What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  His voice was fading, so I replaced the mask and waited until he was able to speak again. ‘Lawyer will sort it all out. Don’t worry.’

  ‘You’ll get better, Daddy,’ I said, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. ‘I’m sure they’re giving you pills that will help. Perhaps you just need a rest.’

  He gave a weak smile. ‘That’s probably what I’m going to get.’ He fastened his eyes on mine as the sister came into the room and indicated that I should leave while she attended to him. ‘Persephone,’ he said, as I stood up. ‘You’ve been a good daughter. I love you.’

  I sat in the echoing white corridor outside his room and wept and wished I had someone to comfort me. When I went back into his room he was sleeping.

  ‘I think it’s near the end,’ the sister whispered. ‘Doctor is on his way but . . .’ She gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  My father died quite soon after that. His transition from sleep to death was imperceptible to me, although the nurse and doctor who were in the room noticed it immediately.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ the doctor said. ‘His heart was in a bad way. I told him a few weeks ago that we should be treating it, but he seemed not to care very much.’

  ‘It’s all right, doctor. I think he missed my mother,’ I said it calmly, although inside I was devastated.

  ‘I’ll prepare the forms for you, if you don’t mind waiting, Miss Blake.’

  I nodded and sat down beside the bed again, looking at the sheet which covered my father’s face.

  ‘Miss Blake,’ said the doctor as he opened the door to go out. ‘I’ve read your articles in the paper. Your exploits in Spain and that latest report from Berlin. Your father talked often about you. I know that he was very proud.’

  That set me off weeping again and by the time I got back to the apartment I was worn out by the sudden turn of events and my overwhelming sorrow. Charlie, as I’d known he would be, was a brick and sat beside me on the sofa and allowed me to cry until I had no tears left. Then he insisted that I go to bed and said he would stay.

  I woke up in the night and remembered what had happened and found myself crying again. I tried to keep my weeping silent, but Charlie appeared at my bedroom door. ‘Budge up,’ he said and climbed into the bed beside me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told me. ‘This is just for comfort.’ I slept and when I woke again in the morning, I was calm and able to cope. I had the bed to myself.

  Charlie and Marisol were in the kitchen, Charlie in a vest and underpants and Marisol in her sleep suit. ‘You look a fine pair,’ I smiled.

  ‘No comment, Blake,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m dying for a pee but she’s taking for ever over this porridge.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll take over. Go and do what you have to.’

  Alice let herself in while I was making us breakfast. Charlie was dressed now and although I was still in my dressing gown, Alice didn’t raise an eyebrow. She’d grown used to our breakfast meetings. I told her about my father.

  ‘Don’t bother about me, Miss Seffy. I know there’s lots to do at a time like this, so you go and get on with it.’

  ‘That applies to work too,’ Charlie said. ‘Take compassionate leave. Come back when you’re ready.’

  It took a few days to organise the funeral and then I went to the lawyer to get his advice about the business. ‘Go and see the manager,’ he said. ‘Put him straight about what you expect of him. That is, business as usual. He’s a good man. I don’t think he’ll take advantage.’

  I went up north to see the mills and the clothing factory. The manager who oversaw all these enterprises was indeed a good man. ‘I’m sorry to hear of Sir Farnworth’s death,’ he said. ‘We all liked him. Now, Miss Blake, what d’you say about further expanding the uniform business? There’s a war coming, and that’ll mean more soldiers. We should get in on the ground floor.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I agree. And what about getting into different uniforms – nurses, firemen, all the services, military and civilian?’

  ‘Aye, I like it. By God, Miss Blake, you’re a chip off the old man’s block.’ He turned and nodded to my grandfather’s portrait, which hung on the wall behind him. I laughed. ‘Not a bad block to be chipped off,’ I said.

  Father’s funeral was a quiet affair, but attended by a surprising number of dignitaries and one or two professors of Ancient Greek for whose departments he’d made generous provision. Of course, my mother wasn’t there. She’d sent a brief telegram in response to my telegraphing her about Daddy’s death. SO SORRY, it read. TO HEAR SAD NEWS. NEW YORK IS WONDERFUL.

  So, in lieu of family, Charlie escorted me into the church and was invaluable at the reception we held at a hotel afterwards. He seemed to know everybody but was always there when I began to feel a bit tearful and lost. ‘Come on, Blake,’ he said, when they’d all gone. ‘How about going to Gennaro’s. We haven’t been there for ages.’

  I was going to say no, but he looked so eager and had been so kind that I said yes and found myself enjoying the meal and laughing at his silly jokes. That was the thing. I loved being with him.

  ‘I’ll be back at work on Monday,’ I said.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’ll need you. We’ve got reports in that the Germans are massing on the Polish border. Something is about to happen.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  September 1939

  ‘READ THIS, BLAKE,’ said Charlie, as we stood over the Teletype machine, which was constantly clattering out news. It was a report which said that Polish troops had crossed the border and attacked a German radio station at Gleiwitz and consequently the German government had declared war.

  ‘Gleiwitz!’ I gasped. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Or’ – Charlie tore off the report from the machine and walked about waving it in the air – ‘perhaps it isn’t. Could it have been the excuse the Germans have been waiting for? And the attack is not what it seems?’

  I stared at him. It was too much of a coincidence, Xanthe talking about it and then me telling Charlie, and then . . . this.

  ‘I told Amyas about Gleiwitz,’ I said. ‘He was very interested.’

  ‘I bet he was,’ Charlie snorted.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I scowled at him. He always made cracks about Amyas.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed that he’s friendly with the Germans. Have you ever wondered which side he’s on?’

  ‘He’s on our side,’ I shouted. ‘Absolutely on our side. Why d’you think he had that bullet in his chest . . .’ I stopped, appalled with myself for nearly giving Amyas’s secret away. I think my face must have been scarlet.

  ‘What?’ Charlie grabbed my arm. ‘What did you say?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I knew he wouldn’t let it go, he was like a terrier when it came to digging out information. I shook off his hand and in desperation walked out of the office and across the road to the small steamy café, which served dreadful tea and inedible sandwiches. This morning it was worse than ever, because it was raining outside and the steam from the boiling water machine made the windows opaque with mist. It was about half an hour and a watery coffee later, when Charlie came to join me.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me,’ he said. ‘It could be important.’

  ‘It is important,’ I answered, ‘and I can’t say anything. I promised.’

  ‘What can’t you say, Blake? That Amyas Troy, or whatever he’s really called, is working for our secret service or for the Germans’?’

  I stared at the coffee slopped in the saucer and at the little puddles which had dripped from the bottom of my cup on to the red checked oilskin which covered the table. I longed to share Amyas’s story with Charlie, who appeared to have guessed part of it. From the first moment I’d heard it, I’d wanted to discuss and examine the implications of it. But I was held by my promise.

  ‘Oh, Charlie,’ I groaned. ‘Please, don’t ask me. I promised Amyas.’

  He frowned and drummed a little b
eat on the table with restless fingers. ‘Is there anything you are prepared to say?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said miserably. ‘Only that Amyas truly is on our side, and that one day you’ll find out.’

  He was quiet and then he stood up. ‘All right, Blake. I trust you. Now, come on. We have to get back to work.’

  We returned to the office and tried to make sense of the news which was flowing in from all corners of the Continent. Every hour some new horror was reported from Poland. There were high-level meetings and telegrams flew between capitals. On the Sunday morning when Chamberlain announced that we were at war, it was almost an anticlimax.

  I knocked at Jacob’s door. ‘Have you heard?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘We were listening to the wireless. Mein Gott, it is frightening.’ He opened the door wider and beckoned me in. ‘What have you heard at the newspaper office?’ he asked. ‘Something more than Mr Chamberlain said?’

  ‘Not much,’ I told him. I’d been at the paper since before six, having got Alice to stay over these last few days. I had a feeling that she would be spending many nights at my flat, but she didn’t seem to mind. She told me she enjoyed having a job with an employer who was at the centre of things. ‘I’m only a reporter,’ I protested. ‘Not really at the centre of things.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Alice argued, ‘interesting events happen around you. Makes a change from all those damn ponies that my previous families were devoted to.’

  I laughed. ‘I might get Marisol a pony one day.’

  ‘I bet you won’t,’ she said, and grinned.

  No, I thought, I bet I won’t either . . . only if she wants one desperately. Otherwise I’ll take her to museums and galleries and to the theatre. There’s so much in London to enjoy. And then I looked out of my window and saw the barrage balloons going up. At least there was, I corrected myself. What will the next few months bring?

  ‘No,’ I said to Jacob. ‘Nothing much from here, although Poland is overrun both by the Germans and the Russians. Whoever would have thought that they’d sign a pact?’

  His face was sad. ‘Pure evil,’ he muttered. ‘They are as bad as each other.’ He sighed. ‘All my old friends, I think of them and wonder what will become of them and, of course,’ his voice faltered, ‘my dear, dear Sarah. What will happen to her?’

  I shook my head. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t be good. ‘How’s Kitty this morning?’ I looked around the room. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She has taken Willi for a walk in the garden square. To keep her mind occupied. She is very frightened.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that. I’ve come to ask you and Kitty to join me for lunch today. Alice is cooking roast beef, the Yorkshire way, whatever that is, and she is a good cook. I don’t think there’ll be many times in the days ahead when we can be relaxed, so, please come.’ I smiled. ‘Mr Bradford’s coming too, so you and Willi won’t be outnumbered by females.’

  Jacob took my hand. ‘Thank you, dear Seffy. It will be good for Kitty, and Willi and me also.’

  Even with the terrible news about the war, we were a jolly crowd at lunch. Charlie brought a bottle of whisky and Jacob a bottle of wine. Alice and I made a very English meal of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings with a plum tart to follow.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about the war,’ Charlie had said when we sat down, but we did. How could we not? We talked tactics and territories and wondered who else would join in. ‘Will the Americans come?’ asked Jacob.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘No, they won’t. Roosevelt might want to, but not the American people.’

  ‘They’ll take their time, but will come to the party eventually,’ Alice grunted as she dished out helpings of carrots and potatoes. ‘Like they did the last time. Backward in coming forward, they are.’

  ‘It will be no party,’ Jacob sighed.

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, Mr Weiss. You must pardon me. It was just my figure of speech.’ She looked at Kitty, who was hardly eating but pushing her food around her plate. ‘Now then, Miss Kitty, love, I didn’t cook this for you to mess it around. I’ve made a nice plum tart for afters and then you are going to sing for us. No, don’t look like that, I’ve heard you and you’ve a lovely little voice. Give us a treat.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jacob smiled. ‘My Kitty sings well.’

  When we’d cleared away and Marisol was playing on the rug with the small wooden farm that Charlie had brought back for her from Poland, Kitty stood by the window and sang two German folk songs. One was about a faithful hussar, which I thought I’d heard before in English, and the other a sort of love song I’d never heard, but it was lovely. We all hummed along to the chorus and clapped wildly at the end of the performance. ‘We sang that at school,’ Kitty said shyly, her cheeks glowing.

  ‘I will sing too,’ Jacob said. He got up and with Willi tucked under his arm went to stand beside Kitty and the two of them sang a haunting melody in Yiddish, which lived with me for years after.

  When they’d finished we sat, silent, almost stunned by the beauty of it, until Alice clapped her hands and called, ‘Very well done. That was right nice.’ She stood up. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll finish with something that would seem appropriate for this day,’ and, true as ever to her beloved Ivor Novello, she sang in her deep contralto voice, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. Charlie and I joined in the chorus and even Jacob hummed along. Yet although that familiar melody was right for the occasion, it did bring thoughts of the last war. All day, since the declaration, I’d been anxious, but mostly, if I’m honest, excited. Now I thought of the consequences and my stomach lurched. Charlie, who was sitting next to me, took my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Chin up, Blake,’ he whispered.

  Kitty sat on the floor afterwards, with Marisol, who was bashing two blocks together. Willi watched them from Jacob’s knee, quivering a little at the noise. I switched on the wireless to hear if there was any more news, but there were just repeated messages about the evacuation of children and where volunteers for the armed forces should report. I looked at Charlie, remembering him saying that he would join up, but he wouldn’t meet my eye.

  Later that evening, when Jacob and Kitty had gone home and Alice, after putting Marisol to bed, had left too, I sat on the sofa with Charlie to listen to the wireless, which was playing popular music from the Savoy.

  ‘The first day of the war,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder how many more there’ll be.’

  ‘I pray that it’s not more than a couple of months,’ I said. ‘I hope everyone will come to their senses.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘We’ve been to Berlin, Blake. We’ve seen what they’re like. Do you really believe that they won’t carry on until they’ve conquered all of Europe?’

  ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘I don’t believe it and I’m frightened.’

  ‘You should be. We should all be bloody frightened.’

  Abruptly, Charlie stood up. ‘Dance with me, Blake,’ he said. ‘Let’s enjoy the last vestige of normality.’

  So we danced between the furniture to the strains of Al Bowlly singing ‘The Very Thought of You’, until Charlie held me tighter and kissed me. I meant to stop him, but I found I couldn’t and didn’t want to.

  ‘I love you, so very much,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t imagine my life without you.’ The words were heartfelt and true and matched my own thoughts. It might be that I was utterly entranced by Amyas, yet at the same time I couldn’t imagine life without Charlie.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ I said, looking up at him, but staying in his arms and letting him kiss my neck. ‘You have a wife and I have Amyas.’

  ‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’

  The music continued but I was still thinking. Was I sure? I gazed at Charlie’s kind face. A face that told of a man who would never let me down. Who, once he was in love, would be entirely faithful . . . but Amyas? No. There was no getting away from it, he wasn’t like that. He was an entirely free spiri
t and I had accepted it. My little girl was the living proof of that.

  ‘The truth is,’ I said slowly, ‘I’m bewitched by him. I’m sure that if he walked into this room now I would throw myself into his arms.’

  The atmosphere changed as suddenly as if someone had opened a window and let the rain pour in. My words, although honest, had been cruel and I was sorry when I saw Charlie’s face fall and felt the cold when he moved his body away from mine. I had to make it better, somehow. ‘But, Charlie.’ I put my hand on his cheek. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t imagine life without you either, because I do love you, but . . .’

  ‘But there will always be Amyas.’ Charlie finished my sentence.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  Charlie picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘One day,’ he smiled, ‘you’ll get over him.’ He went towards the door. ‘One day, he’ll go too far and break your heart. So I’ll wait.’

  Was he right? I wondered when I was alone. Will I wake up one morning and not be in love with Amyas? My mature head told me that Charlie was probably correct and that, if I had any sense, I’d stop dreaming about setting up a home with him. I should get on with my life. But when I bent over Marisol’s cot to kiss her goodnight, she opened her eyes briefly and my resolve floundered. Those were Amyas’s eyes, deep, enchanting pools of light, in which I had gladly drowned. I knew that I would never get over him.

  I had a phone call from my solicitor the next morning. ‘Miss Blake,’ he said. ‘I’ve had some correspondence from Germany about your sister, Miss Xanthe. I wonder if you can come to my office to discuss this.’

  I agreed to meet him in the afternoon but we were so busy in the office that I forgot about it until twenty minutes before the meeting was due. When I told Charlie that I had to rush out and why, he said, ‘D’you want me to come with you? It might be something quite difficult.’