The only book they had to peruse in the hostel was the Torah, helpfully provided in both Hebrew and German and, out of boredom rather than interest, Karl began to read. He discovered that he liked the Song of Songs. It had the fewest mentions of God – a definite advantage – and while he hadn’t the least idea what it was about, he enjoyed the descriptions. Other boys of fifteen or sixteen, tired of the rules, slipped off in the dead of night, planning on joining the army or hoping to find work in the factories, but Karl was in no rush to leave the boys’ home. Food and a real bed, in exchange for chores and a dash of God, was an excellent arrangement, and Karl was stubbornly small, hardly growing from year to year, so he was in no present danger of being pushed out to find work.
LONDON, APRIL
For the first time since he was a boy, Clement was losing chess games. He’d discovered the joy of playing grandmasters. These newly crowned champions were rare, and Clement found to his delight that he could not win against them. This was novel and thrilling. Then, unexpectedly, he played against a truly remarkable player summoned from Hungary to his club on Pall Mall explicitly for the purpose and, after four hours and twenty-three minutes, Clement beat him. He lost the next game and won the one after that, and then lost again. Losing wouldn’t have mattered, except to his pride, save for the fact that Clement had started betting on himself to win. He found that it heightened his enjoyment of the game to a tremendous, exhilarating degree. But soon he had embarked upon an unhappy losing streak against a series of truly brilliant players. The amount he lost was becoming uncomfortable, even for a Goldbaum. Everyone was being terribly patient and polite in recovering their debts – after all, there was no question that Clement could not pay – but soon the matter must be addressed.
He was anticipating tonight’s game with relish and anxiety. He was almost too nervous for supper, managing only a quail stuffed with pear and blue cheese, a chocolate-and-almond soufflé and a very small dish of set peach-custard. As the car drove him to the club, he experienced a thrill of anticipation, a fierce joy threaded through with fear. Tonight he would win and recover all his other losses and there would be no need for Papa to discover his debts. He could quietly pay them off himself and there would be no disgrace or unpleasant scene.
The Rolls-Royce drew up on Pall Mall and Clement slipped inside the Royal Automobile Club, of which he was a founder member. The porters all tipped their hats, assisting him with his coat and hat, while his friend Dr Matthews hovered in the entrance hall, waiting. The men greeted one another warmly.
‘Is Slivinski here?’ asked Clement.
Dr Matthews had been arranging all the matches as per Clement’s precise instructions. He hesitated.
‘Yes, but… ’
Clement frowned, holding up his hand. He did not wish to listen to provocations, he wished to play chess. ‘Then let us go. I am ready.’
Dr Matthews led him up the stairs and then opened a door to the left.
‘I ordered the game to be set up in the library,’ complained Clement.
‘Yes, but there was a problem,’ said Matthews. ‘We must play in here.’
Quietly outraged, Clement entered a small sitting room decorated with delicate blue paper, and a trio of sofas in the same summer blue. A lamp burned. In the middle of the room two chairs had been set up on either side of a small table, a wooden chess set placed carefully in the centre. Clement did not see his opponent immediately, and then he noticed a petite dark-haired woman seated with her back towards him. She stood and gave a little bow.
‘Irena Slivinski.’
‘Clement Goldbaum.’
Clement took her hand, kissed it and then stood, awkward and uncertain. Now he understood why they had been placed in the ladies’ drawing room, the one room in the gentlemen’s club where women were tolerated, if not actually encouraged. He was not entirely certain how he felt about playing a woman. He wondered whether it was ungallant to play, or ungallant to object.
‘Do you speak Russian?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Clement.
‘German?’
‘Yes, a little. My mother was from Frankfurt,’ replied Clement in perfect German. ‘I did not know that… ’ He faltered, frowning.
‘You are cross. Is it because you do not like to play against a woman, or rather that you do not like to lose to a woman?’ she asked with an arch smile.
Clement stuttered, quite unable to reply. She was extremely pretty, with pale skin and large brown eyes, the same dark mahogany as the black chess pieces.
‘I should have let them tell you, but I prefer to surprise my opponent. It is my little game before the game. We must take all the advantages we can, yes?’
Clement found himself agreeing aloud, although privately he thought it most unsportsmanlike to deliberately unsettle a chap before a game.
‘Don’t worry. From now on, there will be no more surprises. Or only ones upon the board. My apology to you; you may be white.’
Clement demurred. Ladies surely should go first.
‘No. In this game, if nowhere else, we play as equals.’
Clement felt that to press the point would be an insult, and accepted. He opened play, moved his knight. She smiled, slid across a pawn. She played with a dexterity and fearlessness that took him by surprise; she was unafraid to sacrifice pieces, and decided her next move with a quickness that both irked and harried him. He was used to a sumptuous pause while his opponent considered his play at length, and invariably had long enough to suck the coating off three or four chocolate Brazil nuts before his turn. He’d scarcely popped a nut in his mouth before Miss Slivinski swooped. The money riding on the outcome distracted and unsettled him. He wanted to recapture the sensation he’d had during previous games of exhilaration – that, win or lose, he was flying, his blood buzzing hot in his veins. He dabbed at the perspiration seeping from beneath his cravat. He signalled for water. He took her bishop. Immediately she castled her king and rook so fast that Clement had to close his eyes to remember where they had been before. He dithered in almost all things except chess, but prided himself on his decisiveness upon the board. His speed and purpose were often all that was needed to derail lesser players. He felt a nudge of sympathy towards those he had beaten.
When it was over, it was almost a relief. They poured him a brandy. He drank and signalled for another. He could speak to his mother; she would pay the debt with only slight reproach, but she would also tell his father. Lost in such unhappy thoughts, it took Clement a minute to realise that Miss Slivinski was addressing him.
‘You are very good,’ she said.
‘But you are better.’
She shrugged. ‘Yes. Than almost everyone. With a little coaching, perhaps you could—’
‘Beat you?’
‘No. Improve,’ she said, with polite regret.
Clement laughed, despite his predicament.
To his great surprise, later that night he found himself in Irena Slivinski’s hotel room and then in her bed. He did not regret everything he lost that night.
HAMPSHIRE, APRIL
It was raining when Otto arrived in London, and it was still raining when the motor car drew up at Temple Court. There was something about English rain that defeated him. It seeped inside one, cold and insidious. He dashed from the Wolseley to the house, the chauffeur trotting beside him to hold the umbrella over his head. Greta rushed down the steps to meet him, apparently oblivious to the weather, and hurled herself into his arms, almost knocking him off-balance.
‘I’m so happy you’re here. Was your journey awful? Come and have tea. That’s what we do here. Drink endless tea. Don’t worry, one gets used to it in the end.’
Able at last to get a word in, Otto suggested they go inside and get out of the rain. Greta led him inside and Otto found himself in a hot and dim hall, surrounded by a jungle of palms. A footman took his hat and coat.
‘You’re here. You’re really here,’ said Greta, staring at him in bem
used wonder.
‘I am, I really am,’ said Otto, pleased. ‘Where are Lord and Lady Goldbaum? Your husband?’
‘In the Chinese Salon. They’re all being terribly tactful and allowing us a few minutes.’
They smiled at one another, awkward for a moment. There was too much to say, too many questions to be asked.
‘You look well,’ he said at last, knowing it was the remark of a maiden aunt.
Greta rolled her eyes. ‘Come on then,’ she said, taking his hand.
Lord Goldbaum offered a gruff welcome, while Lady Goldbaum was all unaffected charm, finding Otto the pleasantest spot beside the fire and ringing for a whisky to warm his insides. Albert shook his hand with affection, while keeping a careful distance from Greta. Clement intrigued Otto. The months of letter-writing had forged a confidence, and Otto had imagined himself to know Clement rather well. Yet on seeing one another in person, each man realised the intimacy was one that existed on the page rather than in the flesh. Clement remained mostly silent on the sofa, studying his highly polished shoes with determined interest. During their correspondence, Otto had redrawn his image of Clement and, on seeing him again, found himself shocked at the size of the man. His waistcoat was enormous, and his cravat with its pink pearl tie-pin struggled to hide his swell of chins.
‘Well,’ said Lord Goldbaum, ‘I dare say you shall restore us all to good order, Otto, won’t you now?’
Otto laughed, but realised that every one of them was looking at him, their faces bright with expectation. He gulped his whisky in relief.
After luncheon it was still too wet for Greta to show him the works being undertaken on the house and garden at Fontmell.
Instead she reluctantly agreed to show him the Temple Court collections. She gestured vaguely to an exquisite piece of Sèvres porcelain in Pompadour pink on a side-table, festooned with flowers and shepherdesses.
‘That’s a vase,’ she said.
‘Anything else you know about it?’ said Otto, peering at it closely.
‘You could put flowers in it. But you probably shouldn’t.’
‘Ah,’ said Albert, appearing in the doorway. ‘Is my wife giving you the tour?’
‘I’m not sure I’d quite call it that,’ said Otto.
‘My information was minimal, but correct,’ said Greta.
Albert strode over. ‘This is one of the first pieces of Sèvres that my Great-aunt Agatha ever purchased. The pink is very rare, as it is so difficult to produce. The figures are painted by Dodin in the style of Boucher. It is actually for pot-pourri rather than fresh flowers.’
Otto turned to Greta. ‘Your information was minimal and incorrect. Albert, would you join us? I would very much like to hear about the collections.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ said Albert.
As he drew Otto’s attention to another piece of Sèvres porcelain, this time a green candelabrum vase with three elephant heads, Otto felt Greta direct a sharp kick at his heel. He ignored her.
To Greta’s relief, the following day dawned brighter and the rain cleared, leaving only smears of mist across the low ground. She would be able to escape the confines of Temple Court and the humiliation of Otto scrutinising her and Albert. She saw her husband and herself afresh through his eyes – distant and uneasy – and a wave of shame and despondency washed through her. This was not a part of Otto’s being here that she had anticipated. Glancing out of her bedroom window, she saw that the barrage of freezing rain had turned the bedding plants to sludge, and the cerise begonias that had formed a smash of colours in the parterre were browning and disintegrating, quite spoiled. Already a fleet of gardeners was busy replacing entire beds with gold-streaked busy Lizzies and speckled tobacco plants from the glasshouses. The garden would be restored to scrupulous loveliness before the rest of the family woke.
Greta breakfasted hurriedly and then ordered the car to take her to Fontmell. When she arrived, Enid Witherick was already waiting to open the car door and hand her out, to the irritation of the chauffeur, now gloomily resigned to such unorthodoxy. Greta hailed her with her customary greeting, ‘Well, Withers, what is new in the garden?’
She declined to call Enid Witherick by her surname, the conventional form of address for a head gardener, complaining that it was a mouthful. ‘Enid’ was a gross over-familiarity that did not occur to either woman. Instead, Greta settled upon ‘Withers’. Enid held her employer in far too high regard to point out that referring to a gardener as ‘withers’ was perhaps not the most auspicious or tactful of names. Only Greta’s soft Austrian accent, which blurred ‘Withers’ into ‘Vithers’, made it more acceptable.
‘The daffodils are starting. They’ve not been too damaged by the rain,’ said Enid.
There, beneath the green shade of the willows, lay a brilliant shock of yellow daffodils, their fierce brightness almost unreal in the muted morning light. These were the very first bulbs she’d ordered to be planted in the new garden, and she regarded them like a ship’s captain surveying a treasure hoard.
‘I want more bulbs planted under every window in the autumn. I want to look out at the view down to the river through a wash of gold.’
Each woman knew all that was necessary about the other. Why would they ask each other personal questions, when they could spend the time discussing the garden? Like proud parents of an infant glimpsing genius in every grimace, the women only perceived the garden as it was supposed to be, rather than as it was. The lawns had been re-sown, but it was early in the year and the seed that had sprouted was as sparse and tender as a newborn’s scalp.
Greta looked up towards the house. It was obscured by scaffolding, and sections of the roof had been removed entirely and covered with waxy tarpaulins. In an hour the air would ring with hammers and shouts. This was why she liked to visit so early, for only now could she enjoy Fontmell in peace.
‘I shall plant the first geranium myself,’ said Greta.
‘Of course.’
Enid carried a spade, a kneeling cushion and a pair of thick leather gloves. She passed them to Greta, who unpeeled her cotton ones and replaced them with the stout gardening ones, and then took the spade from Enid, who disappeared to fetch the geraniums.
Greta had discovered, in Mrs Loudon’s Gardening for Ladies, the importance of digging the soil oneself – even if only on occasion. By wielding a spade herself, she felt she was marking herself out as a different sort of Goldbaum (even though she did not yet dare to appear at dinner with dirt beneath her nails). She did not know that Withers had three men rigorously turn the soil before her mistress appeared with her spade, ensuring that every lump and sod was broken up, the earth soft and loose, in preparation for the entry of the shining silver spade. As long as she dug, Greta could not think. Her arms ached, her lungs burned and her mind was released from weary and well-worn trails. She attempted to bury her spoiled hopes for herself and Albert in the damp soil.
‘I should have worn my boots,’ said Otto, interrupting her thoughts.
Greta turned to him, smiling as she set down her spade. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said.
‘I have to catch the train to London with the others,’ he said. ‘But I knew you wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t see Fontmell first.’
Otto allowed himself to be taken around the gardens, every possible beauty being pointed out. The yew hedge would grow here; this was to be a hidden rose garden, but underplanted with moss and snow-in-summer; stone benches here, painted with yoghurt to encourage lichen. This was to be a series of large pools, not a pond – but informal and natural, the edges softened with reeds and yellow irises, and planted with giant water-lilies, as at Giverny. Otto listened with affection rather than interest, wondering, as his thoughts trailed off in their own direction, whether this was how Greta felt when he attempted to explain to her about mathematics or stars.
Deflated, she stared at him, realising he wasn’t listening. ‘I suppose it’s all too hard to picture. I only see how it’s going to lo
ok, not how it is now.’
‘That’s quite a skill,’ agreed Otto, surveying the sloshing mud with distaste. ‘And the house?’
‘As soon as the weather settles, they’re going to thatch the roof.’
‘Thatch it? Whatever for?’
‘Beauty,’ said Greta firmly. ‘I saw it in a dream. I prefer charming to grand, even if that is not the usual family style.’
‘And what does Albert make of it all?’ asked Otto.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Greta, looking away.
‘I don’t know,’ said Otto, gently. ‘Tell me.’
Greta studied her muddy boots. ‘We don’t discuss it very often.’
‘There aren’t many husbands, Greta, who will agree to the thatching of a large house because his wife glimpsed it in a dream.’
‘He doesn’t agree, Otto. He merely goes along with everything because he prefers that to speaking to me. We’ve learned to ignore one another with great panache.’
‘Stop it. Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’
Greta sat down on a bench, looking out towards where Enid was directing half a dozen men as they prepared the groundworks for a series of stone steps leading into the lowest part of the garden that sloped down to the river.
‘In a year or two, or five, I’m sure all this will be wonderful, Greta. But you’re playing make-believe. You will live here with Albert. When it is finished, you’ll live unhappily in the paradise that you’ve created. You need to mend things with him or there is no point to any of this.’
Greta kicked stubbornly at a pebble with her boot.
‘We are not suited to one another. He disapproves of me. And being disapproved of isn’t as much fun as you might think.’
‘It seems to me that you’ve given up.’
Small red circles appeared on each cheek, signifiers of her fury.
Steeling himself, Otto continued. ‘While I’m away, I urge you to consider how you can make things right with Albert. I know you, Greta. You’re polite to him and deferential in company, and you might persuade everyone else. But I don’t imagine that you’re very kind to him when no one else is listening.’
House of Gold Page 14