his shoddy suit, and sit at a certain table in a certain restaurant reading a certain book until somebody came and sat down beside him. Pass-words would be exchanged — innocent-sounding remarks about the weather — and a tiny roll of paper would be passed from hand to hand. Then Robert would rise and pay his bill and go. He was always reluctant to go, he would have liked to sit there quietly without speaking for a long time, for it was the only opportunity he had of seeing a friend (if you could call this complete stranger a friend) it was the only communication he had with his own people.

  It was no use playing the part of a waiter, he had to live the part. He was not Robert Shepperton, he was Fritz Schneider. He became friends with the other waiters, sharing their jokes, their troubles, their hopes and their fears. He had a definite entity which had been provided for him by the department which he served. Fritz Schneider was a definite person who had been taken prisoner in a raid and had afterwards died of wounds, he had lived in Imst, a little town in Bavaria, his identity had been borrowed to clothe a British spy.

  There were attics in the big luxurious hotel, tiny rooms high up beneath the roof, and one of these was allotted to Fritz Schneider. It was cold in winter, so deadly cold that he put on all the clothes he possessed before creeping into bed; in summer it was so hot that he was almost stifled. The room contained a hard lumpy bed, a cane chair, a broken mirror (in which every morning he saw his gaunt face) and a few hooks on the wall where his miserable clothes hung. At night he could hear planes flying overhead and knew that they had come to destroy the city in which he was living. If he had wanted he could have gone down to the shelter when the bombs began to fall but he never did. He stayed where he was and listened to the noise of the engines. There were men up there and they were his friends, he welcomed them, he greeted them. “Good luck to you,” he told them. He did not believe he would be killed by a British bomb — it just wasn’t possible — and he was right of course. Bombs fell all round but not upon him. He happened to be out when a bomb hit the hotel. This did not surprise him in the least.

  His life was monotonous for the most part but not all the time; he had some pretty narrow escapes. On one occasion he was in the room of a German officer looking for some papers and especially for one paper — a map of Stuttgart — which he was sure the officer possessed. The officer had gone out (and Robert seized his opportunity) but unfortunately he returned sooner than he was expected. Robert hid behind the door and knocked him out with one well-directed blow behind the ear; he went down like a log and never knew what had hit him. There was a tremendous row over the incident, several innocent people were suspected but not the guilty one. Fritz was so quiet and well-behaved, nobody suspected Fritz. It was a nine days wonder and then some other wonder took its place and die incident was forgotten. He had adventures in which women were involved. German women did not interest him but he found they were interested in him and resented it when their offers of friendship were ignored. This sometimes caused trouble with the other servants.

  One day a young officer came into the hotel; he was from Imst, which was Fritz Scheider’s home, and on hearing that his waiter was a fellow-townsman he spoke to him of the little town and of the people. He was very young and somewhat homesick. Robert had been given a good deal of information about Imst; he pretended to be shy and stupid and somehow he managed to play his part
, but his hands were wet and he was trembling in every limb when at last he was allowed to go. The sequel to this conversation was a letter from a girl in Imst. She wrote with joyful excitement saying that she had seen the officer and he had told her about Fritz and given her his address. They had all thought him dead. Why had he not written? She had a little son, now — it was Fritz’s son of course — a little boy of three years old with fair hair and blue eyes. “You will love him, Fritz,” and she pleaded with him to get leave and come home and marry her “so that little Fritz will have a proper father.” This letter distressed Robert terribly, it weighed upon his mind like a stone. He wanted to write to the girl and tell her that her Fritz was dead, that he had died fighting bravely for his fatherland, but this he could not do. He tried to think of something he could do for the girl, but he could think of nothing.

  Homesickness was one of Robert’s ailments. It was the unfriendliness of the land that distressed him. He longed for his own country, for the land where his forebears had walked. A man’s own land breathes a silent sympathy, it soothes and comforts him … in this strange unfriendly land he felt utterly forsaken. Birth and death are solitary but no more solitary than the life of a spy in an enemy camp; he can have no friend, no companionship, he is never off duty; there is no moment when he can safely relax, there is no soul with whom he can share an idea. Self-control must be perfect, and it must be control not only of expression but of feelings as well (when Robert heard of British and American victories he must control his feeling of satisfaction. He must be apprehensive and dismayed when the Allied Armies advanced). Spiritual solitude in a crowd is more wretched than the solitude of Robinson Crusoe upon his desert island.

  Life is a series of near misses, the sword passes and the victim goes on blithely, unaware of the danger which has passed him by … but Robert developed a sixth sense and knew when danger threatened, he could feel the wind of the passing sword. He had hoped to be relieved when the Russians occupied the sector of Berlin in which he lived, but no word came to him from Headquarters so he stayed on. Everything was disorganised, of course, the muddle and confusion was beyond belief but the hotel carried on and Robert continued to serve meals as usual … and then suddenly the blow fell; Robert was accused of theft and thrown into prison.