String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  Miro smiled as he stroked Rosa. Was she an agent, too, he laughed to himself, or was she trained to love everyone?

  They hurried inside. Uncle Fred showed him around the house beginning with the music conservatory at the back and next the kitchen, where Miro had often made hot chocolate at midnight because he had difficulty sleeping, he was told. Fred made a great show of explaining where everything was kept, and the idiosyncrasies of the hot-water system and how to get a hot bath if the water was switched off. After that he was asked to study the various certificates on the wall in the music room. Uncle Fred, otherwise known as Professor Pemberton, was a composer of some note. He was also one of the founder members of PWE, but Miro only knew this because Simon had told him. He toured the house, saw the bedrooms, examined the room he had slept in for a month and then joined the professor downstairs.

  ‘Now Miro, you are spending the night here in order to remember the sound of things that go bump in the night, and to learn what time the milkman comes, and when the birds return to the dam at the bottom of the garden, and how ashamed Rosa is when she is caught swimming after them. Basically we lived on home grown vegetables, eggs and chicken from our own flock plus our meagre meat ration, which you must know all about by now.’

  He had a strange way of talking: streams of information poured out in his soft, high-pitched voice, followed by long silences while he smiled to himself, as if at some secret joke, or maybe he was just a little bit loopy, Miro pondered.

  ‘Let’s get to work. Sit down, Miro. We have only twelve hours in which to cover the work we would have done in the month that your controller must believe you spent here. So, for starters, let’s have coffee. Why don’t you make the coffee. I’ve shown you where everything is. Next we shall have to borrow the tuition your father gave you, using the pieces he chose. I’m sorry if it revives sad memories, but it is the only way we can get through an extraordinary amount of work that you must have in your head. Music is everything here. During your stay, we seldom thought of anything else.’

  ‘And Sunday?’

  ‘Sunday, too. I try to give clients their money’s worth. Now sit here and breathe in the atmosphere and remember the pieces your father taught you to play in the six months leading up to the German occupation of Sudetenland. Remember what he said when he was annoyed with you, and when he was unfair, and when he praised you, and transpose me for him in your memory bank. Visualize this. Don’t forget to write down the pieces.’ He slid a notebook and a pen across the desk. ‘We’ll go through some of them. Whatever we have time for . . . maybe we’ll manage a couple of lessons.’

  ‘How did I wash my clothes?’ Miro asked. ‘And what about shopping?’

  ‘Good thinking, Miro. Mrs Lo comes in for an a few hours, three times a week. You’ll see her shortly. Perhaps she could have done your shopping. I mean, what would you need . . . toothpaste perhaps?’

  Miro forced his mind back to uncharted, dangerous territory where no one should go, scenes that hurt beyond measure: Father persuading him to use music as his escape when the word anti-Semitism entered their lives; Father refusing to listen to his wife’s fears and her pleas that they should leave Czechoslovakia; Father’s sobs when Mama was taken away. Looking back, it seemed that every tragic moment had been played out to a backdrop of music, with or without lessons. He visualized their tragedy, set to Mozart and Beethoven, and then he did it all again, but Papa had grown taller and broader and his eyes were grey, and so was his hair, yet the stubble on his cheeks was reddish brown and when he spoke, it was with a sudden rush of words followed by a bemused silence. Papa’s words, but Uncle Fred said them. So when he brought Miro a cup of coffee and some biscuits, Miro shouted at him in Czech, ‘You were so full of denial. You should have listened to Mama!’ And then he apologized.

  ‘I forgot to tell you that you must think these thoughts in English,’ Fred said quietly. ‘Not Czech, or Yiddish or whatever you were speaking. Your superb talent for languages could be your downfall, Miro. Watch it!’

  Amazingly, it worked. The professor seemed to have plucked some conversations from Miro’s memory, for when they played out the lessons, it could have been his father talking. By the time Simon fetched him at ten the following morning he had a month of new memories in his head and he could trot them out at will, as Simon learned in the car when they were driving to London.

  Returning to the safe house brought an unwelcome surge of memories. It was just as cold. Rain was still pelting the windows, and it was too dark to read. As before, the lights only switched on after dusk, an absurd economy Miro detested in England’s grey days. He liked his cold weather served with bright sunshine, skiing weather, and the rain should fall in thick sheets of water that pulverized the soil and reduced visibility to almost nil. These grey days served no useful purpose. They were like his thoughts, depressing and a complete waste of time.

  What on earth was Simon doing? Miro had been sitting here for at least ten minutes, blindfolded, feeling chilled and listening to clicks and expletives. From the sound of things, Simon had suffered several small electric shocks.

  ‘Why don’t you let me help you, Simon.’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’

  ‘Then switch off the power.’

  ‘It’s done. Shut up and listen, Junior. Try to follow my directions. Paddy wants more and still more information. His masters are leaning on him, so he leans on you. You get the bright idea of making a hole in the back of your wardrobe and another through the wall immediately behind the hole in your wardrobe. You’ve been very careful, lifting a small section of wallpaper in Helen’s room and sticking it back over the hole. God, how I hate wallpaper. So where was I?’

  ‘I think you had me squatting in the wardrobe listening to Helen’s snores.’

  ‘Does she snore?’

  ‘How should I know? I haven’t drilled the hole yet,’ he said, bolstering the illusion that no one knew Simon and Helen slept together.

  ‘OK, from now on I shall be giving you a great deal of information that we want Paddy to send back to his masters. He would never believe that you have gleaned all this by yourself, but you might get away with this by saying that I blab to Helen every night when we are in bed together.’

  ‘And if I don’t get away with it?’

  ‘Then it’s curtains for you, Miro, unless you tell me in time, in which case I’ll get you out and deal with Brannigan. Are you a virgin, Miro?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with—’

  ‘Just answer. It’s important. And tell the truth.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any near misses?’

  ‘No. I really don’t have—’

  ‘It’s all right, kid. That’s what I assumed. Your sexual education is about to begin. You can’t see. You’re sitting in the wardrobe, in pitch darkness, but you can hear. And this is what you will hear . . . if this damn recorder works, that is. There was something wrong with the plug, but I’ve fixed it. This is a prewar, French, blue movie. You only get the soundtrack. God knows why the guys had it here. Memorize the sounds. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  Whispers of endearments, gasps and groans, panting, more whispers . . . their voices sounded so young and so ridiculously chaste. What makes two young people do this for a living? Perhaps they were students in dire need of pocket money. They seemed so near . . . right beside him, and he had the strangest feeling that he was participating. He could feel the heat of her body, and the bare skin under his wandering hands. He was getting a hard-on and he thanked heavens that Simon had left the room.

  He pulled himself together and wondered about his ignorance. His state of virginity caused him deep humiliation, but he was shy. Other than Daisy, he seldom had a chance to meet girls, except Daisy’s friends, who he’d decided were out of bounds. He still loved Daisy, but the pain was lessening. The blue movie was in French and it had a story of sorts about a young and beautiful girl of sixteen who was orphaned during the Crimean War.

  To
his shame, he fell asleep.

  He woke when Simon came back and switched off. ‘You got the picture?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, but I got the soundtrack.’

  ‘That’s what I meant, clever stick. OK, take off your blindfold.’

  Miro pushed the scarf up with difficulty, and slid it off his head.

  ‘Now listen. You have been at the movies with Daisy and Mike. Mike returns to his camp. Helen has waited up for you. Daisy makes you coffee from the US stores with which I keep you well supplied. You go to bed, but you’re not going to sleep for a while. Instead, you make yourself comfortable on a blanket in the wardrobe, pushing the clothes to one side and putting the duffel coat around your shoulders. The central heating switches off at ten. Remember? You have a torch and I gave you some new batteries. By the way, here’s the torch. You have a pencil and notebook. You jot down what you hear. And this is what you are going to hear on your very first night back, which is tomorrow night. OK?’

  ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘Helen complains that I spend too much time in Dover. This is in between the sighs and kisses that you’ve been listening to. I tell her that it can’t be helped. I explain rather pompously that the Brits simply don’t have the know-how to do the job themselves. They have excellent deep sea divers, but scuba divers can do most of the work quicker and we’re all in a hurry. I’m in a hurry, too, but Helen prevaricates and persists in questioning me. I tell her it’s classified, so she withholds sex, complaining that I don’t trust her, or love her. Finally I give in and tell her a little more, which is that British and US forces are combining their technical skills to lay a pipeline for petrol right across the Channel, from Dover to Calais, so that all Allied vehicles will be able to refill on the other side, once they have secured a beachhead. You got that?’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  ‘The pipeline is being laid by specially converted barges, but the first hundred yards of the pipe consists of a different kind of material which is more flexible, but also more delicate so it has to be carefully checked every inch of the way: joints and joins must be carefully inspected, reefs must be avoided, and the pipe must be laid within twelve months, in time for the invasion. OK, you got that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Miro said.

  ‘I guess they explained to you at school, that if Paddy or his masters were to realize that you had given them deliberate disinformation, it would enable them to sort out what it is we are trying to hide, and this could cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of young soldiers.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Miro said.

  ‘Well then. We’re going to have a drink over at Bush House with some of the guys you’ve already met and then it’s home in time for supper. I believe that Helen is planning a great reunion, because Daisy is arriving home today, too.’

  He glanced shrewdly at Miro. ‘Don’t give yourself away . . . not by your manner, nor your new found self-confidence, nor our friendship. You must be the same introverted, cynical Miro with the chip on his shoulder. The same goes for your future meetings with Paddy. From now on, every second of every minute, night and day, you must be on your guard, watching what you say and what you do.’

  So what’s new? Miro said, but silently to himself, so that Simon would not hear.

  Thirty

  The house seemed like an empty shell with the children away. Helen was lonely and filled with vague misgivings. Had anything happened to any of them? Normally she would stifle her fears, but with the doodlebug, as Hitler’s rocket was called, you could never be sure. Only one had exploded in their district so far, probably because it was off-course, but in London and the surrounding roads there had been loads of hits.

  John was often grumpy and tense. She sensed that he felt guilty for driving Daisy away. He’d come close to apologizing once or twice, but it wasn’t all his fault, she reckoned. Daisy was headstrong and willful. She might be the splitting image of Mia, but there was a lot of Eric in her, too. She went to extraordinary lengths to get her own way. But how could she criticize her talented daughter when she was missing her so much?

  She heard her father’s footsteps on the driveway. He came into the kitchen nursing a bulky carrier bag.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, Dad. What have you got there?’ As she leaned over the table she smelled liquor on his breath. ‘You’ve been down at the pub.’

  ‘You’re damn right. I’ve been chatting up the barmaid, and look what I have here.’ He lovingly unwrapped five bottles of French claret.

  ‘You’re a genius, or should I say a gigolo? Young or old, you know how to charm them.’

  ‘Hey, steady on there. I paid for the wine in hard cash, not in kind.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s perfect. Just what we need. Thank you, Dad.’

  ‘It’s a peace offering,’ he said.

  ‘And gratefully accepted. Miro and Simon are on the way back from London, but Miro called from a cafe to let me know they’d be late. I’ve been expecting Mike and Daisy for the past hour.’

  ‘I think I can hear them,’ John said. Helen followed her father to the porch and shivered as her condensed breath drifted away.

  ‘Mum . . . Mum . . .’ Daisy ran up the driveway and flung her arms around Helen. ‘We had to walk from the station . . . of course, the train was delayed. I’m so sorry, Mum. We intended to call one of Mike’s friends to fetch us, but the station phone is out of order.’

  ‘Say hello to Gramps,’ Helen whispered.

  ‘Hello, Gramps.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, Daisy,’ he muttered grudgingly.

  Mike joined them. ‘Hi there, Gramps,’ he began with a friendly smile holding out his hand.

  John scowled at him, but took his hand. ‘You can call me Gramps if and when you marry my granddaughter. Meantime I’m Mr Cooper, or sir. Take your pick, young man.’

  Flushing, Mike fought down a surge of irritation and followed Helen to the kitchen. ‘I’m quite handy in the kitchen. What can I do to help, Mrs Conroy.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake call me Helen, like you always do,’ she said. ‘Everything’s ready and in the warmer, but we’re still waiting for Simon and Miro.’ She smiled at him. ‘I want to thank you for persuading Daisy to come home.’

  ‘She wanted to come home,’ he retorted.

  ‘I’m sure she did. I have no doubt that she regretted her hasty action, but she would not have come, nor would she have phoned me without quite an effort on your part. You seem to have influence. I hope things work out for you both.’

  Mike felt touched by Helen’s friendly welcome. As far as he was concerned, Helen could do no wrong. He had warmed to her at their very first meeting. He hardly remembered his own mother, just vague memories of eyes as blue as Helen’s and a smile as warm as hers. He was quite ready to adopt Daisy’s family as his own, but her grandfather’s snub had wounded him.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Cooper will ever accept me.’ Mike sensed that he could confide in Helen.

  ‘He’s become a bit grumpy and I think it’s part of growing old. He’s frightened that we will go away and leave him alone. Of course we wouldn’t do that. Age is a strange thing, Mike. It’s like putting on another outfit, like you put on your GI uniform, so everyone takes you for a soldier, but of course you’re really a farmer and goodness knows what else besides, and so it is with an old appearance.’

  ‘Surely one feels old. Here, let me do that.’ He took the cloth out of her hands and began to dry the saucepans.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mike, but I’ll let you know one day. I think you still feel the same person, but everyone says you’re old and when you look in the mirror you are shocked to see that you look old and maybe you get scared and grumpy, but you know underneath you’re the same person you always were.’

  ‘He probably thinks that I’m shooting a line with Daisy, but I know we’re going to marry one day and I know we’ll be happy. The moment I saw her I knew. He doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Perhaps he un
derstands only too well. That’s why he’s scared. Go and make friends with John. Ask him about Mia, or the Great War, or even the Home Guard.’

  Mike chose Mia, and in no time at all John Cooper had produced the sherry and he was drifting into the distant past, talking as if it happened only yesterday, with tears in his eyes and a far away smile on his lips.

  Daisy came running downstairs in her prettiest skirt and blouse, with a brand new ring on her finger that she was dying to show off.

  ‘Look, Mum.’ She waved her hand at Helen.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Daisy. Congratulations, darling.’ She kissed her daughter and turned away quickly to hide her expression, but Daisy noticed.

  ‘Don’t be sad, Mum. You’ll love Mike. When you get to know him you’ll realize how lucky I am.’

  ‘I’m sure I will, Daisy. Just don’t give up your career.’

  ‘But I’m not giving up anything. Who said I was? Oh Mum . . . silly Mum!’ She put her arms around her mother and hugged her hard. ‘I’m sticking around while Mike is still in England. Then I’ll take up my scholarship. I can be a painter in Denver. Why not?’

  ‘And if Mike wanted you to give up your career?’

  ‘But he doesn’t and he never would. You don’t understand him at all.’

  ‘Well, give me time,’ Helen said.

  ‘Dinner smells divine. What is it?’

  ‘Roast mutton.’

  ‘But how on earth did you manage that?’

  ‘May’s daughter is training to be a model. She only eats fish and vegetables, so May swopped a month’s meat coupons for my clothing coupons. She needs to dress well and we need to eat. It made sense.’

  ‘If you carry on like this, Mum, you’ll be walking around in rags.’

  The moment they heard the jeep pull up, they raced out of the house.

  ‘Miro, you’re grown huge,’ Daisy called out, running to hug him.

  ‘Not really.’ He grinned at her, shook Mike’s hand, hugged Gramps and handed a package to Helen. ‘A present,’ he whispered as he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘From Canterbury.’