Widowland

by C. J. Carey

  Kaltenbrunner opened the scrap of paper, and read ponderously, ‘The beginning is always today. What’s this gibberish?’

  ‘It’s a motto . . .’ Rose cast around for inspiration. ‘It’s like, every year the Ministry sends out calendars and we have uplifting messages on special days. You know, Alliance National Day in August. April, the Leader’s birthday. We were doing a souvenir brochure for the Coronation and I thought it would go well.’

  It was all true. Entirely checkable. Utterly plausible. Almost certainly the ASO had been sent some complementary copies of their own. Probably they lit the fire with them.

  ‘Mottos?’

  ‘Just simple lines, really. The future is together. State before self. Memory is treacherous.’

  It was hard to imagine any of the Culture Ministry’s anodyne exhortations hanging on these walls.

  ‘I see.’ Kaltenbrunner looked down at the piece of paper in his hands, as though he longed to ball it up and bin it. Or tear it to tiny fragments.

  ‘And what precisely about this trite – some might say meaningless – sentiment makes it suitable for a commemorative brochure?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really. It could mean a number of things but to me it seemed to echo the Party idea of eternal change. Minister Goebbels himself has written that he favours a state of permanent revolution.’

  ‘And the paper?’

  He held the scrap up between his thumb and forefinger in demonstration.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  For a second her mind was blank. Where had she found it? Mentally she retraced her steps. She was in the office and had just returned from watching the arrival of Leni Riefenstahl. Bridget had noticed a smudge of ink on the back of her hand. Looking round for somewhere to jot down the words, she had grabbed a scrap of paper from Oliver’s desk.

  ‘I found it on the desk next to me.’

  When she walked out of the building she went down into the underground and pressed her back against the wall, gulping in the dusty air until a train arrived. The carriage was warm, the windows smeared and stuffing was seeping out from the chequered claret and green upholstery, yet it was comforting to be in this familiar, anonymous place. As the train rattled into the tunnel, the wooden slats shook beneath her feet and she had a vision of all that lay beneath – the cables and trenches, the debris and the live rail – as though her mind had reset itself and was now striving to see under the surface of everything.

  She had no clear idea why she had been arrested. Whether it was curiosity about the book she had been reading in the London Library, or a report from the odious Oscar Stephenson that she had been acting suspiciously. Or was the true focus of the ASO’s interest really Martin? If so, she dared not contact him. They would be observing her closely now.

  Studying her reflection in the train window opposite, she attempted to see herself as others might see her, focusing intently on any aspect that could possibly single her out. Everything about her was appropriate, from the navy wool evening coat pulled over her smart Geli dress, to the dark blonde hair styled in an appropriate blunt bob. She had friends from the correct caste. Her romantic relationship might transgress Party guidelines, but no more than a thousand other relationships between Gelis and senior men.

  Yet the truth was, she did feel different. She didn’t fit in. Could it be possible that the officers of the ASO perceived what she had barely acknowledged herself?

  The dim light from the glass-shaded lamps painted the other occupants with a lurid underwater tinge. No one looked at each other. Every person sat immersed in their own world, sunk in their own private thoughts. They must all have their secret hopes and dreams, but who could say if they yearned for a different world, or had lost the ability even to imagine it?

  Rose closed her eyes. Her old life felt ripped and torn up now, like a scrap of newspaper rolling along the carriage floor. This was her new existence. Plunging into darkness, with no sight of what might lie ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Thursday, 29th April

  The red-brick Victorian edifice of Kindergarten 237 had, until a decade ago, been surrounded by ornate iron railings, safeguarding the generations of children who played netball and hopscotch and tag on its tarmacked forecourt. Now, like all quality metal, the railings had been transported to the mainland, leaving only the brick structure of a gate, around which every afternoon a bunch of Klaras obediently clustered. Yet in other ways everything about the kindergarten was the same: the same blackboards and stick-man paintings tacked on the wall, the same line of hooks with art smocks hanging on them and shoes below, the same scent of chalk dust and lunch in the air. It was as if nothing had changed, instead of everything.

  When the bell rang, the children burst out, dancing round their mothers like sparkling insects around slow-moving cattle. Klaras were, indeed, nicknamed Milchmädchen – milk maidens – or more rudely Kuhfrauen – cow women – because they were obliged to pump regular quotas of excess breast milk into bottles for donation to sickly children on the mainland. Those who didn’t meet their quotas had their rations cut, which had the effect of reducing their milk supply even further, so generally the only thing they could do was produce another child.

  As soon as Hannah saw Rose her face broke into a smile, showcasing the fresh gaps in her teeth.

  ‘Auntie Rose! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Your mother sent me to fetch you.’

  ‘For a treat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The moment Rose had got back to her apartment, she had stripped off her clothes and bent over the basin to wash every inch of her body with a gritty sliver of soap, as if to scrub the last trace of the ASO from her flesh. Then she changed into a skirt and blouse, pulled on her mackintosh and telephoned Celia to suggest that she collect Hannah from school.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Celia demanded.

  ‘Coronation preparation.’

  ‘Lucky old you. Well, it would be useful actually because then I can get our Gretl to clean the silver. She’s frightfully lazy and I have a host of things to do before Sunday, not to mention some girlfriends coming over to tea. You’ve met Judy and Lettie, haven’t you?’

  Rose had, and would rather never meet them again. But she had an urgent, panicky need to see Hannah’s face. To stroke the slender childish neck, like a young gosling’s, and the invisible down on her cheek. To breathe in the innocence of the child, hold her trusting hand, and immerse herself in normality again. To read their secret stories and seek refuge in their private childhood kingdom.

  Hannah skipped alongside her, running one hand along the wall and pushing her fingers into the tiny dips and holes.

  ‘Why’s it spotty?’

  The wall was bullet-scarred and pocked by shrapnel.

  ‘It’s just old.’

  ‘Old is bad,’ Hannah repeated dreamily.

  That was one of the sayings they learned in school. Old is bad.

  Towards the end of the street, the damage to the wall intensified and in one place the mortar had entirely crumbled as though from a fierce barrage of shots aimed directly at one particular spot. Nobody had attempted to mend it. Rose stared at the scatter of gunshot, wondering exactly what horror it recorded. Then, on the ground beneath, she saw a trail of tulips, egg yolk yellow, littering the paving – and her chest tightened.

  Them.

  Already the petals were bruised by passing feet, and in an hour they would be mulch in the gutter, every bright trace of their beauty gone.

  Judy Leadbetter and Lettie Hodges, like all of Celia’s friends, were genial and uninspiring Gelis, fully immersed in the lives of their husbands and children. Neither was as pretty as Celia, which was probably why she liked them so much. Judy was dissolving into premature middle age, her flesh slack and chin sliding down into her tortoise neck, a clutch of pearls at her throat. Lettie was going the opposite way, becoming narrower and sharper like an old kitchen knife. Back in the Time Before t
hey would all have been firm adherents of the Women’s Institute, meeting every month in a draughty church hall to discuss the perennial issues of jam making and baby care. The annual outing to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition and the charity bazaar would have been the highlights of their social calendar, the tennis club, jumble sale, school and their husbands’ office would have marked the limits of their known world.

  Now that the WI had been outlawed as a criminal organization and replaced with compulsory membership of the Women’s League and the Mother Service, any frank or honest exchange of gossip required them to meet in each other’s homes.

  When Rose arrived with Hannah, the women looked up with inquisitive glances.

  ‘Not often we see you out of the office, Rose,’ observed Lettie.

  ‘It’s a busy time. All our shifts are up in the air.’

  ‘Are you coming to our street party?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘You look tired,’ said Judy, with an accusatory frown. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Where should she begin? That the previous evening she had turned down a proposal of marriage? Or that she had spent the following hours crouching in the claustrophobic basement cellars of the ASO, cowering before Ernst Kaltenbrunner and his bull-hide whip? Or that now, in a daze of fatigue and fear, she was trying to make sense of her entire existence?

  ‘I saw the King and Queen the other day. At Westminster Abbey.’

  The effect was electric. All three sat up like children promised a treat.

  ‘What was she like?’

  It was always Wallis who interested them. Nobody wanted to know about the King. The poor man elicited no more excitement than his own valet.

  ‘Regal, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Judy’s cup was poised halfway to her mouth. ‘How far away was she from you?’

  ‘About a stone’s throw.’

  ‘She’s awfully beautiful, I imagine,’ said Lettie, more than ever like a bedraggled hen in her tweedy plumage.

  ‘Very elegant certainly.’

  ‘I was just showing everyone this,’ said Lettie, burrowing in her bag and producing a commemorative plate of the King and Queen – a waxwork and a gaunt geisha in poorly produced porcelain. ‘It’s art really. Not for actual use.’

  ‘They’re so good-looking,’ cooed Celia. ‘Such a shame they never had any little ones.’

  There was a minute hiatus at this remark. The fact that Edward and Wallis were the last of the Windsors was rarely aired. Though the subject was not officially off-limits, that didn’t mean people dared openly speculate as to what might happen when they were gone. Would an ancient branch of a German royal family be drafted in to do the job, like the Hanoverians in the eighteenth century? Or, as seemed more likely, might the British monarchy be allowed to wither and die?

  ‘D’you know,’ announced Lettie, deftly changing the subject. ‘If I had to work, which thank God I don’t, I think I’d take your job, Rose. I’d absolutely love to meet the Queen.’

  ‘I didn’t actually—’

  ‘In fact, there’s only one thing I’d like better.’

  Rose saw it coming, even as Lettie pinked girlishly, and her voice lowered to a breathy gush.

  ‘And that is to meet the Leader.’

  Rose read a couple of stories to Hannah, but the magic of her imaginary kingdom had faded. Ilyria was too fragile to provide any refuge from real life. For Rose, if not Hannah, the spell of their secret world was broken.

  Bidding a brusque farewell to Judy and Lettie, she headed for the front door. Celia followed her.

  ‘You might try a bit harder with my friends, Rosalind. That was bordering on rude.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.’

  Celia brushed her cheek with an air kiss.

  ‘I suppose you’re forgiven. Matter of fact, I was going to tell you – the hospital telephoned. They want to let Dad out soon.’

  Rose flushed in delight.

  ‘Oh, Celia. That’s just fantastic. The best news I’ve had all day.’

  ‘Isn’t it. Only, don’t make a fuss, Rosalind, please . . .’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Geoffrey’s asked them to keep him in for a while longer. Just for a few weeks. Maybe a month or so. For Mum’s sake. He says it’s the least we can do.’

  A squall of rain had come and gone, and as Rose approached her apartment block, she noticed wet footprints leading up the pale stone steps and into the tiled hallway. They continued up the stairs and came to a halt outside her door.

  Danger sang in her ears.

  Opening the door cautiously, she strained for the sound of an intruder, but the air of the flat felt empty and her movements echoed in its vacancy. Moving swiftly, she went over to the hiding place in her bedroom wall, levered off the plank behind the leaf-stencilled wallpaper, carefully extracting the bricks and placing them on the floor, before reaching inside and feeling for her notebooks.

  They were still there.

  She laid them out on the floor beside her. She had completed seven notebooks now, each one meticulously dated and filled with the loops of her own hand marching neatly across each page. As she flicked through, Rose wondered yet again at this writing urge that had arisen from nowhere and taken possession of her. Perhaps writing was a way of separating herself, and staying separate, from the world around her. Of withdrawing to some inner location that even she did not properly understand. Or maybe, like Jane Eyre on the moor, straining to catch the phantom voices swirling around her in the misty air.

  Rose didn’t discriminate: the notebooks contained everything from musings and random thoughts to stories, fragments of poetry, journal entries and sometimes no more than a string of words or a sentence that appealed. They were also the place she charted her shifting feelings about Martin. In the year they had been together she had scrupulously avoided discussing the relationship with friends or family – not even Helena enjoyed full disclosure – and consequently the diary had become the only space where Rose could analyse her own conflicted emotions. There they lay in front of her: the passionate entries from when they first met and kissed, to the bewilderment when she and Martin had first made love.

  I thought it was supposed to feel more exciting than this.

  As the relationship progressed, her guilt towards Martin’s wife had intensified.

  Helga would hate me if she knew. But she couldn’t hate me more than I hate myself.

  And later: Why must Martin constantly ask what I’m thinking? Whenever he does, my instinct is always to conceal the truth. The closer we are, the further away I want to stay. Is this normal, or a fault in my character?

  Leafing through, she reached the most recent entry; the enigmatic line that had caused a frisson of excitement to run through her when she stumbled across it in the London Library. The line that Ernst Kaltenbrunner had discovered rolled up at the bottom of her bag. She had jotted it down without comment, so she would not forget it.

  The beginning is always today

  Crouching there, exhausted, her fingers itched to start writing again, even if only to record the dreadful events of the previous twenty-four hours. She knew that articulating them would help to tame and make sense of what had happened. Maybe she could turn the whole of last night’s experience into a story of some kind, or at the very least record every detail she could remember.

  That was what she would do. It was the nearest she could get to a plan of action. She would make coffee, strong and black, and a sandwich, then settle at her desk and write.

  She was still kneeling on the floor when a creak sliced the silence. She tilted her head and strained to filter the ambient noise. From the pub on the corner came the distant chink of bottles, and far beneath the ground the vague rumble of an underground train. In the flat above, a sewing machine whirred, and next door, Elsa Bottomley barked like a seal with her interminable cough.

  Rose waited, frozen as a hare on her haunches. A minute passed. Ev
ery one of her senses detected nothing, except for her sixth sense, which roared like tinnitus in her brain.

  Scrambling to her feet, she scooped up the notebooks, bundled them into the cavity, adjusting the plank and wallpaper and pushing the bed back against the wall. Then she took a deep breath to steady herself, and with a jerk, flung open the door.

  ‘Hello. I’m glad you’re in.’ Oliver Ellis emerged from the darkness of the hall and moved forward to lean against the door frame. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  ‘I wondered if now might be a good time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  The blood rushed in her ears. Disorientated by shock and fatigue, she frowned at him fiercely.

  ‘No, I don’t remember. Remember what?’

  ‘That drink I mentioned.’ He smiled. ‘If you still feel like it, that is.’

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In a greasy alley off Chinatown, down vertiginous steps to a basement, where a trail of water from a leaking drainpipe glistened on the brick, a black door faced them, the name Jazz Town stencilled roughly on its peeling paint. It was a place people went when they wanted to pretend they were citizens of the world.

  It must have been a cellar once but now the sooty corners had been whitewashed, and a tiny wooden dais erected on which a gramophone was playing. Oliver explained that although it was policed regularly, the ethos of Jazz Town was that customers should feel they were enjoying a little subversive liberty.

  The music was American, which was allowed, but it pushed at the boundaries of Culture Ministry regulations, which still proscribed swing, or anything by black performers. Only Gelis were permitted, and the male clientele contained a high proportion of Culture Ministry employees, who liked to consider themselves more relaxed in their outlook than their colleagues in more straitlaced departments. Very occasionally two men could be found together, enjoying a late-night camaraderie that was more than platonic and anywhere else would get them thrown into a camp.