The German Boy

by Tricia Wastvedt

  ‘My life!’ said Rachel, when he’d gone. ‘Since when were you the Queen of Sheba.’

  Lunch was in a tea room looking out over the Channel, and Karen and Rachel chatted while Elisabeth watched the boats go by, listening to the gulls and the sea wind rattling the windows. Then she heard Karen ask, ‘Where’s Michael living these days?’

  ‘Let’s go to the fair in Rye tomorrow,’ said Elisabeth quickly, but no one heard because at the same moment Rachel said, ‘He lives out on Dungeness Point.’

  ‘Then I shall visit him,’ Karen said.

  Elisabeth was watching an old man over on a grassy promenade with a paper bag of bread. ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘You’re married.’ Seagulls were hanging in the air and screeching like harpies, dipping and fighting over the crusts he was throwing up to them.

  ‘I’m only going to say hello,’ said Karen, patting Elisabeth’s hand.

  ‘How will you get there? I can’t ask George to drive you.’ Elisabeth heard her voice sounding quarrelsome.

  ‘The hotel car will take me.’

  ‘And you’ll tell Artur?’

  ‘For goodness sake. Artur won’t mind, so why should you?’

  ‘There’s no point worrying, Elisabeth,’ said Rachel. ‘She’ll do what she wants. She always has.’

  Rachel went back to work and Karen called the waitress for the bill. They walked along the promenade in silence and Elisabeth knew there was nothing more to say.

  ‘I know what you think,’ said Karen after a while. ‘But you don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t. And you think I don’t know when you’re not telling me the truth.’

  Karen’s blue eyes looked away, out to the blue horizon. She said evenly, ‘The truth is, I did something which turned out badly for Michael. I should like to talk to him, that’s all. I must tell him I’m sorry.’

  So Karen had a past with Michael, as of course she would. They had seen Paris together and travelled on a train to Germany; there was a story between them and something which must be resolved.

  ‘Artur won’t know, I promise you,’ Karen said. ‘He’s gone to London. I told him I would stay with you because that was what you wanted.’

  22

  Karen didn’t come to the house the day after they took the bus to Folkestone, or the next. On the third morning, Elisabeth walked to Vera’s bungalow.

  It was hot and she tied up her hair in a scarf. She took the path across Eddie Saunders’s fields, past the two black mares standing knee deep in buttercups. They turned their heads to watch her. In the lanes, she kept to the shade.

  Vera made a pot of tea and the conversation was laundry and baking and the price of coal. Elisabeth wanted to ask if Michael had been home or if Karen had visited, when Vera sat back squarely in her chair and said, ‘Your big sister! Well! She’s always been a pretty thing but she’s grown into a real beauty. She came here the other afternoon, so lovely and expensive-looking, but no airs. No, not a bit – you’d think she still lived round the corner. She had tea with me, a chop and veg, just like she did in Peckham when you girls were in and out the house like fleas.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she would be today?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘She was going off to London, you didn’t know? It’s her husband’s business so she probably didn’t have time to tell you. She showed me a picture of him and I nearly swooned.’

  ‘Did she say when they’d be back?’

  ‘What’s her husband’s name? What is she now? She’ll always be Karen Oliver to me.’

  ‘His name is Artur. She’s Karen Landau now,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Vera, do you know when they’ll be back from London?’

  ‘She didn’t say. Do you mind the ironing board? You sit there, don’t move yourself, I only need a corner.’

  Elisabeth wanted to go home but her teacup had been filled again.

  ‘She’ll tell you all about it, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Vera said, ‘but it was such a chance – Michael turned up when she was here and he said he’d see her home, back to her hotel. She told him her stockings didn’t matter, she wasn’t bothered, and she’d ride on the saddle of his bicycle.’ Vera unrolled a pillowcase and spat on the iron. ‘She looked so pretty sitting there, her skirt hitched up and laughing, holding on to him. I said, you were slow, my lad, she’s the one that got away. Well, he said, she’s here now. And off they went together.’

  The midday heat was hard like metal. Elisabeth followed the path from Vera Ross’s bungalow, back through the meadows where the black mares lifted their heads from the buttercups as they had earlier.

  She had always known this would happen. How could it not be so? Michael would want Karen and she wouldn’t care who was hurt.

  Selfishness meant freedom and Elisabeth envied her.

  And it seemed natural that Artur Landau was waiting when Elisabeth arrived home. He was sitting on the garden wall in his shirtsleeves, looking out at the fields. He watched her walk towards him but he didn’t speak, and she wondered if perhaps he didn’t recognize her with her hair tied up. She could feel the sun had burned her face and she was wearing an old blouse and a summer skirt she’d had for years.

  ‘How nice to see you again, Artur, I thought you were in London. I’m sorry you’ve had to sit outside. I was visiting a friend.’ What else could be said? An apology for her sister meant nothing.

  His eyes flickered over her and he looked away. He was sweating. His hair was ruffled and he looked younger than the man she had met three days ago. ‘I am returning to Germany with my son. Perhaps you would let Karen know this when you see her.’

  ‘Please come in, Artur. It’s very hot out here.’

  He followed her into the kitchen and she put a glass of water in his hand. He drank it down and water trickled down his neck and inside his shirt. She gave him another.

  He stood beside her at the sink, out of breath from drinking, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her. ‘My wife told me she would stay with you. She has not been here.’ It was not a question. ‘A man, Michael Ross, perhaps he lives near but I do not ask you where. Even if you know, you will not tell me.’ He put his hand lightly on her shoulder and the anger in his eyes kept her still. He lifted a strand of hair away from her face and his fingers touched her cheek. ‘Perhaps you are a good wife,’ he said. Then he left.

  Another car came later. Elisabeth was planting seedlings. She wanted to be occupied because it had been impossible to wash away the touch of Artur Landau on her face. She heard the car pull up and expected to hear footsteps on the gravel, but a moment later Karen’s bare feet were standing on the earth next to the trowel.

  ‘You told him,’ she said.

  Elisabeth put down the trowel. ‘Artur came here looking for you,’ she said. ‘What happened to your shoes?’

  ‘How could you? All you had to do was keep quiet.’

  ‘Artur knew. I didn’t tell him.’ Elisabeth got to her feet, brushing the earth from her hands, dusting off her skirt. She felt ashamed, as if she was the one who had caused this chaos. ‘He knew you were with Michael.’

  ‘You could have helped me,’ Karen shouted. Her face would have looked spiteful if Elisabeth hadn’t known it was fear. ‘You could have made up something.’

  ‘I told you, he already knew. He knew Michael’s name.’

  Karen wasn’t listening. ‘I should have known I couldn’t trust you. Why do you always do this? You watch me, you watch everyone, and decide what’s right and never have any feelings of your own.’ She paced to and fro, stamping down the earth where the seedlings were to go. ‘I had to see Michael. I told you why. I explained it all to you.’

  ‘You didn’t explain anything. And I don’t trust you any more,’ said Elisabeth.

  Karen stopped pacing. ‘What?’

  ‘You never told me about meeting him in Paris. Michael went to Germany with you and you didn’t say. You never told me in your letters and you could have, but you didn’t.’

&n
bsp; Karen’s face was blank. ‘Why should I? And what does it matter?’ She started pacing again, impatient to get past this distraction. ‘You’re happy with George. He looks after you and Michael never could. Michael said he loved you and I stopped him coming back. I didn’t tell you because I dealt with it. That’s all. I did it for you.’

  Elisabeth wondered if it would feel like this to be shot – a moment of agony, then nothing; Michael had been coming back, and Karen had taken him away. She watched Karen’s feet walking back and forth again on the soft turned earth.

  ‘I always think of you,’ said Karen peevishly. ‘You don’t know how much it cost me to help you, and when I need just one small thing from you, it’s too much to ask.’ She sat down suddenly on the empty flowerbed. ‘Artur’s gone. I don’t know what to do.’ She picked up the trowel and began to scrape hollows in the earth. ‘He left money for me at the hotel, not even a message, just money.’

  Elisabeth sat down beside her. The seedlings had already wilted and she began poking them into the earth one by one with her finger. She wished George would come home. It was late and the sun was low on the horizon.

  Karen said, ‘I didn’t think Artur would come back here. He went to London to meet someone then he was taking Stefan home.’ Her arms were sunburned like a farm girl’s and there were tiny cuts on her legs.

  Elisabeth touched her skin. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We went swimming in the sea last night. There were mussels on the rocks. I lost my shoes somewhere.’

  They said nothing for a while and Karen kept on scraping at the earth.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it, Elisabeth. Michael’s hands and his poor face. I didn’t mean to stay.’ For once, there was no triumph in her voice. ‘When I saw him, I didn’t care what happened or what I did, because I hated Artur.’

  Suddenly the deadness vanished. ‘You make excuses. You always forgive yourself whatever you do and you never really care if people are hurt. And why hate Artur? Michael’s beating wasn’t his fault.’

  Karen put down the trowel beside the seedlings. ‘It was mine.’

  ‘But that’s crazy. You think things happen because of you, but there are people you don’t matter to at all.You make a game of everything – Michael loving me, and even Dadda dying.’ This time Karen flinched and Elisabeth felt a rush of fear. Too much had been said.

  Karen stood up, shading her eyes against the setting sun. ‘I should go.’ She seemed preoccupied, as if she had already forgotten what Elisabeth had said. ‘This is how it always is. Whatever Artur does, I can’t hate him. Will he forgive me, do you think?’

  ‘Tell him nothing happened. He’ll believe you; people always do. You’d better go.’ Elisabeth turned away. She watched the starlings flocking to the trees and didn’t hear Karen leave, only a car starting up and wheels turning on the gravel.

  Elisabeth dragged her bicycle from the coach house and rode out to Dungeness. The evening sun was slanting and disintegrating now, and the sea was a tender evening blue. Michael didn’t look surprised to see her even though she’d never come so late before, and she stood in front of him, gasping like a fish, the bicycle flung down and its wheels still clicking round. She wanted to slap his face and punch him, and sink down on the ground and weep.

  She couldn’t speak because the thoughts were stampeding in her head. She had no right to be hurt so there was nothing she could say.

  The day’s sun still scorched on her skin but the air seemed cold and she shivered. In the hut, Michael sat her down on the wooden bed and put a coat around her shoulders then he gave her a glass of water as she had Artur Landau a few hours before. Her eyes darted everywhere before the thought even came into her mind that she was searching for signs of Karen.

  ‘I didn’t bring her here,’ Michael said. He sat on a chair at the table. A slab of sunlight came through the open door and Elisabeth leaned back against the wooden wall. The soft percussion of the waves and the rolling pebbles made her tired suddenly in spite of the storm inside her.

  ‘I suppose you’ve loved her all this time since Paris,’ she said, and her voice sounded quite ordinary.

  Michael gave a dry laugh. ‘Not love, Elisabeth.’ He got up and took a bottle from the shelf, poured whisky in a cup and gave it to her, then one for himself, spilling some on the table. He was clumsy when his hands were tired.

  ‘You don’t care she’s married? You’ve spoiled everything for her.’ There was a feeble spark of anger but Elisabeth had no heart for it. ‘And what about me?’ She knew she sounded childish. The jealousy got dusty but it never went away.

  He swirled the spirit in the cup and drank it down. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’

  The pain of what he said brought a rush of fury. ‘How can you say that? Knowing how I feel, how can you say it?’

  He regarded her. ‘And how do you feel? You’ve never told me.’ His coldness hurt but soothed her too; there was no love for Karen in his voice. ‘Why shouldn’t I have Karen – or any woman. God knows, there’s no point in wanting you.’

  Her mind was leaping from one thing to another. ‘She says it’s her fault you were beaten. I think she’s going mad.’

  ‘We all are. The world is, Elisabeth.’

  ‘And she said you were coming home to me when you met in Paris, so why did you go with her to Munich?’

  He looked up quickly, as if this wasn’t a question he’d expected. ‘It makes no difference now.’

  She waited. She knew there would be more.

  ‘You were married. Karen told me. I was too late.’

  She looked down at her hands, the gold ring and the redness from the housework, and wondered at this life she thought was hers. The cogs and levers of events she thought she understood had synchronized without her knowing. The stars had taken up their places, the machinery had set and locked a course in Paris long ago. ‘It wasn’t true,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t married then.’

  Outside the light had almost gone. George would be home by now and he was bringing Toby back from school. Over supper in the kitchen, Toby would tell her about his week – the rugby games, the fights and food, and which items of his uniform needed to be mended. They would wonder where she was.

  ‘I must go.’ She stood up and Michael stood up too. A chair fell over and the sound when it hit the floor cracked apart the quiet.

  ‘There’s a place in France, Elisabeth. I’ve seen you there.’ His voice rasped.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, although she didn’t understand.

  ‘You’re walking up the hill to me and your hair is long like it used to be. We’ll take the boat tonight. We’ll go to Paris, to the market to buy peaches, and we’ll take the train south to Mazamet.’

  It was too painful to hear him say it as if it was a possibility. She must go home, but he was standing in her way. Then he put out his hand and took away the touch of Artur Landau on her face. ‘It’s not too late.’

  He took her hands in his and when she looked up, she was in his eyes again after so many weeks and months and years when he hadn’t seemed to see her.

  ‘I must say goodbye to George and Toby,’ she said.

  ‘Then you’ll come with me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  This was all it took to realign the stars. The machinery could be stopped and reconfigured. Karen’s lie could be erased.

  • • •

  It is raining hard, and the air is so warm it clings like wet cloth. The English summer has suddenly turned feverish and the garden is a jungle of sagging greenery and saturated earth. Fat worms sprawl about looking more naked in the wet, the slugs are feasting and so are the snails. It’s a time of plenty for the birds too. Thrushes and blackbirds are on the rampage in the herbaceous borders, skewering their victims and smashing snails on the path.

  Across the Marsh, heat rises from the ground and the clouds do not seem to move or empty out. The sheep are drenched and stoical.

  Elisabeth opens all the doors to let a draught through the house
but the early morning air is viscous, almost fleshy, like something that has risen from the sea. She sits in the kitchen in her nightdress with her bare feet cooling on the flagstones. It is only eight o’clock but already the heat is oppressive. The gutters are overflowing and rain streams down the windows as if someone has turned a hose on them.

  George and Toby have gone shooting today with Eddie Saunders. They have just left. Toby was looking forward to it so much they decided to ignore the rain. She waved to them elaborately like someone acting, and it’s as if she has already forgotten how to be. She’ll see them off only one more time because her plan is to leave tomorrow when Toby has gone back to school and George is at work.

  This is the day when she must say goodbye to her husband and her almost-son, but she knows she can’t tell George and Toby she is leaving them. She can’t bear to see their hurt and incomprehension, or their anger either, hating her, not understanding that she loves them.

  Her heart will die if she doesn’t go with Michael. Guilt mutters in her head and when she listens she hears a trickle of excuses. It’s best you leave, you haven’t given George a child. He can find a better wife. You can nullify the damage. Toby will come to understand that you love him just the same.

  All last night she was awake, staring up into the darkness, conjuring Michael’s body close to hers. He leans over her, kisses her, softly pulls back the sheet. Her mind swerves around thoughts of making love because her stomach flies up as if she is falling and the current sparking through her seems to twist her nerves. The longing for him was denied for so long that now it has been named it overwhelms her.

  She imagines that they live in France. Their house is cool although it’s hot outside, and she loves being there alone because she knows Michael will come home. He paints, the pain has gone, the scar has faded, they have breakfast together, swim in a river in the mountains, sleep, feel the presence of each other in the house. They meet people who assume they’ve always been together. They have friends. They have a child.