‘With pleasure, but these aren’t just arguments; they’re grounds for acting or not. They need testing.’
‘That doesn’t alter the fact – I’ve always said – you’ve only ever wanted to be the flâneur, the strolling spectator taking in the passing show.’
‘You’re wrong if you mean flâneur-as-spectator. I see myself more the flâneur-as-explorer, or detective perhaps?’ He shaded his eyes with his hand and lowered his voice. ‘Mingling with the crowd, the flâneur secretly resists any engagement with them. He disguises himself as a participant, but his true role is to seek out the mysteries hidden below the surface. His sole credo is “observe, penetrate, track”. To do this, he must simultaneously occupy the passing scene and remove himself from it. Curiosity his total passion.’
‘Window-shopper,’ she said derisively. ‘Window-shopper. Hands in pockets. Have you thought at all what you might do?’
‘Gravedigger. Volunteer as a gravedigger. When the knockout blow comes, mass gravedigging is sure to be needed. “A pickaxe, a spade, a spade … A pit of clay for to be made”.’
****
He hadn’t any sense of Dinah’s being a stranger, though she made no attempt to hide her curiosity at how he lived. She looked round the flat, listening to his explanation that most of his mother’s pictures and other valuables had been packed up and sent into store. She picked up his Wodehouse and read a few lines, demanding to know why it made him laugh, before going into the kitchen and making tea. To his secret amusement, she settled where Creevey-Adams had sat down, her slender legs coiled under her.
She had brought him a present from her grandfather: a copy of Novalis’s Hymns to the Night in German. It was the professor’s own, marked up in the margin with pencil, some words underlined. He had more than one, Dinah explained when Peter expressed doubt on taking his marked copy. And he wanted to show his gratitude at Peter’s having fought off her attacker.
Scarcely fought off, Peter protested. ‘He should scorn me for having been laid out in the first round.’
‘You looked so fierce.’
‘It was you who slapped him.’
‘My hand hurt all night.’
He took her hand and kissed it.
‘It was the other actually.’
He kissed that. Yet he felt that underneath the playfulness she was unsettled. Still holding her hand, he asked if something had made her anxious. Was there something he could do?
He was so sympathetic, she said. It was yesterday, going with grandfather to register as aliens, in his case an enemy alien. ‘I am sure we will be put away, separated.’
‘But you’re Jewish refugees.’
‘It makes no difference – and as a Roumanian I am not exactly a refugee myself, so I do not know what they will do for me.’
‘You can’t go back to Roumania.’
‘My family is there, unless they can get visas for America.’ But that was not it. ‘There was a man there beside the registration official, and he took our papers and he looked at them, and then he took them away for a long time to another room. The official said it was routine, but I’m sure that man was a secret policeman.’
‘We don’t have secret policemen, not like that.’
‘I have seen them. I saw him. They are all the same. Czernowitz, Vienna, London. They have secret policemen’s eyes and secret policemen’s shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘They wear official shoes. You are so innocent in England. You think life is cricket on the green and tea in the pavilion under the elms with the vicar and the squire and kindly chief inspectors catching common thieves and murderers. And not men in identical shoes with secret lists where your name is written after someone whispered information about you—who you do not know and can never find out.’
‘But if he was a secret policeman, why should he be interested in your grandfather and you?’
‘I don’t know. There is no reason.’
‘What did your grandfather think?’
‘He is used to these things. He expects them. He has always lived on the border, so to say.’
‘But we don’t have secret policemen. We do have a Secret Service and a security service and plainclothes police. And they are all under the law.’
She shook her head, but said nothing.
He went on, conscious of not being quite consistent. ‘And if there’s a problem, I’m sure we can do something about it. I’ve a godfather who works at the Home Office and a second cousin in the Foreign Office.’
‘Thank you. It is always good to have connections. I’m sorry. I must not burden you with my stupid anxieties.’
‘Natural, not stupid. Please do. I’m happy to help if you will allow me.’
Before she left she drew the curtains for him. He got up and hopped over to the door to say goodbye; his knee was getting better all the time, he promised. She would come again soon?
‘I am sorry to have given my worries to you. Next time I will be happier. Till soon, dear Peter.’ Her lips dwelt on his cheek.
He stayed still for several minutes, too happy to move, wanting not to lose the moment.
Coming back into the flat, he saw the parcel and envelope left by Walter Thomas, now under a pile of books. He would put them in the hall for next time. He picked up the well-worn Novalis, and tried to puzzle his way through the opening lines. He would get Dinah to translate some of it for him before he met her grandfather. He should start learning German.
****
His knee was steadily improving. The doctor sent someone round to massage it; soon he should exercise it by going out.
Visitors brought dinner-table predictions of an uprising in Czechoslovakia, and gossip about an MI6-sponsored plot against Hitler by his generals; a foreign office minister was said to have met Goering in Holland to discuss making peace if Hitler were overthrown. An aerial knockout blow against London was still, it seemed, a present danger. The home fleet was being dispersed, meaning there was no defence against a lightning raid on the east coast, possibly punching through to London. German spies had marked trees to indicate the route from the coast.
He dived into the papers left by Creevey-Adams, relishing the working out of ancient wills and codicils, intestacies, settlements, remainders and reversions, untimely deaths, second marriages and step-families, cast-off wives, hidden second households and cherished bastards, poor souls—all the unravelling of the family’s secret history. He produced a draft advice that won Creevey-Adams’s praise when he popped in for a drink – and to see how soon Peter might be up and about, able to put in an appearance at the Tea Rooms.
Dinah looked in again and, preparing to leave, came face to face with Ella, back early from her shift. Ella’s jaw dropped. Equally stunned, then relieved to have had the moment thrust on him, Peter broke the silence.
‘Dinah, let me introduce my sister Ella, back from her war-work. Ella, allow me to introduce Dinah Altschuler. Sadly, Dinah is just going.’
The two women shook hands and gave each other all-embracing glances. Ella was in her ambulance overalls, her hair tied back in a scarf, a haversack on her shoulder.
‘Did you have a good shift?’ asked Peter
‘Bloody boring.’ She turned to Dinah. ‘We’ve mostly finished training, and when we’ve done with folding bandages, we sit and smoke and wait, and wait and smoke.’
‘It is a wonderful thing you are there, ready.’
‘Yes. And I want us to go on being bored … I must get rid of the station grime. We’ll meet again soon I hope, Dinah, for longer.’
****
Later, Ella said, ‘So that’s your fascinating mystery woman. She’s very Jewish.’
‘She is Jewish.’
‘You know what I mean. People say they’re against anti-semitism in principle, but privately they still don’t want to find themselves sitting down to dinner next to a Jew in the flesh.’
‘If they did with Dinah, they’d find her as irresistible as I do—and you will, I
hope. She’s very cultivated too.’
‘You know very well cultivation has nothing to do with it. You can imagine what some of the cousins will say behind your back, and some of your school friends.’
‘I don’t intend or need to make excuses for her being Jewish. If they don’t want to sit down with her, they won’t sit down with me either. There are plenty who are sane and civilized about these things.’
Later still, Ella said, ‘You are a dark horse. I’m impressed to see you serious about something other than a book. Forgive me if I say take care. One hears stories of women refugees in search of a British passport and you’re such an innocent really.’
‘You must get to know her.’
****
‘Get out and about a bit. That’s what you need.’ A cousin in uniform, Sam Browne belt and buttons gleaming – “The Military Cousin” Peter and Ella called him – put down his glass and declared Peter cured. ‘Stop stuffing in here over those French novels of yours. Get dressed and I’ll drive you to my club for dinner. No hanging about. Have to get the most out of the car before petrol’s rationed.’
Over piles of oysters, Peter observed that the cousin’s batman was a dab hand with brasses and leather. ‘Groom in civilian life?’
‘Not a batman – soldier-servant with my lot. And yes, I did bring him with me. Good to have a familiar face over the tea first thing in the morning.’
Peter looked round the dining room, Sam Browne belts and shining brasses glinting under the chandeliers; bright eyes in smooth, glowing faces eyeing oysters by the dozen. ‘Is it compulsory to bring a groom with you to the colours?’
‘Not compulsory in war, but it helps. You might get some frightful duffer they don’t want on parade. Can’t look badly turned out if you’re reporting daily to your general with the latest news.’
‘Is there much to report? Nothing at all seems to be happening.’
‘If there was anything significant, Peter, I couldn’t tell you. Anyway, how any one knows anything escapes me, we’re so disorganized. Only fit to fight colonial wars—as your father once said.’
‘“Minor colonial wars”.’
‘Anyway, what’s happening in other commands and to other commanders—that’s all the news my general wants from me. My job is to make sure nothing and nobody catch him by surprise. Doesn’t say much – bit like a monk – but takes it all in.’
Then, as Peter expected, it was family questions. Patiently, carefully, Peter responded. His father: on his way back from Kenya, but had stopped off in the Middle East, where the commander-in-chief was an old friend. ‘Father says we’re about to learn the lesson of not having developed a proper main battle-tank and prepared for war that’s fast-moving, highly mobile. You could pass that on to your general.’ His mother: in Albania, by invitation of the Italian government after she did some photo-portraits of Foreign Minister Ciano in Rome …
The Military Cousin’s eyes bulged. ‘Always very adventurous, your mother. So clever too.’
‘She likes to get about with her camera. She’s making quite a name – some of her work was in Paris-Match. You didn’t see it? I expect she’ll offer a picture-story on Tirana.’
‘She must be very upset over Poland. Any news of her family?’
‘She lost touch with Poland and her family when she went off to Paris as a young woman.’
The Military Cousin dropped his voice slightly. ‘Are they likely to get back together? Your mother and father? They’re not actually divorced, are they?’
‘To both questions, “Not that I know of” is all I can say.’ He was conscious of sounding a bit stiff, but the cousin seemed not to notice.
‘Ella, such a … well … a free-spirit?’
‘Driving an ambulance, or will be when the raids begin. And drawing of course. Might be appointed a war artist.’
‘Good for her. Raids could come any time, they say, now Poland has collapsed.’ The Military Cousin gestured for another bottle. ‘No sign of an engagement?’ Peter shook his head. ‘And yourself? Any plans? Going on with the Bar while you wait? Or get in early? Like father, like son?’
‘No. He’s unique. Thought I’d wait, see where what talents I have will be most useful. What I’m really good for. Possibly we’ll make peace—one hears talk of it. Their generals force Hitler to take a back seat. Withdraw from Poland but settle Danzig and keep Bohemia in the Reich. Save a lot of bloodshed.’
‘You obviously keep your finger on the pulse. Anyway, we have to be ready—’
He broke off to look up at the red-tabbed officer who had paused at their table on his way out.
‘Stayin’ in town?’ The officer waved the cousin down into his chair as he made to jump to his feet.
‘At the Cavalry, sir.’
‘Good.’ The red-tabbed officer consulted a small, leather-covered diary and made a mark with a thin gold pencil. ‘Could you pop in and see me tomorrow mornin’? I’m ridin’ in the park from eight till nine … about ten convenient?’ He stepped away, a keen glance and a brisk nod in Peter’s direction, leaving the cousin looking thoughtfully after him.
Peter broke the silence. ‘You were saying we had to be ready.’
The Military Cousin was still staring after the officer. ‘For a start, you could tell me who on earth that was.’
Peter observed dryly, ‘He seemed to know who you were.’
‘That’s the worrying thing.’ The cousin put his cigar in the ashtray and leaned forward, brow wrinkled. ‘I’d swear I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Then what are you going to do about poppin’ in? Perhaps he’ll forget? He looked as if he’d had a decent dinner.’ A full complexion. But, yes, eyes quick enough.
‘Can’t risk it.’ The Military Cousin looked unusually anxious. ‘It could be something for my general.’
‘Here.’ Peter pulled out a full packet of cigarettes. ‘Tell the cashier the staff colonel forgot them and ask his name.’
‘That’s very decent of you.’
The cousin returned from the cashier looking relieved. ‘According to his bill, he’s a Colonel G St John Ponsonby. Not a member. Said he was visiting. Paid cash. Thank you, Peter. You’ve no idea what a weight that is off my mind.’ The cousin leaned back and drew deeply on his cigar. ‘Now, tell me, really now, how did you hurt your knee? They say you were defending a woman.’
‘Whoever “they” are, “they” obviously don’t know me at all.’
‘And, what’s more, not any woman, but a mysterious refugee.’
‘I can only repeat, this shadowy “they” who claim to know me, don’t.’
The cousin slowly blew a long column of smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘Please don’t be offended if I say be careful of refugees, particularly German-speakers. Hitler’s been sending over a lot of spies carefully disguised as refugees, even cosmopolitans, women as well as men. Our chaps are busy sorting them out. Plenty of nice English girls out there if a fellow needs feminine company. Now, let’s get that leg of yours home.’
****
He rang The Military Cousin to thank him for dinner—and to see if he had more to offer on Dinah. ‘By the way, how did you get on with Colonel G St John Ponsonby?’
The cousin lowered his voice. ‘Very strange, the whole shebang. Not only not in, no one admitted to knowledge of him.’
‘Good Lord. You’d better warn your club to count the spoons.’
‘The curious thing was’ – the cousin was speaking almost in a whisper – ‘I had the feeling that my inquiry after him didn’t go down too well; the powers that be … well, not too keen to follow it up for me.’
‘They should be worried he’s a Nazi spy. You could hear quite a lot of gossip in your coffee room as the evening went on. Not exactly a war-time atmosphere.’
‘I won’t be popping in there for a bit. I’m to be transferred to the 51st Highland Division HQ. Apparently they’re short of GSOs.’
‘Perhaps you’ll get some stalking before the balloon
goes up.’ He bit back that colonels could be just as much a threat as cosmopolitans. What would be the point? He’d heard a real warning, if not the one intended.
****
In chambers, Creevey-Adams appeared pleased to see him, finding another mountainous bundle of papers ‘you might think interesting’, and, with a high-pitched laugh, ‘if I could make a mention’, detailing their rendezvous at the Russian Tea Rooms. ‘There’ll be a guest who knows the current peace moves they don’t tell us anything about. Should be fascinating.’
As soon as Peter was on his own, he rang Dinah. She sounded quite excited – something to tell him, something unexpected and good. He would wait in the ABC?
****
Dinah’s excitement was explained in rapid-fire phrases. She had been promoted, was now a senior window designer, with responsibility for taking a department’s request for a window display and organizing the materials and team that put it into effect. She had responsibility, a little more money, and, best of all, a greater chance to be creative. ‘Of course, they are unexpectedly short of staff, with people going to the country or taking war jobs, so they appoint an émigrée who cannot do either.’
‘Unexpectedly? And what émigrée nonsense. Congratulations. You’ve earned it—with your rakish golfers at least.’
‘There was still some discussion about that, whether the window should be more serious-minded at such a time. But there is also a need to cheer up, they thought.’ She gulped her tea. ‘Shall we walk a little?’
They set off through the early evening crowds, Peter explaining that he had firm instructions from Ella to arrange a threesome. With no sign of the bombing onslaught – the knockout blow – Ella expected they’d all be stood down at the ambulance station. As promised, he’d brought the parcel Walter Thomas had left for her grandfather. Carrying a brown paper parcel in the street! That would be enough to bar him from his cousin’s Hussar regiment. Though perhaps the rules were more relaxed in wartime, or would be once real war started.
Dinah blinked and touched her eye; a fleck of grit had blown into it. They stepped into a doorway and Peter put the parcel down between his feet and took out his handkerchief. As she widened her eye, a man ran out of the stream of passers-by, snatched the parcel and darted away. Peter had the impression of a small figure in a dark overcoat and a cap pulled down over his forehead, lost to sight in the crowd before he could turn and run after him. In the shock, Dinah blinked out the grit.
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