The Travellers

by Ann Swinfen

  Magdolna laughed, her backache forgotten. József’s brother Imre was mad for inventions and gadgets. Brushing up his thick moustache with the back of his hand, he would pace around the walnut tree in the middle of the village square, the favourite gathering place in the evenings, and harangue the other men about all the wonders of the new technology that would transform their farming. As most of the farmers found it difficult even to afford enough petrol to run one tractor they treated his ideas with a certain amount of mocking amusement, but all the same they respected his ingenuity.

  After the years of forced collectivisation on the land, stubbornly resented by the farmers, the Kádár government had allowed the peasants ownership of their háztáji or household plots for growing vegetables for the family, for keeping a cow, a pig, a few chickens. These little plots, less than an acre, were poor recompense for the land, ten or twelve times as much, they had been compelled to hand over to the collective. Yet the háztáji, cultivated by the village families for themselves, yielded far more than the state or collective farms. Now most of the land around Szentmargit had been handed back to the peasants, but few of the men had the means to develop their farming methods.

  Szentmargit had always been a farm village, as far back as anyone could trace. Owned originally by the great family in the manor and worked by the villagers – who paid rent for their land in produce and in labour on the manor farm – the fields around the village had been given unencumbered to the peasants by the young count after the first world war. Until 1946 the Szentmargit families had regarded this land as their own, until it was taken into government control and they were told they were ‘kulaks’ – landed peasants, a species as despised by the Stalinist government as the bourgeoisie.

  József and Imre and the others had regained their land during these last few years, but they had no experience of being private farmers except on their háztáji. They had no capital, their machinery was poor and rusting, their tractors decrepit. They could hope for little help from a government which – though expressing itself willing – was desperately short of money in this new, competitive, capitalist world. Magdolna suspected that it would be farmers like Imre who would save the system if anyone could. Otherwise there was the danger of foreigners, most likely Austrians, buying up the land, whole villages even. A few bad harvests and many of the farmers would be tempted to give up the unequal struggle and pocket the hard currency, closing their minds against what it might mean for the future. With Imre in Szentmargit, the village’s chances were better than most.

  ‘Come,’ she said to András, ruffling his hair. ‘We will not wait for your father to come home. We’ll put a picnic in a basket and take it out to the fields. I should like to see this wonderful machine which is going to irrigate the crops from the Danube. Do you think they will let me borrow it for my vegetable plot?’

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ said András. ‘It’s huge! It would water our house and two on each side. What can we have for our picnic?’

  ‘There is some cold bierwurst, and we’ll take bread and tomatoes.’

  ‘And cake? Is there some cake?’

  ‘Yes, I think there might be some cake.’ Magdolna tidied her workplace quickly, and closed the barn door. It was twilight already.

  ‘Papa did say...’ András began hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, what did Papa say?’

  ‘He said that when we got the harvest money, we could go to Györ and buy me some trainers. There’s a shop that has real Reeboks.’

  ‘Must they be Reeboks?’

  ‘Of course. All the boys in my class are getting Reeboks, when the harvest money comes in.’

  * * *

  ‘Mrs Milburn?’ said the voice on the telephone. It was familiar, but she could not place it.

  ‘Yes? Speaking,’ said Kate, coming in a little breathless from the climb up the hill from the village, where she had been paying a visit to Harbour Steps Books.

  ‘Oh, good evening. It’s Lawrence Elliot here. Rosalind’s violin teacher.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Elliot. I thought you had gone to the music camp with the children.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I mean, I’m ringing from Wales.’ He paused, then cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you for some weeks. About Rosalind.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ said Kate, sitting down suddenly. She knew how much Roz’s music meant to her, even though she assumed the pose of indifference expected by her teenage peer group.

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that!’ He laughed. ‘Well, I suppose some people might see it as a problem, but I’m sure you won’t. You do realise, don’t you, that’s she’s very good? Exceptional, in fact.’

  ‘Well, I... none of us knows much about music.’

  ‘Exceptional,’ he repeated firmly. ‘It is high time to be making decisions about her future. She should really be thinking about starting at music college now, this coming year, without wasting any more time.’

  ‘But her A Levels...’

  ‘Bother her A Levels. We’re talking about a violinist who will soon be of concert standard. Musicians of her calibre have to concentrate their talents. There’s no room for anything else.’

  Kate began to pleat the fabric of her skirt with her free hand. Why had the man sprung this on her without warning, over the telephone?

  As if he could read her thoughts, he said, apologetically, ‘I’m sorry to ring you up like this, instead of talking it over with you face to face, but we’ve had Sir Oswald Kirkwood here today.’

  ‘At the music camp!’

  ‘Yes. He sometimes pays us a visit, if we let him know that we have some special talent. He came from London just to hear Rosalind.’

  Kate swallowed. ‘And?’

  ‘He wants her to start at the college in the autumn. I told him that money probably wouldn’t be a problem, but they would be willing to offer a scholarship if there is any difficulty. I just wanted to warn you, because he’s writing to you straight away.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Roz is there, is she? Could I speak to her?’

  ‘No, I’ve rung while the students are having their dinner, but I’ll get her to phone you from the office when they finish.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate faintly.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘And, Mrs Milburn...?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir Oswald thinks she is outstanding. The most promising young violinist he has heard in twenty years, he said. I think we all owe it to her to give her this chance.’

  Kate replaced the receiver feeling stunned.

  For once Beccy was home by seven, as Chris was busy writing up a story for the newspaper. Tom had phoned yet again to say he would be late, and Kate did not mention Lawrence Elliot’s phone call, knowing she had no hope of securing his full attention while he was still in the office.

  ‘Let’s have omelettes in the kitchen, Mum,’ said Beccy, ‘as it’s just the two of us. I’ll make them. You lay the table and then relax with a glass of that white wine I put in the fridge yesterday. There’s nearly half a bottle left. Pour me some too.’

  ‘I’ll cook, darling. You’ve been at work all day.’

  ‘I’m fine. You look bushed.’

  So with a glass of wine in her hand and her elbows amongst the knives and forks, Kate told her about the phone call from Wales.

  ‘But that’s brilliant!’ said Beccy, stirring mushrooms in butter in a small pan, and then whisking the eggs. ‘Of course you’ll let her go.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to.’ Kate rotated her glass thoughtfully, watching the wine rise around the sides in a golden wave. ‘But she’s very young to go away on her own to London. And music is such a chancy career. I would be happier if she did her A Levels. That would always give her something to fall back on if she doesn’t make the grade as a soloist.’

  ‘If she doesn’t make the grade as a soloist she can always be an orchestral violinist.’

  ‘It’s an awful life. All that travelling and living out of suitcases.
No chance of a proper home. I don’t suppose it’s very well paid, either.’

  Beccy slid her mother’s omelette on to a warmed plate and passed it to her.

  ‘Here, you start while it’s hot.’ She turned back to the stove. ‘I suppose being an orchestral player means you have all the disadvantages of the life of a soloist without the fame and fortune, but you are making wonderful music all the time, and that’s what Roz really wants to do.’

  ‘Are you sure? This is a lovely omelette.’

  ‘Thanks. I practically live on them at college.’

  Beccy sat down opposite her mother and began to eat ravenously.

  ‘Roz and I had a late-night heart-to-heart a couple of days before she went off. These last few months she’s really begun to care about her music, I gathered. Apparently Lawrence Elliot is a brilliant teacher. I can’t imagine why he’s stuck in Charlborough instead of setting up in London.’

  ‘He’s one of the founders of the Charlborough Festival of the Arts,’ said Kate. ‘It will be its fifth year this autumn. He’s dedicated to the idea of sponsoring the arts in the provinces, instead of concentrating everything in London. There’s no need for him to move there – his students come to him up here.’

  ‘Well, anyway – Roz thinks her playing has come on tremendously under him, and she told me that she was dreading the sixth form, and having to concentrate so much time on working for her A Levels. If they think she’s ready for music college now, it’s probably the best thing for her. Musicians are rather special, after all, aren’t they? I mean, for lots of careers it’s better to be a bit older, and gain some experience, but musicians have to seize the moment.’

  ‘I don’t really know enough about music. But I suppose it isn’t as if she’s an infant prodigy. I can’t approve of putting really young children on the concert platform. That must do more harm than good, ruining any chance of a normal, happy life.’

  ‘But isn’t that just the point? They aren’t normal. They’re specially gifted, not like the rest of us poor mortals. Is there anything for pud?’ Beccy pushed back her chair and looked around hopefully.

  ‘Let’s have some fruit. There’s a bowl of peaches and grapes behind you on the dresser.’

  Kate traced a spiral pattern on the tablecloth with the tip of her spoon.

  ‘Musicians may not be normal, as you say, but I still think they deserve the chance of happiness.’

  ‘I bet Roz will find her main happiness in music.’ Beccy held out the bowl. ‘Like a peach?’

  They had cleared and washed up before Roz telephoned. Beccy sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea as Kate talked to Roz on the kitchen phone.

  ‘Can I, Mum?’ asked Roz without preamble. ‘Oh, please! It’s the most incredible opportunity.’

  ‘What exactly does the course involve?’ said Kate cautiously.

  ‘Violin would be the main thing – hours of tuition and practice every day. Just think of it! Being able to concentrate on violin instead of having it pushed into the evenings after I’m tired with swotting for A Levels. I’d keep up flute and piano as well. They like you to have more than one instrument. Then there’d be harmony and composition and background stuff, you know, lives of composers and all that. I wouldn’t be in the main choir, that’s for the real singers. But they have a sort of second-string choir which is just for people who like to sing but aren’t specially good, like me. Think of it, Mum! All that music!’

  She was bubbling over with high spirits. Kate couldn’t stop herself smiling at the sheer joy in her daughter’s voice.

  ‘What about living arrangements?’ she managed to cut in at last.

  ‘Oh, there are college hostels for anyone under eighteen. After that they have college-approved digs, or some people get flats.’

  Kate started adding up the cost of a flat for Roz in central London. Tom had sunk every penny of capital into buying Craigfast House, and any surplus income since they had come north had gone towards redecoration.

  ‘But...!’ Roz interrupted her thoughts dramatically. ‘Sir Oswald thinks I might have started on my concert career by then.’ Her voice cracked with excitement. ‘Mum, he said I might make the Proms by the year after next!’

  Kate could not believe this was happening. Her youngest. Still – in spite of appearances – mentally tagged as ‘the baby’ in the back of her mind. Launching out soon on a career that would take her far out of the reach of her family. But she could not blight her daughter’s happiness.

  ‘It’s wonderful, darling. Just wonderful. I’m still feeling stunned. Beccy’s here, would you like a word with her?’

  ‘Yes please. Is Dad there?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ll tell him as soon as he gets home. He’ll be so excited for you. Here’s Beccy. Goodbye, darling. I’m so thrilled! And so proud of you.’

  Tom did not come home until midnight. By then Beccy was in bed and Kate was sitting in an armchair dozing over a book. She blinked at him sleepily in the subdued light from her lamp. He looked pale, she thought.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

  ‘I had some sandwiches,’ he said curtly. He went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of beer. He stood looking out of the french windows with his back to her. Beyond him she could see the lights of a ship moving up the Dun. He was tense and irritable, and she decided at once not to tell him about Roz’s extraordinary news until the next morning. It would be dismissed with a shrug and an indifferent ‘Oh yes?’ Somehow she felt she could not face that. His lack of interest in his daughter’s achievement would tarnish it.

  Tom began to pace around the room, picking things up and putting them down again without looking at them. She could read every gesture, every movement of his taut body, the way he had avoided looking directly at her since he had come in. There is something he doesn’t want to say to me, but feels he must, she thought, and was suddenly afraid. She started up from her chair, heading towards the door and bed, hoping to forestall him. Instead it seem to galvanise him into action. He set down his glass on the piano and came towards her, seizing her wrists in his hands.

  ‘Kate, I’m sorry.’ There was a curious look in his eye. A kind of shamefaced relief.

  No, she thought, no.

  ‘There’s a crisis at work. The major outside consultants working on the Manchester project have gone into receivership. All their papers are impounded at the moment, including everything relating to our project. It’s reached the point where it will be very difficult for someone else to take over. We’ll have to backtrack and start one whole module from scratch. The client will hold us to the penalty clause, there’s no hoping they won’t. That means every week or part week we’re late delivering the completed system we’ll be penalised £15,000. I’ll have to take charge personally. I can’t rely on the project manager. There’s no way we can have our holiday in France. You’ll have to cancel it.’

  Kate snatched her wrists away from him. A huge anger began to swell inside her, and she realised that it had been building there for weeks, like a hidden disease. It wasn’t the loss of the holiday that upset her – or only as a symptom of something else. For a moment he had truly frightened her. She had believed that something other than his job had come between them. She thought of her worries over Stephen, of Roz’s success, of her own empty and aimless days. And there was that odd look, as though he was secretly pleased.

  ‘People just don’t matter to you any more, do they, Tom?’ she shouted. ‘There’s no blood left in your veins, just electronic messages. All you care about is balance sheets and bloody project plans and...’ As he opened his mouth to speak, she waved her arms frantically to cut him off. ‘You might as well not have a family. The children need you. I need you. But what do you care? Your clients are the only thing in the world that matters. Family life is nothing beside the glistening reality of the project plan.’

  She threw open the door, then stopped and said tightly, ‘I wouldn’t want to go to France with you any more. You wo
uld be about as congenial as a company report. I’ll go into Charlborough tomorrow and change the bookings. I’m going to Hungary instead.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘I cannot agree to this, Kate.’ Sofia paused with her hands over a large bowl, her fingers stained purple.

  Kate, sitting opposite her as they bottled the dessert gooseberries, which had ripened with a rush in the hot weather, was finding Sofia remarkably stubborn.

  ‘It’s very simple. Tom and I are not going to France. The travel agent wouldn’t agree to refund the money at this late stage, but he was willing to swap the flights. I’ve got tickets for the two of us, flying from Edinburgh to Amsterdam, and then from Amsterdam to Budapest. That seemed more sensible than trailing down to Heathrow, and there was space on both flights. The only return flight I could get was three weeks later. Please, Sofia,’ she added cunningly. ‘My original holiday has been ruined and I was so looking forward to it. I don’t want to go abroad on my own, and I’m wild to see Hungary.’

  Sofia said nothing, but began again to nip the tops and tails off the gooseberries between her thumbnail and the tip of her finger. At last she said, ‘But it is not simply the flights. There will be hotels, meals...’

  ‘No problem. Luckily the travel agent had another client who was desperate to visit this new upmarket resort on the Côte d’Azur, so he’s taken our hotel booking for the second week. And the agent is pretty sure the week at the Avignon hotel can be re-sold too. So I’ve booked you and me in at the Marriott Hotel in Budapest for the first three days. I expect it will be like any of these American hotel chains – identical wherever in the world you are. But it overlooks the Danube and it’s within walking distance of everything interesting. Then I’ve booked the next two days at a hotel in Györ. That seemed to be the nearest town to your old home. After that, I thought we could play it by ear – find somewhere truly Hungarian to stay. I’ve used up the balance of the money I’d paid in advance for the French holiday to hire a car for the whole of the time after we leave Budapest. That way we’ll be free to move about as we like, without having to book ahead everywhere.’