The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  He asked her if she had a job in England.

  She told him she was a complementary therapist, that she was widowed and that it had become necessary to build up a business that had previously relied on friends and word of mouth because, while she was married, her income hadn’t been essential. Which was a hell of a lot more than she was used to saying to people she didn’t know. Being out of the country seemed to have cut her usual inhibitions in half.

  Peter could see she wasn’t used to talking about herself. Her dark eyes saddened at times, but she nervously recovered with a broad smile. Everything else was perfectly controlled. Her dark, short hair, falling just above pearl earrings, beautifully manicured hands and smart clothing that matched so well, he couldn’t imagine any of part of her life being uncoordinated.

  “Weg von mir. Wer sind Sie?” Who was he? Elsa was asking. It troubled her greatly that he had any interaction with others and, when he thought about it sympathetically, he understood that this scene must indeed be very troubling for her, given that she may, fleetingly, have only an idea that she knew at least one person, but then hold the frightening thought that she knew no one. When, on the other hand, his mood was less generous, he just thought her childish need for attention was unreasonable and unkind. Didn’t she realise he had to talk normally and not engage in the daft, weird ramblings that had become her sole means of communication? As to who he was, he had no idea these days. How did they both look to this English woman? Did she think at all that at one time Elsa’s eyes were the bright blue of a kingfisher’s feathers and that she would take them and skip down a country lane as if life had an airy quality that just required knowing a few light steps?

  “Er ist abgehauen, hat mich im Stich gelassen, weisst du.”

  “She says that I’ve gone and left her, but as you can see, Helen, I’m here.”

  He looked at his wife and held both her hands for what must have been about a minute, which seemed enough time to placate her. He then looked at her.

  “I’ll go and get the coffee.”

  His face was so tired and she wasn’t sure whether she should stay. But to leave seemed rude and she could feel an almost urgent need from him for conversation undisturbed by disorder.

  She smiled at Elsa who wasn’t pleased at all by this and responded with a glare that seemed to say, “How dare you,” so she sat as still as she could and glanced around the room without appearing to do so. It had a weary intelligence about it and was predominantly brown, with bookshelves on one side as high as the ceiling and wallpaper on the other that probably used to be fashionable. In one corner there was a table with drawers on either side and papers strewn across the top.

  On another, more centrally placed table she saw flowers, past their best but not thrown away, sitting next to a pile of books that had been lovingly read and marked in various places for a return visit.

  On a shelf in one corner there were photos of a couple she presumed was Peter and Elsa, young and enthusiastic, and a larger school photo in which Peter was probably one of the adults in the front row. An old black and white photo of a boy was sitting in the middle of these, his thick, blond, curly hair beautifully in place considering its natural extravagance and a look of steely determination and responsibility more reminiscent of a company director than a boy of no more than ten years.

  “I was a lot slimmer in those days,” Peter laughed as he came in with the drinks.

  “Elsa looks very happy in them,” said his guest.

  “Yes. Yes, she does. I miss that,” he replied.

  5

  It was very peculiar, Helen thought, sitting on a boat and listening to the guide describe the destruction caused during the war and knowing it was your country that was responsible. A disturbing vision of history in which you are the perpetrator, even though you and the others on the boat were so familiar with the reasons. It made her uncomfortable, a feeling heightened by his bland presentation, which was devoid of all malice or self-pity.

  Her complacent view of history was being nudged a little, awakening more than perhaps was intended and she shuddered, feeling slightly ashamed of who she was. She thought of the war-damaged church she’d seen only that morning, with its broken spire displaying a courage and determination that renovation work would have simply removed, depriving passers-by of the reminders of war. Instead, its imperfection was startling and the clock, telling the correct time, showed anyone who cared to see, a similar optimism to daffodils whose will to survive brisk springs, she felt, should always be applauded, as their bright coloured heads nodded “so what?” to wind and rain. It was an image that was more memorable than anything perfection could offer.

  When the wall came down she’d taken Emma to play in the park. Europe was changing, but the swings were more important and when they returned she had settled herself in front of the TV, mug of tea in hand, and simultaneously watched her daughter draw pictures of sky and flowers and the footage of the wall coming down from the evening before. It was how she’d always received world news, against the background of her child’s life. The shouting, the relief, the singing and excitement and Emma saying, “Look, Mummy,” at a stick man who had a smiley face.

  And then she remembered the stories of others, who’d either come to Berlin soon after the wall had fallen and who’d brought back a bit of it or who had a piece from someone who knew someone who’d brought it back, grey pieces of concrete, with the odd bit of colour, taken from this letter or that, messages of anger and desperation. Now, when she passed the gift shops, there were still small pieces, presented in almost equally small plastic bags, that you could buy with your postcards, a tiny bit of freedom perfectly packaged and ready for sale.

  In another life, of course, she’d be saying all this to Stephen and the conversation about the war and the wall would somehow confirm a shared view of the world and they would agree how odd it could be to get a former adversary’s perspective; then this discussion would gradually merge into what they would do next or where they’d eat. So it was very different, to say the least, to share your view with yourself and have a completely selfish stand on where your evening meal should come from. It wasn’t all that appealing but nor was it as upsetting as she thought it might be.

  She smiled to herself. The guide was still talking, but she momentarily stopped listening and thought of what she’d said to Peter about her evening in Brecht’s restaurant. How it was very good food but the waiter was a bit sullen in a way that seemed deliberate almost to the point of being provocative. It was as if he was adopting the restaurant’s history and former owner, taking it as his own and rehearsing a part, she’d said, to which Peter had laughed out loud. He’d said he’d once taken a class to see The Threepenny Opera. He wasn’t sure they’d fully grasped the satire and thought, perhaps, the songs had got in the way. He just remembered them humming the tunes in class afterwards, mainly in an effort to distract him from setting them work. “But, sir,” they’d moaned when he’d asked them to stop, “it’s Brecht.” He said he hadn’t had the heart to say, “Actually, it’s Weill.”

  She closed her eyes and let the breeze waft across her face and influence her mood. It didn’t surprise her particularly; it lifted her level of optimism, as the combination of sun and a slight wind often did, and she heard Stephen’s suggestion of an Indian meal, which suited her down to the ground. As the guide abandoned his microphone for a few minutes while he spoke with his colleague who was steering the boat, she reached for a letter she carried around with her, one she’d had in every handbag for several years now, written by her father, when he was stationed in Bermuda during the war and was written hopeful that the war would soon end.

  It was a letter composed on light blue airmail paper, so thin it was barely more than the finest tissue and every time she opened it, she was reacquainted with her father’s familiar hand that had an upright confidence not entirely shared with its owne
r. He could be a nervous man whose anxieties ran through him in little tics – a slight stutter; a tap of the fingers on a table – that she strongly suspected, rather than having some genetic imprint, came from a father who’d been on Belgian battlefields and an incurable virus of slight anger and terror had run through her grandfather from that time on. A brave man, it turned out, who’d taken a hit in the back rather than see his poor horse die and who’d had innocuous little bets on the Brighton races ever since. But a man who’d preceded post-traumatic stress disorder because it wasn’t a generally held belief then and who was at sea when it came to handling such memories, so instead adopted a stricter demeanour than a man without a war in his blood might have. A sad fact for his children who only really saw the more compassionate man in their adulthood when perhaps old age had worn their father down and he relaxed his defences a little.

  She took the letter out of its envelope, as she had many times previously. It had danced between handbags and the top drawer of a cabinet at home for many years and as time went on, so the ink had faded, making her type a copy just in case the ink finally dissolved into the paper. But she could still read the Bermuda postmark today and she could imagine her father stationed there and see, in her mind’s eye, the photo of him in his RAF uniform.

  bermuda. thursday, 8th june 1944

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  On Tuesday morning about ten to seven I was woken from my slumbers by several voices talking hurriedly outside in the corridor. The gist of their conversation made me get up and see what was happening. The sun was streaming in through the window as I sat on the bed, still half asleep, feeling with my feet for carpet slippers, where I’d kicked them off eight hours before, although then it seemed only five minutes previously.

  I eventually slid my feet into my slippers and shuffled outside into the corridor. The chaps were still talking and I soon gathered that landings in France had been made. I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard but was convinced a few minutes later when I heard it over the wireless. The reception was bad that time of morning but nevertheless heard it OK. Well, that’s how I heard the beginning of D-Day but even then could hardly believe the momentous news!

  How did you hear it over there? I hope that everything is OK with you as I guess Brighton must really be a front-line town today.

  I couldn’t sleep again; I went down to breakfast at half-past seven and lo and behold there were about ten blokes already having breakfast, whereas generally there’s no one there till eight at the earliest.

  She looked up from the letter. It was as if she could practically smell the eggs cooking from all those years ago.

  6

  Elsa pressed her lips against the glass, kissed the boy in the photo several times, then rubbed the glass clean with her wrist. She kissed it again, told the boy she loved him and rubbed the glass clean. Peter looked away and picked up his newspaper. This was a daily ritual of Elsa’s. The only thing he could confidently predict she would do. He got his glasses out of their case and began reading the reports of war and corruption, her voice all the while in his ear, “I love you, I love you,” directed not at him but at the boy in the photo, and then the intermittent sound of kissing. Her mutterings persisted, breaking his concentration and irritating him more than usual, so that anyone aware of him, and Elsa wasn’t, would’ve heard the unusually noisy turning of the pages or the odd loud slap to flatten them out a bit.

  He started to think about an ex-pupil of his and was sorry he hadn’t been able to speak to Karl for longer when they’d bumped into him the other day. What a good bloke he’d turned out to be. So reliable and trustworthy. It wasn’t surprising, though. With the exception of one or two poorly judged pranks, which, Peter suspected, he’d more than likely been coerced into by one or two more dubious sorts, he’d been pretty much the same as a boy. His eagerness to learn was unfortunately his downfall and eventually study had become a poor second to survival. But wistful as he was of Karl the graduate, he couldn’t deny he’d benefited hugely from his pupil’s expertise with the old shop. If it hadn’t been for Karl and his team of builders he’d have been sorely tempted to throw in the towel a long time ago, but Herr Muller, an old friend of his mother’s, had been determined he should have it and putting it up for sale, Peter knew, would’ve broken his heart. But thanks to Karl’s hard work and terrific imagination, the shop had been completely transformed into the holiday flat where Helen was now staying. Herr Muller would’ve surely known that with recent competition, the shop would’ve almost certainly gone to pieces. No, he felt quite certain Herr Muller, the gentlest man you could wish to meet, would’ve been pleased so many holidaymakers were benefiting from its new role.

  He looked at Elsa, whose hands were clasped so firmly to the photo her knuckles were white. He stroked her curly, grey hair and quietly suggested taking the photo from her.

  “Let me put that back,” he softly suggested.

  “No, no,” she barked at him and her knuckles, like four little mountain peaks, showed a grim determination he didn’t have the will to fight.

  Instead, he tried to plump up the cushions behind her, but she responded to this by momentarily relinquishing the photo with her right hand and using it to pinch his arm with such ferocity, he could only yell, “Stop, stop, Elsa, stop, you’re hurting me.”

  He managed to pull away and he walked into the kitchen to calm himself. He was going to get ill. He knew that. He knew that at some point there would come a day when he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. His doctor had told him as much, but he wasn’t going to put her away somewhere. How could he do that? These bloody medics were good at dishing out the advice, but what did they know? They didn’t. They didn’t know his daily life, the turmoil in his head. And what would people like Karl think if he dumped Elsa in a home, because that would be what it would feel like, like he was putting her out with the rubbish? He wished he still smoked. Right now, a cigarette would be the next best thing to, well, he would say heaven, but it wasn’t a concept he believed in, so a cigarette would be the next best thing to a fine classical piece of music. It was just as inaccessible as heaven, as Elsa nowadays often hated him listening to music unless he invited her to join in. Maybe he’d buy a packet the next time he was in the supermarket, go to the nearby park and make his way through each and every one of them in the allotted quarter of an hour he gave himself to leave Elsa alone. He rubbed his face with his hands, as if beckoning a new start, and returned to the living room, where Elsa was staring into space, unaware, most probably, of what had just happened and certainly oblivious of his presence. If she was calm, he wouldn’t do anything to alter that, so he just plonked himself back in his chair and reached for a nearby book. He was hot and clammy, which wasn’t just the result of his bumping up against Elsa’s fragility but a climate outside that was humid. It was as if the weather felt sick and needed to vomit up a storm.

  He opened one of his cherished poetry books and saw an English poem that celebrated the end of the First World War. “Everyone suddenly burst out singing,” he read and smiled to himself ironically, not because of the sentiment of the poet, but because singing was something that seemed quite alien to him now when Elsa pursed her lips against the soup he tried to put in her mouth – couldn’t she possibly realise how long it had taken him to make it? – or when she seemed to prefer that wretched photo over him.

  “And I was filled with such delight/ As prisoned birds must find in freedom.” He looked out of the window and remembered when he’d first learnt these lines from Sassoon’s poem “Everyone Sang”. He was fifteen and hungry for the words of their recent adversary, even then, and despite everything, appreciating the sometime comfort of being part of a losing side. He’d wanted to understand what the Americans were saying every bit as much as the English. They had a confidence he’d envied, laughing and jostling one another, as if the streets were theirs. Such flair made a strong impression and he
’d devoured the language with an enthusiasm he hadn’t had for his other studies.

  “How can you like that bloody language?” some of his mates had said and as he’d moved towards university with English books under his arms, he’d heard the whispers of his mother’s friends. “Do you like him doing this? How can he? Who killed his father?” Actually… he still wanted to answer that one but hadn’t done so to this day. “Why English? Doesn’t he remember 22nd November?” He did. It was a Monday and two days before he’d celebrated his tenth birthday. He was feeling quite grown up and excited that at last he’d reached double figures.

  “Herr Muller said we’ll be all right tonight.” His mother dropped the shopping basket, filled with ration goods from his shop, on the hallway floor and shook the rain from her hair. She undid her dripping coat and put it on the coat stand. “It’s terrible out there. Herr Muller says we can’t possibly have a raid tonight. The weather’s too bad. Visibility’s too poor, he said. Peter, can you take the shopping through?” Peter’s Auntie Gerda, who was standing next to him, thanked God for the rain and the fact they could look forward to a peaceful evening together.

  “What did you manage to get?” she asked and his mother gave them the news that fish and potatoes were for supper followed by apples, which she’d been very lucky to get as, apparently, they’d only just got to Herr Muller’s. Auntie Gerda left Peter and his mother to unload the shopping, then reappeared a few minutes later with the stripy towel from the bathroom. “Come here,” she said to his mother and rubbed her head hard. They all laughed when she emerged from Auntie Gerda’s vigorous rubbing, her hair looking more dishevelled than during the last air raid, when they’d both crouched, fully clothed, in the bathtub.