‘We must walk fast to keep warm.’ Andreas handed me back my book and set off at a smart pace, swerving off course only to collect some kind of sketchbook and a small black tin from the tree stump he’d been sitting on. I struggled to keep up with him, wracking my brains for anything I could possibly say to retrieve some dignity. Nothing came to mind.
By the time we’d marched back to the Hall, some feeling had come back into my limbs. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Gran put down the bowl she was holding and hurried over. ‘What on earth’s happened to you?’
‘I had a fall and ended up in the lake,’ I told her, not wanting to mention the boathouse and realising - too late - that I should have sworn Andreas to secrecy as well. ‘This is Andreas. You know, from Mr Tarver’s shop?’ Gran must have recognised him as the delivery boy. ‘He helped me out.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ Gran looked him up and down. ‘Well, you managed to get yourselves wet enough in the process. Give me your coat, Izzie, and then go upstairs to change. I’ll see if Mr Huggins can find some dry clothes for this young man.’
It was wonderful to take off my sopping things, despite the bathroom being in its usual arctic state. I dunked my head in a basin of warm water, washed the worst of the muck off my body with a flannel, and then rubbed my skin back to tingling pink with the rough towel. Looking in the mirror, I could see my hair was the most terrible mess, but at least my eyes were clear and shiny. I have green eyes, from Dad; I wondered in passing whether Andreas had noticed them. Some hope. The only thing he would have noticed was my wonderful impression of the Loch Ness Monster.
There was no sign of him in the kitchen when at last I ventured downstairs with an armful of wet clothes for the laundry hamper. ‘Now get this hot soup down you,’ Gran said. ‘It’s not quite dinnertime, but I shouldn’t think Mr Huggins will object, given the circumstances.’ She handed me a steaming bowl of chicken soup and dumplings, and stared at me suspiciously while I ate it at the kitchen table. ‘You didn’t arrange to meet that boy out by the lake, did you?’
‘No!’ I protested. ‘I had no idea he was there until I fell in.’
‘Well, I wonder what he was - ’
I shushed her with a look, because Andreas was suddenly hovering about in the doorway, wearing a pair of baggy trousers held up with a piece of string, a collarless shirt and an old tweed jacket. Gran nodded at him and he came a little way into the room, holding his wet things in a neat bundle with his sketchbook under the other arm. ‘Thank you very much for your trouble,’ he said stiffly. ‘I will return tomorrow the clothes.’
‘Take your time,’ Gran said. ‘They’re not in great demand.’
There was an awkward silence. ‘So, I shall go - ’ Andreas began, just as I said to Gran, ‘Maybe Andreas would like some soup?’ It seemed awful to be sending him back to Mr Tarver without so much as a hot drink when he’d gone to all that trouble on my account. Why wasn’t Gran being more friendly?
‘Do they eat chicken soup in your country?’ she asked.
Andreas nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh, yes. My mother makes it often.’
Gran ladled out another bowlful while I jumped up to fetch a spoon and lay him a place at the table. Andreas put down his things next to Mrs Jeakes’s basket and attempted to stroke her; she hissed at him (as anyone could have told him she would) and shot out of the kitchen like a bullet. He took the soup from Gran and sat down, breathing in the smell of it for a moment with his eyes shut. Something in his expression made Gran and me watch without speaking as he took his first mouthful. In fact, none of us said a word until the bowl was empty.
‘Well?’ said Gran. ‘Is it as good as your mother’s?’
Andreas cleared his throat. ‘Almost.’
I could tell Gran wasn’t pleased, but she should have been; he was obviously paying her a great compliment. ‘It is the best thing I eat in England,’ he added, a fraction too late.
‘So where exactly have you come from?’ I asked. This was one of the questions I had thought up in the bathroom.
‘From Berlin, in Germany. I come from there a little before Christmas.’
‘Funny time of year to go travelling,’ Gran said. ‘Were your parents happy about it, sending you over here for Christmas all on your own?’
‘There was no time to wait,’ Andreas replied. ‘And we are Jewish, Christmas is not so important to us. It is just my mother and me, because my father is dead some years.’ He straightened his spoon so that it lay exactly in the middle of the bowl. ‘Things are very bad for Jews in Germany now. Perhaps you know this? There was a chance for me to come to England, so my mother said, you must go. Then perhaps she can join me.’ He looked up at us both. ‘Do you think in this house there is work for her? She can do anything. Cook, or clean. Anything you want.’
Gran shook her head. ‘There are no vacancies here. Still, if her soup is as good as you say, she should find a place in Germany easily enough.’
‘She has to leave there,’ Andreas said. ‘Please, if you hear of a job, please to tell me.’
‘There are plenty of people in this country looking for work.’ Gran took away his bowl to wash up. ‘We don’t need any more from foreign parts.’
‘Thank you for the soup,’ Andreas said, to her back. ‘It was very good.’
I smiled at him to try and make up for Gran’s sharpness. ‘Thank you for helping me. I hope you won’t catch a cold.’
‘Now, look here, young man,’ Gran said, coming back from the sink. ‘I don’t know if Mr Huggins has had a word with you, but you shouldn’t have been wandering around here on your own. This house and gardens are private property and you were trespassing.’
Andreas drew himself up. ‘I am sorry for doing this,’ he said. ‘I will not come again. But I like to paint, and I made a picture of the lake.’
‘Let’s see it, then.’
Surely Gran didn’t have to be quite so brusque? Andreas was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. He took a piece of paper out of the sketchbook and passed it to Gran without a word. I looked over her shoulder. It was a small watercolour of the same view that had captivated me: across the water to the golden-grey south face of the house, set in a framework of spiky tree branches. Small, but perfect, like an illustration from a fairy tale. I thought it was one of the loveliest things I’d ever seen.
‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ Gran said, holding it back out to him. ‘But you were trespassing all the same.’
‘I will not come again,’ Andreas repeated. He put the sketchbook back under his arm. ‘Please to keep the picture, if the family would like it. Goodbye. And thank you for the soup.’
‘Well, cheeky young devil!’ Gran exclaimed after he’d left. ‘As if Lord Vye would want one of his paintings! He’s got more than enough of his own.’
‘It’s wonderful, though.’ I took the picture from her hands for another look. ‘Don’t you think so?’
She sniffed. ‘It’s all right, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. But what was that boy up to, snooping around here by himself? There are plenty of other places he could have gone sketching.’
We heard an imperious miaow and Mrs Jeakes came stalking back into the kitchen. ‘The cat didn’t like him,’ Gran added, as if to clinch the matter. ‘I’ve never seen her move so fast.’
But Mrs Jeakes is a fat old tabby with a mean disposition; she doesn’t like anyone. That didn’t prove a thing, did it? ‘It’s just as well he was there, whatever the reason,’ I said, not wanting to let Gran have the last word. ‘I might have ended up in trouble otherwise.’
‘I suppose that’s something to be said for him,’ she acknowledged eventually. ‘It’s just … that voice! Makes me wonder what his father did in the war. What if he was the very man who shot my Tom? It’s not easy for someone my age to welcome a German with open arms, in all honesty, and you’ll find a lot of people feel the same.’
Which was hard on Andreas, I thought.
Five
Urgent appeal! W
ould noble-minded people assist (Jewish) Viennese couple to come to London: capable for every kind of housework: knowledge of English, French and Italian, wife, excellent cook and good dressmaker: both in best health.
Advertisement in the Jewish Chronicle, 1938
Lord Vye and Mr Pennington did like Andreas’s picture, as it turned out, despite Gran’s reservations. Mr Huggins was happy to let me collect the dirty plates from their painting luncheon, since it was Sunday afternoon and he had the newspaper to read, so I wrapped the watercolour in tissue paper and smuggled it into the studio under my tray. A risky move, but either His Lordship didn’t realise that Andreas must have been roaming around the grounds without permission, or he didn’t care.
‘I say, this is rather good,’ he said, taking the picture over to the window where the light was better. ‘Who painted it, did you say?’
‘The German boy who’s working at the village shop,’ I replied hesitantly, knowing that Gran would have had a fit if she could have overheard me. ‘His name is Andreas Rosenfeld.’
‘Come and take a look at this, Pongo,’ His Lordship called to Mr Pennington, who was leaning over the long table where twenty servants used to sit for their meals. That day it was covered in sheets of paper with wispy pencil drawings all over them. Lord Vye was going to paint a mural of Italian country scenes in one of the guest bedrooms, Eunice had told me, and Mr Pennington was there for a week or so to help him plan it out. (At first His Lordship had wanted to decorate the drawing room but Lady Vye had put her foot down over that, which was probably just as well.)
‘Not bad at all,’ Mr Pennington thought. ‘Perhaps you should get in touch with the boy, Lionel - rope him in as an apprentice. German, you say? I wonder what he’s doing over here.’
‘He told us things were difficult for him in Germany, sir,’ I offered, since they both seemed so open and friendly. ‘He’s Jewish, you see.’
‘Dear Lord, is he?’ Mr Pennington handed the picture back to Lord Vye. ‘Well, I suppose nobody needs to know if he keeps quiet about it. Up to you, Lionel, old man.’
‘I’d certainly like to talk to the fellow,’ Lord Vye said, gazing at the painting. ‘Hard to find anyone in these parts with the slightest clue about art. Wonder whether he’s worked in oils?’ He glanced over to an easel in a corner of the room, where a murky study of trees in claggy green paint was languishing. Then he turned back to me. ‘Next time this Andreas chappy comes up here, ask him to pop along and see me, would you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I started loading up the tray with dirty plates and glasses, feeling pleased with myself.
‘Fabulous lunch, by the way. My compliments to the cook.’ Mr Pennington smiled at me with his twinkly eyes and I sailed out of the room in high spirits.
I didn’t see Andreas again for another couple of days. Gran had a word with Lord Vye about the account at Mr Tarver’s and he must have settled it in full one way or another because, on the Wednesday, our grocery order was sent up to the Hall as usual - although not till the afternoon, as if to make a point. Returning from a trip to the compost heap, I saw the delivery bicycle propped against the wall by the side door and then Andreas appeared, dark hair curling out under the same baker’s boy cap he always seemed to be wearing. I suddenly became very conscious of my faded print apron, and the pigswill bucket in my hand.
He nodded when he saw me. ‘Hello, Isobel. I have brought back now the clothes.’
‘Thank you. I hope you’re all right, after… That you didn’t catch a cold or anything, I mean.’
‘No, I am fine.’ He didn’t smile but, then again, he usually looked serious. ‘I hope you are not ill, either,’ he added, to fill the silence.
I shifted the bucket to my other hand, remembering at last what needed to be said. ‘I showed your painting to Lord Vye, Andreas, and he asked if you could go and see him the next time you were here.’
A look of alarm flashed across his face. ‘He is not angry with me? I am sorry to make this picture without asking, like your grandmother said.’
I hurried to reassure him. ‘No, no - he really liked the painting. He wants to talk to you about art, that’s all. You’re not in trouble.’
I could see Andreas turning the idea over in his mind. ‘Thank you,’ he said eventually. ‘It is kind of you to do this thing. I will talk to Lord Vye about art, and maybe he can help also my mother. In this big house, surely there is something she can do.’ He looked back towards the kitchen. ‘Your grandmother is old. She needs someone to help her with cooking, it is not right.’
What could I say? That Gran agreeing to share her kitchen with Mrs Rosenfeld was about as likely as Hitler taking up flower arranging? Anyway, that was beside the point, as I tried to explain. ‘The thing is, it is a big house, but the Vyes don’t have as much money as you might think. I don‘t think they can afford to take on anyone else. I’m helping Gran at the moment but they’re not paying me.’
Andreas stared at me for a moment without speaking. ‘So where is Lord Vye?’ he asked, in a flat voice. ‘Shall I see him now?’
‘He’s probably in the studio. The butler will take you there.’
We went back through the blue-painted door to find Mr Huggins - who looked extremely dubious about the idea of Lord Vye showing any interest in Mr Tarver’s delivery boy (and a foreigner, to boot) but eventually agreed to go to the studio and ask. I left Andreas waiting outside the butler’s pantry, alone in the long empty corridor.
‘At last! I was beginning to think we’d have to start the party without you,’ Gran said as soon as I reappeared in the kitchen.
While I’d been away, a white lace cloth had been thrown over the table and on it stood the second-best silver tea service, a cake covered in pink and white icing, a plate of bread and butter triangles with a pot of plum jam, and a dish of shortbread biscuits. There was a parcel at my place with a card tucked into the yellow ribbon, and Eunice was sitting there, too.
‘Oh, Gran!’ I gave her a hug. ‘I thought everyone had forgotten it was my birthday.’ I’d turned fifteen that morning.
‘As if we would.’ She felt in her apron pocket. ‘Now there’s a card here from your mother, and Sissy will be down shortly with the girls. They’ve got something for you, too. Eunice, will you be so good as to pour?’
I put Mum’s card by my plate to open later in private. This was the first birthday I’d ever spent away from home and I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it. Eunice gave me a postcard with ‘Greetings from Bournemouth’ above a picture of the seafront and ‘Fondest birthday wishes from Eunice Priddy,’ written on the back. She toasted me with her teacup. ‘Many happy returns, Isobel. Chin chin.’
I opened Gran’s card (two fluffy kittens) and then the parcel, which was intriguingly large and soft. Inside were two woollen skirts lined with silk, one a soft pinky grey and the other pale green, and the loveliest dark red crêpe frock with a lace collar. I held the clothes up, one after the other, hardly able to believe my eyes. ‘They’re beautiful! All for me?’
‘Well, you need something else to wear,’ Gran said, ‘and there wasn’t anything else I could do with these old clothes up in the attic. I’ve altered the frock and remade the skirts but they’re good as new. Harris tweed, you see. It lasts for ever.’
Eunice sniffed. ‘You wouldn’t catch me in someone else’s cast-offs.’
I held the soft wool up to my face, breathing in a faint scent of mothballs and lavender. It didn’t matter in the slightest that some Lady Vye might have worn this tweed before me. The link with Swallowcliffe was what I wanted; it made the clothes even more precious. ‘Thank you, Gran. I love them all. You’ve done a wonderful job.’ Her stitches were so tiny as to be almost invisible.
‘Let me know if anything doesn’t fit,’ she said, looking pleased. ‘I’ve tried to leave some room for growth.’ Suddenly she caught sight of Andreas’s bicycle through the window. ‘That German lad’s never still here, is he? What on earth can he be up to?’
> ‘I think he might be in the studio with Lord Vye,’ I said casually. ‘Discussing painting.’
Gran shot me one of her looks. ‘I hope you haven’t been sticking your oar in where it’s not wanted.’
‘He’s Jewish, you know,’ Eunice put in. ‘Elsie told me.’ (Elsie was her friend in the village, who cleaned for the Murdochs.) ‘Mr Tarver’s taken him in out of the goodness of his heart, to show him proper Christian ways.’
‘He’ll be getting his two penn’orth out of the boy in the process, you can be sure of that,’ Gran remarked, blowing on her tea to cool it.
‘So now he’s worming his way in with Lord Vye, is he?’ Eunice went on. ‘They’re like that, Jews, good at feathering their own nests. And once they’ve got their feet under the table, you’ll never - ’
Luckily Sissy appeared at that moment with the twins, so that particular conversation had to come to an end. ‘Happy birthday,’ they chorused, presenting me with their cards. Julia had drawn some kind of large grey animal with a blob on the top, and Nancy, a brown-haired princess in a pink dress. I knew that’s what she must have been because both girls loved the two princesses at Buckingham Palace; Sissy saved them photographs of the Royal Family from Picture Post and they were forever playing princess games and acting out princess stories. ‘Is that Princess Margaret Rose?’ I asked her, taking a guess on her favourite, and she nodded with great satisfaction.
‘And I’ve done an elephant,’ Julia broke in, ‘with a man riding on him. I copied it from the Noah’s Ark.’
‘Very nice, dearie,’ Gran said. ‘Now sit down and eat your bread and butter before we cut the cake.’
‘We’ve had such a busy morning.’ Sissy plumped herself down in the chair Eunice had pulled out for her. ‘Miss Murdoch came up to the nursery. She’s teaching you to read, isn’t she, girls?’
‘I can read already,’ Julia said.
‘So can I,’ Nancy added, although I knew that wasn’t strictly true. I’d often read the girls stories at bedtime and, while Julia could follow along with her finger, Nancy wasn’t at all interested in making out the letters. It was high time they had lessons from somebody, although Miss Murdoch wouldn’t have been my first choice.
Isobel's Story Page 5