Anna and her Tante Liesl could not travel with them to England, of course, where Hannelore must spend two-thirds of her time, for there was no place in the embassy for a servant’s child, and one would be frowned upon even in her own small apartment nearby. Anna also needed the special school for the blind that she attended. But Anna visited the lodge whenever Hannelore could come back to Germany, brought by her Tante Liesl, glad of the generous allowance Hannelore gave her to care for the niece she loved too.
Anna’s small hand held Hannelore’s as they visited the zoo, Hannelore acting as her eyes as Anna heard and smelled the animals, fed the ducks in the parks. They went to the ballet where even if Anna could not see the dancers she could hear the music.
‘But I can see them, Tante Hannelore,’ Anna insisted. ‘The air moves with the music. I can feel the air.’
And almost, looking at the child’s enraptured face, Hannelore believed that she could.
Anna threw the first crust of bread to the swans. The largest extended its neck, not graceful at all (you are swans, Miss Lily had told them, in those magical months before the war, but she had not meant swans quarrelling for bread).
‘I am sad,’ said Hannelore. ‘You feed the swans but have no hug for me.’
‘Tante Hannelore!’ This time Anna almost miscalculated as she swung around to hug her. Hannelore buried her face in the child’s hair. There was no scent as wonderful as a child’s hair.
‘Tante Hannelore, I have been practising my braille and my typewriting too! I can do ten words a minute now!’
Hannelore carefully did not laugh. ‘Just a little faster, my darling, and you will be my secretary, in charge of all the other secretaries, and I will dictate to you.’
‘I have been practising the poems you sent me, too. With expression,’ a phrase obviously emphasised to her at school. ‘I am the best in the class at recitation, even better than Johannes, Fräulein Glein said. Johannes was angry. He thinks he always should be first, just because he is a boy.’ Anna grinned smugly. We must teach her that expressions can be seen, and must sometimes be hidden, thought Hannelore. ‘May I recite a poem to you, Tante Hannelore?’
‘Naturally. The swans can listen too.’
‘Do swans like poetry?’
‘They do if they are fed bread first and maybe afterwards.’
Anna giggled. ‘What poem would you like?’
‘A happy one. A pretty one. A poem about summer.’
For somehow the ending of every summer made Hannelore wistful. Was it because the slow march of every year, ever since childhood, had meant another year closer to the next war, this time the war Dolphie and the German army were so efficiently preparing for, despite the public speeches of their leader? Or was it just that for so long she had dreamed of summer and kangaroos and Australia with Sophie and winter here would mean summer there, but not for her.
Anna considered, snuggling back into Hannelore, their arms entwined. ‘“Heidenröslein” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,’ she announced. She stood up, her hands neatly folded in front of her in the correct position for reciting.
‘Sah ein Knab’ ein Röslein stehn,
Röslein auf der Heiden,
War so jung und morgenschön . . .’
‘But that is such a sad poem,’ said Hannelore, as the child finished the poem, and the child found her way back into her arms.
‘Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.’
Little rose, little rose, little rose, red on the heath, she thought. ‘The little wild rose is picked because it is so beautiful. But all the little rose can do is prick the young man who loves it, and he picks and so kills it, not knowing what he does.’
Anna shook her head. ‘That is what Fräulein Glein said too. But you do not understand. The wild rose is beautiful only for a few weeks every year and then it must vanish, whether it is picked or not. But the young man saw its beauty and picked it and now there is a song about it. The little rose will live as long as the song is remembered.’
‘Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden,’ said Hannelore again, softly. ‘Come on, my little rose. It is time for supper. And I have a surprise to tell you and Mutti.’
‘A surprise! What is it? Tell me now!’
Hannelore laughed. ‘Very well. Your mother knows I have been trying to arrange this. How would you like to come to England, and live there always?’
‘With you and Mama and Tante Liesl?’
‘Tante Liesl will come to visit often. Perhaps even one day live with you, if that is what you would like. But yes, you would live in a cottage with your mama and I will come and visit as often as I can.’
‘Every week?’
‘Perhaps not every week. But you can visit me in London too.’
‘Will there be swans?’
‘I cannot guarantee swans, but I will try. Will ducks do if I can’t arrange swans?’
Anna considered. ‘Perhaps. But not geese. They smell like rotten onions.’
And they look like stormtroopers marching, thought Hannelore, all blond and goosestepping and stupid.
‘Can we have roses?’
‘Definitely roses. And daffodils and violets and a boy to grow all the flowers and vegetables you like best.’
‘And a dog. Please, please Tante Hannelore, may I have a dog?’
A dog had been impossible while she was at boarding school. But in England she would have a special governess, an ex-teacher from the school for the blind there.
‘You must ask Mama’s permission. But I think she will let you have a dog.’
‘A fluffy one with a wet nose?’
‘Perhaps!’
‘And we will come back here for holidays, just as we do now? I love it here.’ Anna turned her face again to the lake, as if breathing in the scent of water, swans, the tall pine trees.
‘No,’ said Hannelore softly. ‘All the other things you may have. But it will not be possible for you to come back here, not for a long time, at least.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because that is the way the world is, and little girls must not ask too many questions. Nor can you tell anyone at school you are leaving, anyone except your Tante Liesl.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you tell them it might not happen,’ said Hannelore, her heart clenching at the truth. ‘Come, run now and wash your hands and knees too, and change your socks. They have mud on them.’
‘Yes, Tante Hanne. I love you, Tante Hanne.’
‘I love you too, my little rose. I love you so very much.’
Chapter 14
It may seem redundant to eat the jam in season, when you can eat the fresh fruit too. But even though jam may last, the subtlety of its scent when first made does not. There is a moral in that somewhere, my dears, but I am not sure where. Possibly, as I grow older — preserved, like jam — I do not care to look.
Miss Lily, 1914
Normally Sophie was first at breakfast, to fortify the day with coffee and a half-hour commune with the rosellas now feasting on the crabapples, or whatever other bird had decided to dine in her garden.
James and the aviatrices had left at first light the previous morning, fortified with Thermoses of hot sweet tea, a brown paper-wrapped fruitcake and many sandwiches. Sophie was still stunned to see the transformation of Miss Morrison, as well as guilty that she had not thought to enable it after she had met the pilot eleven years earlier. Though admittedly a lot had been happening eleven years ago . . .
This morning Lily already sat at the table, absent-mindedly reading yesterday’s newspaper. She put it down at the sound of footsteps, looked up and met Sophie’s eyes — wait for three seconds after eye contact, she had always instructed — then smiled. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Sophie bent to kiss her cheek, and received a kiss in return. ‘Strangely enough, I did. And you?’
‘Well enough.’
Which meant a night
of pain, thought Sophie, as she crossed to the breakfast dishes kept hot on the spirit lamps, with a cold ham carefully shielded from the flies under netting. But Lily’s shadowed eyes would have told her that anyway.
Lily smiled again, a comforting one this time. ‘Nothing a little laudanum couldn’t quench. But I find I am . . . eager . . . to see Shillings again. It will be autumn, the late pears just ripening, and the Bramley’s Seedlings and the rosehips for sauce Eglantine with a leg of lamb. Not that Midge’s roasts are not excellent — I have even grown fond of roast pumpkin. But they don’t have the flavour of home.’
So Shillings is still home, thought Sophie, as she helped herself to a poached egg with the season’s first fresh asparagus, delivered yesterday, drizzled with hollandaise sauce. But of course Shillings was ‘home’, to someone whose ancestors had lived there for so many generations, who had carried the responsibility of the estate and its people for decades.
Sophie sat and selected toast from the rack to soak up the egg yolk. ‘Lily, darling, do you mind about Daniel?’
‘I am glad you are happy. More glad than you can ever know.’ A third kind of smile as Lily lowered a small portion of the lemon butter-smeared toast she had been about to eat. ‘I once dreamed of a Shillings where Lily-Nigel lived with Sophie and their children. But then that would have to be in a world of tolerance and compassion. I don’t think I will see a world like that in my lifetime.’
Sophie bent to her egg and toast. Lily had become frailer in the past year. Perhaps the sea voyage might strengthen her, or the air of Shillings.
‘Coffee or tea, your ladyship?’
‘Tea this morning, I think, Jenkins. Darjeeling, perfect. Thank you.’
It was not fair that she should have passion and Lily pain, but she had been taught early — and by Lily herself — that life was not fair. And that even so, there could be joy.
She glanced back at Lily and met her smiling eyes. Yes, Lily was happy, despite the pain, despite the marriage Nigel had longed for lasting only those few precious years.
‘I am going back to Shillings,’ said Lily softly. ‘I love Thuringa, my dear. But Shillings is . . .’
‘Where you belong?’
‘No. I think, perhaps, I am a citizen of the world. But it is who I am. Who I will always be, no matter what clothes I wear, even though Danny now holds the title. Shillings is my duty, perhaps the deepest part of me. Caring for it — knowing it is cared for — well, you understand, as does your Daniel. Both of you understand how love and duty can blend in your soul.’
Chapter 15
Do people laugh and throw streamers at the beginning of a voyage to ensure they do not cry till they can be in private?
Miss Lily, 1908
THE SS PORT MORUYA, OCTOBER 1936
The streamers were pink and white, stretching between the passengers at the rail and the pier. The harbour’s blue was shattered into a million shades of sunlight. Women laughed, children squealed with excitement, delivery boys carried last-minute baskets of cellophane-wrapped fruit or flowers up the gangplank, porters wheeled vast trunks labelled Not wanted on the voyage to be stored in the hold.
Men yelled instructions. Seagulls shrieked — though, as they always shrieked, Sophie decided they probably were not partaking of the excitement.
Engines hummed under her feet, like the solid earth come to life. Sophie suddenly realised why ships were called she. This ship had a personality as vivid as any human’s. A most gorgeous personality too, with six decks, a central staircase, twelve less-ostentatious staircases, some for crew only, a grand salon that attempted to rival Versailles with its gilt and glory and stained glass, a library, a smoking room (men only), a gymnasium, hairdressing salon, barber’s shop, four masseurs with massage benches in four small, sun-drenched rooms, the ship’s shop, complete with costumier for those who had not included a dress for the costume ball, a swimming pool, billiard room, a palm court with orchestra, a jazz band for dancing nightly as well as a string quartet to accompany afternoon tea.
Tugs tooted. The streamers between ship and shore broke. Violette ran to her, shouldering her way easily through the crowd, two young men already in tow. ‘Aunt Sophie! Aunt Lily! Have you seen the grand salon? And my bedroom, it has gold and pink brocade curtains . . .’
Lily coughed gently. One did not talk about one’s bedroom furnishings in front of strange young men. At least, not accidentally, and not in public.
‘Oh, I am sorry, this is Mr Lawrence Farquhar and this is Terry Fatchett-Hawkins and I have promised I will dance with them both tonight! And now we must see the deck tennis court!’ She vanished, her two swains with her.
‘Surely she can’t get up to too much trouble on board,’ said Sophie dubiously.
‘Not as long as she uses contraception,’ said Lily calmly. She laughed at Sophie’s expression. ‘My dear, I took care of that before we left. Violette has so far accepted the need for virginity to make sure she is regarded as suitable for marriage to “People Like Us”. True, her background is . . . unusual, but her connections with Shillings, as well as her parents’ comfortable finances will make her quite acceptable in these more relaxed days. But the young men on this ship will be suitable — for dalliance at any rate. And, besides, everyone accepts misbehaviour at sea.’
Sophie flushed.
Lily laughed. ‘Darling Sophie, there is little else to do on board except read, play deck tennis or bridge, swim in a boring rectangle of captured salt water and eat far too much. Ships rely on feeding their passengers to keep them docile, like ducks being prepared to be slaughtered for paté de foie gras. Besides,’ Lily continued, ‘discovering the joys of sexual relations will keep Violette safely occupied until her parents join us. And by then, hopefully, she will also have learned discretion.’ Another smile, almost sentimental. ‘Just as her mother did at Violette’s age. I remember . . . no, an old woman’s memories are far too boring . . .’
‘Lily, you could never, ever be boring. Especially when talking about Green’s exploits as a young woman.’
‘More fascinating than your young man waiting in your stateroom?’
Sophie felt her blush deepen to scarlet. Only Lily, surely, would call Daniel ‘her young man’.
Lily bent and kissed her cheek, her only difficulty being to reach it from under the broad brim of her sun hat. ‘Be off with you. I hope every second is enthralling. I am now going to anoint myself thickly with cucumber cream to try to repair a few of the ravages of sunlight — do be careful with your complexion at sea, my darling — and read Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I am told it is wonderfully scandalous, but I am afraid it won’t be nearly as interesting as our own lives.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Sophie, who had not read it yet either. She managed to walk beautifully, elegantly and with grace to her stateroom, where the stewardess had already unpacked for her, and a man with sun-browned face and arms already waited in her mauve and silver brocaded bed.
She had told the stewardess she did not need help to dress. First night at sea was never formal. But nonetheless, she must be seen in the dining room, and Daniel too. Misbehaviour was tolerated at sea but only when the rules were obeyed. Plus Rose and Danny would expect her to join them for their earlier dinner with Miss Letitia.
She bent and stroked Daniel’s chest. She had seen it bare for the first time when they had slept together, the night before she had flown to England. She had seen it many times since then, at picnics on the river with the Harrisons. Daniel was a strong swimmer, and had taught both Rose and Danny the Australian crawl.
She had seen glimpses of his chest between his open shirt buttons as they rode together in the early morning, until she had found the increasing intimacy of those rides too difficult. The last glimpse had been in his cricket whites, Bald Hill versus Bunyip Creek. There had been droplets of sweat on his skin, and she’d had to force herself not to stare . . .
Daniel spoke without opening his eyes. ‘Heart of my life, I am not complainin
g, but if you move your hand one inch lower you will not be leaving this stateroom for at least another two hours.’
‘I know. And I must appear at dinner. I was just remembering.’
He looked at her then. ‘What were you remembering?’
‘How you looked at that last game of cricket, with your hair ruffled under your cap. I wanted to behave like a penny dreadful heroine and swoon at your feet and say “take me in your arms”.’
‘The vicar would have been shocked. I might even have been booted off the team.’
Sophie laughed. As the Bald Hill cricket team — which had never won a match — included Reggie Sykes who was ninety-two and Bill Bland who’d been legally blind since Ypres but insisted he could hear the ball — and was in fact one of their better batters, though that was not saying much — Daniel’s position was probably secure. ‘I felt the same every time I watched you swim, too. Even sometimes at dinner at Midge’s. We would all be respectably talking about meat prices and I would be imagining . . . well, exactly how I have had you all to myself all afternoon. And I will again tonight, too.’ She sighed. ‘But we had better change for dinner.’
‘Yes.’ Daniel sat, removing at least a little of the temptation, and reached for his shirt, then hesitated. ‘Sophie?’
‘Yes, my love?’
He shook his head with a rueful laugh. ‘I am trying to find a way to ask if you are disappointed.’
She sat up straighter, blinking. ‘What?’
‘I suspect your husband was rather expert . . .’
‘My husband was trained by a Japanese courtesan and was excellent indeed. But . . .’ Sophie struggled to find the words. ‘I don’t mean there wasn’t love between us — sexual love, eros as well as agape. But with you . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I have no words. As a little girl I thought there was only one true love for each of us. As an adult I learned there are many possible loves, as well as many possible lives. But now, suddenly, I believe exactly what I did when I was eight years old. I have one true love, and you are he.’
Daniel looked at her, his eyes dark and glowing all at once. ‘I . . . I find I have no words, either.’
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 8
