by David Fraser
‘Not much like that here. But you wouldn’t know.’
‘Really? What about people who were interned? What about a woman I heard of who was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude here for saying Hitler was a good leader, better than Churchill?’
‘Well, it was a monstrous sentiment. Silly sentence, monstrous sentiment.’
Marcia sighed.
Marcia was just forty years old, and as she sat at her dressing table, touched her neck and ears with scent and looked into the glass, she knew that she was still lovely. Her skin was as it had been at twenty, her figure only a little fuller, her eyes as bright. ‘But I laugh less,’ she thought. ‘I suppose that’s middle age. And I feel much less. Maturity? Boredom?’ They were well off now. Robert was successful. He worked exceptionally hard. Their flat, on the second floor of an Eaton Square house, was charming.
‘Is Anthony going to be there, do you know?’ Robert called from his dressing room. ‘He introduced us to the Prendergasts in the first place. I’ve only had business dealings with the man.’
‘No, Ant’s taking several weeks off at Bargate.’
‘Playing at farming for a little.’
Marcia ignored this. ‘What exactly does Prendergast do? I mean, what does his company do?’
‘My dear girl, he’s only head of the biggest heavy engineering business this country possesses. He operates world-wide. He’s England’s answer to Krupp – or what Krupp once most lamentably was. Krupp, Schneider – Creusot, you name it!’
Marcia felt incapable of naming it.
‘Surely you’re ready? We ought to go.’
Mrs Peter Prendergast had indicated that it was a large party. She had also conveyed, without saying anything to which exception could be taken, that there would be distinguished people present – a good deal more distinguished than the Robert Andersons. A postcard had requested – and assumed – their acceptance.
‘What she means,’ said Robert, frowning, as they drove the short distance to the Prendergast house, ‘is that they’ll all be richer. That is the only Prendergast yardstick of distinction.’ He looked at Marcia and said, without any change to his serious, ironic tone,
‘One thing’s certain. You’ll be the prettiest woman there. You look lovely, Marcia.’ She smiled, politely rather than with tenderness or gratitude. She said,
‘I rather liked Peter Prendergast the only time I met him. He’s got animal attraction. Magnetism.’ Marcia knew as she said it, that Robert would feel a critical implication behind the words, imputation that her husband lacked these qualities. She gave an inward sigh. Had the needle been deliberate? She hardly knew. A few minutes later they moved together into the Prendergasts’ drawing room.
Marcia felt eyes turning to her, frankly admiring, or surreptitious or lascivious. She knew she still had power. There were few faces she knew in the room, and those few met at impersonal occasions, attended as Robert’s wife. She found herself talking without animation to a flabby-faced man who was determined to take her upper arm to emphasize a point. Two dry martinis ahead he would be difficult to shake clear. Dinner was announced with commendable speed. Sixteen at dinner she reckoned, looking quickly at the table as they moved towards it – sixteen, and everything done very well. Would it be fun to be Prendergast? Suddenly, and as disconcertingly often these days, Marcia felt lonely.
Peter Prendergast called out to them as they edged into the dining room. He had a commanding voice.
‘We’re one short to start with, I’m afraid. We’ve got a guest flying in from Frankfurt and I’ve just had word his flight was delayed by two hours. The brave chap’s coming straight here. He’ll be with us soon!’
Marcia heard a man murmur something and Prendergast answer, ‘That’s right! Over here for this two-day get-together!’
‘They all know each other,’ thought Marcia. ‘They do business with each other, make money from each other, think in the same phrases as each other. And the women are as interested in it as their men. Except me.’ She told herself not to be sanctimonious and turned to her neighbour on the right, a grey-haired, pale man, who eyed her with appreciation. He was, however, almost immediately captured by Mrs Prendergast on whose left he sat. To Marcia’s left was an empty chair, the guest from Frankfurt presumably. She felt happy at the prospect of a little peace from pointless conversation, filling the air, passing the time. Prendergast food, probably excellent, would best be enjoyed without the distraction of a neighbour. Marcia felt unslighted, content. Long might it continue. Long might Herr Rumpelmayer or whoever it was, be delayed in the endless passages of London Airport.
Marcia finished her pâté de foie gras with enjoyment. Trying to catch Robert’s eye, she succeeded. He flashed at her a smile so spontaneous and so young that the clouds of sad years parted a little and she smiled back. It hadn’t worked – but it was sad it hadn’t worked.
Then there was a disturbance behind her chair, Prendergast up from his seat, moving about, talking rather loudly. The table shone, polished mahogany reflecting silver, glass, candles, faces rosy, unnaturally charming in the candlelight. Behind the row of diners was darkness. Marcia was aware of the empty chair beside her pulled out, then filled by a stranger.
Peter Prendergast’s voice said, ‘Bless you for arriving, despite the difficulties. Introductions later. We’ll have a long talk after dinner. This is Mrs –’ Marcia heard him hesitate, ‘Mrs Anderson. Mrs Anderson, Count Toni Rudberg.’
Ten long minutes went by, a sick sensation in Marcia’s stomach. She drank some wine and felt worse. As Toni sat down, Marcia’s grey neighbour on the other side claimed her attention. She heard Toni exchanging agreeable nothings about the vagaries of air travel with the lady on his left. A little more wine. Better. Was nobody talking? The room seemed silent.
Marcia heard Toni say, softly, ‘Mrs Anderson, did I hear?’
‘Yes, Count Rudberg. Why are you alive? Nobody told me.’
‘I did not feel I had the right to notify people widely. Not until I again got accustomed to life. I returned from the dead. In 1955. Adenauer did a deal with Stalin and got us survivors home. We had no expectations, no hopes, no skills. Germany was recovering. They told us we’d missed the worst.’
‘Nothing, I imagine, to what you’d had.’
‘Who can compare these things? Marcia, you again! Do you live in London?’
‘Let’s talk about what you’re doing now, and, if you can bear it, what happened to you then. Not about me.’
Marcia hoped she looked calm, interested, perhaps entertained. Inwardly she was shattered. She looked at Toni, carefully not meeting his eyes, inspecting him, a casual, passing glance. His hair was white. She remembered that he was born in 1909 and that his birthday was in the summer. Apart from the hair, he looked extraordinarily unchanged. There were lines on the brown face, lines at the corner of the mouth, an expression of seriousness. She guessed that he often wore spectacles now. There was less easy assurance, perhaps. But he was amazing! She heard herself saying – softly –
‘You were twelve years there? Twelve years a prisoner?’
‘Just under thirteen. The first eight in Solitary, as I was in a special category. General Staff.’
‘Eight years in solitary confinement! Toni! Did they do that to everyone like you?’
‘No. Some were shot, of course. Some were persuaded to join various curious organizations, to produce pro-Soviet propaganda for German soldiers. They had rather comfortable lives in consequence. Privileged.’
‘Did you feel tempted?’
‘To be more comfortable, to save my life, my health, my sanity – yes, of course. But they were opportunists – or simpletons. I knew that ordinary German soldiers would despise them. With reason.’
‘What happened to people like that?’ He shrugged his shoulders. Across the table Marcia heard a man call out to her right-hand neighbour some fierce opinions about General de Gaulle who had, the previous month, been voted into office in France. She
helped herself to a dish. Toni said without great interest,
‘Some are in positions of authority in the East. They’ve seen the Communist light. Even a few rigorously educated Prussian noblemen have seen the Communist light, been converted, become enthusiasts. Moral seriousness is a dreadful thing.’
This was more like the old Toni.
‘And what do you do, now, Toni?’ Something strange had been teasing her and she identified it. ‘Toni! Your English! It’s perfect! It – it never used to be.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve worked very hard. You see I’m a business man now. I have to go to and from America all the time. One can’t do business in Britain or America except in English and I’ve learned and learned. Do I talk American?’
‘A little. Nicely.’
‘And now I’m going to be coming and going to England all the time. This is my fourth visit. But they’ve only been for a few days each. I like your country very much!’
‘How did you get your job, Toni?’
‘Through a man I was with in prison.’
‘Like Anthony!’
‘Anthony?’
‘My brother. He was a prisoner in Germany.’
‘Ah!’ Toni did some digesting and remembering. Had there not been a story? He looked full at Marcia.
‘Marcia, I always wondered on my short visits where you were, whether you survived the war, what had happened. I longed to discover but I feared as well. So I did nothing. Now I meet you – in a tycoon’s house. Do you say “tycoon” here?’
‘We certainly do.’
‘Is your husband a tycoon?’
‘No, he’s a very clever lawyer. That’s him, opposite. He’s done business for our host at times. He’s an intelligent and charming man.’
‘I’m sure of it. Have you now any contact with the von Arzfeld family?’
‘I see Lise at least every other year. She’s coming over here later this month. How long will you be in England?’
‘This time only three days. I shall be coming here regularly after next month. In September I will be here. Perhaps for quite a long time. May I telephone?’
‘In September?’
‘No, Marcia, not in September. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after.’
‘I’d like you to meet Robert. My husband.’
‘Of course. Now I know your name I can discover your address, your telephone number. You live in London? There is a book.’
Marcia nodded.
‘There are a lot of people called R. Anderson in London, Toni!’
‘I will telephone them all.’
‘We should love to see you,’ said Marcia primly, pretending to look away. ‘And after dinner I must bring you and Robert together. Have you a wife?’
‘No wife.’
She looked full at him.
Toni said quietly, ‘Oh Marcia! What a different world it was when the wind separated us, when great gusts of it blew us apart!’
Marcia said, also very quietly, ‘A different world. A terrible world. I can’t look back at some of it without horror. But oh, Toni! I felt alive!’
Toni nodded, still looking at her, holding her eyes, very grave.
Marcia murmured, ‘Don’t telephone, Toni. Please. Get in touch if you’re here in September.’
‘You are sometimes free at lunchtime?’
‘I am always free at lunchtime.’
Marcia made a strong, physical effort and turned to her neglected neighbour on the other side.
‘I didn’t meet that German who came in late and sat next to you. He’s very thick with Peter Prendergast.’
‘He’s an Austrian. His name’s Toni Rudberg. I knew him long ago.’
‘You looked as if you found plenty to talk about.’
‘Well, there were people we both knew and so forth –’
‘He looked a bit smooth.’
‘He was thirteen years a prisoner of war in Russia. If that leaves a man smooth I would think it quite an achievement.’
‘Hmm! I suppose you knew him quite well?’
‘Yes, he’s a sort of cousin of the von Arzfelds, you see. A family connection of some kind, anyway.’
‘Something from your long-buried past, my dear.’
‘Yes. Something from my past. My long-ago, deep-buried past.’
Chapter 27
‘I’ve managed to drag you round the farms but you’ve spent half the week going to London in that car of yours – London, London, London! in July! it’s absurd – hot, crowded, sticky and absurd!’
‘A great city, Uncle Anton! I couldn’t come for just three weeks to England and not see something of London.’
‘Well, today you can have a change. I’ll show you some of the country, something of Sussex.’
Lise and Franzi had been in England for two weeks. They had arrived at Bargate, Franzi at the wheel of a smart Mercedes, an expensive car for a nineteen-year-old, Anthony had observed without enthusiasm. From the first, Franzi had impressed the Marvell household and everyone else with his good looks, his excellent manners and his unforced charm. When they had first arrived – Anthony had made sure that he was down from London, Marcia was due at the weekend – Franzi had at first hovered in the background while Lise, a little embarrassed, hesitant, came to kiss Anthony, to greet John. Then Franzi had moved forward and bowed, his formality belied by merry, blue eyes full of intelligence and laughter: Anna’s eyes.
John Marvell, as forecast, had taken the visit happily from the first. He had been mildly curious to meet Lise, companion of Marcia’s extraordinary, ambivalent war years, referred to now so seldom. He liked her immediately. She looked older than he expected, much older than Marcia, he thought, although he knew they were about the same age. Lise’s fair hair was bound back with severity at the nape of her neck. She had a reflective, almost nun-like look about her, and when her shyness was past, her gentle composure made the same restrained impression. She might have looked different to his eyes, John thought, had he known her as a girl, known her and thus seen her as Marcia and no doubt Anthony saw her. But Lise was an easy, charming guest and, truth to tell, John found a little new company stimulating.
Marcia had descended on Bargate on their first weekend, and on the Monday had carried Lise to London ‘for a few days’.
‘We’ll have a lovely time,’ Marcia said. ‘Robert’s had to go to Belfast, on some case. You can leave Franzi here. We’ll be alone together, quite like old times. We’ll go sightseeing! And the flat’s cool!’
Franzi was very tall. Anthony had prepared himself for the transition from boyhood but still received a shock. He had not seen Franzi for four years. The boy was strikingly, agonizingly, Anna’s son. He had that particularly direct, concentrated look that brought Anna herself into the room in a way to stop the breath. He had, Anthony recognized at once, a most enjoyable sense of humour. He radiated health and vigour, and his smile was enchanting. At the first opportunity Anthony drew Lise aside.
‘Franzi does you great credit!’
He said it with mixed feelings. It would be delightful, even if surreptitiously, to take a jot of credit for such a son. His own nervous unease at being confronted, cornered, had entirely dissolved in the warmth of Franzi’s personality. He found himself chuckling with pleasure at Franzi’s remarks, looking forward to his first appearance at breakfast, to his coming into a room.
And Franzi, too, seemed to find Anthony’s company agreeable. He had not, as Anthony gibed, been ‘dragged’ round the farms but had shown interest and enthusiasm when Anthony told him about the systems at Bargate. Anthony had pretended to grumble at Franzi’s determination to see London –
‘And you a countryman!’
But at such moments he recognized in himself, behind the badinage, a cold touch of unhappiness, of deprivation. For some hours he was going to miss Franzi. Franzi, however, returned from his jaunts to the metropolis in fine fettle. He had made English friends skiing in the previous winter and had renewed the acquaintance. He
had apparently found open hospitality. The Wrench family, with offspring of Franzi’s age, lived in London. Julius Wrench’s name was well-known in the City. Anthony saw that the world of high-powered business with which Wrench was involved held fascination for Franzi. Franzi was enchanted by the idea of America. He had little in common with the uncertain, sometimes idealistic, often tortured young men of Anthony’s own generation – Frido von Arzfeld, Robert Anderson, even Anthony himself.
Anthony told himself that Franzi ‘had too much money for a young man’. But he showed none of the ostentation of a self-consciously rich young man. He seemed to have nothing of a playboy in the making. Nevertheless – ‘He takes things for granted,’ Anthony thought, trying to find Franzi flawed, as if to dim the splendour of his son and thus protect himself from its radiation. And there was that Mercedes! Anthony spoke casually to Lise,
‘Franzi seems very keen on his University future. I imagine he’ll be much more financially secure than most of his contemporaries there. That can create problems.’
‘Franzi is very sensible, very serious. I don’t think he will become lazy just because he has some money.’
‘No, I don’t expect so – but it can happen.’
Lise clearly did not regard the risk as high. She said, ‘My father is very fond of Franzi. He wants Arzfeld to go to him one day.’
‘I see. I suppose Franzi has also inherited from his grandfather Langenbach?’
Anthony disliked saying it. But Lise had already spoken of Anna to him, in discussing Franzi. He himself found it difficult to mention her name, to keep his voice steady, even after all these years.
‘Yes, that is so. But most things at Langenbach have been sold you know. It was difficult. There were all sorts of legal problems. The Nazis, in the last months of the war, started a process to confiscate the estate.’
‘Why? Because of Anna? It wasn’t hers – or was it?’
‘It was not clear.’
Did he fancy it, or was Lise a little embarrassed. She went on, ‘Anyway, that hadn’t got far, fortunately. But there have been a lot of complications on the Langenbach side. Schloss Langenbach is now a private school, you know, a school for children who are, what do you say, backward?’
