Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Darling! What’s the matter?”

  “My father has been arrested!”

  “Your father——”

  “Rudi has written to tell me and begs me to come at once. The letter was written a week ago but he was afraid to post it. He sent it to Switzerland with a friend. It’s a desperate letter, badly written, badly expressed. He begs me to come. He’s frantic! What am I to do?”

  “Charles! Tell me properly, darling.”

  “Yes, I must,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I must try to be calm. I was calm before – I had made up my mind that we must put off our marriage – but seeing you like this has – has upset me. I was out in the dark and I saw you sitting here with the light shining on your dear head. It was like – like being a wanderer and seeing a vision of love and home and happiness. Oh, Sarah, I don’t want to leave you! I’ve waited so long for you, and now – now when I thought the waiting was over – and our troubles were over——”

  I took his hand and held it firmly. “Tell me what has happened.”

  “Here’s Rudi’s letter,” he said, taking the envelope with the thin crumpled sheets of paper out of his pocket and giving it to me.

  I took it and looked at it. I could read German now – but not Rudi’s frantic scrawl!

  “You’ll have to tell me,” I said.

  “They left the Schloss and went to Vienna for the marriage of Anya’s brother. Naturally Anya wanted to be there, but it would have been wiser if she and Rudi had gone by themselves – instead of opening the town house and going en famille – but what’s the good of talking about it! They all went to the marriage and in the evening they went to the opera with a party. When they got home the Secret Police were waiting for them; my father was arrested and taken away. The house had been searched, the servants had fled in terror – all but old Hans and his wife.”

  “Why was he arrested?”

  “It’s what I’ve been afraid of for years! I’ve told you about my father – about the way he spoke of Hitler. He’s fearless and impatient; he comes of a proud Austrian family; he despises Hitler, calls him an upstart, a low-born guttersnipe – and other worse things. It’s a wonder this hasn’t happened before!”

  “Charles, listen! Why must you go?”

  “Rudi says I could influence my father and persuade him to behave reasonably.”

  “But he’s in prison, isn’t he? You couldn’t——”

  “Oh, it isn’t a dungeon. He’s a political prisoner in the State Prison in Vienna. Rudi is arranging for him to be properly looked after, and can visit him at certain times. His friends are making every effort to get him released. If he would be patient and reasonable, they might succeed . . . but he isn’t reasonable. He’s as angry as a caged lion. It’s dangerous, that!”

  “Dangerous?”

  “At any moment they may lose patience with him and decide to – to end his life.”

  “Oh, Charles! But what could you do?”

  “He would listen to me.”

  “Why? Why would he listen to you if he won’t listen to Rudi?”

  “He would listen to me,” repeated Charles.

  I knew the reason. He would listen to Charles because Charles was vigorous and determined . . . and because Charles was his favourite son. I said, “Isn’t there any other way? You said you would never go back.”

  “I didn’t mean to go back.”

  “If you go they’ll keep you there! They can’t get on without you!” I exclaimed.

  “No, no! I shall only go for a few days.”

  “How long?”

  “I’ll come back to you as soon as I can,” he said desperatelv. “As soon as I can, Sarah. I shall find out how things are and have a talk with my father, and I shall see a friend who has a good position in the new régime. He might be able to help us. Oh, darling, you understand, don’t you? He’s my father . . . and his life is in danger.”

  At first I had been angry, perhaps a little jealous. Why should Charles always have to go to the rescue when his family was in trouble? But now I realised what I should feel if my father were in danger of his life.

  “Yes,” I said sadly. “Yes, I understand.”

  He sat down beside me on the sofa and put his arm round me and I rested my head against his shoulder.

  For a little while there was silence.

  “I wonder,” said Charles doubtfully.

  “What do you wonder?”

  “I wonder if I could wait and go to Vienna next week . . . after we’re married. It would just mean putting off my visit for a very short time. If I could wait and go after our marriage you would belong to me, Sarah. That’s what I want.”

  It was what I wanted more than anything in the world, and for a few moments the burden on my heart lifted. Then I realised the danger. I could keep him – yes – but if he waited and something dreadful happened he would never forgive himself.

  “That’s what I want,” he repeated. “I’d feel safer if we belonged to each other. I could wait and go to Vienna after we were married, couldn’t I?”

  Somehow the knowledge that I could keep him made it easier for me to let him go. “I think perhaps you’d better go,” I told him.

  “Yes, perhaps——”

  “It just means putting off our marriage until you can arrange things satisfactorily. There isn’t any danger, is there? Danger for you, I mean.”

  “Oh no, I don’t envisage danger to myself. I’ve always been careful not to offend people; I’m well known in Vienna as a man more interested in the improvement of his father’s property than in political matters.”

  “You aren’t just saying that to comfort me?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Sarah – not even for your own good – there must always be truth between you and me. If I thought there was danger I wouldn’t go; I promise you that. No, the only reason I’m so upset is because I hate leaving you.”

  “When must you go?”

  He sighed. “My plan is to catch the boat at Dover to-morrow morning. I left my car at Fairfield to have a tyre changed; the man said he would do it to-night.”

  “I wondered why you didn’t come in your car. Charles, will you be able to write to me?”

  “Yes, I’ll write, but I shan’t be able to tell you much. My country is now a Police State and letters may be opened.”

  “Just a few lines will do.”

  We went on talking quietly. Sometimes not talking, but just being together in silence.

  “Charles.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “If we had been married to-day instead of next Wednesday . . .”

  “I couldn’t arrange it any sooner.”

  “I know, but – but we could pretend. We could pretend we were married this afternoon.”

  “Sarah! Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “I just thought . . . if you wanted to pretend.”

  “Oh, darling! Are you sure?”

  “We’ve belonged to each other for years.”

  “We’ve always belonged to each other,” said Charles softly.

  *

  We came downstairs together in the early dawn; the cold grey light was creeping in through the drawing-room windows. Charles unfastened the glass door and we went down the path to the gate. There was a damp mist rising from the ground and the trees were dripping.

  When we got to the gate he stopped. “Say good-bye here, darling. I haven’t left myself much time; I shall have to run.”

  “Charles! Oh, Charles, come back to me soon!”

  He took me in his arms and kissed me. He held me so tightly that it hurt. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said desperately. “As soon as I can, Sarah. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Auf wiedersehn, my own darling girl.”

  “Auf wiedersehn, Charles.”

  He turned and ran.

  The mist was thick under the trees and in a moment he had disappeared but I could hear his footsteps
running quickly down the road. The sound grew fainter and fainter in the distance until at last I could hear it no more.

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty

  Here there is a blank in my diary . . . and a blank in my mind. I suppose I must have gone about as usual: eaten and slept and talked to people, but I can’t remember anything about that time. There was no letter from Charles and no news of him; it was as if he had gone away in the grey mist of dawn and vanished from the earth.

  When war was declared I began to come to my senses. I had to make the effort for there was so much to do. Father was determined to leave Fairfield and go to London; he repeated all he had said to Lewis and added that Lottie was to remain at St. Elizabeth’s for another year and I was to go to Craignethan.

  “I shall come with you,” I told him.

  “It won’t be safe, Sarah. I don’t want you in London; you would be an anxiety to me.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to bear the anxiety as best you can.”

  He looked at me and sighed but said no more. Perhaps he realised that in my present queer state of mind it would be better for me to be in London.

  “We’ll find a flat and live there together,” I said. “It will be more comfortable for you than lodgings.”

  “I’m not going to London for comfort,” said father, but he said it meekly and I took no notice.

  After some difficulty I found a furnished flat; it was very small and rather dark but it was conveniently near St. Rule’s. There was no question of taking Minnie with us – I could run the flat myself – so Minnie decided to go home to Ryddelton and live with her youngest sister. Father gave her a small annuity which would make her independent.

  I couldn’t leave Fairfield without saying good-bye to some of the people who had been kind to us, so I went to call on Mrs. Powell and had a chat with her.

  When I was a child I had thought Mrs. Powell “quite old” but now she seemed younger . . . which was strange. Another strange thing was that, although I knew her so well, I knew nothing whatever about her. I looked at her sitting there, plump and cheerful, with the brown fringe and the lively brown eyes, and wondered what had happened to her husband and whether she had ever had a child and why she had settled down in Fairfield to teach other people’s children. When I was a child I had accepted Mrs. Powell at her “face value” – as children do – but now I felt that there was something mysterious about her and I should have liked to know her history.

  “Do the children still write their diaries?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course,” replied Mrs. Powell. “It’s a good habit to keep a diary and once you get into the way of it you can’t stop. I’ve kept a diary all my life; it’s very interesting to look back and remember what has happened.”

  “I suppose it is,” I said with a sigh.

  “You’ve had a bad time lately,” said Mrs. Powell. “There are bad times in our lives – and good times as well – and it all makes a pattern. The pattern is very important, Sarah. Remember that.”

  “I can’t see any pattern, Mrs. Powell.”

  “You will, some day,” said Mrs. Powell, nodding. “Meanwhile it would be good for you to get a job in London. When you’re anxious and unhappy it’s better to keep busy; I know that from experience.”

  When I was coming away I kissed her and thanked her for all she had done.

  “But I haven’t done anything!” she exclaimed in surprise.

  “You taught me that lessons are interesting.”

  “Did I, Sarah? Well, you couldn’t have said anything that would have pleased me better,” declared Mrs. Powell, smiling.

  I called on Mrs. Stanley and Mrs. Price and Mrs. Rickaby and several other people who had been friends of mother’s; it was a struggle to make myself do it but they were all so pleased to see me that it was well worth while.

  There were various other matters to be settled before we left Fairfield. Father was giving up the living and was going to St. Rule’s in a voluntary capacity; everyone thought it very unwise but he was determined to do it and he said we would have enough to live on if we were careful. All this took time but at last the arrangements were completed; we put all the furniture in store in Larchester and left St. Mary’s Vicarage for ever.

  We were saying good-bye not only to the dear old house and garden but also to memories – happy memories and sad ones. I was saying good-bye to the whole of my life. It was almost incredible that St. Mary’s Vicarage was no longer my home: strangers would be living here; sitting in the drawing-room, walking about the garden and picking mother’s roses!

  It was surprising that I didn’t feel more unhappy but already I was so miserable that my feelings were numbed, nothing seemed to matter any more.

  I had been against the move, like everyone else, but soon I realised that it was good for father to make a clean break with the past and begin a completely new life. He was welcomed cordially by Mr. Hetherington, the vicar of St. Rule’s; he took many of the services, visited people in the parish and made new friends.

  Mr. Hetherington was tall and thin with grey hair and dark eyes. He was spiritual and other-worldly and the services in St. Rule’s were beautiful, but people didn’t come to him for help and comfort – as the Fairfield people had come to father. To me there was something inhuman about Paul Hetherington but father had a great admiration for him.

  Mrs. Hetherington was kind but she was so much older than I was that we seemed to have little in common. I thought her plain and uninteresting. Her complexion was very pale; she had large brown eyes and smooth dark hair which she wore parted in the middle and pinned into a “bun” at the back of her neck. We knew nothing about the Hetheringtons when we went to London but we had not been there long before someone told father that their only child, Gilbert, had been in the Navy and had been drowned at sea in an accident. Nobody seemed to know any details about the accident and the Hetheringtons never mentioned him.

  My first few months in London were unhappy ones. The flat was so small and easily run that I hadn’t enough to keep me busy. I couldn’t have left father alone but I could have managed a part-time job – and this was what I wanted – but father was anxious about me and wouldn’t hear of it. I had been losing weight and father had consulted old Dr. Weatherstone before we left Fairfield. Dr. Weatherstone had come to see me and had poked me and prodded me and given me a tonic and had said I must rest as much as possible . . . which was quite the wrong advice. I had too much time to sit and think and worry about Charles; I missed all the coming and going at St. Mary’s Vicarage and I was lonely.

  There had been bombing raids in the north but so far none in London, and apart from the black-out and the rationing and the uniforms in the streets there was little to show that we were at war. Some people were of the opinion that the Luftwaffe would never bomb London, but father thought otherwise and persuaded Mr. Hetherington to allow him to make the huge crypt beneath the church into an air-raid shelter. The walls were strengthened and several large stoves were put in.

  When it was ready father took me to see the place. He had paid for everything himself and had made it wonderfully comfortable; there were cupboards full of cups and saucers and plates, cupboards full of tinned food and biscuits and tea and sugar, and there were wooden bunks with mattresses and blankets. He had provided books and packs of cards and games for children. It was all very clean and neat . . . and empty. I wondered if it would ever be used.

  No sooner were we settled in London than father received a short note from Lottie to say she had left school and was living with the Meldrums. Father rang up and spoke to her and told her she had no right to leave school without his permission . . . but Lottie said she was sick of school and “there was a war on”; (this was an excuse for anything and everything!) She said Mrs. Meldrum needed her because there was a battalion of the Downshire Regiment in the old barracks at Larchester and the Meldrums were “holding open house” for the officers.

  I thought this s
ounded unsuitable for Lottie, who was only seventeen, and I told father that he should go to Fairfield and see her and send her back to school. But he sighed and said, “The child seems happy with the Meldrums; they’ve always been very kind to her, you know.”

  “It would be better for her to go to Craignethan.”

  “Yes, I told her that, but she said it would be dull; there are no young people at Craignethan. At any rate she’s quite safe at Riverside.”

  Lewis had been drafted into an infantry regiment and was in training on Salisbury Plain; he came to see us now and then, and he looked so smart and soldierly and was so cheerful that it was a pleasure to see him. As usual he was full of his own affairs and not particularly interested in other people’s.

  “The war won’t last long,” said Lewis. “I only wish I could get to France and see some active service before it’s over. It’s sickening to be kept kicking my heels on Salisbury Plain. However once the battalion is up to strength we’ll probably be on the move.” He smiled and added, “Have you seen Father’s air-raid shelter? It’s pathetic, isn’t it? The Germans don’t intend to bomb London.”

  He was so full of confidence that while he was there I believed him.

  Willy had completed his years of apprenticeship in Romford’s Engineering Works, but Romford’s Works were not making munitions, so when war broke out he was transferred to a new factory which was making tanks. I never really understood the ins and outs of the matter (Willy was very reticent about his affairs and disliked interference), but one day he said somewhat bitterly, “I’m doing unskilled work; I’d have been more use to my country with a gun in my hand.”

  “Did you try to enlist?” I asked.

  “Of course!”

  “Why wouldn’t they take you, Willy?”

  “You’ll need tae ask Jock,” he replied with a grim smile.

  It was useless to say any more but I realised that there had been a muddle. Willy was a skilled mechanic so they had refused to take him for the Army . . . but he was doing unskilled work and eating his heart out over it.