by Susan Sallis
Both girls screamed at her. Everything was sorted out. I went upstairs to wash and dress and tidy the bedrooms. I felt happy. I really felt happy. Like Dad said, all that had happened back in the 1940s was no more than a storm in a teacup, and I was almost certain that what was happening in the 1960s would be written off the same way.
We had an early lunch because the girls were going to the Plaza cinema with Daphne, Roland and Colin to see Summer Holiday. Meriel had work to do. Tom suggested we get the car and drive to Huntley to see the Gaffer.
‘We might be able to sort it all out. Between us.’
I was doubtful at first. But then I remembered Frou-frou. ‘That can be our excuse. Maybe we can take her home with us, get her used to the car. The girls would love to see her.’
He looked at me. ‘Why can’t we go straight for the jugular—’ he imitated a German accent. ‘Did old man Silverman hang himself or was he murdered?’
‘You can do that. I’ll talk to Maxine about Frou-frou’s likes and dislikes.’
‘Hang on, Rache. The Gaffer and I have a purely working relationship. It’s you he’s close to. Last night . . . I thought he was going to cry when he set eyes on you.’
I sobered somewhat. ‘It caught him unaware. My likeness to Mum.’ I sighed. ‘I grew up knowing he was an old boy friend. Over the years I’ve realized he put her on a pedestal.’ I recalled last night and his emotional greeting. I had been . . . embarrassed. I said quickly, ‘Thank goodness for Maxine.’
He looked at me in the mirror, then said, ‘She certainly keeps him on the straight and narrow.’
We drove slowly along the drive of Clarion House. A row of beech trees, last year’s leaves rattling in the December wind, defined the boundary on the right and swept around the house, carelessly magnificent. On the left the land dropped away in a series of lawns joined by ha-has. A few sheep were grazing on the furthest lawn; Uncle Gilbert had never seen the point of mowing machines when sheep could do the job silently and constantly. We drew up on a gravel sweep in front of the house. Uncle Gilbert’s Riley was on one side of the pillared porch, Maxine’s Wolsley the other, so they were both at home. Tom said, ‘Once more unto the breach . . .’ and opened his door, and at the same time, the wide front door under the portico opened and there was Maxine, arms outstretched in welcome.
‘You never call unannounced, darlings!’ She got her arms around us both, and I realized her sleeves were rolled up and her hands, held above our shoulders, definitely floury. Maxine cooking? ‘Has something happened?’
Tom kissed her on the cheek with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve always thought you looked wonderful, Maxie, but in an apron, with your hair in your eyes and flour everywhere . . . you look more like Betty Grable than ever, with a touch of the Doris Days, too!’
She pecked him back, but still looked anxious. I was about to reassure her when he chipped in again. ‘It’s a bit too fraught at our house. We’ve come here to escape. Is it inconvenient?’
‘No, no, no! Certainly not.’ She stepped away, hands still held high. ‘In fact, you can come and sample some of my Victoria sponge.’ She smiled at me. ‘Your mother taught me how to make sponges. In the days when it was powdered eggs and any old fat you could get hold of!’
She did not often refer to Mum, and it always came as a shock to remember that they had been friends. In fact, had Mum actually introduced Maxine to Uncle Gilbert? Surely not?
We followed her across the hall and beneath the arching staircase into the kitchen, which Dad had always called the ballroom. It extended the width of the house; and the windows looked out on the sweep of beech trees, and followed them down the hill to where we knew the home farm, which dealt with everything muddy, smelly or noisy, sat by the road.
Maxine said, ‘Gillie is sorting out the sheep. They need to be moved up to the pasture for the winter. He won’t be long. He likes to chat to Arnold and be a farmer for five minutes.’
‘No longer?’ Tom asked, all innocence.
Maxine laughed. ‘You know him better than we do, Tom.’ She dusted her hands and then put them under the tap. ‘It’s good to see you. You haven’t been out for ages.’ She dried her hands and filled the kettle. ‘Sit down, both of you. We’ll have to stay out here otherwise I’ll forget the sponge and it will burn.’ She switched on the kettle and sat down at the table with us. ‘What did you think of last night?’
Tom said, ‘Jamaica? We were amazed. And impressed. The Gaffer has still got it. And those nurses – a touch of genius.’
‘They’re lovely girls. And so excited at the thought of seeing their families again. What about the food? I wasn’t sure about the sorbet, but we were in London last summer, and they served it between courses at Grey’s, so I thought it must be all right. And I read up about the syllabub. When Cromwell lodged here, there was reference to syllabub and a ‘baron of beef’. So it seemed sort of right.’
I said, ‘Did you take on the catering, Maxine? My God, it was superb! I didn’t realize it was syllabub – of course it was – how absolutely marvellous! You must have been sweating blood all evening – no one gave you credit or anything.’
She laughed and flushed with pleasure. ‘I thought you would know, of course. I usually arrange the catering for these sorts of things, I should be used to it. But this was so important. I’m really glad you liked it.’ Of course, that was how Mum had known her; they had been waitresses together.
‘Oh Maxine—’ I was overcome. ‘And there was me thinking all you cared about was Frou-frou!’
‘Well, of course. And Frou-frou is always top of the list but . . . well, you know—’
I thought back through all the years, how I had pigeon-holed Maxine as just a symbol of Uncle Gilbert’s . . . what . . . virility? I said, ‘I’m so sorry, Maxine. I’ve never realized you were—’
Tom took over. ‘You’re part of a team, Maxine. We took you for granted.’ He sniffed. ‘Is the sponge OK?’
She leapt to her feet and grabbed a fancy oven mitt. The sponges – two of them – were perfect. She waited until we had finished our tea, then turned them out and spread them with jam.
‘I know you should wait until they are cold, but hot cake is so special.’ She cut three large slices, and we started on them ecstatically. We smiled at each other. We had never been so close to Maxine.
Tom finished first, took his plate to the sink and swilled it. He looked at her over his shoulder.
‘Maxine . . . can I ask you something rather personal? Just between the three of us?’
She opened her eyes wide and swallowed. ‘Is it something awful?’
‘Yes,’ Tom said unequivocally.
‘Oh God. Well, you have to now, don’t you? Go on.’
‘Mr Silverman. You remember? The bespoke tailoring business?’ She nodded with a kind of resignation. Tom said, ‘Rache and I found him, you know. Back in ’44. Hanging from his living-room ceiling.’
‘Do you think I could have forgotten that?’ Her voice was low. ‘I told Gillie you would guess some day. I told him. But he said he knew you were both bright but not that bright.’
There was a silence; the sort that Tom liked because it gave him time to work things out.
He said, ‘What did he tell you about it?’
I held my breath. Was she going to say that Uncle Gilbert was a murderer? She clasped her hands around her plate, and kept her eyes on it as she took a deep breath. ‘He didn’t have to tell me anything. I was there. I helped him.’
Tom flashed me a look of pure horror and blurted, ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’
She was just as horrified. ‘Tom! Of course not! Your Uncle Gilbert is absolutely incapable of violence.’ She lifted her head to look at him, then at me. ‘You know that, Rache! He dotes on you. He always thought you were his. But of course you weren’t. Any more than Hermione Smith is George Throstle’s daughter.’ She smiled. ‘Isn’t it odd that men are shocked to bits if they think they’ve got someone pregnant? But when the chi
ld grows up they want a piece of it – have you noticed that?’ I must have looked terrible, because she said quickly, ‘Oh Christ! You didn’t know? I thought that was one of the reasons why you were here . . . Rachel, Gillie is not your father. Flo was so sorry for him she might have . . . slept with him. But he cannot father a child. George knew that, but when he found out about Flo sleeping with Gillie, he – he – well, turned to someone else – just for a moment.’
My mind leapt back to what she had said at first and I choked. ‘Mrs Smith? He wouldn’t – he hates her – he wouldn’t—’
Tom was behind me holding my shoulders.
Maxine said on a note of pure astonishment, ‘My God – Hermione isn’t Maude Smith’s child! She belongs to Eva Schmidt. Surely, surely you knew that?’
Tom said quietly, ‘As you see, Maxine, we did not. It explains a great deal.’
He slid his hands down to my waist and crouched, holding me against the chair back. I stopped sliding off on to the floor. Maxine got up and fetched a glass of water. She too, crouched by me and offered the glass.
‘Listen, darling. I’ve always known about it, so it does not seem shocking to me. Gillie was sort of pining away, rather. I did the best I could, but he was like a lovesick boy. Eventually dear Flo . . . your mother . . . she must have been trying to comfort him, she was so soft hearted. It . . . escalated – is that the word? into something else, and Gillie must have boasted to your dad. It went no further. We’re talking about the mid-twenties, Rachel. Nobody spoke about things like that, then. It was so easy to keep it all hushed up.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you what went on between your mum and dad. Presumably there was a row. He’s not a vindictive man – you know that – but he had always admired Eva Schmidt. When your mum was pregnant and Eva was pregnant too . . . Gillie put his particular two and two together and made four. They sorted it out between themselves, of course. Maude Smith took on Hermione without a murmur. And George . . . well, George probably knew all about my Gillie so he never doubted that you were his. Gillie knew, too, but sometimes he likes to – to pretend. Now and then.’ Her eyes were full of tears. ‘I’ve let him do that, Rachel. It doesn’t seem much to do for him, does it? It would be cruel to spoil his dream.’
There was a silence. I wanted desperately to cry with Maxine but I couldn’t. There was still the question of Hermione. It seemed to make complete sense that Maude Smith was not her mother – any more than dear Mrs Nightingale was Meriel’s mother – but who was her father? How could Maxine be so certain that Eva had not comforted Dad as Mum had comforted Uncle Gilbert? Were Hermione and I half-sisters? So much began to make sense. Dad’s protectiveness towards Hermione, and his loathing of Mrs Smith. The fact that when they moved into the rough road at the start of the war I was expected to befriend Hermione, take her to school, ‘keep an eye’ on her. Snippets of memories blew around inside my head. What had Mum thought about all this? How had Mum borne it? Why hadn’t she told me . . . anything? Something?
The three of us sat and crouched there, digesting all of it. I wondered whether Hermione knew anything about her parentage, anything at all. I suddenly knew how Meriel had felt, discovering who her real mother was when she was living on another continent. I had to talk to Meriel. I had always known, but now suddenly fully comprehended, the way that every single action we take as individuals affects so many others. I shivered, and Tom gripped me tightly.
Eventually Maxine straightened painfully, and looked through the window. She said in a low voice, ‘Gillie and Frou-frou are on the lower lawn. Please don’t tell him what I have said. You were children . . . we wanted to protect you.’ She looked round at us. ‘If it seems right, I will tell him. I promise.’
He came bursting in. He’d seen the car. Why hadn’t we phoned? He’d only been sorting out the bloody sheep, had Maxine looked after us? Hot cake sounded wonderful, and where was his? He kissed the top of my head, clapped Tom on the back, and gave Maxine a bear hug. His grin literally spread from ear to ear.
‘What brought you here, for God’s sake? We should do this more often. Rache, you look like death warmed up!’
Maxine laughed as she refilled the kettle. ‘Probably the hot cake, darling. I think you’re not supposed to have it straight from the oven and soggy with jam!’
‘That’s the best way.’ He sat opposite me and frowned. ‘Overdoing it, Rache. Too many late-night dinners with beef and syllabub! What did you think of it – wasn’t the food in keeping?’
I pulled myself together. Tom was sitting by me now, and I took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘It was wonderful. All of it. We were so proud of you both. And all we can do in return is to look after Frou-frou. Where is she, by the way?’
‘Left her in the porch. It was a bit muddy in the farmyard.’
‘Gillie! You should have carried her!’
‘Well, I didn’t. She needs the exercise. Where’s my cake and ale?’
Maxine presented his tea in a pint mug, just as the girls had that morning. He took the rest of the cake and set to.
Tom said, ‘We came to see whether we should take her home for the night. What do you think?’
‘I think most definitely.’ Gilbert spoke through his cake. ‘Then I can chase Maxine around the house without the bloody dog yapping disapproval at every scream!’
Maxine simpered, then drew out a chair and sat down. ‘Actually, darling, these two came to ask about Mr Silverman.’
Tom and I stared at her, and she looked at us with a tiny smile. ‘I realize I talked about last night’s dinner and making sponge cakes, but that was why you came, wasn’t it?’
Uncle Gilbert stopped eating quite suddenly, and became wary. No one said a word. Maxine’s smile seemed fixed on her face.
I thought that so far Maxine had opened flood gates one after another, and deserved a bit of help. Or perhaps I just wanted to shock this man who had tried to mess up my parents’ marriage so long ago. I said, ‘Did you kill him, Uncle Gilbert?’
He exploded cake crumbs. ‘Did I what?’ He turned on Maxine. ‘What the hell have you been saying, woman?’
Her smile did not change. ‘Sponge cake and syllabub.’
Tom was clutching my hand like a drowning man. I said, ‘Tom and I found him hanging. Now we hear from Vicky Robinson that he was murdered. We are asking you whether you did it.’
‘Who the hell is Vicky Robinson?’
‘Don’t pretend to be an idiot, Uncle Gilbert. She is Meriel’s daughter. In correspondence with Roland Beard, who met his father last summer and heard, or invented, a story about Mrs Smith killing old Mr Silverman. We thought you might know something.’
‘Why on earth would I know anything about a teenage boy making up stories to impress a girl who lives on the other side of the Atlantic?’
Tom squeezed my hand, then said, ‘You’re a fixer, Gaffer. People tell you things so that you can fix them. That day in August 1944, Rachel and I gave you jolly good evidence that Wilhelm Strassen and Eva Schmidt had committed suicide but you did not follow it up. In effect, you covered up that story. And you reported the Silverman business on page four in . . . six lines, I believe it was.’
Uncle Gilbert stopped looking wary and shrugged. ‘The war was still going strong. There were other more important things needing space. Remember the paper shortage? We were allowed a double spread and that was it!’ He was gaining confidence. ‘Anyway, Tom had dragged you into that house, Rachel – literally, if I remember correctly. Whether you liked it or not you were involved. I wanted to keep your name out of it.’
‘Just as you did after Sylvia Strassen’s murder? Anyway, you had no idea I was involved with Strassen when poor old Silverman hung himself.’
Uncle Gilbert began to look angry. ‘There was no need to protect you after the Sylvia Strassen murder. The man was discovered the very next day beneath the platform at the railway station.’ He huffed audibly. ‘I don’t have to sit here and take this from you two. Let’s just cut t
o the chase. I did not murder Mr Silverman, and actually I did a good obit for him. You can look it up, if you want to.’
He went on huffing and puffing. Maxine put a comforting arm around his shoulders. He was about to tuck his head into her neck, when she said very gently, ‘I’ve told them we were the ones who found the body, sweetie. I didn’t mention that it was obvious he had been clubbed, and that we assumed it was Wilhelm Strassen who had done it just before the raid, so we hoisted the poor old man up on to the beam.’ She looked up at us. ‘By this time Strassen and Schmidt were lovers. I think Eva must have been sorry for him. Or perhaps she hoped to keep him quiet about the Smith connection. The Wingco was her brother, after all. She had given her child away to her sister-in-law – she must have known by then what sort of woman Maude was. We know her state of mind was . . . desperate. Suicide seemed the only solution to her.’ She paused and we all sat and considered the dilemma Eva Schmidt had faced.
Then she added thoughtfully, ‘I sometimes wonder whether Strassen intended to go through with the suicide. Whether he thought he might still get away with it. Maude would have helped him. What ironic justice if he was killed by one of his own bombs.’ She sighed sharply. ‘Getting back to Gillie and me finding Mr Silverman’s body . . . our one thought was to keep everyone we knew and loved out of it. If the two bodies found in Spa Road were the result of suicide, why not another one? All that silly treason business could be forgotten. None of it mattered. The information was already obsolete. But the authorities might not have seen it that way. So anything that might link Strassen with your family was dangerous. So we faked Silverman’s suicide. He was already dead. The mark on his head was nothing much – if it was murder, then he was knocked out and finished off some other way. Maybe poisoned. We didn’t hang about making guesses. We managed to . . . well, you know what we managed to do. We figured out that if Strassen had had anything to do with it, he paid the price. His own people killed him, in a way. And poor Eva Schmidt who had to spend her life in the shadows for fear of embarrassing her brother . . .’ She smiled. ‘Was it so terrible to hide what lay behind their deaths?’