“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he said. “My business took longer than I had anticipated. But I have brought you a present.”
He held out the parcel.
“May I open it now?”
“Of course.”
She fumbled at the string while John Townsend and Lockwood waited patiently beside the car.
“Did you bring presents for Johnnie and Alicia too?”
“Of course.”
She reached the box, opened it, took out the doll. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” Then she frowned. “But it’s Greek.”
“That’s right. I bought it in Athens.”
“I would have liked a Serbian doll,” Anna said.
“Ah . . .” John Townsend and his son exchanged glances. “I’m afraid there weren’t any Serbian dolls to be had,” Berkeley said.
“We’ll get one, one day,” Anna said confidently, and got into the car.
John junior was ten, and Alicia eight; neither was yet as positive as their sister; equally, neither was quite so happy to have the father they so seldom saw back. Berkeley sometimes wondered if they actually knew who he was, but they were even more appreciative of their presents, which were another female doll for Alicia and a large model of an Evzone, the Greek royal guard, complete with frilly skirt and odd-shaped shoes, for John.
Lockwood had also brought presents for his children, and for his wife; he had far less problems. Maria, who had been Caterina’s maid, had entirely settled in to life in England, as had her children – but then, she had no background of hatred and murder, as had the Slovitzas: until she had married Lockwood she had only left Sabac on two occasions, for brief visits to Belgrade.
“Tell me about them,” Berkeley asked his mother that evening after the children had gone to bed and he could sit with his parents for an after dinner cigar and a glass of brandy.
“They’re lovely children,” Alicia Townsend said. “I wish you could spend more time with them. Can’t you spend more time with them?”
“I’m afraid it’s unlikely for the next few years. How are they doing at school?”
“Oh, they’re quick, and bright. We need to talk about that. I mean, what follows. Anna is eleven. She needs more than the local school can provide. So will the others, of course, as time goes by. But Anna is the most urgent.”
Berkeley got up and took a turn around the room. “Where did you have in mind?”
“There is a good girls’ boarding school not far from Northampton. It’s called Corby Abbey. Very jolly hockey sticks.”
“What you are saying is that it is very English.”
“Well of course. What else did you expect?”
“Anna is very conscious that she is a Serb.”
“A half-Serb, Berkeley. Anyway, that is something she is going to have to grow out of, just as rapidly as possible. Her future belongs here, in England.”
“It needs to be done slowly.”
“No, it needs to be done with all haste,” Alicia said fiercely. “Because she is having that effect on the others. They want to be English. She wants to be Serbian. She is constantly reminding them of their forebears. The games they play are always Serbs against Austrians. I don’t think that’s healthy. If only you could be here, more often and for longer . . . don’t get me wrong, Berkeley. They are lovely children, and they cause us no trouble. Looking after them is a treat. But the fact is they do not really regard us as family. At least, Anna doesn’t, and as I say, she has total influence over the other two.”
“So you would like to get rid of her.”
“I didn’t say that. I am thinking of what is best for her, and best for everyone. She needs to go to a school which will instil English standards, English beliefs, in her more firmly than your father and I can do.”
John Townsend sipped his brandy. A retired civil servant, now for more than twenty years, he had never been very good at coping with family crises.
“I’ll think about it,” Berkeley said. “And have a chat with Anna.”
“Oh, by the way,” his mother said, “did you know that Julia Braddock is back at the Gracey Farm?”
“No, I did not know that,” Berkeley said.
“But you did know that she and Harvey have separated?”
“I had heard it. Some time ago, wasn’t it?”
“It happened at the beginning of the War. When they returned from Bosnia.”
Berkeley nodded. “Are they divorced?”
“I believe they are going to be. It’s an unpleasant business, all manner of claims and counter claims, from wife-beating to adultery. Berkeley, you were in Sarajevo just before the War started, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did you see anything of them?”
“As a matter of fact I did,” Berkeley confessed. “I also met them when Harvey was posted to Athens, a few years before that.”
Met them, he thought, somewhat bitterly.
“Berkeley . . .” Alicia flushed. “Their separation didn’t have anything to do with you, did it?”
“I think you should ask them that.”
“What I mean is . . .” her flush deepened. “You and she were practically engaged before you went off and married that Serbian woman . . . don’t get me wrong, please. Caterina was a lovely girl, and I am sure we would have got on very well. But her stay here was so brief. And then Julia . . .” she lapsed into totally embarrassed silence.
“Yes, Mother,” Berkeley said. “Julia was my mistress, in Athens.”
“Oh, lord.”
“Well,” he said, “you’ve been dying to ask, haven’t you? It so happens, that she was there, and I was there, she was unhappy with Harvey, I was unhappy with Caterina, and we remembered that we had once been in love . . . so . . . I don’t think we fell in love again. But we consummated what might have been.”
“Oh, Berkeley.” His mother squeezed his hand. In her society one did not really mention things like adultery. But that, Berkeley supposed, was the great difference between the ‘them’ and the ‘us’. His parents stood for the essentially Victorian ideals and principles to which they had been brought up, in which certain events, ideas, and even words, were ‘unmentionables’. They would have preferred to keep even the Great War as an unmentionable, as they had managed to keep so many colonial wars in that category through the previous century, no matter how hideous some of them might have been.
But the War had been too immense to sweep under the carpet. It had affected, by direct loss, even if only in time and money, every family in the land, had changed perceptives, language, ideas beyond recognition, and certainly beyond retrogression. So his parents, and all of their society, were left floundering in a morass they did not want but could not escape, while the rest only knew that they had escaped, by their blood and their patriotism, from the deadening effects of being inferior.
John Townsend refilled both their glasses. “But there was never any . . . well . . .”
“Idea of carrying it further, Father?”
“Well, you say you were both unhappy in your marriages . . .”
“Yet we were both married. And as always, Julia wanted impossibilities. She wanted me to give up the Army and elope with her. When I explained that was impossible, she took umbrage.”
“Why was it impossible?”
“For the very practical reason that the Army was my life, my reason for being in the Balkans at all, as their agent, and that reason required me to be married to Catarina Slovitza. And for the very real reason that Caterina was the mother of my children. I could not abandon them.”
John sighed.
“But now,” Alicia said, “if Julia is free . . . if you were to marry her . . .”
Berkeley snorted. Julia Gracey, the ultimate ‘us’, step-mother of Anna Townsend, the ultimate product of ‘them’?
“I don’t think that’s a practicality, Mother,” he said. “She’d undoubtedly still want me to give up the Army.”
Next morning he too
k Anna for a ride over the rolling countryside. Like her mother, or her Serbian grandmother, she was a superb horsewoman, save that having been educated in the English way of life, she rode side-saddle.
“It is good to have you home, Papa,” she said. “So good. Are you going to be able to stay a while?”
“I’m afraid probably not,” he said. “Always remember that I am always here in spirit. And that I will always come home to you.”
“Will you, Papa?”
He turned his head, sharply.
“Mama told me, once, before she died, that you lived a terribly dangerous life,” Anna said.
“You remember that?”
“Of course.”
“Did she tell you why it was dangerous?”
“I don’t think she knew herself. But she said you were some kind of agent, who worked for several people.”
“Not quite true,” he said. “I only ever worked for one set of people. But they made me work for others.”
“Did you really ride with the Black Hand, against the Austrians?”
“I’m afraid I did. With your grandmother.”
“How I wish I had been alive then.”
“Do you?” But he could not prevent himself remembering that it had been the most exhilarating period of his life. “It was no occupation for a young lady, believe me.”
“Am I a young lady, Papa?”
“That’s the idea.” He had been guiding them towards a small copse, and now he drew rein, dismounted, and held up his hands to lift her from the saddle.
“How did Mama die?” she asked.
He frowned at her.
“Please,” she said. “I think I am entitled to know.”
How grown up she was.
“She died very gallantly, fighting the Austrians,” he said.
“Is that the truth, Papa?”
Berkeley swallowed. How do you tell a little girl that her mother hanged herself after being tortured? You simply don’t. “Yes. That is the truth. I tried to save her, but I could not.”
“I know you would have tried, Papa.”
It was time to change the subject. “How would you like to go to school?”
She frowned. “I do go to school.”
“That is virtually kindergarten. You’re too old for that now. Wouldn’t you like to go to a proper girls’ school? Somewhere you’d board, and make lots of friends, and get a proper education?”
Anna took off her hat and shook out her hair. “And become very British.”
“Well, my dear, you are British.”
“Do you wish me to go to this school, Papa?”
“I think it would be the best thing for you. You must have the best education possible. Worthwhile husbands always value education and intelligence in their wives, more than beauty. Not that you are going to have any problems on the beauty score.”
“You wish me to marry?”
“Well, of course. When you are old enough. Every woman wants to be married. Doesn’t she?” he asked with some anxiety, as Anna did not look the least enthusiastic.
“To an Englishman?”
“Yes,” he said. “To an Englishman. Or a Scot or a Welshman or an Irishman. Somebody British.”
“When I am older,” she said thoughtfully.
He heard hooves, and they both turned to watch the horsewoman descending the slope towards them. Berkeley reckoned she might have been watching them for some time.
“Berkeley Townsend,” she said as she came up to them. “I thought I recognised you.”
“Julia,” he remarked. “You never change.”
This was not strictly true. Julia Gracey had always been tall and slim, and as a girl had worn her straight yellow hair befittingly long. Now she had followed fashion and cut her hair, which had had the effect of leaving her somewhat gaunt features over-exposed, while her body was thinner than he remembered, even during their brief affair in Athens.
“I had hoped to see you again before now,” she said. Her parents’ farm was only a few miles away.
“I know. Things like a war got in the way.”
She snorted, and looked past him at Anna.
“I see your disgusting habits haven’t changed,” she commented. “You should be ashamed of yourself. That girl is young enough to be your daughter.”
“I should hope so,” Berkeley agreed. “As she is my daughter,”
Julia stared at him for several seconds while embarrassed colour surged into her cheeks. Then she wheeled her horse and rode away.
“Who was that woman, Papa?” Anna asked.
“I suppose you could say, an old friend,” Berkeley told her.
You could say, he reflected.
*
Anna apparently acquiescing, the wheels were put in motion. Berkeley and his mother took the girl to visit Corby Abbey, to call upon the headmistress, Miss Plumb.
“I’m sure your daughter will be most welcome, Colonel Townsend,” Miss Plumb remarked, smiling at Anna. In contrast to her name she was a slender woman, middle-aged and short, quiet in her demeanour and voice. “There will have to be a test, but that will be merely to establish in which form she should begin; it is not an entrance examination. You say she has been attending the school in Northampton?”
“That is correct,” Berkeley said.
“Then I am sure she is fully up to scratch. Now, Colonel, I imagine you know that this is neither a denominational school nor is it endowed. However, we do insist on religious instruction for our girls, depending upon their own practice. Would your daughter be C of E?”
“I would like to be Orthodox,” Anna said.
Miss Plumb raised her eyebrows, while Berkeley and his mother exchanged glances.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Miss Plumb said.
“She means Greek Orthodox,” Berkeley said. “It was the religion of her deceased mother.”
“Ah,” Miss Plumb said. “That may be difficult. I do not think we have any other Greek Orthodox girls in my school.”
“I’m sure Anna will happily be instructed in the Anglican Church,” Alicia suggested. “If she truly wishes to enter the Greek Orthodox Church, she can do so when she is an adult.”
Anna looked as if she would have spoken, but changed her mind.
“Why, certainly,” Miss Plumb said. “There is of course the problem of Confirmation. Most of our girls are confirmed at fourteen.” She glanced at the notes she had been making. “However, as Anna is only eleven, there is time to consider the matter.”
“What is Confirmation?” Anna asked.
“It is your official entry into the Anglican Church,” Miss Plumb said.
“I do not wish to be confirmed,” Anna declared.
For just a moment a suggestion of steel entered Miss Plumb’s eyes, then she gave a bright smile. “As I say, we have ample time to consider the matter. Now . . .” she took a printed sheet from her drawer. “Here is a list of clothing and personal effects we expect each girl to have.”
Berkeley scanned the list, then handed it to his mother; it seemed straightforward enough.
“School assembles on the fourth of September,” Miss Plumb said. “But I would like Anna to come in the previous day, so that she can take her test, and perhaps meet some of her new friends. It has been a pleasure meeting you. Colonel Townsend, could I have a private word?”
Berkeley waited while Alicia took Anna from the office. Although he did not suppose Miss Plumb was much older than himself, he was beginning to feel like a schoolboy.
Miss Plumb gestured him back to his chair. “I think you need to be frank with me, Colonel, about your daughter’s background. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, she reveals some evidence of being a difficult child.”
“I don’t think she is a difficult child in herself,” Berkeley said. “But she has had a difficult background, I agree. Her mother was a Serb, well, a Bosnian to be exact, who died in extremely distressing circumstances just before the outbreak of the War.”
“This lady was your wife?” Miss Plumb clearly wished to be certain there was no question of bastardy involved.
“Yes, she was.”
“And Anna was present when her mother died?”
“No. But she was close enough. She tells me she knew what was going on.”
“And she regards herself as a Serb first and English second.”
“That is something I would like to reverse, with your help.”
“Well, of course I shall do all I can. This business of religion, would you like me to put pressure upon your daughter to join the Anglican Church?”
“It will have to be done very gently and carefully.”
Miss Plumb nodded. “It will be.” Again she glanced at her notes. “I see you have two other children, including another daughter.”
“That is correct.”
Miss Plumb raised her head to look at him.
“Alicia is eight years old, Miss Plumb. I would hope that she also will attend your school, in due course. But I think we will have an easier time with her. She remembers nothing of Serbia and what happened there.”
“I shall look forward to meeting her,” Miss Plumb said, with feeling.
“I do not like her,” Anna said, as they were driven back to the house.
“Well,” Alicia said, “I don’t suppose it is absolutely essential for one to like one’s schoolmistress. As long as one respects and obeys her, and remembers always that she has your good at heart.”
Anna snorted.
“Do you think it is going to be all right?” Alicia asked, when they had got home and Anna had gone off to tell her siblings all about it.
“I think so. There will have to be a transitional period, of course, and she may find this difficult. But I think she’ll come through.”
“I hope so. Oh, I hope so.” Alicia said.
“Now we need to do something about Johnnie,” Berkeley decided.
It was still at least three years before Johnnie would be ready for public school, but what with the disruption caused by the War and Berkeley’s constant absence from England, the boy had not actually been entered anywhere. Berkeley immediately wrote to the headmaster of his old school, Charterhouse, and received a favourable reply. In this case there would have to be an entrance examination, but that was some time off, and once it was passed, a place was his. Berkeley had a heart to heart chat with the boy, and to his relief found Johnnie eager for the idea, even if saddened at the thought of leaving his sisters, and their ‘cousins’, with whom he had been very close.
The Quest Page 4