The English Girl

by Margaret Leroy

  I’d like to linger in the gardens. But there’s a sudden coolness: the first raindrops crackle the air.

  The entrance hall of the art gallery is a gloomy, opulent space, with a domed marble ceiling, so high that looking up gives me vertigo. It’s crowded. People surge around me: solid men with waxed moustaches, elegant women with powdered faces and pearls.

  I walk through hushed, echoey galleries. There are velvet sofas to rest on, and the ceilings are gilded and high. I pass through a room of paintings by Rubens, of bulging, languorous women. This art is all so different from the only art I know – my mother’s Margaret Tarrant devotional prints with their pastel, domestic angels; and the ballerina pictures on my bedroom wall.

  There’s a room of German painting – Dürer, Cranach. A big religious painting dominates the room – Dürer’s Landauer Altarpiece. It shows crowds of angels and saints, with above them, the Crucifixion. Jesus’s face is fine-boned, pensive, turned to one side as though he’s listening. All the rich colours fill you up, the reds and greens and golds.

  I stare for a long moment, then move on round the room, past Judith and Holofernes, which has Judith very stylishly dressed and looking rather pleased, and all the horrible detail of Holofernes’ severed neck – the bones and arteries shiny as redcurrants.

  I come to a painting called Paradise, which shows the different episodes of the story of the Fall. Adam and Eve in the garden; Satan writhing down from the Tree, with a knowing smile and the sinuous tail of a snake; Adam and Eve being driven out of Paradise by a ferocious angel in a billowing coral robe. God is stern and dressed in red, and has a long forked beard. The detail of the painting is wonderful. There are trees hung with fruit like jewels – apricots, greengages, pears; there are unicorns, horses, white birds, all delicate as dancers. But it’s the bodies of Adam and Eve that keep on drawing my eye. They’re hairless, pale as buttermilk, the flesh so even and luminous. They seem at once disturbingly naked, and utterly unreal.

  I sit on a sofa in front of Paradise for a while, absorbing all the detail of the picture.

  But I start to feel a little lonely, sitting there. People mill around me – all with partners, friends, companions; nobody else is alone here. I feel a surge of homesickness. All this magnificence is too much for me, all the lavish gilt and marble. I long for something familiar, for English voices, for haphazard cottage gardens: for the restraint, the smaller scale, of home.

  11

  Outside, it’s raining steadily. I realise I have left my umbrella behind, in the Cranach gallery. I’m cross with myself. But I can’t quite face going back.

  The rain comes on heavier, sheeting down, so my hair and my shoulders are drenched. I know I’m being stupid. I turn, retrace my steps. When the doorman sees my ticket, he lets me back inside.

  The Cranach room is still crowded. But at least there’s no one sitting on the sofa where I sat. I can’t see the umbrella. Perhaps I put it down on the floor; perhaps it slid under the sofa. I feel disproportionately upset: lost, homesick, and shivery; unsure where to catch the tram that will take me back to Schottentor. I have such a yearning for Brockenhurst, for my mother.

  I kneel, peer under the sofa, feeling very self-conscious. People will think I’m crazy. The umbrella isn’t there.

  I straighten. The room spins: I take a step backwards to steady myself. I feel myself bump into someone; briefly, I feel all the warmth of the body I bumped against pressing into my back.

  ‘Oh.’

  I’m intensely embarrassed. I spin round.

  ‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ I say.

  A man – perhaps ten years older than me; tall, thin, dark-haired, with rather studious wire-rimmed glasses. Startled.

  ‘Oh. Are you?’ His face falls, rather comically. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he says.

  He’s standing so close I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. He has pale skin and a pensive look, his head slightly turned to one side, like the listening Jesus in the Landauer Altarpiece. He’s beautiful.

  He takes a step back, to establish a more appropriate distance between us.

  ‘But perhaps we should start again? With a slightly more formal introduction?’ he says.

  He has a complex expression – surprise, interest; something else, something more perilous.

  I nod. I can’t take my eyes off him.

  ‘I’m Harri,’ he says. ‘Harri Reznik.’

  ‘I’m Stella Whittaker,’ I say.

  It’s as though I can still feel the warmth of his body going through me.

  ‘You’re English?’ he says.

  I’m appalled that he can tell so easily.

  ‘Is my accent really that bad?’

  He laughs a little.

  ‘No, it’s very good indeed. But Stella Whittaker is an English name, I think?’

  I have a sudden doubt. Should I be speaking to him like this – to a stranger, a man I don’t know, and so openly, in a public place? I push my doubt from my mind. I’m intensely aware of the scent of cedar that hangs about him. I have a strange sensation; it’s as though I’m suspended in some high place, perhaps on the Ferris wheel in the Prater, with below me, a great glimmering fall of bright air.

  ‘I came here to study. I’m a music student,’ I say.

  ‘What kind of music?’ he asks. ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.’

  He studies me – that look he has, pensive, his head on one side. I feel the flare of a blush in my face.

  ‘You’re not a singer, I suspect,’ he tells me. ‘Singers tend to be rather flamboyant…’

  I feel a sag of disappointment. I wish I was flamboyant. I would like to be Anneliese, with a damson-coloured fedora and the highest, spindliest heels.

  ‘Show me your hands,’ he asks me.

  I hold out my hands. They are shaking slightly. I know he notices this. He smiles, as though my hands please him.

  ‘A pianist,’ he says, very definitely.

  This is dazzlingly clever. I think briefly of the gypsy woman at the Westbahnhof – how she scared me.

  ‘How on earth can you tell?’

  ‘Long fingers,’ he says. ‘And a pianist has to be solitary – you have to spend a lot of time on your own.’ His voice seems to resonate in my body. ‘Pianists are often quite retiring. And I think you’re a little reserved? Perhaps a little shy? Except when you go round bumping into perfect strangers, of course…’

  We stand there for a moment, looking at one another. My hair is drenched; a wet strand falls into my eyes. He reaches out and pushes the hair from my face; his finger just grazes my skin, but I can feel the warmth in him. My breath is taken away. Because he’s so forward. Because his touch is so sweet.

  ‘Are you…?’

  ‘Do you…?’

  We both start talking at once; then we both stop, laugh. A sudden startling happiness opens like a flower in me. Around us, I’m vaguely aware of people glancing in our direction – seeing exactly what is happening between us. Let them stare.

  ‘So – you like art? You like our Kunsthistorisches Museum?’ he says.

  He has thin, eloquent hands, which he moves a lot as he talks. There’s something quicksilver about him.

  ‘Yes. I came earlier,’ I tell him. ‘I had a good look round … The thing is, I’m only here now because I had to come back…’

  I bite my tongue. I sound so stupid.

  He looks at me quizzically – that look he has, as though he’s searching for something inside me. A rather forensic look. I want him to touch me again. More than anything.

  ‘I was looking for something I’d lost…’ Saying this embarrasses me: it sounds too weighty, too significant somehow. ‘I was looking for my umbrella…’ My voice trails off.

  ‘And I came here to meet a friend,’ he says, ‘but the friend still hasn’t arrived…’

  Is it a woman, this friend? That’s the very first thing I think, when he says that. Is it a woman? Is she beautiful? Are you in love with her? Jealous already.


  ‘So we have something in common, Fräulein Whittaker,’ he goes on. ‘We both came here looking for something that we couldn’t find,’ he says.

  He has a slightly crooked smile. There’s something left open.

  We couldn’t find what we came for, but we found one another.

  The thought hangs in the air between us – delicate as a soap bubble in the moment before it bursts; perilous. I don’t say anything.

  He takes a step away from me, as though worried he’s been too intense.

  ‘So, where are you studying, Fräulein Whittaker?’ he asks. A little more formal now, more matter-of-fact.

  ‘At the Academy of Music, on Lothringerstrasse. I have lessons on Thursdays at ten.’ I’m giving rather too much detail about where I can be found – we both know this. ‘And you?’ I say boldly. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ he tells me.

  ‘So…’ I don’t know what I should ask. ‘So – do you specialise in something?’

  ‘I’m a psychiatrist,’ he tells me. ‘I work at the Lower Austria Psychiatric Hospital, in Penzing.’

  I haven’t heard of it, but I nod vigorously.

  ‘And I rent a consulting room on Thurngasse. I’m in training to be a psychoanalyst,’ he says.

  I open my mouth, but I don’t know how to respond – don’t understand what the word means. He sees this.

  ‘I studied for a while with Dr Freud,’ he tells me. ‘You may have heard of him.’

  ‘Yes. A little…’

  ‘I was fortunate. But he’s very ill now, sadly, and doesn’t teach any more.’

  ‘I don’t know much about him,’ I say. ‘Only what everyone knows…’ My voice fades.

  I’m embarrassed – thinking what it is that everyone knows. That Dr Freud says that the sexual drive is pre-eminent: that the instinctual life is what drives us, shapes us, makes us who we are. I feel my face burn so red it must be drawing everyone’s attention.

  But he’s looking past me, glancing over my shoulder. Perhaps he’s lost interest in me, because I can’t talk about Dr Freud.

  He clears his throat.

  ‘Well, I see my friend is here…’

  I turn, look where he is looking. I see that yes, his friend is a woman, and yes, she is beautiful. She’s long-limbed, glossy, beautifully groomed. She has raven hair cleverly twisted in a knot in the nape of her neck, and her lips are gorgeous as the shiny reds in the Cranach painting of Judith. She’s wearing a foxfur jacket over a dress of black shantung silk that has the dull, prismatic sheen of oil on water.

  It’s over. I’ve been so stupid. How could I ever have imagined he would be interested in me?

  ‘It seems I have to go already,’ he says, ‘and we have only just met … It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Stella.’

  A little thrill goes through me, hearing my name in his mouth. He sees this.

  ‘I may call you Stella?’ he asks.

  As though we may meet again. But I don’t see how that could happen.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course you can.’

  I know I must look dejected. I try to paste a cheerful smile on my face.

  The woman walks rather languidly across the gallery towards us. All the men in the room are turning to stare.

  He’s half-turned from me already. But he doesn’t move away quite yet.

  ‘So, Stella. Do you often come here on Saturday afternoons?’ He speaks so casually. As though this question is of no consequence. As though this isn’t the most important question I’ve ever been asked.

  ‘Well. I’ve never been before,’ I say carefully. ‘And there’s such a lot to see…’

  He nods. ‘Far too much for one visit.’ His voice almost playful. The words spiralling down between us, feather-light on the glimmery air. ‘You might want to come again, perhaps next Saturday afternoon?’ He glances at the painting behind us. ‘And Cranach’s Paradise is always worth another look…’

  He doesn’t say goodbye.

  I stand there, trying not to stare, as he goes up to the woman, kisses her hand. A little bud of hopefulness is opening out in me. I find myself praying: Please give him to me. Please, God. I picture God in my mind. He has flowing red robes and a white forked beard, like the God in the Cranach painting. If you give him to me, I promise I’ll never ask for anything else. If you give him to me, nothing else will ever matter as much. Please.

  I watch as he walks out of the room, arm in arm with the raven-haired woman.

  12

  ‘Anneliese. There’s something I’m dying to tell you.’

  We’re in the Landtmann, after my lesson.

  ‘This thing happened,’ I tell her. ‘In the Kunsthistorisches Museum. I went to look at the paintings…’

  She’s wearing the hat I rescued, and she has ruby and diamanté earrings, that glitter as she turns her head and send out small shards of light.

  ‘And I left my umbrella behind,’ I say, ‘so I had to go back. And I met … I met…’

  ‘Ooh.’ She’s intrigued, her liquorice-dark eyes gleaming. ‘How exciting, Stella. And is he good-looking? I mean, this is a “he” we’re talking about?’

  ‘Yes. Yes to both questions.’

  Just talking about him makes my pulse race.

  ‘So – when are you going to see him again?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I am.’ I suddenly feel I’ve presumed far too much. ‘He sort of suggested meeting again – but it was all terribly vague. I’m not even sure if he really liked me. He said I was very reserved…’

  Her dark eyes sparkle with laughter.

  ‘Stella. That’s what they always say when they want to seduce you.’ she says.

  I’m startled that she’s so direct. People don’t talk like this in Brockenhurst. But mixed in with my amazement, there’s a little tremor of hope.

  ‘D’you really think so?’

  She nods. The skin crinkles in little laughter lines at the corners of her eyes.

  Our Esterházytorte and coffee arrive.

  ‘Well, don’t stop there, Stella. Tell me more. So what’s he like, your mystery heart-throb?’ she asks.

  ‘Well.’ I sip my coffee. I don’t know where to begin. ‘He was very polite—’

  ‘Oh, Stella. You’re just so English, aren’t you? It’s really terribly sweet. What I meant was – what exactly does he look like? What’s the attraction?’

  ‘Dark. Tall. Kind of intelligent-looking…’

  Her face falls slightly. She obviously finds this unsatisfactory.

  ‘And what does he do? Did you find that out?’ she asks me.

  ‘He’s a doctor.’

  ‘Ooh. Clever hands. What could be nicer?’ she says.

  She’s outrageous. The thought sneaks into my mind – that she might be experienced. I don’t know if I dare ask.

  ‘Anneliese – have you ever … you know…?’

  I’m trying to say it casually, as though I talk like this all the time. But I feel the heat rush to my face.

  ‘Oh Stella, you’ve gone all pink,’ she says, rather delighted. ‘Have I had sex, you mean? Of course I have. Haven’t you?’ She looks at me thoughtfully, then shakes her head, with a slight rueful smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have, have you?’

  ‘I’ve always imagined I’d wait till I get married,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s what everyone says. But it isn’t always what happens … Everyone’s doing it in Vienna, Stella – mostly with people they shouldn’t be doing it with.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I think of the things I’ve been told, growing up. The warnings about what men are like – their uncontrollable urges, their dangerous wandering hands. The thrilled, appalled whispers about girls who went all the way.

  I tell Anneliese these things. She listens; a little smile plays on her face.

  ‘We all get given the lecture,’ she tells me, when I’ve finished. ‘But you really don’t need to bother too much about any of that. Today, everyt
hing’s different. We’re the new generation, Stella – the post-war generation. All that stuff’s so outmoded. We can do what we want.’

  ‘D’you really think so?’

  ‘Trust me, Stella. There aren’t any rules any more. Don’t let other people dictate to you how to behave. You have to be your own woman … Though you have to be careful, of course. You know – use something.’

  ‘Use something?’

  Kitty Carpenter told me that you’d be safe if you stood up straightaway afterwards. Other girls said that was crazy – you needed to use a vinegar douche.

  Anneliese leans towards me. I breathe in her scent, like sun-warmed peaches.

  ‘Use a French letter,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, as though this is entirely obvious.

  I feel horribly ignorant. I think of the things my mother told me – of an awkward conversation we had, before my periods came. ‘There are things you need to know, Stella. About your body, about what happens between a husband and wife…’ She was doing her mangling as she talked: she wasn’t looking at me, and there was something resigned, worn-down, about the angle of her shoulders. She said it was important for me to understand these things: ignorance could have terrible consequences. She’d once known a girl who’d killed herself when her first period came, believing herself to have contracted some terrible, shameful disease … So she told me what to expect, and we were both of us very embarrassed. I wanted her to stop, but there was more that she felt she should say. ‘And sometimes, to be honest, it will be the last thing you feel like. If you’ve got a small child and you’re exhausted. But you must never refuse your husband. Always remember that, Stella. It’s the woman’s responsibility. It’s up to the woman to keep the marriage going,’ she said.

  Sitting there in the Landtmann, I see this scene in my mind; and remember how I’d sensed a kind of sadness in her, and how I’d been unnerved by a brief little stab of a thought. Was my parents’ marriage perhaps less perfect than I’d always supposed?