He wiped the sweat from his forehead. For a moment he felt as though he was going to fall flat on his face.
Much later, as the guests departed or retired to the hotel sitting rooms or bedrooms, Sir Anthony came to the marquee. ‘Might I have a word, Tim?’ James and Tim were lifting a section of the flooring to store somewhere dry.
James grinned at Sir Anthony. ‘Why not, sir? He’s an old bloke now, and needs a break.’
Harry Travers took the other end of the section and tipped an imaginary forelock at Tim, who was led into the shade of the cedar tree. Sir Anthony dug into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a sealed package.
‘I believe you are off to your mother tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I am, sir, but I’m surprised you know.’ Tim looked from Sir Anthony to the package, just making it out in the gloom.
‘Well, Heine and I are in contact over this rehabilitation idea he has for Altona in Germany, which supports my idea of “hands across the sea”. I would be grateful if you would deliver these suggested plans for the unit. Seems a wasted opportunity, otherwise.’
Ron called, ‘Come on, lazybones, we need you.’
Tim looked over his shoulder. Sir Anthony smiled. ‘Off you go, lad, and mum’s the word. Peace is a strange old game, and best to keep this between us. We don’t want anyone putting a spanner in the works, and some in Germany are not disposed to “reaching out”, or so Heine says.’
Tim tucked it into his pocket. ‘It sounds a worthwhile project, Sir Anthony. Perhaps Bridie’s riding therapy can be incorporated into the idea?’
Sir Anthony smiled. ‘Ah, now that you’ve brought that up, I wanted to say how impressed I am with young Bridie’s results. Many good things have happened here.’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he set off towards the Hall. He stopped, turned. ‘Thank you, Tim. Remember, let’s just keep it between us.’
Tim watched him reach the gravel, and then crunch across towards the steps. Ron called again, ‘Enough skiving! We need you, lazybones.’
As Tim hurried back to the marquee he heard Prancer whinny. What would it be like never to see him again, or any of them? If he decided on Berlin, that could well be the result. He slowed, uncertain. A distant laugh intruded, and he saw Colonel Potter and Herr Bauer walking back from the direction of the ha-ha, looking like old friends.
It cheered him, because families weren’t the only source of comfort, after all. Friendship was always at hand. He entered the marquee, and stopped. What was he talking about? He must remember that no-one here was family.
Harry called from the marquee. ‘The sooner we finish, the sooner we can sup the barrel dry, Tim. I’ve sorted you a bed for the night. You can sleep off your hangover on the train tomorrow.’
That’s what he needed: to get drunk, and stop all this rambling in his head.
Chapter Four
Jack and Grace waited on the platform of Gosforn station the next morning. They knew Tim would not arrive until nearer the time of departure, but neither could relax at home in Easton. Here, in the small commercial town, there was no sulphuric smell from the slag heap, no humming of winding gear, no clattering of boots as pitmen went on shift. As always, it seemed another world.
Jack made himself ease his shoulders and relax his jaw muscles. His son was off to Germany to stay with Millie and Heine, whose politics Jack abhorred. His son was a member of the British Union of Fascists, whose politics he loathed. His son was off to see his mother, whom he . . . He stopped.
He refused to let his shoulders tighten and the muscles contract in his jaw again as Bridie’s shouts of yesterday echoed round his head; her pain was also Gracie’s and his, her fear theirs, for they couldn’t bear to lose him either.
He could stand still no longer but paced the platform, Gracie keeping step with him, her arm in his. They passed a porter pushing a trolley of crates in which racing pigeons were grumbling. The porter would heave them onto the train, to be offloaded elsewhere. They would then be set free at a designated time, to race back.
His da used to wait by the pigeon loft in the garden of the family home in the lea of the Stunted Tree Hill near Easton, stopwatch in hand. It had been right bad when they’d had to distribute the pigeons after his da’s funeral. He’d thought Tim, James and Bridie would never stop weeping, but they’d been the same when their grandma died. Jack was glad now that his parents were long gone, for what would they have thought of Tim? Perhaps they would have said that racing pigeons invariably return, so not to worry.
Grace said, ‘We’ve had him for all these years, and it is only right and proper that his mam and her fiancé enjoy him now.’
Jack loved her at that moment, more than he had ever done in his life, and that was saying something. He stopped, turned, and held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. Today she was not wearing a hat, a sign of her confused distress. ‘By, Gracie, you and Mam were his mother, and you are being so brave, and so fair. I just want to go over and punch that bastard Nazi’s lights out. He’s welcome to Millie, but the boy is mine.’
She leaned against his chest, and they listened to the pigeons for a moment before she said, ‘No, that’s where you’re wrong, Jack. Tim owns himself. He’ll make mistakes, take a few wrong turns, like most of us do, but he’ll find his way back, he’s not daft.’
‘But—’
She drove on, ‘He’s not of our blood, but he’s had the families around him day and night for years and he won’t forget that. Or if he does, something will make him remember. He’s excited by the difference between us and them, but he isn’t her, or Roger, so hoy that thought right out of your head, as your wedding present to me, bonny lad.’ She pulled back now, and looked up. ‘Trust him.’
Jack kissed her hard on her mouth before pulling her to him again. ‘You’re right, bloody Millie gave us a divorce, so we need to let it go.’ He stroked her hair. She was pure gold through and through. ‘D’you know, she asked Richard and Ver for better wages when she thought I’d gone missing on the front line, on the grounds that she was a widow?’
She hushed him, but he couldn’t stop. ‘Of course you did. It must have ruined her day when she found out I was a prisoner after all. Everything she did has been going round in my head, bonny lass, ever since Tim heard from her.’ He tried again to make himself stop, but his thoughts kept going. ‘She . . .’
A train puffed and steamed its way into the station on the other line, to pick up Gosforn passengers bound for Washington and beyond. Grace shouted over the screech of its brakes, ‘Leave it. It’s in the past. We can’t change anything now.’ Doors were banging on the other platform.
Meanwhile more passengers were arriving for the Newcastle train. Heedless, Grace kissed his mouth. ‘We’ll love him until we die,’ she whispered. ‘No matter what.’
Just then they heard a shout, one that was almost drowned as the Washington train finally huffed and squealed out of the station. ‘Da, Mam, I’m here. The bus didn’t come, so Richard brought me in the Bentley at about one hundred miles an hour. He’s a crazy driver, even with a fake arm and leg, so lord knows what he’d be like if he had two of each. That’s what engineers can do for you, Da – fix a car with controls that can make things possible.’ He was standing in the entrance to the ticket office and a man pushed past him, ticket in hand.
Tim doffed his hat at him, apologising, then continued, ‘Anyway, I’d not have made it, but for him. I stayed at the Hall, you see. Ron and Harry have hollow legs, James, too, and I have a bloody awful hangover. Richard’s waiting in the car to take you back, but I thought I’d better check that you hadn’t driven the Austin.’
Jack called back, ‘Aye, I did, Tim. Can you wave him off? Quick now, lad, you’ve only got five minutes.’ Tim ducked back through the doorway, but re-emerged a minute later, at the run, swinging his canvas holdall.
Jack loved every fibre of the lad’s being, from the top of his head to his size ten clodhopping feet. Where did those come fr
om? Roger’s hadn’t been big, and neither were Millie’s. He’d never thought of it before, and he clamped his mind shut. No, things were complicated enough without doubting the fatherhood of the lad. But the under-gardener’s feet had been huge, and Tim’s colouring was the same. Again he clamped his mind shut, but stubbornly the thought came back. Thank God Bernie was long gone, deep beneath the ground at Tyne Cot cemetery, and it could be left there.
Tim had nearly reached them, and his excitement was obvious. It was almost as though his skin was alive. It was a skin free of miner’s scars, for Jack had moved heaven and earth to keep Tim out of the pit. Apprenticeships had been scarce, so he’d finally pitched up on Sir Anthony’s doorstep at Searton, asking if he could pull strings somewhere, anywhere, to get him a job. It turned out he had a contact at a marine engineering firm which was designing engines for yachts, until shipbuilding picked up. He was a grand bloke.
Tim let his holdall drop, and kissed Grace. ‘Did I tell you how lovely you looked yesterday, Mam?’
Grace laughed. ‘You did, many times. You didn’t look so bad yourself in your suit, either. Now, are you ready, do you need anything? I packed you a few sandwiches, just in case.’
Tim laughed, and it was a real laugh. ‘Thanks, Mam. I could be needing them, I reckon.’
Jack snatched a look at the station clock. The train should be here by now. Tim followed his gaze. ‘It’ll be late, right enough. We’re in England, but in Germany, Hitler’s got the trains running to time.’ There was defiance in his voice, and the set of his shoulders.
Jack smiled, making it reach his eyes. ‘Aye, I expect he has. They certainly know how to work if the miners in the German pits were anything to go by. They were good to the prisoners too, in some ways. I remember once, when they shared some sausage . . .’ He stopped. He could only go so far to meet his son, because too many prisoners had died of malnutrition, and brutality.
Gracie smiled her approval. Tim moved his weight from foot to foot. Jack found himself looking at them, and picturing Bernie again. Tim said, ‘What’re you looking at, Da?’
Tim lifted his gaze from Tim’s feet. ‘Oh, nothing, just thinking. I understand your grandpa now; he’d suddenly drift off somewhere else. Sign of old age, I expect.’
Gracie moved to his side, holding his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘You’re not old, bonny lad. You’re wearing well. Must be down to the greens you grow and the good life you lead. What d’you think, Tim?’
Tim stiffened. ‘A lot of people lead a good life.’
Jack felt Gracie squeeze his arm in warning. He looked again at the clock, his mind blank, knowing he needed to fill the silence that had fallen, but he couldn’t, because everything was such a minefield these days.
At last they heard the whistle of the approaching train, which was only five minutes late. The Station Master hurried from his office. ‘Let’s get them pigeons further to the rear, Thomas, for God’s sake, man.’
Thomas shoved the trolley along the platform, dodging the waiting passengers. Jack said, ‘You’ll be on your way in a minute. Wonder where they’re releasing the birds?’ He was patting his pocket, checking that the envelope he’d prepared at dawn this morning was to hand.
They all stepped away from the edge as the sound of the train grew louder. Those on the platform picked up cases, or put away newspapers. A child darted forwards, only to be pulled back by her mam. The train drew in, screeching and puffing. Passengers hung out of windows, feeling for the door handles. The Station Master shouted, ‘Stand away, please, let others disembark first.’
Some did, some didn’t. Jack heard Tim mutter, ‘Time people did as they were bloody well told, it’s no wonder Britain’s a mess. They won’t work together, not like—’
Grace cut in, ‘You take care, darling.’ She kissed him.
The disembarking passengers rushed the guard who was checking tickets at the exit. Jack moved close to his son. ‘Yes, take care of yourself, and have a good time. Please give my regards to your mother, and to Heine.’ He hugged him, and eventually Tim dropped his bag and hugged him back. For a moment Jack wanted to say, ‘Don’t go, don’t change, don’t be wooed by her.’ Instead, he said, ‘I love you, lad. Whatever you do we’re happy, all of us here will be. We just want what’s best for you.’
Tim stepped back, embarrassed. ‘I’m only going for a few days, Da.’
Jack felt all sorts of a fool. ‘Of course, I just meant . . . Well, I have a bit of a hangover too, today. It’s not just the prerogative of the young, and even though it was a special day, I should know better. It leaves me without much sense. On you get, then.’
Once the lad was on board, Jack slammed the door shut. Tim leaned out of the window. Jack dragged out the envelope and handed it to him. ‘Some extra money for you, just in case. It’s in sterling, but I’m sure you can change it. Buy your mother a cream cake and a coffee, too. Don’t expect they drink tea in Berlin.’
Tim appeared to be about to give it back, then pushed it into his jacket pocket. He shook his father’s hand. ‘Thank you, Da, and for the sandwiches, Mam.’ He sounded uncertain, suddenly, like the boy who had been asked if he’d like to go down the mine for a look, when he’d said he didn’t want to bother with more education. He’d gone down in the cage, said little, but had accepted the marine engineering firm’s offer of an apprenticeship.
The guard blew his whistle, the porter trundled his trolley down the platform, and the Station Master shouted, ‘Stand clear, if you will.’
Gracie called, ‘I hope it’s a calm crossing. Stay in the fresh air, it will help.’
He nodded. It was what she said every time he went on the sea, because he always felt so ill.
The train started. Tim stayed at the window, as the steam billowed and the smuts flew. They waved until they could see him no more, and Jack felt utterly helpless.
The taxi drew up outside a Berlin apartment block in the late afternoon. Tim, exhausted and with a splitting headache, sat quite still. There had been a problem with a connection on the journey here, and he’d put up at a hotel overnight. It had been all too easy to change and use some of his da’s money to drink himself stupid at the hotel bar. It had been a daft thing to do, but he’d had to stop the racing of his brain as it tussled with life’s complications.
The taxi driver turned, sliding back the glass partition. Tim pulled out his wallet and tried to work out the money, including the tip, while a hammer played a tattoo inside his skull. The driver said, in accented English, ‘You not hurry or make mistake.’ In desperation Tim handed over a handful of Reichsmarks.
Through the open window, the traffic noise was intermittent, a few trams clanged their bells. A platoon of Hitler Youth marched round them, eyes front, in step. Nazi flags and banners flew from many buildings, fluttering in the breeze.
The taxi driver counted out his change, saying over his shoulder, ‘Nice it is, this Charlottenburg area of Berlin. Before it bad, many fights, riots, strikers. Our SA boys and SS fought the communists. They crushed now. Germany better, every ways.’
He hesitated, searching for his English, ‘The SA small now, the SS strong. There are many of SS in this block, now that it has been made – er – ah, yes, for use of Party members. Forgive me, it is some years since a war prisoner in your country. You treat me well and I remember your language. I work on it, ready for August, for Berlin Olympics. I am to drive some who come.’
Tim handed him a tip. The driver touched his cap. The Nazi Party badge on his lapel caught the light. ‘All is better in Germany. I have passengers now.’ He laughed as Tim opened the car door, dragging his holdall out after him.
‘Danke,’ Tim said.
The taxi turned into the desultory traffic stream, overtaking a horse and cart, and tucking in behind another car. Tim approached the impressive, heavy carved doors of the apartment building. There was a wrought-iron handle, but no bell. He opened the door and entered a cavernous foyer. The door slammed shut behind h
im, and he winced as the noise ricocheted inside his skull. Dear God, how could he cope with the planned dinner party?
In the dim light of a table lamp on a side table, on which lay neatly stacked unopened envelopes, he made out a lift at the far side. His heels clicked on the marble floor, and he was unsure suddenly. ‘Thank you for the sandwiches, Mam,’ he said aloud – it helped him to feel less alone – ‘And for the money, Da.’
‘Herr Forbes?’ A woman came out of the shadows, her hair short and grey, her skirt long. ‘I am Party Block leader. Herr Weber expect you.’ She gestured him towards the lift. ‘Please to press for floor two. Danke.’
She disappeared into the shadows, leaving him feeling a fool. Had she heard him?
Once on the second floor he checked the number on the letter his mother had sent. Fourteen. The passage was tiled, and smelt of antiseptic. His heels clicked again. He put his weight on his toes. He found fourteen and pressed the bell. Something small and rectangular had been removed from the door frame, splintering the dark wood. He was surprised it had not been made good. Grandpa Forbes would have sorted it in no time.
The door opened. It was his mother, and she rushed to hug him. ‘Tim, dearest, darling Tim. I knew it would be you. So good to see you.’
He felt a great joy, dropped his holdall and held her tightly. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he murmured, and drew away. ‘It’s been so long. I’ve missed you every day.’
He stared at her hair. It was blonde when before it had been mousey. It was also plaited over her head and looked far too young, and not quite right. She saw him looking. ‘Ah well, Kinder-Küche-Kirche, as they say, bonny lad, and the Party likes blonde traditional styles. So we do it for the Party, and for our men.’
Tim didn’t understand. He’d been trying to learn the language from books, but hearing it was so different from reading it. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, help me out here. Kinder is children, I think?’
A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Page 4
