No More Dying

by David Roberts

  She had asked Edward not to give her a present. ‘When we get our home sorted out, then you can give me something if you aren’t already fed up with me,’ she had said. ‘I know I’m mad but, if you gave me a wedding present, it would somehow rub it in.’

  ‘Rub what in?’ he had inquired mildly.

  ‘I can’t really say . . . that you made me change my mind – that you won. Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that,’ she said, seeing a hurt look wipe the smile off his face. ‘I love you, I trust you and, if I can live with any man, it’s you, but still . . .’

  ‘You feel you are surrendering something?’ he asked gently. ‘Don’t we always have to surrender something to gain something?’

  ‘I suppose so but the only things I really possess are my principles and now I seem to be losing those. I’m determined to leave the Party and in marrying you . . . well, if I were a politician I would say, “How typical! She’s said one thing and done another.” Tell me you understand.’

  ‘“Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth”, as Cordelia says. I don’t really understand but I do love you. All I can say is that a less complicated woman might bore me quite quickly. You sometimes madden me but you never bore me.’

  The wedding itself passed so quickly that she could remember little about it except the registrar’s evident disapproval that there was no ring and his insisting that Edward signed the marriage certificate with the pen provided which was filled with a special ink that did not fade. And she remembered the kiss he gave her when they were declared man and wife. It was the first time Edward had kissed her on the lips in public and she was momentarily embarrassed and then thrilled, kissing him back with enthusiasm.

  After they had been congratulated by the witnesses, they stood with Basil on the steps of Caxton Hall and allowed themselves to be photographed by the press who had somehow discovered their secret. It wasn’t quite as bad as Verity had feared. She could imagine the disparaging and faintly sarcastic stories that would appear alongside no doubt unflattering images of the two of them, expatiating on her hypocrisy at marrying an aristocrat. However, to her surprise, she found that she didn’t care what people might say or write. She jutted out her chin pugnaciously but fortunately, perhaps, no one noticed. She looked at Edward, who she knew guarded his privacy fiercely, but he seemed unmoved by the intrusion of the press on this most private celebration. He nudged her and pointed to one of the photographers.

  ‘Bandi!’ she squealed, waving frantically. ‘How . . .?’

  ‘I asked him to be here. I hope you don’t mind.’

  André Kavan, the celebrated war photographer, did not usually cover weddings but Edward had discovered that, fortuitously, he was in London and asked whether, as a special favour and as a surprise for Verity, he would take some photographs as they came out of Caxton Hall and join them afterwards at Gennaro’s. Verity had not met him for two years and seeing him now brought back memories of the terrible days in 1937 when Guernica was razed to the ground by the Luftwaffe. Tears came into her eyes but she dared not cry and smudge her discreetly applied mascara.

  ‘How wonderful!’ she said, turning to her husband with a beaming smile. ‘I couldn’t have asked for anything better. I love you so much for thinking of asking him.’

  Edward looked smug. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Now smile. Whether we like it or not, we’re going to be plastered over the picture papers tomorrow.’

  Strictly against the rules, Charlotte and Connie threw handfuls of confetti over them as they walked down the steps to the waiting Lagonda in which Fenton was to drive them to the wedding lunch. He had decorated the car with white ribbons and Frank and Sunita had insisted on attaching the traditional tin cans and old boots. For a ‘quiet’ wedding, Edward thought, it had been quite noisy and, somewhat to his surprise, he had not minded at all.

  At Gennaro’s, Freddy, the head waiter, pink with excitement, greeted them with much bowing and smiling. ‘Lady Edward,’ he said, ushering her into the private room. For a second or two, Verity could not think whom he meant before it dawned on her. The waiters lined the way resplendent in penguin suits complete with white gloves, and Edward suppressed a notion that they might all burst into song, like the chorus of peers in Iolanthe. Freddy’s daughter, bursting with pride, presented Verity with a bouquet of white jasmine.

  Gerald had suggested Claridge’s or the Savoy but Verity and Edward had been absolute in their decision to celebrate their union in the place where it could be said to have begun almost four years earlier. She confessed to Edward in a whisper that she had never been happier in her life. To be with the only man she had ever really loved and surrounded by thirty of their closest friends was her idea of a perfect wedding. She wished Frank and Sunita well of their grand celebration in Winchester Cathedral with hundreds of friends and acquaintances, many of whom they hardly knew, and tables groaning with expensive, and for the most part useless, presents but she knew she would have hated it.

  She said to Adrian who was sitting across the table from her, ‘This is just perfect. If I had to get married, this is exactly how it should be. I suppose I can’t smoke a cigarette?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘Well, I can’t eat a thing,’ she retorted, before finding that she was, in fact, starving.

  Most of the guests, when they had admired her outfit and Edward’s profile, directed their attention on Verity’s father. Donald Browne was a highly successful barrister who could have made a fortune had he not chosen to appear in a succession of politically charged cases on behalf of trades unions, left-wing politicians and agitators including, on two occasions, the Communist Party of Great Britain. Although not himself a member of the Party he supported it both in the courts and financially. He bankrolled the Daily Worker, the organ of the Communist Party, to his great cost but still managed to run a Rolls-Royce of which he was inordinately proud. He was frequently lampooned by the Daily Mail and the Telegraph as a ‘champagne socialist’ and a Communist stooge who undermined the ‘values’ that made Britain great, but he took no notice. He was often abroad advising on political cases and he had three times the work he could deal with comfortably. Verity had long ago accepted that, much as he loved her, she would always take second place to his work and had no illusions that, if some important case had come up, he would, regretfully, not have been there for her wedding.

  But here he was, by some miracle, sitting beside her and his presence made this day perfect.

  ‘Are you very busy, daddy?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. I was in Berlin last week trying to get a friend of mine out of Dachau.’

  ‘That’s the camp near Munich?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a terrible place. Starvation, disease, even torture . . . It chilled my blood.’

  ‘Were you successful?’

  ‘I was. I happen to be a friend of Winifred Wagner. You know she’s English?’

  ‘The composer’s daughter? No, I don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘She’s Wagner’s daughter-in-law. She was brought up in an orphanage – East Grinstead, I believe.’

  ‘How did she end up married to Wagner’s son?’

  ‘He was a homosexual – dead now. It was an arranged marriage but it worked. She saved Bayreuth.’

  ‘Bayreuth? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s a theatre Wagner built specially for his operas in the town of Bayreuth. Winnie runs it.’

  ‘And is she a Communist?’

  Her father laughed. ‘Far from it. She’s a personal friend of Hitler’s and can ask him favours no one else can.’

  ‘And she would help a Communist?’

  ‘I don’t know about that but she helped get my Jewish friend out of Dachau. She’s convinced herself that “Wolf”, as she calls Hitler, has no idea what is being done in his name.’

  ‘And she’s a friend of yours?’ Verity was doubtful.

  ‘I like her. She’s a silly woman but her hear
t’s in the right place.’

  ‘But how can you like a Nazi?’ she protested.

  ‘There are a lot of people on our side who are no better,’ he replied grimly.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, knowing that she did.

  ‘Take your friend David Griffiths-Jones.’

  ‘David . . .?’ She felt her blood chill. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s a ruthless man responsible to my certain knowledge for the death of many good men – all done in the name of the Party. I have been meaning to warn you about him. I heard the other day that he was involved in the death of that journalist fellow – Tom Wintringham. Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes, he was a friend of mine. But, are you saying David killed him?’

  Her father saw that she was upset. ‘We shouldn’t be having this conversation on your wedding day.’

  ‘Just tell me how you know . . .’ Verity was angry.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose he did actually kill Wintringham. It’s just a rumour but he was involved in some way. I shouldn’t have repeated it.’

  Before Verity could say anything more, Edward leant over and suggested this might be the time to propose a toast. There were to be no speeches at Verity’s insistence but her father had been asked to propose the toast to the bride and groom.

  ‘Don’t be soppy, daddy,’ she implored him as he rose to his feet but, of course, he was and by the time Edward had responded the tears were running down her cheeks.

  15

  ‘Isn’t this heaven?’ Verity said, snuggling up to Edward in the huge bed.

  They had wakened at the same time. It was either very late or very early because moonlight still shone through the gap in the curtains. They lay beneath a vast feather duvet – neither she nor Edward had ever slept under one before – which settled on them like a blanket of snow. They were tired after their journey but had slept lightly. The Rhätische Bahn, an extraordinary feat of engineering, chugs ever higher, over the mountains, through countless tunnels and a hundred or more bridges and stone viaducts, across freezing rivers and dramatic gorges. They had felt very alone and intimate in their first-class compartment as they embarked on this magical journey, their first as a married couple, but they had been glad to get to St Moritz at last. They had reached the hotel just in time for dinner but had not felt much like eating so they had had a bottle of wine and sandwiches sent up to their room. This night in a fairy-tale bed was the fitting culmination of a momentous few days.

  Suddenly, feeling suffocated under the heavy duvet, Edward put her gently to one side, slid out of bed and went over to the window. He drew the curtains and looked out. He picked up his watch from the bedside table and was able to read it by the silver stream of light reflecting off the snow. It was four o’clock. He could see snowflakes falling across the window in soft, silent streams. His feelings, too, seemed to swirl about him. He knew they would settle, like the snow, but at this moment before dawn there was trepidation along with joy, doubt along with certainty, and pain along with pleasure. He was married to the woman he had wanted for so long but from whom he would soon be parted. He loved her but feared, deep in his heart, that she would tire of him. The gods had given him what he had asked of them but would his happiness turn to dust between his fingers? He told himself that it was madness to think this way. He was tempting fate. He knew that if he didn’t snap out of it he risked losing all. And yet, he wondered, how many men had stood, as he was standing now, on the first morning of their honeymoon, tormented by demons?

  He shivered. It was odd to be standing here quite naked yet warm looking out on such coldness. He could see a barn roof, its eaves seeming to bend under the weight of whiteness. The world was strange to him – made anew for him alone – and he must meet it with courage. He had made solemn promises to Verity and these must now be honoured. He would never have been happy without her. Now he must bear the pain of knowing that, in the coming war, he stood to lose her. Bitterness filled his heart and he pressed his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes until the pain eased.

  Verity must have felt something of his turmoil because she flung back the duvet and came to him. She did not speak and he did not turn as she put her arms around him and laid her head against his back. He was so much taller that she could only cling to him like a child asking for comfort and giving it. At last – it was only a few seconds but it seemed an eternity – he gently prised her hands away and turned to look at her. He knew her so well but at this moment not at all. He stroked her face, between her breasts, down her stomach and she felt his hand explore between her thighs. Then he pressed himself to her and she felt his hardness. He lifted her in one graceful movement and carried her back to the bed.

  As he made love to her, he felt the doubts and the pain flow from him. He did not close his eyes. She always said it was one of the things she most liked – that he looked at her while he made love to her. She said it showed he was sensitive to her needs and was not wholly absorbed in his own pleasure. Together, they came to a climax. Verity stroked him feverishly – scratching his back and leaving weals for which, in due course, she would have to apologize – feeling his hard muscular body as it bowed and bent over hers. At last, she let go a cry, half a sigh of regret that it was over and half an acknowledgement that she had been satisfied. He loved her.

  It was after nine when the sun reflecting off the snow woke them. Edward was immediately alert, happy and energetic, the travails of the night forgotten. He splashed his face in cold water and then came back to turf Verity out of bed. She was less eager to meet the new day and hid her face in the pillows.

  ‘Don’t be such a bully,’ she complained. ‘This is supposed to be our honeymoon, isn’t it? I know what happens on honeymoons. All my girlfriends have told me about it. You get brought breakfast in bed and you are left to . . . No, damn you, Edward . . .’ He was sprinkling her with cold water. ‘You beast!’ She grabbed him round the neck and they wrestled together until the inevitable happened and he was drawn protesting back to bed where, under her tuition, he made long, languorous love to her.

  ‘Enough of this, my girl,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t intend to miss my breakfast and then you’ve got a skiing lesson.’

  ‘Must I really? I’d much rather watch you,’ she grumbled, burrowing back under the bedclothes.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, V. We’ve only got four days. We can’t stay in bed when the world is this beautiful.’ He carried her to the window and showed her a panorama of glistening white and she was enchanted.

  ‘It’s a fairy tale!’ she exclaimed unoriginally. ‘What’s that droning noise?’

  ‘I’m singing. I always sing when I’m first married.’ He stropped his razor and covered his face with shaving cream. ‘Boo! I’m Father Christmas,’ he said, kissing her.

  ‘Get off me!’ she complained. ‘You’ve made me all wet.’

  It was unexpected, she thought, to find such pleasure in being naked together. Like children, they had no embarrassment about baring all to one another. Of course, they knew each other well so there was none of the shyness she supposed some young marrieds must feel about revealing their imperfections to each other. But still, it was something more. She thought it might be an expression of the honesty they had promised themselves. It was also, perhaps, the feeling that they had broken so many taboos, acknowledged and unacknowledged, that to be shy now would be absurd. Verity had not always liked her lovers to see her naked but Edward was different. She loved him unreservedly. She took pleasure in every part of his body and his few small imperfections amused and reassured her. He had hurt his leg, not so many months ago, in a fight to the death with one of the Nazis’ most ruthless agents and the encounter had left him with an almost imperceptible limp. And there was a scar on his chest from a bullet wound that made her shiver whenever she touched it. She, too, had scars – the one on her forehead he sometimes touched, as if for luck – and other more intimate physical defects but, as Edward s
aid, how boring perfection would be.

  They were staying – courtesy of Colonel Moore-Brabazon – at the Kulm Hotel overlooking the St Moritzsee. Edward had read in his Baedeker that the large lake was too cold for swimming even in summer and in winter freezes solid – so solid in fact that horses race across it and the English play cricket on it. St Moritz is dominated by the Palace Hotel with its spectacular green-capped tower and the more solid, yellow, Kulm just above it. Behind soar the mountains, the most dramatic of all, Piz Corviglia, is ten thousand feet high. The most famous and fashionable winter sports resort in the world, St Moritz sits six thousand feet above sea level in the Engadine River Valley. Edward had been impressed to read that, at peak season, the town’s population of four thousand is doubled by the influx of tourists – mostly English, American and German – who come to enjoy the settled weather.

  Baedeker points out that the sun shines on average two hundred days in the year and heavy snowfalls – which cause avalanches in Austria and France – are unusual. It’s no surprise that the English, who first ‘discovered’ St Moritz, were enraptured. It was the English – and Colonel Moore-Brabazon in particular – who developed the sporting facilities and were instrumental in creating the Cresta Run. The Kulm was dedicated to the Cresta and, standing in the Sunny Bar waiting for Verity, surrounded by memorabilia of Cresta heroes, Edward decided he must investigate it, although the mere thought of hurling himself head first down a sheet of solid ice on a flimsy toboggan made him feel sick.

  One of his friends, when he had heard where Edward was going, had told him that that minute on the Cresta Run was the most exciting of his life – ‘better’, he had added in a half whisper, ‘than sex.’ The Run was only a five-minute walk from the hotel and from what he could see, examining the photographs on the walls and reading the comments beneath them, it was the ultimate speed experience. Lying on your stomach on a wooden toboggan – known to enthusiasts as the wagon – with your chin just an inch or two above the unforgiving ice, it was possible to travel the run at over fifty miles an hour, which was faster than most cars.