What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll see you again,’ he breathed into my neck, ‘it might not be very soon. But I know I will. We’ll drink wine on my terrace in Provence and watch the sun go down.’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘We’ll do that.’

  He held me very close and I felt his heart beating quite fast. ‘I have loved you, my darling girl, even though . . .’ He left the rest of the sentence unsaid and I closed my eyes and remembered the nights in the house by the sea, where I’d been swept away by passion. The noise of the aircraft and passengers faded into the background and all I could hear was the sound of the sea breaking on the shore of our Cornish beach.

  ‘Remember the little church on the headland,’ he whispered. ‘Where we should have been married.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, pulling back slightly and searching his face. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Bury me there.’

  He kissed me hard, then, on my slightly open mouth, and immediately turned away. ‘I love you, Amyas,’ I said, as he walked back to his car. ‘I always will.’

  ‘And I you,’ he called, as he got in. ‘Give Marisol a kiss from me.’

  ‘Every day,’ I murmured. ‘Every day.’

  I watched him drive away, my mind whirling, full of questions, and then turned back to the door of the administration building where Xanthe had been waiting. Of course, she wasn’t there. She was inside, weaving a path through the few waiting passengers to the far corner of the hall, where a small café bar was serving drinks. Her little son had been left lying on the floor beside her suitcase.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said out loud, and picking up both him and the bag, I followed her. ‘Xanthe,’ I demanded, standing behind her at the small counter. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Having a drink,’ she smiled, holding up a glass of what looked like cherry brandy. ‘First for ages. Will you pay him, I haven’t any money . . . as you know.’ This last was delivered with a sardonic look, and I reached into my bag and got out my wallet.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said, ‘you’ve got tons of cash,’ and before I could stop her she’d reached over and snatched some notes out of my wallet. She held them up, counting the amount, then pushed them down the front of her dress.

  ‘Sit down,’ I insisted angrily, pointing to a little metal table and chairs beside the café, ‘and stop making an exhibition of yourself. And then you can give the baby a feed.’

  ‘No,’ she said, scowling. ‘I can’t do that. He either won’t swallow, or he’s sick on me. It’s disgusting.’

  So I fed the little boy, slowly giving him the milk, stopping frequently to make sure that he was managing it, and then lifted him up to help him get rid of the wind. He was sick, but only a little, and when I laid him down in my arms again he gave me a drowsy smile. His face had taken on a more normal pink tinge and didn’t look so pinched. I smoothed his ice-blond hair and swaddled him in the shawl. Soon he was asleep.

  ‘He’s a sweet little boy,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘His name?’ Xanthe looked confused. ‘He hasn’t got a name. Wolf said he’d choose it.’

  ‘Well, you have to call him something. Hasn’t he been registered anywhere?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, Xanthe,’ I grumbled. ‘You are absolutely hopeless. Now, we’ll give him a name. What d’you like?’

  She thought for a minute and then said, ‘Wolfie was talking about naming him after our Führer.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t really like Adolf, but Wolf does. Shall we call him that?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I snapped, and looked around to see if anyone was listening. There was a plump, flabby man, who had come to sit at one of the other tables. His grey suit looked too tight for him and he was sweating profusely, wafting air across his face with a white canvas trilby. A newspaper lay on the table in front of him, but every so often he would raise his eyes and look over to us. It was an American newspaper, the Paris Herald. He must have only recently arrived here in Portugal.

  ‘You should name him after Daddy.’ Then I took a deep breath, remembering that she didn’t yet know that Daddy had died. I had to tell her. ‘Xanthe,’ I said slowly, ‘Daddy died last year. I couldn’t find you to tell you, but he had a nice funeral and lots of important people were there.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Poor Daddy.’ She looked sad for a fleeting moment and then said, ‘But he had a silly name. It was after some common little mill town in the North, wasn’t it? Wolfie’s son can’t possibly be called that. No, if he has to have a family name, he can be called after Wolf’s father, Maximilian. We can name him that for now, until Wolf decides.’

  Xanthe had got up to get another drink and was at the counter when the man reading the newspaper went to join her. He spoke to her and she was laughing, doing her usual flirting. I watched them nervously, then got up too, when I saw him buy her yet another brandy.

  ‘This is Karl,’ Xanthe giggled. ‘He’s an American.’

  ‘How d’you do,’ I said briefly, and then to Xanthe, ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink. Come back and sit down.’

  ‘My sister is such a spoilsport,’ she brayed, her voice so loud that people across the room looked our way. ‘She doesn’t know how to have fun.’

  Karl grinned. ‘I can see that you do,’ he said and squeezed her arm. ‘Have another drink and tell me all about yourself.’ He had a strange accent, American in tone, although there was something not quite real about it.

  ‘We’re having an adventure,’ Xanthe squealed. ‘I’m going home to –’

  I grabbed her hand. ‘Enough, Xanthe.’ I put as much venom in my voice as I could muster. ‘Shut up and sit down.’

  Karl looked as though he was going to join us but I gave him a hard stare and, getting the message, he walked away.

  The situation was getting out of hand. I looked at the clock on the wall. We had hours to wait before the flight. But just then, there was an announcement on the loudspeaker and everyone looked up. It was first in Portuguese, which I didn’t understand, but the people waiting in the hall were groaning and looking at each other in dismay. The message was repeated in French and I learned that due to engine trouble our flight would not take off tonight, but would be delayed for two days.

  I was ready to scream. Amyas had gone, Xanthe was being a pest, and now this stranger had latched on to us. I made a decision quickly. We’d get a car back to Lisbon, check into the Avenida Palace and I would send a telegram to Charlie.

  I grabbed hold of Xanthe’s arm. ‘Come on,’ I said firmly. ‘Our flight’s delayed. We’re going to Lisbon for a couple of days.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ she squealed and eagerly followed me to the enquiries desk. I managed to arrange a car to drive us to the city. When we went outside, Karl was there waiting for us. ‘Off to the city?’ he asked. ‘Me too. I guess you couldn’t give me a ride?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ Xanthe shouted. ‘What fun.’ But I wasn’t having that.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘There isn’t room, what with the luggage and the baby. Sorry.’

  ‘OK.’ He was still smiling. ‘Cute kid,’ he said, looking down. ‘He’s blond, like your sister.’

  ‘It’s a little girl,’ I said, putting the baby on Xanthe’s knee while I got in beside her. ‘And she’s my daughter.’

  His smile faded, but he waved a hand as we pulled away.

  ‘Why did you tell him that?’ asked Xanthe.

  ‘Because I don’t trust him, that’s why.’

  ‘Now who’s being silly,’ she said, but she forgot the conversation within minutes, as the prospect of a stay in a luxury hotel filled her mind.

  I booked us a suite, two rooms with an interconnecting door, and I took both keys so Xanthe couldn’t lock me out of her room. I needed to keep an eye on her. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you want anything, call room service.’

  ‘Can we go out later?’ she asked. ‘I’d so love to go out.’

  ‘Perh
aps,’ I answered. ‘But we have to think about the baby. We can’t carry him into restaurants, can we? Be reasonable.’

  She pouted again and picked up the telephone. I watched until I saw she had called for room service, then walked into my room and wondered about getting formula feed for baby Max. I’d have to go out and leave Xanthe some time, but would it be safe? From my room I could hear her on the telephone ordering a bottle of gin, and my heart sank. She’d be drunk in half an hour and I was on the point of going in to her and slamming down the phone, but then I stopped myself. She’d already had three brandies on an empty stomach. If she did get drunk, she’d probably pass out and I’d be able to get to the chemist to buy stuff for the baby.

  I was right. She sat with the bottle of gin and drank it from her tooth mug, with a splash of water from the tap. I chatted to her for nearly an hour, talking about my job and asking about her holiday in Bavaria and listening to her vague replies, until her voice started to slur and she lay on the bed. ‘Why don’t you have a little sleep,’ I suggested. ‘You’ve had quite an exciting day.’

  ‘I have, haven’t I, Seff. I’ll close my eyes just for a . . .’

  She was asleep. Picking up the baby and my shoulder bag, I left the room and went down to the lobby. The smart receptionist who’d been flirting with Amyas was on duty and I asked her where I could find food and clothes for the baby. She looked at him, her mouth turning down at the sight of this tiny scrap of a child in his dirty clothes. ‘Perhaps along the Avenida da Liberdade,’ she said faintly. ‘I know of a pharmacy.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hurried out and, turning the corner, walked along the street until I came across the pharmacy. They had all the provisions I wanted: formula feed, a couple of feeding bottles and some soap, cream and powder to get Max clean and comfortable. A few shops further on and I found a baby boutique and bought clothes and nappies for him. The assistant had a few words of English and expressed surprise that he was so small for his age. ‘He has been ill,’ I lied. How could I admit that my sister had starved him?

  My shopping done, I raced back to the hotel and was just going in through the doors when I spotted Xanthe’s new friend, ‘Karl’, standing by the reception desk. I was sure he was asking about us. Christ! I didn’t know what to do. Then I walked away, around another corner and into the cocktail bar. Some early evening drinkers raised their eyebrows at the sight of us, but I walked straight through, out into the corridor and then up the stairs to our floor.

  Xanthe was still asleep, which gave me the opportunity to send a telegram to Charlie, explaining the situation and asking for advice. But I knew I would have to manage on my own, so, giving Max another feed, I settled him into a drawer that I’d pulled out and went to sleep myself. And by seven o’clock the next morning I and a very hungover Xanthe were ready to face another day.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A BELL BOY knocked at my door at nine o’clock and handed me a telegram. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and taking the envelope into the room, I sat at the table where a room service breakfast was laid.

  Xanthe was sitting opposite me, chain-smoking. She had a glass of water in front of her and a packet of aspirin. She looked like hell.

  ‘Eat something,’ I’d said earlier. ‘Look, there’s fruit, bread and gallons of coffee. You’ll feel better with something inside you.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she whispered and started coughing, a rasping, racking cough which seemed to make her whole body shake.

  I’ll take her to the doctor as soon as we get home, I promised myself, looking at her wasted body and thinning hair. There’s something awfully wrong with her.

  But now I opened the telegram. WILL BE IN LISBON THIS EVENING. C.B.

  I gazed at the thin paper with its stuck-on taped message and relief rushed through me.

  ‘Who’s that from?’ Xanthe asked as I put the telegram in my pocket. ‘Is it from Wolf?’

  ‘No. It’s from Charlie Bradford, my boss. D’you remember him? He was in Berlin when we met you and von Klausen.’

  She nodded. ‘I think so. He wore glasses. Wolf said he was very clever and there was something else too . . . what was it?’ She rested her head on her hand, trying to remember. Her eyes were closing again.

  ‘Go and have another lie-down,’ I said. ‘We’ll go out for a walk when you’re feeling up to it.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that, Seffy.’ She perked up a bit. ‘Can we go to the shops?’

  ‘Yes, all right. After you’ve had a little sleep.’

  She wandered into her room and I waited to hear her even breathing, but to my surprise, she came back.

  ‘I’ve remembered,’ she said.

  ‘What? What have you remembered?’

  ‘What Wolf said about your Mr Bradford.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘He didn’t like him. “Mr Bradford is very dangerous,” he said. “He’s pretending to be a foreign correspondent but he’s really a spy.” I’m forbidden to talk to him.’

  ‘That’s just silly.’ I frowned at her, wondering what would happen when Charlie turned up later.

  ‘He thought you were too,’ she added. ‘A spy, I mean.’ She gave one of her high-pitched giggles before going back to her room, where she climbed on to the bed and was asleep in seconds.

  Baby Max, who had slept since I fed him at six, woke up and started yelling. His cry was more vigorous now, and when I picked him up he gave me a sweet, welcoming smile and reached out his little hand to pat my face. ‘I suppose you want more food, young man,’ I said to him, and using the boiled water from the jug that had come with the coffee, I made up another bottle. He sucked at it eagerly, holding on to the feeder as though his life depended on it. I suppose it did in a way, and I marvelled at the instinct for survival that he had. And Xanthe had not. She was drifting, and had lost her way.

  When Max had finished I put him on the rug and let him wriggle about while I re-read Charlie’s brief telegram. I was so glad that he was coming, although I was ashamed that I couldn’t manage by myself and squirmed with the thought that my telegram had sounded pathetic and hysterical. What had I been expecting? I told myself severely. Xanthe to be difficult? Of course she would be, she was always bloody difficult, but I hadn’t expected her to be ill and, if I was honest, I’d dismissed any consideration of the baby. I looked down at him. He was lifting his head and gazing around at the room with his fist in his mouth. I must get him a rattle or a teether or something to play with, I thought. Goodness, the poor scrap hadn’t even got a teddy bear.

  I got up and went to the window and stepped out on to the balcony. It was another hot day in Lisbon, the sky cloudless, but the atmosphere heavy with the threat of a storm. Delicious odours of cooking hung in the air. I looked at my watch: it was nearly midday. Alice would be giving Marisol her lunch now and then, perhaps, if the weather was good, taking her for a paddle. They’d gone to Cornwall the day before I flew to Lisbon and I longed to be with them, to cuddle my daughter, to feel the sea air on my face and swim in the fresh blue water. It was so peaceful there, far away from the clash and intrigue of war. Then I thought of my flat in London, and Kitty and Jacob. I’d invited them to go to Cornwall too. ‘There’s plenty of room,’ I’d said. ‘And I know Kitty hates the bombing. We all do.’

  ‘Thank you, dear Seffy,’ Jacob had said. ‘But we’ll stay. I am close to the synagogue here and, of course, Kitty waits daily to hear of her mother.’

  I’d stared at him then, biting my lip, wondering how to say what I must, but he forestalled me. ‘I know what you are thinking,’ he smiled sadly, ‘and I am prepared. But Kitty, she still has hope and clings to it. How can I destroy that?’

  I turned back into the hotel room, but as I did so a figure in a white hat, standing in the square beneath me, caught my eye. It was Karl, and he was staring up at the hotel. He had a camera in his hand and as I watched, he lifted it up and pointed it at me. I stepped inside quickly. Why was I so wary of him? I didn’t know, but there was jus
t something about him that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  I ordered lunch for us, grilled sardines and salad, and Xanthe woke up in time to eat. ‘Can we have a drink,’ she begged.

  ‘All right, but only if you eat something.’

  And she did, slowly eating a little fish and a few lettuce leaves. It wasn’t much, but more than I’d seen her eat up until now and I poured her a glass of wine.

  ‘Go and have a wash,’ I told her, when we’d finished. ‘Then we’ll go shopping.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ she called, fifteen minutes later, walking through the interconnecting door. Her dress was creased and her shoes scuffed, but she had made an effort to comb her hair and had even painted a streak of red lipstick across her mouth. The finished effect looked so unlike her normal smart self that I couldn’t help staring at her. She noticed my look and narrowed her eyes.

  ‘You try living without money, Seff. I’ve been dependent on that horrible friend of yours for months and he kept me dreadfully short. Only gave me enough for food and cigarettes. And he was always leaving me alone. Said he had to go to work.’ She gave a short, sour laugh. ‘We can all imagine what work that would be. Mummy said he was a thief and a gigolo and even Wolf wasn’t sure about him. I mean, he was supposed to be a friend of us in the party, but then he was friends with you too. Well, more than friends, really. Wolf said he was sleeping with you in Berlin.’

  I froze. That bastard von Klausen, he had been watching me all the time. How dare he. I took a deep breath, determined not to rise to her baiting. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  She didn’t move for a moment. ‘Is it true that you have Jewish friends?’ she asked.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about,’ I said, still furious and deliberately not looking at her, but rummaging through my bag for my wallet.

  ‘That person, Amyas, told Wolf that you went to see some Jews in Berlin. That you took a message to them. I heard them talking about it when I was on the stairs in our dear little house.’