String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  Twenty-Two

  Simon had been persuading Helen that the children deserved more fun, and he was right. The more she thought about it, the more determined she became that Daisy and Miro should have a great birthday party. Miro’s and Daisy’s seventeenth birthdays were seven days apart, on the sixteenth and twenty-third of June, so Helen decided to hold a joint party this year and it would take place on Saturday, the nineteenth.

  Everyone was determined to make the party a success. Simon privately hired a GI three-piece band, the family room was emptied and French chalk was rubbed on to the floorboards. The dividing doors into the lounge were thrown open and the Welsh dresser was turned into a bar. Miro invited fifteen school friends and Mike wanted to bring along three friends, so Daisy had to find enough girls to even up the numbers. Finally she had four girls too many, so Mike invited another four GIs.

  The five of them pulled together to plan the buffet supper. They had their own eggs, plenty of fish that Simon had caught and garden vegetables in abundance. Simon made pickled fried fish. Helen exchanged five pullets for a turkey and stuffed and roasted it. Simon persuaded the proprietor of his favourite restaurant to sell him a huge dish of lasagne, and he ordered several large cakes and plenty of coffee, while Mike mysteriously acquired several crates of cider and beer. John opened up his cellar and it was amazing what they found there.

  Their first guests arrived just after seven and by eight the house was rocking to the heady beat of jiving. The girls shrieked as they were whirled around, skirts and petticoats flared. The GIs were all good dancers.

  At nine, the dining-room doors were opened and there were gasps all around at Daisy’s and Helen’s amazingly artistic arrangements of the food and the flowers. Simon said a few words on Anglo-American relationships, which set them all laughing and he then presented Daisy with an emerald pendant and Miro with a clarinet.

  ‘Hope you like it, Miro,’ Simon said as he handed him the long, thin box.

  This was a nervous time for Simon. He watched Miro’s face, trying to discern his thoughts from his expression, but the boy kept his face rigidly impassive. He could have been at the waxworks for all the emotion he showed. Come on, Miro. Look scared, or pleased, or melancholy. Any damn thing. Miro was slowly opening the brown paper, folding it carefully and placing it on a side table. Come on, Miro, Simon agonized. The boy opened the box and withdrew the clarinet, and almost without thinking ran his hand over it, stroking it. Then his eyes met Simon’s and the two remained locked in a moment that seemed to last forever.

  ‘Thank you, Simon,’ Miro said distinctly, as if standing on a stage. ‘What an extravagant gift. I will treasure it.’

  ‘And play it, I hope,’ Simon replied.

  Against the clamour of his school friends: ‘Yes, come on Miro . . . Bet you can’t play a note . . . Can you really play that thing?’ Miro’s eyes remained locked with Simon’s. What were they saying? Simon wondered if he were imagining a touch of hauteur, or was it merely a memory of who Miro once was? There was sadness in the set of his mouth and in his eyes. Then Daisy rushed between them and the spell was broken.

  Miro was well aware that Simon was watching him carefully. What did he expect to see: shock or sadness? He had learned to control his expression in the camp. To show even a glimpse of the hatred and disgust he had felt for the guards could have led to an immediate execution. He felt he was teetering on the very edge of disaster. His mind raced over the practical details of the gift. Simon knew he could play the clarinet. No one in England knew. He’d kept his past to himself. It belonged with his parents and their home in Volary. Naturally the Kindertransport organization had a file on him, and all the other children they had rescued. His few concerts were probably mentioned in his file, which meant that Simon had been checking out his past. Why would that be? Perhaps he thought he was an impostor. Either way it showed that Simon suspected him. He had known for some time that Simon was an intelligence agent. That would account for his close friendship with DI McGuire and the constant stream of classified information he received. There had been a huge fuss over that foolish attempted rape story and it was Simon who had calmed the locals, who were up in arms at the time. Once again he made an effort to pull himself together.

  ‘Dearest Miro, you never mentioned a musical background. Can you really play the oboe?’

  Miro turned his attention to Daisy. ‘It’s a clarinet, Daisy. Yes, I have played, but that was long ago, another lifetime, another me.’

  The room was silent suddenly and Mike’s voice seemed louder than it should have been. ‘You have to practice daily, Daisy. I expect Miro has almost forgotten how to play.’

  But Miro didn’t want to be rescued by his rival. He launched into ‘In the mood’, and the guys in the band were sufficiently impressed to join in. The music was joyous, but Miro was far from being so.

  He came to the end of his piece and bowed at the applause. It was a beautiful clarinet – it must have cost Simon a packet. The sound was mellow and strong and exactly right. It was a thing of joy.

  Helen was crying, he saw. Why was that? She put her arm around him. ‘All this time, Miro, and you never said a word. Why make a secret out of such a wonderful gift?’

  Daisy was pleading for more, but he shrugged and went back to run the bar. It was his turn. Suddenly he knew exactly why Simon had left his briefcase unlocked, although it contained two top secret messages. The revelation was like an electric shock through his body. Simon was playing cat and mouse with him. Obviously there was no rocket base in the Outer Hebrides and Miro had moved this fictitious rocket to the Pines holiday camp. But what if the information went all the way to the Nazi hierarchy? What if they bombed the area? Could Simon have done all this planning by himself? There must be others involved. They were waiting to see if he had passed on the information. If Pines were bombed, he would be arrested and hanged.

  All the while Daisy was helping with snacks, dancing with friends and introducing her guests to each other, Mike could not take his eyes off her. She was only four days off seventeen, yet she had blossomed into a lovely young woman. She was wearing a halter-neck blue dress with a tight bodice that flared into a full, ankle-length skirt. The blue matched her eyes and showed off her flawless white skin and sexy shoulders. Her ash blonde hair was tied in a pony tail with a sparkling blue clip. He had never seen anyone as lovely as Daisy, but he knew that although her looks had been the initial attraction, he had fallen in love with the real person . . . his Daisy, who could find beauty everywhere and in anything, who loved animals with a passion, rode like a demon, painted divinely and who, for some ridiculous reason, was sweet on him.

  Mike had let his friends dance with Daisy from time to time, not wishing to alarm her mother, or antagonize her possessive brother, who watched her like a coyote on a rabbit. He had to look out for Captain Johnson, too. He knew that their commander had suggested that he should stay away from Daisy after the attempted rape furore. There she was, gazing over the shoulder of the guy she was dancing with, sending him messages with her eyes and shrugging to show the absurdity of their dilemma.

  ‘Care to dance?’ he asked casually, because she was standing beside her grandfather.

  Daisy could not help laughing at him. Everyone knew they were together.

  ‘Sure! Hang on a sec. Do you like to jive?’ she asked, entering into the spirit of their play-acting. She signalled the band for something faster.

  Moments later she was whirled over his shoulder, under his arm, twirling and jiving, skirt flaring, petticoats showing, while the guests moved back and formed a circle, clapping in time to the music.

  Daisy was shrieking with laughter as Mike caught her and threw her and spun her and caught her. She knew all the moves. She’d become an expert dancer under his tuition.

  ‘Listen,’ Mike whispered, when the dance ended. ‘When your friends leave, say you’re tired and you’re going to bed. I’ll be in Daunty’s stable.’

  ‘I can’t wait
, but you won’t leave yet, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Helen came in with some snacks and saw at a glance what was what. Until that moment she’d had no idea they were seeing each other regularly, but Daisy’s prowess at jiving told quite another story. Apart from the outrides with Gramps and Miro, they must be meeting at the Palais. She looked towards the bar at John, who was collecting empties and shrugged, as if to show their helplessness in the face of young love. John raised his hands in a Gaelic gesture as he shrugged back. What was done couldn’t be undone by the look of things. Only Miro’s eyes burned with helpless rage and pain. He turned away as if unable to bear the sight of them.

  Helen followed John into the kitchen to help wash the glasses. ‘He’s a nice young man,’ she said placatingly. ‘And a wonderful rider. Let’s not forget that it is I who invited him here.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘No. I trust both of them and I like him.’

  Most of the guests went home at one a.m. and shortly afterwards Mike’s buddies announced that they would leave, after a couple of hints from Mike. Mike sauntered off to the stables and fell asleep in the straw, glad to find that Daisy had left a blanket over the partition. He woke to feel her snuggling down beside him.

  Daisy was still a virgin and Mike intended that she should stay that way for the duration of the war, while he wasn’t around to look after her, but they were both hot-blooded and imaginative, and their caresses satisfied both of them.

  ‘Will we have a happy ending?’ Daisy asked Mike that night as she lay in his arms. ‘Will you keep safe for me?’

  ‘Of course I will, and I’ll take you home. You’ll love the ranch. I have such dreams. My favourite is of you in the paddock, training a horse with our kids hanging over the corral. Of course, they all look like you.’

  ‘I want a son who looks like you.’

  ‘Oh darling. If only the darned war would end.’

  ‘My dearest love.’

  ‘What do you keep besides cattle and horses? Mike . . . are you asleep . . .?’

  She snuggled closer and fell asleep beside him.

  Cocky crowed, and Mike woke and sat up with a start. ‘Wake up, Daisy,’ he said urgently. He jumped up fast as panic gripped him. ‘Daisy. Come on, Daisy.’ He caught hold of her hand. ‘We’ve overslept. It’s almost dawn.’

  ‘Gramps!’ they whispered together as heavy footsteps approached from the house. ‘Let’s hide under the straw,’ she whispered.

  ‘You could hide. I’ll tell him I drank too much, so I sat here to cool off and fell asleep. How will you get back to the house?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she said.

  Gramps’ footsteps echoed as he crossed the yard to the feed store on their side. Then there was silence as he walked inside.

  ‘Quick!’ she said, grabbing Mike’s hand.

  They fled. Mike leaped over the fence to the camp while Daisy raced through the open scullery door. Gramps saw them both and dropped the buckets he was carrying. The oats spilled over the cobbles and he swore angrily as he tried to sweep them into a pile with his hands. It wasn’t the oats he was swearing at, but the Yanks, who were too cocksure of themselves, swaggering and brash, like that bloody horse the bugger liked so much. He stopped short, scowling, as he remembered the joke he’d laughed at in the pub last night. It was about a new brand of knickers: ‘One Yank and they’re off’, but he no longer felt like laughing.

  Twenty-Three

  For the next two weeks Miro hardly slept or ate. At times he was in a state of denial, refusing to believe that Simon was trying to trap him, for the man remained as friendly and easy-going as always, even on their morning rides. At other times Miro would sink into a state of terror and plan how he would kill himself when they came for him. He was afraid to sleep because when he did his nightmare returned and it was always the same.

  He is handcuffed and weak with fright. Half-supported by a policeman on either side, he is escorted to the place of execution. A priest is intoning prayers, but he longs to recite the prayer that must be on the lips of all Jews who are about to die: ‘Hear, Oh Israel! The Lord our God, the Lord is One. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God, with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might.’

  Miro’s mouth is frozen and he cannot utter a word. They put a hood over his head, the noose is placed around his neck. He waits. The floor beneath his feet swings away. He falls . . . and wakes. This is not a nightmare, but a premonition, he realizes.

  For Miro, two weeks of hell followed the party. Helen chided him daily for neglecting such talent. He must practice . . . and practice. Thank heavens they did not know that he also played the piano. That would upset Daisy. Much as he loved her, he had to admit that her great talent was art, not music. She strummed through her practice pieces like she battered their tough meat: thoroughly, painstakingly and glad to get the job done.

  Usually, in the pre-dawn of summer, Miro would creep out to the summerhouse in the woods to practice his scales. It was the only way to keep his fearful thoughts at bay. It was amazing how his fingers still remembered their drill, although he had blocked music out of his mind.

  He began to play a piece he learned a few months before they moved to Prague. He made a few mistakes and played a few bars over and over, but before long the music was flowing as freely as his daydreams. He was back with his family in Volary. The silk curtains rustled in the breeze, a cockerel crowed in the distance and Mama crept downstairs in her dressing gown and slippers, trying not to disturb him, but anxious to let the dog out. He smelled her perfume as she passed his open door. Was Mama still alive? Would she last out the war? Tears rolled down his cheeks as he played. Mama was so beautiful. Even in the camp snapshot you could recognize her delicate bone structure and her large, velvety eyes. Once her hair had been a rich and vibrant titian, but in the picture Paddy had given him it was white.

  Miro had no foolish fancies that the war would soon be over, as many others had, but he knew that they would be victorious eventually. Germany was surrounded by Allies and if the troops succeeded in fighting their way up the heavily defended European beaches nothing would stop their advance from all sides.

  Miro followed the war news assiduously. Last week had been a bonanza when Germany’s Ruhr Valley munitions factories were put out of operation by an air attack on six dams. Using nineteen Lancaster bombers equipped with bouncing bombs, the pilots succeeded in sending their bombs bouncing along the surface of the water to destroy the well-protected dam wall overlooking the Ruhr and Weser Valleys in the heartland of Germany, flooding the entire area.

  The coming invasion was the big question mark. To fail would put the Allied plan back for a year or two. Would his parents last that long? Who would feed them in their last days of incarceration? Would they be abandoned? Or would the guards open the gates as they left? And if they were freed would local civilians feed them?

  Miro often imagined himself part of the British fighting forces. He would arrive in a Challenger tank and break down the gates and the barbed wire, to the cheers of the inmates who would surge around him. Then he would stride through the camp and find his parents. This was his favourite daydream.

  Lately he spent more time daydreaming because reality was unendurable. He liked to remember the first nights of the concerts he and Mama attended. Mama always looked beautiful with her hair piled up over her head and held in place with diamond clips. She would wear a long satin dress, and a black cloak of embroidered velvet. She had always refused to wear furs. The truth was, Mama loved all animals and trees and flowers. Every summer she took him tramping through the woods around the Upper Vltava with their cameras and haversacks.

  Sometimes Helen did that, too. Last summer they had packed sandwiches, water and flasks of coffee and cycled to Corfe Castle to explore the surrounding woods. He loved the English countryside; it was not dramatic like the woods and lakes around the Upper Vltava, but it was beautiful in a quiet way, with subt
le pastel shades and exquisite cloud formations. Where would he live after the war? This wasn’t his country and he wasn’t English, Miro told himself time and again, so why did he feel that it was?

  Darkness cloaked the earth, under a brilliant starry sky, but in the east came a glimmer of grey. Simon, who was toiling up the steep slope after a four-hour night diving session, heard the strains of a clarinet coming from the folly. A shrill note of startling clarity pierced the air. As if in answer a blackbird began its song to herald the dawn. As more birds chirped their morning chorus the air reverberated with their noisy song. Grey turned to rose, while the subtle chords of a clarinet mingled with birdsong. Then there was only birdsong.

  He quickened his pace as he and the team lugged their gear up the steep slope.

  ‘When will the road be fit for jeeps, Mike?’ he asked.

  ‘Give or take another few days, sir, depending upon the weather.’

  ‘Did you hear that clarinettist? It was Miro. He’s pretty good.’

  ‘Sounded weird to me.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a Philistine. He was playing Nielsen’s ‘Clarinet Concerto’, if I’m not mistaken. It’s a tough piece,’ he said with satisfaction. Simon reached the top first and leaned against the Cooper’s fence post. ‘You go on. I’ll stay here for a rest.’

  When the others reached the camp, Simon followed the winding path to the summer house. ‘Hi! That was brilliant. Money well spent.’

  ‘How did you find out that I used to play the clarinet?’ Miro challenged him.

  ‘From Kindertransport. I went to see them and they showed me your file.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Routine? Any one of you could be a plant. If you were, you would be moved to the Isle of Man now that you’ve reached seventeen. You must know that. But no one could imitate a decade of training, to say nothing of the talent it takes to play that piece.’

  The relief on the boy’s face was obvious, but transient.