A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  He walked on as Bridie stared after him. Why were his eyes so red? What must it be to have a mother in another land, one that had left you to go with a lover, who then asked you to get things, secretly? How would she feel if it happened to her? She snatched up the book. ‘Wait, I have the combination here.’

  She crossed to the safe and entered the combination, opening the door and standing aside. Now it was she who didn’t look, as he hurried across. Instead she looked out of the window, and saw it was snowing again. Would her father give up the ditching? Would James return with him? Would they see Tim? Would he rush off on his motorbike, slide and crash? She felt nothing at the thought. She watched him now as he searched through the papers, opening envelopes.

  He stared into the safe when he had finished and his shoulders were even more slumped, if that was possible. ‘No, nothing. So perhaps it no longer exists.’

  He carefully closed the safe door, spun the combination lock, sighed. She said to his back, ‘If you’d asked Da, he would have let you look, you know.’

  He nodded, and came to her. At last he lifted his head and met her eyes. She felt nothing. He kissed her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, Bridie. Sorry about it all.’

  He left then, and she called after him, ‘She’s your mother. She’ll love you whether you find it or not. Just as Grace would. All will be well.’

  He let himself out through the front door. She moved to the window. He kicked the motorbike into action, dragged on his gloves, slipped his goggles down, and rode away without turning. The snow was still falling. She watched until he was out of sight, and then she leaned her head on the cold glass.

  In the Easterleigh Hall kitchen Evie turned the bacon. She loved the smell but somehow, for her, the taste was a bit of a let-down and, anyway, she preferred it smoked, while the guests today had requested green. At the kitchen table Mrs Moore was beating the eggs ready for scrambling, the dogs were on the chairs, and Pearl was bashing pots in the scullery. All was as it should be, cosy and rather less frantic than the rest of the day.

  Once the bacon was frying gently she joined Mrs Moore and wiped the mushrooms, slicing off just the base of the stalks. She maintained that stalks were the tastiest part of a mushroom, and wouldn’t toss them aside as some did. Now she scooped together the earthy bases and dropped them into the compost bin set to the left of the ranges. As she returned to the table, the side door opened. She looked up, and dropped her knife onto the cutting board. ‘Gracie?’

  Mrs Moore stopped beating the eggs and wiped her hands on her white starched apron. ‘Oh my.’

  Evie rushed across to Grace, who stood at the end of the table, bowed and weeping. ‘Pet, bonny lass. Who? Jack? Who? What?’ She held her friend close, feeling her shuddering sobs.

  ‘It’s such a mess, Evie. Tim went to the Miners’ Club, he and Jack had words, the like of which they’ve never had before, and my lad stormed out. Jack didn’t say any more than it was just Millie and her stupidity, and the boy’s confusion over everything. But he cried, Evie, our Jack cried.’

  Evie gripped her tighter and stared over Grace’s shoulder at Mrs Moore, and Pearl who had come into the kitchen from the scullery. Gracie pulled away and stared at them all, disbelief in her eyes. ‘Tim said, “I’m not your son.” Oh Evie, what are we to do?’

  Evie tried to picture those words falling from Tim’s mouth. Surely not? She said, ‘Are you sure?’

  Gracie shouted, ‘Of course I’m damn sure, Evie ruddy Brampton.’

  She stared wildly around, then fixed her attention on the table, wrenching off her leather gloves and thrusting them into her coat pocket. Evie put her hand out to her but Gracie rushed past and started tearing the mushroom stalks free of the cups, throwing them onto the floor. Pearl disappeared again into the scullery while Evie and Mrs Moore watched Gracie frenziedly chopping first one mushroom then another, and another, into little pieces. Her hair had fallen from beneath her felt hat, she thrust it back, then the chopping continued. After a moment, Evie moved across and gripped her hand, trying to make her stop, but Grace wouldn’t release the knife. Mrs Moore tiptoed to the range and rescued the bacon, which had begun to burn.

  Evie said, her hand still gripping Grace’s, ‘You can pretend these poor old mushrooms are Millie, Heine, or the devil himself, but it means no-one will have any for breakfast, unless you’re prepared to run out to the fields and gather up a load more, bonny lass. Enough now.’

  For a moment more Gracie resisted, but then she relaxed and let Evie take the knife, standing while Evie scooped the mushrooms, some chopped, some not, into a bowl, which she passed to Mrs Moore to sauté. Finally Gracie laughed. It was shaky, but it was a laugh. ‘Oh Evie, thank heavens for you, and Mrs Moore, and Easterleigh. Of course breakfast is important. Everything must go on. You’re quite right.’ She sat on Mrs Moore’s stool, quite suddenly, as though her legs had gone from under her.

  Evie and Mrs Moore exchanged a look. ‘Tea,’ Mrs Moore insisted. She poured three mugs, and all three women sat around the table.

  ‘How many times have we done this?’ Evie pondered.

  ‘Many,’ Mrs Moore said. ‘And there will be many more problems to solve in just the same way.’

  Gracie muttered, ‘But can this one ever be solved?’

  The women sipped their tea, alone with their thoughts, but Evie knew that they would all arrive at the same conclusion. Only time would tell, and until then they just had to move forward, sticking together, and doing the best they could.

  It was then that Jack appeared, pale and sad. He joined them, but said little. It was enough that he had come, knowing where he would find his wife, and needing the comfort of his family.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tim lay in bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, feeling totally alone. Well, perhaps he was, and who was to blame for that? He closed his eyes, not wanting to think of his empty-handed arrival yesterday evening, and the fury it had provoked. He turned on his side, burying his face in the down pillow, wanting to shut out the sight of her face, the spittle spray as she had shouted, the slap.

  It didn’t work. He sat up and checked the alarm clock. He usually woke before it went off but this time he’d forgotten to set the damn thing. It was nearly nine o’clock. His mother would be even more furious with him, if that was possible. There was a knock at the door. Amala called, ‘Good morning, Herr Forbes.’

  He dragged his fingers through his hair. He didn’t even know his name, not really. Was he Smith, like Roger? Or Thomas, like his mother’s family?

  ‘Good morning, Frau Dreher.’

  ‘Amala is good,’ she said. He had not known until now that the maid knew any English. He washed, shaved and dressed, noticing that he had the start of a bruise and a cut on his cheekbone from his mother’s ring. He did not want to leave his bedroom. Had his mother calmed down? Were the disappointment and anger of yesterday finished? Of course she was right, he deserved it because he had failed her, but as he said, there didn’t seem to be any letter. He had obeyed her instructions, but to no avail.

  He hurried to the dining room to get it over with, but there was only a plate with ham and cheese, some toast and coffee. And a letter propped on the coffee pot.

  Dearest Tim

  I have to attend a block meeting. Such a bore, but we need to get together to deal with one of the women whose behaviour is incorrect. I will be shopping today for Heine’s birthday party tomorrow evening. It’s a surprise, and because he’s away until then, no need for him to know anything at all. He phoned late last night from Hamburg. I told him about the letter and he will give it some thought. Please amuse yourself and we will meet for dinner and I will tell you what Heine needs you to do. Forgive my bad behaviour, I was just so disappointed that the wedding cannot take place as I had hoped.

  Your loving mother

  He felt utter relief, because he’d thought he’d never be forgiven. He was suddenly hungry, which wasn’t surprising, since he’d been sent to his room with
out any dinner, like a child.

  *

  It was hinting at spring in Berlin, to judge by the blue of the sky, and the tiny buds on the linden trees. As he walked he looked up but saw no birds, just banners and flags. They lifted his spirits and he was able to forget everything for a moment. He strode out into this vibrant city, so different from those at home, where everyone was struggling to survive. He realised it was the first time he had walked alone in Berlin, because his mother usually swept him off in a taxi to haunts she knew, telling him it was better to do it this way, and warning him that there were still some places it was best not to explore.

  He sped past the slower walkers, saw a tram, and jumped on, not knowing where it was going, and not caring. The day was young, and his mother was his ‘loving mother’ again. He paid, and after ten minutes jumped off. Again he walked past shops, elegant apartments, a water fountain. He was about to cross the road, when his sleeve was gripped. He swung round. It was an old man, his coat shabby. He stank of poverty. ‘English?’ he rasped.

  For a moment Tim hesitated. ‘What?’ he replied, pulling free.

  His arm was gripped again. ‘Help me. I am Jew. Please, beg take daughter. Take to England.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Tim wrenched free but the man followed, limping. Again Tim’s sleeve was grasped. The old man came close; the smell was appalling, he needed a shave. ‘Please, take my daughter. I pay, diamonds. Take all. Nothing more I have. Home, work, gone. I get no visas. Please. She Jew, but she do anything. Take her, I beg.’

  Tim tore free again, running across the road, stepping over the tramlines. ‘What the hell are you people like?’ he shouted over his shoulder. Reaching the pavement on the other side, he brushed his sleeve, feeling dirty. Selling his daughter, for heaven’s sake. No wonder Germany had needed to be sorted out. Above, the sky was clouding over. He was shaking; how bloody stupid. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said aloud.

  He made himself continue walking and he no longer had to weave through people, as he was almost the only one on the street. At last the trembling stopped, and he could no longer smell the man, or see his desperation.

  He wondered if he should buy Heine a birthday present. He answered himself – of course he should. He’d fouled up. He needed to make good or Heine would be in a mood. He stopped to look in the window of an antiques shop, interested in an inkwell, but he baulked at the price. He walked on, then turned right down a cobbled side street where there were far fewer shops, and people, thinking that it would probably be cheaper. He peered into a jeweller’s, but all the goods looked second-hand, and there was nothing suitable.

  He kept walking, and in a deserted street to the right he saw chairs propped up outside a building. He turned into the lane, which looked like the back street in any pit village, but the houses were tall tenements, and everywhere was the stench of poverty. The chairs were stacked against railings. Stairs wound down to a basement junk shop. He peered down, the door was open, and furniture was stacked in the entrance. There was nothing to interest a man like Heine who had everything.

  He passed on. A child ran out of a tenement courtyard, in boots without laces. He ran to the right, then ducked into a doorway. Tim hurried now, anxious to find the main road. He came to the end and met a narrow cobbled alley, running north to south. He hesitated, and then turned north, hearing traffic, thank God, because this wasn’t what he’d expected of Berlin. Almost immediately there was a shop window on his left. Again it was almost a junk shop, although he did notice a decent lamp in the window, but no, he had to find something personal. But what? He was feeling more confident now, and giving the lamp a final look, he walked on. Suddenly he heard something – what? A crash, shouts, behind him. He stopped and turned.

  Two men ran out of the lane he’d just left, heading towards him, their caps pulled down; one perhaps in his thirties, the other just a boy it seemed. The older one turned and looked over his shoulder at two policemen who were gaining fast. Tim moved to stand flat against the wall, but too late, the man crashed into him, knocking him backwards, and then roaring on. Tim rebounded off the wall, clattering into the police, bringing them down like skittles, so that they sprawled at his feet, cursing. He tried to keep his balance, but more police came roaring past, and one clipped his shoulder, spinning him. He put out his arm, reaching for support, crashing back into the wall. He was winded, and couldn’t think. Whistles blew, and somewhere a van revved.

  A policeman ran up, his truncheon out, and caught him a blow on the side of his head. It knocked him down. He clambered to his knees, ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled. But the blows continued to fall. He covered his head with his arms. All the while the policeman yelled at him in German. A kick caught him on the thigh and he collapsed and curled up on the cobbles, but the men he had brought down were rising, and they joined in. He tasted the grit of the cobbled road.

  All around were shouts, and the frantic sound of whistles, but at last the beating stopped; he hurt all over. He lifted his head; two policemen stood over him. He started to rise. One shouted at him, the other powered a kick into his ribs, panting. He vomited. He knew the men wouldn’t stop, because the fire of excitement was in them, as it had been in him, for a split second, when he punched Bridie. At that moment he knew he could have stopped that one blow, but he didn’t want to.

  One had hold of his hair, and lifted his head. He spat out grit and blood, and saliva. ‘English,’ he said, but it was a croaking whisper.

  A man in plain clothes was there now, and he said something in German, and there was no excitement in his eyes, just the same sort of coldness that was so often in Heine’s. He was hauled to his feet, and pushed and shoved the length of the street to a green van, which blocked the far end. This was what had been revving. The doors were opened and he was flung inside, onto the legs of one of the two men in caps. The other was groaning alongside. The doors slammed. The engine revved, the van lurched and juddered over cobbles; they were thrown from side to side. He dragged himself off the prone figure and gagged, his body a mass of pain, his mind churning in a morass of panic and shock. ‘What the hell did you do?’ he murmured finally.

  The two men were coughing and groaning. Their caps were bloodied and on the floor. Tim realised his own must still be in the alley. The younger man who had knocked into Tim lay prone, but the older one crawled over to their caps, snatched them up, and put them into the pocket of his torn and frayed jacket pocket. The van must have taken a corner fast because all three of them were thrown against the side, then back again. The older one heaved himself into a sitting position, and pulled out a broken tooth.

  Tim’s head was an agonising mass of pain; his face was raw and bleeding. The man tossed the tooth away and wiped his face with his handkerchief. In English he said, ‘Why should we have done anything? It’s enough that we exist. Freemasons they do not like. Mischlings they do not like. Jews, Reds . . . As I say, my friend, it is not something we have done, it is who we are.’

  Tim dragged himself across to sit next to him. The man stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket with trembling hands. ‘Welcome to our brave new world, my friend.’

  Tim asked, ‘Mischling?’

  The van took another bend. ‘Half Jew, half Aryan. I had a good job in Hastings. I am a tailor. Not to mention a Freemason and a Mischling. My mother was ill and still in Berlin. I came last year to take her away from this.’ He waved his hand.

  His friend was stirring, and slowly raised himself to all fours. Tim saw that he was only a boy, perhaps James’ age. The lad muttered something, then crawled across to sit next to his friend and said something else, in German. The older man said, ‘In English, for our foreign guest. You see, my friend, Otto worked in London, in a restaurant. He came back some while ago, and though he has the misfortune to be a Freemason, he is not a Jew, so he will perhaps be alright.’

  ‘I never saw them, Avraham. They must have been waiting for us. Did they get us all?’ the young man said, groaning.r />
  ‘You are hurt, Otto?’

  ‘No, not really. I have a belly ache. They kick well, my friend.’

  Avraham stroked Otto’s hair. ‘It will ease. I am sorry, my English friend, to have knocked you. Tell them that I crashed into you. It won’t help, but then again, it just might.’

  Tim swallowed. He felt sick, and hurt so much. ‘Your mother?’ he said.

  Avraham shrugged. ‘I went to her apartment, but she was gone from it, to be replaced by Aryans. Her job was gone too, because an Aryan tailor took the Jewish business where she worked. It happens to some, but not to everyone yet. I found the tailor. He had just a diamond or two he had hidden but they had taken all else. He also had my mother, in his dark, tiny hole of an apartment. She was sad and dying. I went back to our home, to get the only thing I could save, for it was lodged, as is our way, outside the apartment.’

  He drew out a small rectangular case. ‘I saved our mezuzah case from the door frame. Within it is the parchment she inscribed with Hebrew verses from the Torah, as is also our way. It is what most of us make return for, in secret, to remove. Everything we have, otherwise, is for the new “owners”. She died peacefully with it in her hand. I keep it with me. They will take it, and destroy it, but until they do, I will keep it.’

  Tim was looking at the rectangular piece in Avraham’s hand. He leaned back, his thoughts fragmented, but even so, he recognised the shape. He felt icy cold, and sleepy. Avraham nudged him. ‘Don’t sleep. Keep alert, it will help you recover.’

  They moved with the van, the three of them together, and almost immediately it seemed they stopped, which was when Tim realised he had slept, and felt worse, much worse.

  ‘Raus, raus,’ a policeman shouted, leaping into the van and kicking them out.

  Tim stood on the cobbles of a dark, forbidding square, surrounded by high tenements, or perhaps they were offices? He saw other policemen slamming shut huge gates. No, it must be a prison, because there were bars at some of the windows. Tim said, shivering, ‘You should drop the mezuzah case or they will know you are a Jew.’