The Tightening String

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Send them to me’ the Minister said.

  In the ordinary way Sir Hugh was apt to throw England’s weight about very calmly and elegantly; but in this case he knew that he was batting on a bad Wicket, and acted accordingly. When Horace ushered three men in neat uniforms into his sleeper he fairly bawled them out in every language he knew. Why should he, the British Minister, be roused from sleep by futile inquiries about his personal attendants? Unless their passports were stamped here and now, he would get out of the train and ring up the Regent.

  This toughness worked. The frontier police crumpled, and presently brought along the two passports, duly stamped with exit visas. But Sir Hugh was deeply relieved when at Belgrade he took his two guests off the train, stowed them in the back of the Legation car, and handed them over to Sir Monty’s minions to be shipped on to Egypt. Yugoslavia had no love for Hitler’s Reich; once there they were safe. He spent a pleasant day with his nice colleague, and he and Horace returned on the night train to Budapest, arriving at six-thirty the following morning.

  For Lucilla, however, those last forty-eight hours had been ghastly. Rumour and press alike penetrated into the Legation, and kindly members of the staff, infected with the pretty Hungarian habit of saying it with flowers, fairly swamped her with bouquets and pot-plants, accompanied by cards or little notes – ‘How marvellous that your young man has escaped! So glad. Much love.’ Lucilla opened these, one after another; as she read them her inner eye held that intolerably clear picture of Hamish lying motionless in the glare of the searchlights outside the barbed wire of Oflag XXX, as the Major had given it – ‘None of them was moving’. Hamish was dead, and how was she to thank these dear people who thought that he was alive, since she couldn’t possibly reveal why she knew that he wasn’t? Lucilla had not been brought up in diplomacy for nothing, and didn’t need to be told – no one had told her, as a matter of fact – that for the Head of a Mission to connive at the escape of prisoners was something that had better not be publicised. She scribbled little notes of thanks, tears running down her face as she wrote, sometimes spoiling the notes so that they had to be done all over again; usually she confined herself to such safe phrases as – ‘How dear of you! Thank you so much.’ But it was a torturing experience.

  She debated with herself whether she should tell her Mother – she had no means of knowing that her Father had himself interviewed the two prisoners in Mendze’s nursing-home; he was as discreet as she. She decided not to – she would leave it till after Christmas, which would account for the flowers anyway. White-faced, tight-lipped, she went about her work; the whole episode was so novel that it didn’t occur to her that the Military Attaché would have interviewed those two Scotsmen, and have learned all that she had learned, and much more.

  Colonel Morven, however, of course knew that Hamish MacNeil was dead, and was shocked and horrified by the mention of his name in the Esti Ujság as being safe in Scandinavia. As soon as was decently possible after the Minister had returned from Belgrade and eaten his breakfast, he presented himself in his chief’s study, a copy of the paper in his hand, and unfolded the situation.

  ‘How appalling!’ Sir Hugh said.’ That delightful child! Does she know?’

  ‘I don’t see how she can. I stopped Gina from sending her flowers, but everyone else is’ the M A. said, ungrammatically.

  ‘How on earth do you suppose the Esti Ujság got hold of the names?’ the Minister asked, studying the newspaper spread out on his desk. ‘There isn’t a single mistake – extraordinary!’

  ‘I’m afraid I can guess, Sir.’ Hugo Morven was not as stupid as he often appeared to be.

  ‘That very disagreeable girl Sonia Marston?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. She has von Schaffausen completely under her thumb, now; and as he’s rather high up in the German Legation, he could get the names of escaped prisoners from Berlin by telephone quite easily.’

  ‘But wouldn’t he also learn which of them had been shot?’

  ‘Oh yes’ the Colonel said bitterly, for once betraying some emotion. ‘She’s done this quite deliberately, I’m pretty sure. You see she’d been living with Milton – at least everyone supposed so – for some time; then Geoffrey switched to Lucilla. Now Sonia’s taken her revenge.’

  ‘Is she sleeping with this German?’ the Minister asked, with his usual calm.

  ‘Undoubtedly, I gather.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have to go. What’s her paper, do you know?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Milton would, of course.’

  ‘In the circumstances I don’t think we’ll bring Milton into this; embarrassing all round. I’ll find out. But we can’t have a British journalist out here sleeping with a German, and running in and out of the Legation. Thank you, Morven.’ This was a dimsissal.

  ‘But what are we to do about the girl, Sir?’ Colonel Morven, like most of the staff, had a soft spot for Lucilla. ‘Oughtn’t she to be told? At any moment that creature may put out the news of the young man’s death.’

  ‘I’ll think about that one. Thank you, Morven’ the Minister said again; and this time the Military Attaché accepted his dismissal, and went out. Sir Hugh pressed his desk bell, and Martha came in, shorthand-pad in hand.

  ‘What agency does Sonia Marston represent?’

  ‘The Global News Agency.’ Martha looked surprised.

  ‘Good. Send this to the Foreign Office, will you?’ “Sonia Marston, British subject, representing Global News Agency, known to be sleeping with member of German Legation Staff. Unsuitable for use intelligence purposes. Please get her recalled immediately. Transport easy via Athens but warn Embassy there not desirable character.”’

  ‘Right’ Martha said. How quickly the Min had found out!

  ‘That nice child has no idea that her young man is dead, has she?’ Sir Hugh asked then.

  ‘Oh Lord yes, poor little one! I let her take those prisoners’ suppers over the first night, and they told her everything, all unknowing.’

  ‘How awful! And now she’s being bombarded with flowers!’

  ‘She’s been quite splendid’ Martha said. I’ve kept her hard at it, on purpose – but I’m rather wondering what the next move is. Of course if we can get that wretched Sonia away within the next thirty-six hours it may be all right – otherwise I wouldn’t put it past her to spill some final beans, in the opposite sense.’

  ‘Nor would I. What a creature!’ He reflected. ‘Do her parents know?’

  ‘David hasn’t uttered – I haven’t seen Rosina.’

  ‘Well I think I had better see the child. While they’re encyphering that telegram send her up.’

  Lucilla, busy folding Bulletins, was surprised by the summons to the Minister, but also rather pleased – she liked him so much, and it would take her mind off her private troubles.

  This it did not do – but the interview helped her all the same.

  ‘Sit down there’ Sir Hugh said. ‘Have a cigarette.’ He lit it for her.

  ‘Lucilla, my dear, I am so sorry about all this’ he said then. ‘It’s bad enough that your fiance should have been killed, but even worse that everyone should be congratulating you on his having escaped alive. I really can’t say how distressed I am for you.’

  Lucilla stared at him with her immense grey eyes.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Morven told me this morning, as soon as I got back from Belgrade. Of course he interviewed the prisoners, and heard everything. Have you told your parents?’

  ‘No. I didn’t like to; Daddy’s still ill, and Mummy so overworked with the P.O.W.s, and Christmas just coming. But the flowers and all that have been a bit trying.’

  ‘I’m sure they have. I gather you have been behaving very well indeed.’ How much her Mother’s daughter this girl was, he thought, as a faint blush came into Lucilla’s pale cheeks at his praise. ‘Tell me – how soon, if at all, would you like the truth to be put out? It’s a little complicated – the International Red Cross will learn in ti
me, but that is usually a matter of weeks, of course; and officially, that is the only way we can hear.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters. I’ve had it, anyhow. The only thing I’m worried about is Hugo’ Lucilla said.’ He’s sent a square yard of lilies-of-the-valley in a copper dish, and he’s coming to see me tonight. That is a bit troublesome.’ Somehow she felt it much more possible to talk about Hugo to the perspicacious Min than to anyone else.

  ‘Who is Hugo? One of your local young men?’

  ‘Yes – Weissberger.’

  ‘Oh, I know. A grand boy. It was he who went up to the frontier and fetched those two men down.’

  ‘No? Did he really?’ Her face was suddenly alight.

  ‘Are you in love with him?’ Sir Hugh asked, watching her.

  She hesitated for a long time before she answered. At last —

  ‘I’m sure I can trust you’ she said. ‘Yes. Much more in love than I ever was with Hamish – that was simply one of those outbreak-of-war mess-ups. But I couldn’t do anything about it then, and I don’t see that I can do much about it now. It’s too soon, if you see what I mean, for me – and anyhow everyone would find out if I got engaged to Hugo, and it would make a scandal.’

  The Minister did not speak for some moments. He was thinking how sensible, and how public-spirited, this youthful creature was.

  ‘Has your Hugo proposed to you?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Oh Lord yes. He was frightfully cross when I told him that I was engaged, because I wasn’t wearing a ring,’ Lucilla said with a funny little smile. ‘But Hamish wouldn’t give me one, or let it be put in The Times, in case he should come back crippled in some way.’ Tears came into her eyes as she said that: dear Hamish, with his ideals and his chivalry and his dullness; and now he was dead and buried – where? Did they give Christian burial in Germany to prisoners who were shot escaping? She put this point to Sir Hugh.

  ‘I’ve no idea; I’ll find out. But I think you’d better tell your Mother about Hamish.’ Normally, of course, the Military Attaché would at once have told the Counsellor this, but in view of David Eynsham’s fragile health it was possible that he hadn’t.

  ‘Do you think so? Very well, I will.’

  ‘Shall you tell Hugo? Do you mind my asking?’ Sir Hugh said, as she hesitated.

  ‘Not a bit. It’s a help to talk about it; and it will all upset Mummy frightfully, whereas you don’t mind in the least’ Lucilla replied, with youth’s practical candour. For perhaps the third time in his life Sir Hugh Billingshurst regretted his bachelor status; parenthood, which he had always regarded as an alarming and troublesome responsibility, might have been rather delightful in connection with a girl like this – he was a little hurt by her words.

  ‘Do you think he knows you love him?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope not – I’ve been tremendously careful. But Hunks are so cute, you never know.’

  The older man laughed – then sighed.

  ‘Dear child, I wish I could advise you. Hugo is perfectly reliable – if you want to tell him that Hamish is dead, you have my leave to do so.’

  ‘Thanks very much. I think I must see how it works out. My own idea would be to let it stand – but that means lying to Hugo, and I’d rather be on the square with him.’

  ‘I see that. Well, I leave it to you. Nothing can make this situation easy for you, but I should like to cut down your difficulties in any way that I can, my dear child,’ he said.

  ‘Oh Min dear, you are sweet!’ She sprang up and gave him a quick kiss. ‘Thank you’ she said, and ran out of the room.

  Back in the office, again tidily folding Bulletins, Lucilla considered what to do about Hugo. In the end she decided not to tell him that Hamish was dead; it would only cause more emotional disturbances, with which she really couldn’t cope, she felt, just now. Perhaps she was being cowardly, but she just didn’t feel equal to it – nor to telling her Mother; that must wait till she had got Hugo over. So when the tall pale young man arrived that evening she thanked him for the flowers he had sent, and said how wonderful it all was. But the effort was extreme.

  ‘You look pale’ Hugo said, concerned.

  ‘I’m always pale, thank goodness! I hate rosy English cheeks!’ the girl said vehemently. ‘Look, Hugo, I’m so frightfully sorry, but I must get back to the office. It was so good of you to come up. Give my love to your Mother and Emmi.’ She rose abruptly.

  ‘You come to our Sylvester-Abend dance?’ Hugo asked, rather surprised at this hurried dismissal, but rising too. (‘Sylvester-Abend’ is the Central European phrase for New Year’s Eve.)

  ‘Oh yes, surely. Didn’t I write? I will – tell your Mother. Goodbye.’ She hastened him out of the house – once again she couldn’t stand any more of this.

  Telling her Mother about Hamish was easier than Lucilla had expected. She put off doing it that night, and by tea-time next day, when she braced herself to the task, Rosina had already heard the news from the Minister. She had gone in to put some query about the prisoners, and when their business was dealt with he said – ‘Has Lucilla told you about Hamish?’

  ‘No. What about him?’

  Rosina, always vague, and at present wholly concentrated on David’s health and supplies for the prisoners, had heard none of the rumours, and had politely brushed aside, indeed ignored, the vague congratulations of Mrs Starnberg and other ladies at yesterday’s knitting-party. ‘How kind of you! But look, one sleeve of this pullover is shorter than the other; it will have to be done again.’ Now, looking at Sir Hugh’s face, his expression arrested her attention. ‘Has something happened?’ she asked, at last anxious on her daughter’s account.

  ‘He’s dead’ the Minister said, repeating those two fatal syllables. ‘He was shot trying to escape. My dear, I am so sorry – I thought the child would have told you. She promised me she would.’

  ‘Well she hasn’t’ Mrs Eynsham said, after a short silence – she spoke rather brusquely. She had not consciously neglected Lucilla, only she and her daughter were both so busy that they seldom met, let alone had much time to talk. But if matters had reached the point when the Minister knew that her daughter’s betrothed was dead, and she didn’t, something was wrong somewhere, and it was probably her fault. (Rosina was dismally accustomed to things being her fault.) ‘As she hasn’t told me, perhaps you will’ she said rather bitterly.

  ‘Rosina dear, don’t be vexed with her – or with me. Your good child was only thinking of you and her Father, and not worrying you both.’

  ‘Well now please tell me.’

  Sir Hugh did – and also reported the account of the escape in the Esti Ujság.

  ‘Poor Hamish! ‘Mrs Eynsham said. ‘He was such a nice boy, only so borné. I’m terribly sorry that he’s dead, but I was appalled at the idea of Lucilla’s marrying him. Are you shocked?’ she asked.

  ‘Not in the least. Lucilla told me herself that she realised her engagement had been a mistake.’

  There we go again, Rosina thought gloomily. Lucilla had never admitted to her that she would make a mistake in marrying Hamish, but apparently she had made no bones about telling the Min this. Mothers weren’t much good!

  ‘Well thank you very much’ she said, getting up. ‘When she does tell me, I shall know where I am. Does David know?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He was the first person to meet Hamish’s two brother-officers, down in Mendze’s clinic – they would have no particular reason for telling him, and he hasn’t referred to it. But you never know, with David.’

  You’re telling me, David’s wife thought, but didn’t say, ‘Well thank you’ she repeated, and went home. Walking back along the golden street, glowing even in the cold winter sunshine, she thought sadly of what a dismal Christmas this would be for that little unit, her family, which meant so much to her – tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and they would all have to show up at a huge dinnerparty for the staff at the Legation, and play games afterwards. Oh dear!

  Lucilla came to
her room after tea.

  ‘Mummy, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Is it about Hamish? If so, I know.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘H.E.’

  ‘Oh. Well there it is’ Lucilla said sadly. ‘Don’t let’s talk about it. The Min and I settled to keep it quiet – till after Christmas, anyhow. No need to cast a gloom.’

  ‘Darling, I am so sorry.’

  ‘Yes I’m sure. But let’s leave it, shall we?’

  ‘Certainly – much better. Bless you.’ She kissed her daughter’s cool cheek.

  ‘You see there really isn’t anything to say’ Lucilla said, half-penitently.

  ‘My darling, I know. Don’t worry; I’m the last thing for you to worry about.’

  Lucilla suddenly put her arms round her Mother, and gave her a warm hug before she went away.

  Early on the morning of Christmas Eve Wheatley brought several telegrams to his chief. One, from the Foreign Office, said that the Global News Agency was recalling Sonia Marston immediately. ‘Good’ Sir Hugh commented briefly. But later that morning the journalist came to see the Press Attaché.

  ‘Do you know why I’m being recalled? ‘she demanded.

  ‘I didn’t even know you were’ Milton said coolly.

  ‘Oh, don’t lie to me! You must have known.’

  ‘Never heard a word about it. But as to “why”, use your head, Marston. There’s a war on, you know, and even agencies have a way of learning things.’

  ‘How will you like it if I go and see your wife, and tell her about you and me?’

  ‘She won’t be surprised. Be sure to tell her about von Schaffhausen too, though, won’t you? Because you and I are rather out of date.’ He rang his bell, and got up. When the messenger appeared he told him to show Miss Marston out. The young woman had begun to cry. ‘Oh Geoffrey, where am I to go?’