House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  Greta looked at Albert through the glimmer of the candles, and he met her eye and forced a smile. At the end of their London trip he seemed to have caught her ill temper like a cold, but now that she had had the satisfaction of passing on her crossness, she regretted it. He alluded to having to leave England soon, but became evasive when pressed. Perhaps Greta could simply avoid the subject of the boudoir until he left, and then write it in a letter. No, she was many things, but she was not a coward. It was an unhappy topic and must be confronted directly, with tact and fortitude. She reached for her wine glass and realised that Albert was gazing at her with a look of such melancholy and desire that she wanted to reach across the table for him. She fidgeted in her seat, paying no attention at all to the earnest conversation of the officer on her left.

  The fish course was carried in, borne aloft on two vast serving platters: on one, a turbot in a white sauce with moss-green dill; and on the other, chilled trout with slivers of baked almonds, translucent as mother-of-pearl. To her amusement, Greta watched as one of the officers asked for both hot and cold fish, not realising he was supposed to choose only one. Her mother-in-law winced, conscious that his extra plate would take time to consume and would throw off all the precise timings for the rest of the meal. Sure enough, by the time the lamb rolled in pistachios and chicken in aspic were served, Celia had fallen asleep in her chair. Greta signalled to a footman.

  ‘Fetch Nanny, and carry Miss Celia to the car.’

  Albert stood, waving away the footman. ‘No, I’ll take her.’

  Between them, Greta and Albert wrapped Celia in a blanket, and then Albert carried her, bundled, to the car where Nanny waited, ready to bear her charge safely back to the nursery. The parents watched side-by-side as the Wolseley drove away at a steady speed of no more than five miles an hour, as insisted upon by Nanny, who considered travelling faster than was natural dangerous for a child’s constitution.

  Albert turned to return to the house, but Greta caught his arm.

  ‘Walk with me.’

  Gladly he followed her. They walked in the cold night air, their footsteps uncannily loud on the gravel paths. The white of the cyclamen petals shone like parings of bone in the darkness. Behind them the great house loomed, a vast paper lantern buoyed upon the night. Greta turned to face her husband, her skin pale, her eyes black and big with worry.

  ‘I don’t want another baby,’ she said.

  ‘All right,’ said Albert, half-amused by her sincerity.

  ‘Celia’s a doll, and now there is Benjamin, we needn’t have any more.’

  ‘We needn’t,’ agreed Albert, taking her arm and pulling her close and trying to kiss her. She wriggled away like a fish unwilling to be hooked.

  ‘I mean it, Albert. I am very sorry, but I have thought about it a good deal and I simply can’t. I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t what?’ he asked slowly, the horrid realisation now dawning upon him. ‘Say precisely what you mean. You know I can’t stand obfuscation.’

  ‘I can’t make love with you again, Albert,’ said Greta, angry in her shame. ‘I’m so very sorry, but I can’t.’

  Albert stared at her in horror and disbelief. ‘You’re sorry? You can’t?’ He gave a short laugh, but it was hard and without humour. ‘Am I to have no choice in this?’

  Greta bit her lip to stop herself from crying. ‘I won’t risk it, Albert. I’ve seen what happens to women in labour. There is more than one kind of battlefield.’

  ‘That wretched bloody hospital. I agreed to your having it here. It’s taken over my home, and it’s taken my wife.’

  Greta shook her head; she heard his frustration and anger, but she would not be swayed.

  ‘So what are we to be? Friends? Cousins? I’m a man, not some milksop, Greta.’

  Glancing up at him, she saw his lips were thin and set firm with disappointment. Inside her belly, she felt her guts crawl and scuttle like a nest of insects. He took a step back and continued to stare at her with abject distaste.

  ‘This is the stupidest idea I ever heard. We had such a wretched beginning. Then somehow we stumbled into happiness. It matters to me. I thought it mattered to you.’

  ‘It does, of course it does. But the children? If something should happen to us? I won’t be that selfish, Albert.’

  ‘So I’m selfish then. I want to sleep with my wife.’

  He turned and walked away, leaving her standing cold and alone in the dark.

  The next morning Albert had gone back up to town and had not asked her to accompany him. There had been no argument over wet-nurses or her leaving the children. He had made it quite clear that her company was neither necessary nor desired. ‘I do not want a sister. I want a wife’ had been his only remark.

  For several days Miss Hathaway and Miss Ogden had observed Greta’s unhappiness in silence. Anna confided to Withers that Albert did not telephone his wife. This, she informed Withers, who clearly knew nothing about such matters, was unusual. Withers was too discreet to ask, but Anna confessed that the fight was over children, and Greta not wanting any more. Withers considered this very sensible. She had grown extremely fond of Celia, who was shrewd and already, at three, demonstrated a keen horticultural interest, but while Ursula adored the babies, neither she nor Miss Hathaway really understood the appeal of the small, mewling creatures who accompanied their mothers to the lectures in the potting shed and kitchen garden. In fact Miss Hathaway had quietly remarked to her, while fishing a stray leaf from between the gaping lobes of a Venus flytrap, that it reminded her extremely of a baby’s mouth. Both women privately resolved that they preferred the flytrap.

  The little maternity ward was filled with the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of gossip. Half a dozen women, sentenced to bed rest, laughed as they considered their exile to Hampshire.

  ‘Never been to the country before.’

  ‘Boring as shit.’

  ‘I know. I’m loving every minute.’

  They hadn’t realised Greta had entered and, seeing her standing in the doorway, schoolmarmish and trying to pretend that she hadn’t overheard the coarse language, caused them all to laugh harder.

  ‘Don’t! When I laugh, I pee a bit,’ said one, wiping tears from her eyes.

  Greta smiled awkwardly. ‘Is there anything you need? A pack of cards?’

  ‘Don’t mind us. We’re just not used to a holiday,’ said a woman with a shock of unbrushed red hair.

  Greta introduced herself and described the gardening school that was available, should she wish to stay in Hampshire, to more squeals of laughter.

  The red-haired woman grinned, showing a mouth of strong yellow teeth. ‘That’s very kind. But I can make more money by other means.’

  Greta had learned not to comment, and quietly withdrew.

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry. We must seem dreadful rude. I’m Hetty Cohen,’ called the redhead.

  Greta hesitated in the doorway to the cow-shed. She knew it was an uncharitable thought, and that all people must be considered equal, but the Jewish prostitutes upset her the most. She had been taught that all Jews were her brethren, but while the rabbi had explained that some of her kin were peasants or oppressed in Russia, he had not explicitly stated that others were red-headed harlots forced by circumstance to earn their livings on their backs.

  But all thoughts of Hetty Cohen were soon driven away because, shortly after luncheon, Lady Goldbaum arrived with a telegram from Clement in Switzerland.

  After she had read it, Greta sat quietly in her bedroom and looked out over the garden. The wind lifted the whips of the willows and the wisteria rapped gently against the glass. She had not seen Henri since her visit to Paris before the war, and yet at that moment she missed him intensely. She hoped, if the Germans shot him, that it would be quick and he would not suffer. She found that she did not want to cry. He wasn’t dead yet, and she would not grieve. She glanced behind her at the wedding present Henri had sent – the Rossetti painting of one of his flame-haired
women, her eyes green and her skin the colour of milk. Greta looked again. It could be a portrait of Hetty Cohen. For a moment, it seemed that the woman in the picture grinned, her lips paring back to reveal a mouth full of square yellow teeth.

  They waited for more news regarding Henri, but nothing came. Greta took Benjamin with her to visit Hetty, who had delivered a little girl in the night. She found Hetty sitting up in bed, cradling the baby attached to a large bosom as veiny as a ripe blue cheese, while reading a copy of the Daily Mail. Greta glanced at the headline – ‘Send them all home’ – and looked away, revolted.

  Hetty laughed. ‘That’s all you Krauts. My ma. You.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s funny. I find it awful,’ said Greta, sounding sanctimonious, even to herself.

  Hetty prised the baby off her nipple with her finger, attached it to the other breast and set down the paper.

  ‘There’s nothing much we can do. They’ll round ’em up and send ’em off, or they won’t. Can’t imagine ’em packing you off though, madam.’ Hetty laughed again, and this time Greta didn’t reprimand her.

  She saw the glint in Hetty’s eye – one she recognised from Celia – and knew that a challenge had been issued.

  ‘So who is you cheerin’ for then? The British or the Boche?’

  Greta recoiled and said with as much dignity as she could summon, ‘My children are British, Hetty.’

  Hetty rolled her eyes and removed the baby from her nipple with a loud popping sound. It continued to root for her. ‘Yes, but you must have an old beau fighting away in them other trenches.’

  She mimed a sword-fight with her rolled newspaper, jabbing away. Greta stood, affronted despite her silent resolution.

  ‘My brother, Hetty. There are no winners. Only death.’

  She started to leave, but Hetty caught her hand and squeezed it hard.

  ‘Don’t go. I’m awful sorry, Mrs Goldbaum. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. These terrible things come into my head and I say ’em. It’s like my own thoughts is what’s egging me on. I know it’s horrid. Can’t blame Frank for not puttin’ up with it.’

  Greta saw Hetty’s green eyes fill with tears, and beneath the bravado and the halo of red hair, she looked terribly young.

  ‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you bloody pity me,’ snapped Hetty, her complexion clashing magnificently with her hair. ‘I never said you could do that.’

  ‘You really ought to take a walk around the gardens. Have some fresh air. Take baby Ruth.’

  Hetty shook her head vigorously. ‘I can’t. Don’t you see? If I start prancing about the flowers, going for bloody walks, how much harder it’ll be to go back?’

  ‘You could stay a while.’

  ‘Just stop with the bloody gardening school. My pink lily is a work of art. The only flower we need.’ Hetty spoke with bravado, but her eyes were bright with tears.

  Admiral Hall not only gave permission for Albert to discuss his American mission with his father, but encouraged him. Albert agreed. It would be in the national interest, he insisted, to take advice from the principal banker in England, and more than that, the simplest way of raising the money was to have the House of Goldbaum act as banker. He must obtain the approval of the head of the bank, which was still Lord Goldbaum – even if he was now too frail to sail to America himself.

  It was a relief to be sitting beside a pleasant coal fire in the partners’ room at the office in the city, and to be thinking of something other than Greta. His father listened in silence, waiting until Albert had finished. Lord Goldbaum studied him for a moment before speaking.

  ‘It is a great honour and privilege that they are sending you – a Goldbaum and a Jew – to manage this vast undertaking. England’s hopes, and the Goldbaum reputation, rest on your success.’

  Albert laughed. ‘Thank you for putting me at ease, Father.’

  Lord Goldbaum smiled. ‘My apologies, Albert. Of course you understand. How large a loan is the government seeking?’

  ‘One billion dollars.’

  The number hung in the air, vast and awful. Albert imagined he could see it like a film of poison gas. Even Lord Goldbaum was taken aback.

  ‘That is almost twice the amount raised in taxation last year,’ he said.

  Albert nodded.

  ‘It’s too big for Wall Street alone,’ said Lord Goldbaum, considering. ‘The bonds must be offered to the American people as well. Now is the chance to tempt Americans from across the nation to invest in Europe.’

  Albert saw in his father’s eye a glint of the old excitement. He wished he could feel it himself.

  ‘The House of Goldbaum cannot underwrite such a large offering by itself,’ said Albert. ‘We will need at least two or three partners – more if we can.’

  ‘Marcus Ullman will arrange it. I’ll wire him. You can stay with him in New York.’

  Lord Goldbaum surveyed Albert for a moment with a mixture of pleasure and pride. ‘My son,’ he said. ‘My son, banker and diplomat. This is what old Moses Salomon Goldbaum dreamed of, when he sent his sons out from the ghetto with their letter of credit and their sycamore seed.’

  ‘But I have no letter of credit, Father. I don’t even have a sycamore seed.’

  ‘You have the weight of the British government behind you, Albert.’

  ‘The only weight that investors are interested in, Father, is the weight of gold.’

  Albert looked at his father and for a moment saw in him a shadow of the jolly generals, their unwavering belief in Empire and a good war, and their unshakeable belief that somehow or other, despite the carnage of the flesh and of finance, all would be well.

  ‘We need to agree on a limit to our exposure, Father. I want to help the government, but not at the risk of ruin.’

  His father dismissed his anxiety with a wave.

  There was flush on the great banker’s cheeks. Albert understood that for decades his father had worked tirelessly, granting favour after favour to successive governments, perpetually demonstrating his loyalty to nation and Empire and yet, to his disappointment, always remaining on the outside of the circle, set apart. Now, Albert worried that his father was so exercised at the thought that at last his family had been accepted that he was not making sound financial decisions. With a moment of horrid cynicism, Albert wondered if the chaps in the Treasury knew how much his father longed for assimilation and were relying on this to push the House of Goldbaum to underwrite the loan.

  Although it was only a little after half-past nine in the morning, Lord Goldbaum reached for the brandy decanter, pouring each of them a large measure. Albert vowed privately to try to protect his father, even if it was against his own wishes.

  Albert returned to Fontmell to see his children and say goodbye. He found that he was too angry to speak to Greta beyond the barest civilities. He did not want to fight with her on his last evening at home, so he pretended to be buried in his papers during dinner. He had not loved her at first. He had married a stranger out of duty. He’d grown to accept that joy was to be discovered at the edge of existence, fluttering in the corner of one’s eye, glimpsed only in those moments of serenity at dawn before one was fully awake. Happiness, when it came to Albert, was an explosion of sunlight. He walked out into the garden to discover he was bathed in summer and was replete, having not known that he was hungry. He hadn’t expected to love his wife, but he did. He felt love unspool from him. And now she was telling him to gather it back into himself, as though the miracle of it – the surprise of it – were nothing. He turned the paper before him, with its list of figures, even though they passed as rain before his eyes.

  After dinner, they sat in the drawing room watching the great yews sway like dancers in the wind. He expressed regrets and sympathy regarding Henri, but had few words of comfort to offer.

  ‘I won’t tell you that it will be all right. I have never lied to you, Greta.’

  He fidgeted, jiggling his leg, and then stood up and poked the fire, sending up a spr
ay of sparks. He leaned against the mantelpiece, staring into the flames as though some wisdom or comfort could be found lurking in the depths of the coals. He observed Greta by the window, her eyes ringed from crying, her cheeks painted with the glow from the fire. There was still a post-natal plumpness to her figure, a pleasant fullness around her belly. She had never looked prettier. And yet you are willing to squander all that we are, he mused. He thought of the two small creatures sleeping upstairs. Was the risk of another child really a danger to be feared?

  A maid brought in a tray with tea and withdrew. Greta carefully poured Albert a cup and carried it over to him. She stood before him for a moment, offering it up to him.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave.’ She set the cup down on the table. ‘I love you.’

  He wondered whether she’d ever actually said that before. She twisted her wedding ring round and round her finger. They’d never needed the words before. It was an incantation, a prayer for hope that, with these words, all would be well.

  Albert took her hand. ‘Love isn’t the problem,’ he said.

  She leaned against him, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.

  ‘We managed before,’ he said. ‘We were careful.’

  ‘We were lucky. We might be lucky again, for a while. But then we wouldn’t,’ she said.

  She hesitated, for once shy. She wished they could discuss the specific geography of bedroom manoeuvres with the same ease and precision with which they examined the planting of the crocuses or the positioning of the beehives.

  ‘There are other things we can do,’ she whispered, looking up to meet his eye.

  Turning, she walked to the door and locked it. Albert watched with interest, as she sauntered back towards him. She pressed him down onto an armchair, sat on his lap and kissed him, her fingers edging up his thigh. After a minute, Albert gave a little groan and pushed her back in the chair, but Greta cried out in pain.