by Susan Sallis
‘She still loves him, Merry. And Maria does, too. He must have something.’
She gave a rueful smile. ‘Don’t I know it. Guess that’s why I behaved so badly when I was at home. I hated him for making me love him – hated myself more!’
‘You were a crazy mixed-up kid,’ I said fondly.
‘And you were a spoiled only child. What a mixture.’
‘Yes.’ I thought back. It had been wonderful. Just wonderful.
Meriel punched my arm. ‘Come on. Snap out of it. Your mum was an angel who had lost her wings. She’s found them again.’
That did it. Dad came in and told us once more it was a good thing to loosen up now and then. And Meriel put her arms round him and held him close. She was doing that quite often. He held himself still at first; now he put his face against her curls and closed his eyes for a minute.
One Saturday Meriel told me she had invited Hermione to tea. ‘I’ll take the kids. Don’t worry, Sheba is a natural with them. You write your column and get sorted. I want Doc Hermione to have a good look at Georgie in a child-oriented environment. That’s medical speech for watching his normal behaviour patterns. He’s due for a fit. It would be excellent if he had it while she was around.’
Sometimes Meriel amazed me. I stared at her, speechless, and she shrugged. ‘I know. But what’s the point in not accepting it?’
‘I – I thought . . . Hermione might know of some special treatment . . .’ I faltered.
It was her turn to be amazed. ‘You must know that nothing can make Georgie better? I just need to hear another opinion of what his potential might be.’ She checked herself and then said, ‘I don’t mean “better”. Georgie is a complete Georgie. I need to know what I can do – how I can change myself – to make human behaviour more acceptable for him.’ She shook her head, smiling at me. ‘Sorry, Rache. This is something I’ve thought about so much. Georgie is in a minority and minorities are always supposed to conform to the majorities. Why is that? Why shouldn’t the majorities change to accommodate the minorities?’
I was amazed. ‘You sound very . . . political.’
‘Perhaps I am.’ She hugged me suddenly. ‘Georgie can’t argue his case, Rache. I can. If that’s political, then that’s what I am!’
We were on our way to the cathedral and the whispering gallery. I took Georgie and Vicky, she took the twins, and we stationed ourselves as far from each other as possible. The gallery surrounded the nave far below, and we waved across the vast space, and then Meriel’s voice was in our ears. ‘Hi there, Yankees. What do you think those old builders were up to?’
Vicky started to laugh and we heard Rose gasp with surprise. I said, ‘I guess they ran out of wire for the first telephone?’ Vicky was convulsed and Georgie whispered, ‘Where’s Mommee?’ And jumped when her voice came loud and clear, ‘Give me a wave, honey. And I’ll wave back.’
We had a whale of a morning. It was midweek and the cleaners were in. We stayed for two hours learning to appreciate those old builders. Then we had lunch at the Tudor tea rooms, where, to Rose’s absolute delight, they served Winzie soup.
Rex accompanied Tom on a trip to Upton-upon-Severn where Nobby Clarke now lived. Tom had kept in touch with this veteran of the Burma railway and was delighted when Rex offered to drive him to Upton and take Nobby out to lunch. ‘Give me a break from family life!’ he joked. I looked at Tom but he hadn’t noticed; he was as excited as a schoolboy at the prospect of introducing Rex to Nobby, and having another, roomier drive in the Jaguar.
‘It will take you all of half an hour to drive there,’ I said. I wasn’t wet blanketing the expedition, it was going to be wonderful to have the house to myself and finish my weekly column without losing a night’s sleep. Anyway, Tom was undeterred.
‘Maybe we can take Nobby out for a bit of a run.’ He glanced at me. ‘After all, I did drive the car down to Southampton. I don’t see why I can’t have another go.’ I grinned. Dear Tom wanted to drive the car again.
When Rex arrived he loaded the girls into the back with much arranging and re-arranging; they would return to Cheltenham and drop the twins off there to play with Vicky and Georgie while Hermione ‘observed’ them all. Tom and Rex would head off to Worcestershire. It was such a wonderful thing to have a car, apart from the obvious excitement of being able to go exactly where you wanted to. Trains and buses were all very well but they didn’t allow for armfuls of soft toys, bottles of orange Corona, swimming costumes and so on. I wondered whether Tom and I would ever have a car. Dad steadfastly refused to get one; he used his old bike, and when that was stolen from outside the Clarion office he used Mum’s.
I enjoyed that day. There was still almost a week before Rex and Meriel went back and already they were talking of coming again . . . of us going out there. I felt relaxed about the whole thing; that pall of exhaustion was lifting at last. I worked easily and well. It was good to think of Tom talking to Nobby Clarke, being with Rex; it was wonderful to think of Rose and Daisy playing with Vicky and Georgie, watched over by the angelic Sheba . . . and I suppose the strange doctor who was actually Hermione Smith.
It was almost time for their reappearance when Dad turned up, as he sometimes did on a Friday on his way home from paying bills and shopping. I was delighted. Usually the girls were at their most grizzly when he popped in at that time. Tonight I put the kettle on and we sat in the back garden with tea and scones and watched the willow in next door’s garden moving gently in the breeze. Nothing could have been more peaceful.
Dad said suddenly, ‘How would you feel if I went back with the Robinsons for a little holiday?’
I laughed. ‘A contradiction in terms, if ever there was one. Holiday? Robinsons?’ I glanced at him and said, surprised. ‘Are you serious? You know I would be really pleased.’
He grinned and nodded, and looked like Dad used to look. ‘I am serious. Meriel and Rex have both been on to me about it. At first, of course, I simply discounted the idea – didn’t consider it for a moment. But then . . . I’m not sure, Rache. I need something. It might actually be a holiday with Meriel.’
‘Well . . . I can’t imagine you over there. But then I don’t know what over there is like. Would you go with them – by sea?’
‘I haven’t got that far but I don’t think so. Give them time to settle back in and then maybe fly over.’
‘That sounds sensible.’ There was a silence. I didn’t hold on to it deliberately to make Dad say anything. I simply couldn’t think of anything to say. He must have made up his mind . . . he must have talked it over with Merry and Rex. He hadn’t said anything till now. And neither had they.
He took a huge breath, let it go and said very quietly, ‘I have to tell you something, Rache. About the trip to Düsseldorf.’
It was getting more and more surprising. The trip to Düsseldorf had been at the beginning of Mum’s final illness, and we never spoke of it. Mum had said she enjoyed it, and everyone was very kind. Dad had said nothing at all. For some reason I gripped the arms of my garden chair.
Dad’s voice became quieter still. ‘It was the Wingco who got me in on that trip, you know.’
‘Hermione’s father? No, I didn’t know.’
‘He wanted to show me something. He wanted to show Mum as well. She did a little shopping with the other wives, but the main thing was her visit to the factory.’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes. Well. It was the actual production line for the Dornier props. Their main factory is in Friedrichshafen. This was where they specialized in . . . adaptations, I suppose you would call it.’ He put his cup on to the grass. ‘She didn’t want to come. She was adamant. But the whole purpose of the trip – the real purpose – was for her to see that what I had done was . . . meaningless.’
I said nothing. Was he blaming himself somehow for Mum’s death? How could he be? She had had TB, hidden it from everyone for a year.
‘Smith suggested I should take the retirement package being offered to e
mployees of sixty and over. Look after Mum.’ He was looking at the grass and the cup as if he expected something. I knew he was upset. Of course. But I did not know what to do.
‘It was the Dornier production line. They were making the fins.’
I just stared at him, not understanding.
‘The fins, Rache. My fins.’
‘Like yours?’
He stared back at me, obviously wondering if anyone could be that thick.
‘They were mine. Exactly the same.’
‘You mean . . . what do you mean?’
‘I gave them to Maude Smith and she passed them to Willi Strassen.’
I barely reacted. I heard what he was saying but it meant nothing.
He glanced at me and tightened his mouth then went on. ‘Strassen had arrived in this country rather late in the war and wanted to make a name for himself back home in the Fatherland. Maude Smith was under his thumb. I suppose she was in love with him, I have no idea. She knew Mum had access to the official records. She badgered her until Mum’s morale was at rock bottom – you know what she was like. And you know what Maude Smith was like, probably still is. So I did my little deal. And it got her off Mum’s back.’ He actually shrugged. ‘It was meaningless, of course. They’d already developed their fins along the same lines as us. But she didn’t know that and presumably neither did Strassen.’
He took a deep breath and let it go. ‘We were lucky. I don’t doubt it would all have started up again except for the raid and Strassen’s death.’ He glanced at me again and must have registered my total confusion. He said, as if it made everything crystal clear, ‘That was why I left Smith’s, of course. Maude had told her husband, the dear old Wingco, that I had contravened the Official Secrets Act and he suggested I should take early retirement.’
My face ached, every muscle and nerve taut. He waited but I could not speak; I could not comfort him. I felt sick and ill.
He swallowed audibly. ‘It’s been difficult, Rache. The only one to stand by me was Gilbert and he did it for Mum’s sake. And for yours.’ He tried to smile. ‘When I told Meriel about it, she immediately said I must go back with them and get into harness again. Whether she means I am to go to work with Rex . . .’ he tried to laugh. ‘She’s a crazy girl, Rache, I’d forgotten just how crazy. But she keeps saying there’s a place for me out there – that I’ve lost my way here and I must give it a go. And I’m beginning to believe her. I need a shake-up, my dearest girl. Can you understand that?’
The word ‘understand’ meant nothing. I tried to nod. But Willi Strassen, or Fritz as Meriel still called him, was in my life again with an intensity he hadn’t had before. And now, linked with Willi Strassen was my Dad. Dad could not have sold anything to Willi Strassen. Could he?
He said, ‘Be a bit more convincing, Rachel, there’s a dear.’
I glanced at him, then away. Someone had sold those designs, and there was only one person it could have been. We were still close enough to the war for the word ‘traitor’ to mean something.
I said, ‘It’s an excellent idea. Really good. Exciting. And Meriel will look after you.’
He forced a laugh. Had he expected me to beg him to stay? He got out of the chair with some difficulty. ‘I’m thankful you understand, Rachel. The war has been over for eight years but somehow it lingers. I’ve been trying to put it all away from me for the past three years – since Mum died. And if this trip to America will help, then I’m all for it, too.’
‘Will you be able to afford it?’ As I spoke the words I heard their terrible irony. Of course he would be able to afford it. Strassen must have paid through the nose for the fin designs.
‘Yes. Of course. It costs so little for one person to live, Rachel. And the mortgage has been paid off.’
I leaned down, gathering our plates and cups; out of sight, I squeezed my eyes shut very tightly. How could this be happening? He had been quietly celebrated for his invention, proud of it, Mum had been proud of it . . . and he sold it. Obviously there was no crippling mortgage on the house any more. As I walked back into the house the crockery shook and clattered in my hands.
Dad noticed. Of course he noticed, he was still my father.
‘Darling girl. I know how you feel. I’ve lived with it for so long now. We talked about it, you know . . . before she died.’
I wanted to shout at him that treason had probably been the last thing she wished to discuss. I nodded dumbly.
‘Oh yes. We talked about everything. If this trip to America works, Rachel, I’ll tell you what she said to me.’ His voice was choking up, and the last thing I wanted was a complete breakdown. Things happen during that sort of breakdown that cannot be clawed back afterwards, and I would not want my father to know that at that moment I was bitterly ashamed of him.
‘All right. That’s all right with me.’ My voice sounded completely normal; it was astonishing. ‘Listen, Rex will be dropping off Tom and the girls in the next hour. Why don’t you have a lift with them?’ I’d said the first thing that came into my head and was immediately aghast. How could I bear another hour with this man who was my father, and did not seem to fully understand what he had done?
He snuffled a little laugh; the moment of near breakdown was gone. ‘I’ve got Mum’s bike outside, love. And it’s a lovely evening for a ride through the lanes.’
I stood on the doorstep while he unlocked the bike from the boot scraper, then I waved him goodbye as I always did. We were so close, Dad and me. We were . . . friends.
Fourteen
MERIEL WAS ECSTATIC about Hermione’s visit.
‘It wasn’t only that she got on so well with Georgie – he doesn’t like everyone, you know, Rache. It was the way she got him to do things. She brought a picture, just one. I think it was a Rembrandt, and it showed the prodigal son’s return – in fact, I’m sure it was the one old Hattie used in art classes at school, d’you remember? Anyway, Hermione mentioned the colours, the clothes, the sandals. And he just nodded and said they were broken . . . the sandals. And then he was off finding those wax crayons and his scrap pad and having a go himself. He works in rectangles – I hadn’t sorted that out before, but she noticed it and it’s true. An oblong is a person, a square is something else – he depicted that broken sandal as two halves of a sort of rhombus. He gets the colours right, spends ages on that. Then she mounted his picture on to a card right next to the Rembrandt, and put it on the wall, and they just sat and looked at it for ages. You could feel them doing it – it was fantastic! And then after tea – we had it in the garden and Georgie really looked after her – they listened to music. She had a record with her in her briefcase. It was a Souza march. We all had to clap in time to it. Your girls just loved that, honey, it was like one of Daphne’s rhythm sessions. Of course Georgie knew exactly what to do. He marched round the sitting room – the radiogram is in there, we couldn’t go out, unfortunately. He lifted his legs up high and banged an imaginary drum . . .’ Meriel’s eyes were full of tears. She paused and grinned at me. ‘I’m getting carried away, Rache. It was just so amazing to see Hermione Smith with my son. She is going to write it all up as a report for me to take back home and extract what is needed. She wants to come over and visit!’
‘You’re going to have quite a house full,’ I said.
We were in the garden of the Cheltenham house. The paddling pool was full and the children were climbing in and out and splashing each other indiscriminately. The sort of scene I would remember through next winter . . . for ever, I suppose. I wished my comment hadn’t sounded so bitter.
Meriel was still. ‘He told you, then?’
‘Yes. He’s excited about it.’
‘Yes. But he . . . told you about it?’
I looked at her, my heart suddenly hammering. Surely Dad hadn’t confided everything to Meriel before he told me? I swallowed. Of course he had, and he had made a special call when he knew I would be alone . . . it had all been planned with Meriel.
‘Yes,�
� I replied flatly.
She started gabbling again; she had always talked quickly: in rushes and torrents of sentences. I had never thought of it as gabbling before.
She said, ‘I guess you’re shattered. But . . . it’s not as black and white as you think – as I thought, too.’ She stood up and smoothed off her cotton skirt. ‘Maybe he did do . . . what he says. Maybe money passed hands.’ I stood up, too – leapt up. I wanted to tell her to shut up; I wanted to gather up the twins and run out of that lovely garden and pretend I hadn’t heard her or Dad or anything. I didn’t bother with brushing my skirt, but I leaned down to buckle a loose sandal and squeeze my eyes shut tightly. I was doing that a lot.
‘But . . . Hermione and I talked, Rache. We never have, as you know. She was scared of me, and I despised her for being under the thumb of her mother, who was under the thumb of her husband . . . We had this conversation about when you and me tracked old Fritz that time—’ She laughed and I managed to join in, but we both knew nothing was funny. ‘That’s what started her talking. She found out where her mother was that morning after the air raid. She was trying to find her sister-in-law. She had been going to see her at half past ten that morning. She did not tell Hermione – made up a dental appointment, as we know. And then, in the early hours those bombs were dropped and she was very worried about the Wingco’s sister and left early on her bike, went straight to her house and got in, just as I did later on. And realized that she must have been killed. She lived there, you see – the sister. They kept it very quiet because of course the Wingco was so bloody gung-ho he would have died if anyone had guessed that he came from Austrian stock. His father had anglicized the name before the first war – the Great War – when he brought the family over. Started making stoves . . . kitchen ranges, that sort of thing. It changed during the Great War. Made guns instead. Guns that went into those funny little aeroplanes they flew then. Guns specially synchronized to fire between propeller blades. And because old man Schmidt was so patriotic and so damned clever, no one knew he was Austrian – people were worse about aliens then than in the last war. And by the time his son took over Smith’s, the Wingco was in the Royal Air Force and knew everything there was to know about planes and flying. But the Wingco had a sister who felt quite differently. She was proud of being Austrian. She did not want to embarrass her family so she broke away from them after university and worked for the Ministry of Defence as a translator. She kept her Austrian name, and because she was valuable there was no question of her being interned.’