That had been the turning point: from then on they could not convince themselves that Heidigran was just a bit vague these days, a bit forgetful. It was clear that she could not safely continue to live alone. She might leave the gas turned on or let saucepans boil dry, or wander out of the house in the middle of the night. With the family about to leave for their holiday in France, hasty arrangements had been made for Heidigran to stay with Charles and Anita, the girls’ uncle and aunt.
Zoë hadn’t been in Banbury that day, and Hilly knew that she was still wondering what all the fuss was about. Heidigran ate with a good appetite, had an extra helping of the stuffed pork, and made normal conversation. ‘Wonderful! What a delicious lunch! You are lucky, Rose, having these two to do the cooking.’
‘Yes, they’ve done well. But don’t let them fool you. This is a first.’
Hilly had seen her mother’s suspicious glances; she was not taken in by her daughters’ conspicuous politeness to each other. While Hilly cleared the plates, Zoë carried in the substitute cheesecake, to their father’s feigned astonishment.
‘What, there’s more? And that doesn’t look like it came out of a packet!’
‘Cheesecake! I love cheesecake,’ said Heidigran. ‘Who made it?’
There was a slight pause. Hilly picked up a rumpled napkin.
‘I did,’ said Zoë, flushing slightly.
‘What,’ said Dad, ‘my little Zoesie got herself organized in the kitchen?’
Zoë gave him a simpering look from under her eyelashes.
‘Hey, I’ve got a pair of domesticated daughters … what a team, eh!’
‘Don’t overdo it, Dad,’ said Hilly. ‘We can turn our hand to cooking, like any capable person. Doesn’t mean we’re aiming to be domestic goddesses. We can do lots of things.’ She passed Zoë the serving slice.
‘The two of you remind me of that song,’ said Heidigran. ‘Anyone know the one I mean?’
‘What song?’
Heidigran’s forehead creased; then she started to sing, gathering volume as she remembered: ‘Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters … The Beverley Sisters, was it?’
‘I’ve heard it,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t think we could really call these two devoted, though. Most of the time they just about manage to put up with each other. I’m amazed, though,’ she added to the girls, ‘to find such sisterly accord, after a morning cooped up in the kitchen together. Makes a nice change! I’d have expected you to be at each other’s throats.’
Hilly caught Zoë’s eye; the most furtive of smiles passed between them.
‘Here, Gran.’ Zoë passed a plate. ‘Dad?’
‘You bet.’
‘Really,’ Zoë said as they all began on the cheesecake, ‘it was Hilly’s recipe. She showed me how to do it.’
‘Delia Smith’s,’ Hilly corrected.
‘Anyway, it’s great!’ Their father was eating rapidly, with appreciative sound-effects. ‘Great work, both of you, and Delia. Are you offering seconds?’
‘Hilly, you look pale,’ said Mum. ‘And you’re hardly eating. Are you all right?’
‘I’m OK,’ Hilly said; spending all morning with food had not done much for her grogginess. ‘Had a headache last night, but it’s not so bad today.’
‘Another headache? A bad one?’
‘Last night it was.’
‘You didn’t tell me you had a headache,’ Zoë said. Hilly toyed with her fork; neither of them wanted to start discussing last night.
‘Hilly, I’m taking you to the doctor about these headaches,’ their mother said. ‘They’re getting worse, aren’t they?’
‘That’s funny. Rachel used to get bad headaches,’ said Heidigran. ‘Migraine, it’s called. Had to go to the doctor.’
Everyone looked at her.
‘Rachel?’ said the girls’ mother.
And now Heidigran seemed puzzled. Zoë looked at Hilly.
‘You were talking about someone called Rachel,’ Dad prompted. ‘Who had bad headaches.’
‘Rachel?’ Heidigran’s face clouded with uncertainty. ‘Who’s Rachel?’
Lunch was over; Heidi had enjoyed being waited on, and they wouldn’t let her help with the clearing-up. She was pleasantly full of food but now her head was muzzed with tiredness. Rose steered her towards an armchair. ‘Sit down and have a doze if you like, Mum. We’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She arranged cushions, brought a footstool.
Heidi’s attention was caught by the piano. She had noticed it as soon as she came in. It was squat and rather ugly compared to the piano she knew, which was dark, lustrous rosewood, with a lace cloth and a candlestick on its lid. That one had a special stool, with an upholstered tapestry seat that could be lifted off to reveal a space inside where the music was kept, books and folded sheets. And always, always, the piano was kept polished, so that its wood seemed to glow; it reminded her of a groomed animal, or perhaps a fresh conker, a pleasure to touch and stroke. This one looked neglected, with rings and scrapes on the cheap-looking wood. Heidigran waited to see if someone was going to come and play, but no one did. The girl, the younger of the two, the pretty one with long fair hair, brought her a cup of tea. Such odd clothes they wore these days. Surely she must be cold, with all that middle showing.
‘Danke sehr,’ said Heidi.
The girl gave her an odd look and went away.
It was Rachel who played the piano, she remembered now. Where was Rachel? She looked round, but the kitchen was full of those other people, chattering and laughing the way they did, too quick for her to follow. She closed her eyes, and Rachel stepped out of her memory. Plain brown hair she had, clipped back from a middle parting; a quiet, serious face, a bit like this other girl, the one with glasses. Rachel lifted the lid of the piano stool and began sorting through the music stored inside. Then, finding what she wanted, she replaced the upholstered seat and settled herself comfortably, arranging the sheet music on its support. She paused, spreading her hands on the keys. And then the music.
Heidi’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Mum?’ Rose, Rose, that was who it was, bent down to her. ‘What is it?’
‘That tune,’ said Heidi, reaching for a tissue she did not have.
The time she went away on the train, she took her favourite book with her: Heidi, by Johanna Spyri. Mutti had been reading it aloud, a bit every bedtime. It had been a pleasure to look forward to at the end of each day, lying warm and snuggled in bed while Mutti’s soft voice told the story. Sometimes the words and the pictures in her head had blurred into dreams. They had not finished the story, and she did not want it to finish, ever: she wanted to go on and on hearing about Heidi and the mountain hut and the old man and the goats. Now she would have to finish reading by herself, even though it was really too hard. No one in England would be able to read the German to her. She would have to imagine Mutti’s voice reading, hear the words in her head.
At the station, the men in black uniform stopped the parents coming through to the platform. There were lots and lots of parents, some of them crying. Mutti did not cry, which proved she didn’t care, not really. She smiled, though her eyes were red, and said, ‘Be a good girl! We’ll be with you as soon as we possibly can.’ Then she waved as cheerfully as if they were only parting for a day or two. But they had never been parted before, ever, not even for one night. Why wasn’t she sniffing into a handkerchief or openly crying, like the other mothers and even some of the fathers? And Vati was away on another of his business trips, and had not even bothered to come.
The train was full of children, some of them only toddlers, some as old as fourteen. All the bigger girls, any who looked older than eleven or so, had been put in charge of younger ones. Some looked excited, some bewildered, some ran through the carriages shouting about what they could see.
Mutti had told her it would be like this. The men in black, unsmiling, checked the tickets and the passes the children wore round their necks. They opened all the bags and cases
and sometimes took things out. The journey went on and on, through sleeping, waking, reading her book, eating the sandwiches Mutti had made for her, and going – but not until she was quite desperate – to the small, smelly lavatory. It was hot on the train, far too hot to wear her winter coat, and she was bewildered by the changes of scenery. At one point, woken by cheering, she blinked and rubbed her eyes, wondering if they were in England already. ‘We’re in Holland!’ someone told her, and now, instead of the black uniforms, there were smiling ladies handing out orange juice and chocolate, and soft white bread-and-butter, and it felt like a party. Then the Hook of Holland, the end of the train journey: all ships and masts and crates and yells and clanging. The ship waiting for them was enormous, and the sea, which she had never seen before, frightened her when they were out in the middle of it – shining, grey-green, muscular, with gulls planing over its surface. From the deck she saw foam creaming away from the ship’s prow and the ripples spreading out for what seemed miles behind. The world was bigger than she had ever guessed. The sea and the sky made her feel so tiny that she could be buffeted right off the boat, swept away and lost, and no one would notice.
At last there was land. She had heard of the White Cliffs of Dover, and expected to see them rising sheer and white from the sea, like something built to keep her out, but the place they had reached was not called Dover but Harritsch, and had no cliffs. She did not think that sounded a very English name, until she saw the name on the station platform: Harwich, which she would have pronounced Harvick. Some of the children were to stay near here, at a holiday camp by the sea; she thought that sounded rather nice, but she was led, with the others who already had places, to another train. From a dusty-smelling carriage she saw a broad river estuary, fields of ripening corn, and cows grazing. Then London, a much bigger station, and here some of the children were claimed and taken away. The rest spent their first night in England in a building close by, called a hostel.
She cried, alone at last under her rough blanket, and heard other children crying too. One of the older girls, Helga, got out of her bed and went to the most distressed of the younger children and began to sing. A small hand crept out from under the blanket and curled its fingers round Helga’s. At last a quiet of breathing, and only muffled sobbing, settled over the dormitory.
If it hadn’t been dark, she would have read some more of her book. Although she didn’t know yet how the story ended, she had started again from the beginning, because Heidi in the story was setting out just like this, to a new life. Heidi wasn’t frightened of her strange grandfather, even though everyone else was.
The good thing about a story was that once you’d read it, it was inside your head and you could tell it to yourself when the pages were closed and night-time came. She had a small toy rabbit inside her case and she could have cuddled that, but she cuddled her book instead and wondered if there might be alps and goats where she was going.
Next day they were off again. Early in the morning they were roused and told to dress, given breakfast (sloppy stuff called porridge, and cooked bread, and tea so strong that it made her mouth hurt) and herded off through the streets to yet another station. Not all the children went this time, only a group of about fifteen, including Helga, for which she was grateful; Helga was the oldest of the group and looked sensible and kind. Perhaps a mistake had been made and they were being taken back to Harwich. Perhaps England didn’t want them after all. Perhaps their parents did want them, wanted them sent back! But no, the man in charge said the train would take them to a place called Northampton. ‘Noughthampson’ was all her tongue could make of it when she tried to copy. There were no mountains in Harwich or London, but maybe Northampton was different. Maybe there would be alps and snowy peaks, and paths winding up the hillside to flowery meadows where goats grazed?
London was not much like Köln. It looked dirty, busy, with smoke-stained brick buildings, but she liked the red buses. She had been on so many trains now that she would rather have liked to go to Northampton on a red bus, but they were packed into a train compartment and she stared at the grubby backs of houses as the train pulled out. It was funny how trains seemed to creep in and out of cities through back entrances. She saw lines of washing, tiny gardens planted with beans and cabbages, a little boy waving from a shed roof. He wore baggy shorts, and socks that sagged round his ankles, and a cheeky grin. She waved back, watching his face blur as the train swept past. It cheered her to see a child of her own age who looked friendly, although he didn’t know of course that she spoke a different language.
People in England didn’t like Germans. Helga told her that. ‘A lot of them don’t understand. They won’t like us. They’ll call us names. They fought us in the war.’
Jerry. Kraut. Filthy Hun. Hitler-Lover. All those became familiar over the next few months, when the new war began. And the taunt that became her own: German Measle.
Chapter Six
Dangerous Corner
What most people mean by truth … is only half the real truth. It doesn’t tell you all that went on inside everybody. It simply gives you a lot of facts that happened to have been hidden away and were perhaps a lot better hidden away. It’s rather treacherous stuff.
J. B. Priestley, Dangerous Corner
‘Fine, while it’s the summer holidays,’ said Annagran, on the phone. ‘But how are you all going to manage once term starts?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Hilly, who had been asking herself the same question. ‘Mum goes to meetings, the Alzheimer’s Support Group, and there’s a carer called Josie who’s going to come round once a week. And Mum can change her hours at the sports centre, swap with the other instructors to work evenings and weekends. We’ll have to work something out.’
‘It’s good of Rose, but it puts a burden on the whole family. You and Zoë can’t be expected to organize your lives around the needs of a seventy-two-year-old, even if she is your grandmother. It really needs a longer-term solution. I’ll help whenever I can – come and keep her company, or take her out for a jaunt. You’ll tell Rose, won’t you? And there are day centres, even if she won’t hear of residential care.’
‘OK. Gran – Dad’s here now. I’ll pass you over.’
Hilly’s father, just in from work, took the phone, loosening his tie with his spare hand. ‘Hello, Ma. Yes, just got in.’ While he listened he grabbed Hilly in a one-armed bear hug, pulling her off-balance; the way he still did, as if she was a little kid. With ears muffled against his jacket she heard him say: ‘Yes, brilliant! Deserved it, the way she worked. She’s a great girl, my Hilly. I’m so proud of her.’ Then Annagran’s indistinct voice, on and on without a break, evidently going through the Heidigran conversation again. Hilly wriggled free and went upstairs.
Annagran, the girls’ only other grandparent, was in fact six years older than Heidigran, but it was hard to believe this now that Heidigran was ill. The two grans were so different. Heidigran had always been rather conventional, dressing in tweedy skirts and cardigans and smart court shoes. Annagran, small, crop-haired, looking years younger than her age, wore denim and fleece and trainers, and was eminently capable. Heidigran, it was becoming increasingly clear, was not. At her better times, it was still possible to imagine there was nothing wrong; she would play Scrabble, weed and tidy the garden, take an interest in Hilly’s and Zoë’s comings and goings, comment on their clothes. But there was no predicting when she would drift into vagueness or, worse, a frustrated awareness of how little she could remember.
On Saturday afternoon, when Reuben came round for Hilly’s piano lesson, Heidigran suddenly took against him, behaving as if he were an unwelcome stranger.
‘Who’s that?’ She stared from her armchair, startled from the pages of her gardening magazine, while Oscar slept on her lap.
‘It’s Reuben, Gran!’ said Hilly. ‘You know Reuben!’
‘Reuben,’ Heidigran repeated slowly. She looked at the carpet and traced a circle with the toe of her slipper, then l
ooked up at Reuben’s face. ‘And where did you get that name, young man?’
Hilly almost giggled; it seemed such a strange thing to say.
‘My parents liked it,’ Reuben said. ‘I wish they’d thought of something else – anything else. Everyone except Hilly calls me Ruby.’
‘You know Reuben, Gran! You’ve met him dozens of times! And he was here yesterday – you knew him then—’
Heidigran looked at him again, shaking her head. ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’
‘You do know him, course you do!’ Hilly heard herself using the bracing tone she had disliked when she heard nurses use it.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea before we start. Want some, Reuben?’
‘Thanks.’ Reuben sat at the piano, opening the lid. He looked at Heidigran. ‘OK if I—?’
‘Good idea,’ said Hilly. ‘She might remember who you are, if you play.’
From the kitchen, filling the kettle and assembling mugs, Hilly heard a few warm-up fragments, then the first of the Gershwin preludes Reuben was practising for next week’s concert with the youth orchestra. But after only a few moments the music stopped, and she heard conversation: Heidigran’s voice, sounding agitated, and Reuben’s, quiet and low. Hilly looked in to see the piano lid closed again, and Reuben facing her grandmother, who stared at him with a mixture of indignation and confusion.
‘What’s up?’ Hilly said, still in the jollying-along voice that sounded false even to herself.
‘Your gran says I shouldn’t play without asking Rachel first. I said there isn’t a Rachel here, but she’s not having that. Who’s Rachel?’
‘Who’s Rachel, Gran?’ Hilly asked gently.
‘It’s Rachel’s piano,’ said Heidigran, in a tone that suggested everyone ought to know. ‘She’s the only one who plays it.’
‘And Rachel is … ?’ Hilly tried.
But suddenly Heidigran’s face wore the defeated look Hilly had seen before. ‘Can’t remember.’ For a second she looked likely to lapse into tears. Hilly went over and hugged her; Oscar made a protesting remark and shifted his position.
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