by Robin Byron
Marianne suspected that Helen’s good humour was not unconnected to their plan to return to Australia for three weeks over Easter; a plan which involved Marianne having Leah to stay for two of those weeks. The trip to Australia was ostensibly to see their other daughter – though the logic of this escaped Marianne. ‘Why don’t you just fly the girl over?’ she said. ‘It would be cheaper than both of you going back, and I’d get a chance to see her.’
‘We can’t do that – she has important hockey matches,’ said Helen. ‘Anyway, there are things we need to do back home.’
Marianne noticed a small flicker of irritation pass across Callum’s face.
‘I’m thinking of inviting my great-nephew Jake here for Easter,’ said Marianne, changing the subject. ‘Some younger company for Leah.’
‘Jake? You mean Julie’s Jake,’ said Helen. ‘But he must be well into his twenties now.’
‘Twenty-three or twenty-four, I think. I know he’s working as a journalist.’
‘But, Marianne, I mean, Leah’s only sixteen – I’m not sure that’s really… well, you know – I mean, they’re not really in the same age bracket.’
‘I won’t let him run off with her,’ said Marianne, laughing. ‘Anyway, it’s just an idea – he’s probably got something else planned.’
‘I think it would be a good idea for Leah to get to know her cousin,’ said Callum. ‘She might also like to learn what a career in journalism is like.’
Helen shot Callum a look of frustration but said nothing.
After lunch Helen helped Anna wash up while Callum went through to the sitting room with Marianne. It was a comfortable room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases either side of the fireplace. On one wall hung two landscapes by Nita Spilhaus, a South African impressionist artist, which her grandfather had acquired in Cape Town in the nineteen thirties – all dappled sunlight pattering through exotic foliage – which Marianne liked to imagine gave the room an air of permanent summer. In the bay window sat the partners’ desk which she had picked up cheaply on account of its excessive size.
Marianne sat down in her chair close to the wood-burning stove. ‘Work going OK?’ she said.
‘It’s fine, but, you know – I enjoy designing individual houses and that work barely exists in England. Out-of-town shopping centres are less satisfying.’
‘And money?’
‘OK, but, well, just the same situation back in Melbourne – I was hoping I could keep things ticking over when I’m not there, but now I’m not so sure. And you? Money-wise, I mean? Anna must be costing a fair bit.’
‘I’m managing.’
Walking across to the desk by the window, Callum picked up one of the old notebooks. ‘So these are your mother’s wartime diaries you were telling me about.’
‘Yes.’
Callum peered inside. ‘I wouldn’t be able to make any sense of this even if I could read French.’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘But you can read it?’
‘It’s like any manuscript – if you spend time on it you learn to read the writing and work out the private shorthand all writers use.’
‘Well, you always were a scholar, Mum. Anything sensational?’
Marianne hesitated for a moment. ‘Not yet. I’m looking at the first book – my mother is only fourteen; it’s 1940 and they are fleeing from the invading Germans. If I ever complete the translation, you’ll be able to read a typescript in English.’
Callum did not seem especially interested in this prospect. He came and sat beside her and took her hand. ‘So everything OK, Mum? I mean, apart from the fall.’
‘Everything is fine, darling.’
‘And Anna?’
‘Wonderful as ever.’
‘I do hope you’ll be alright with Leah. I think she’ll behave. You know, she’s rather in awe of you. She’ll also have a lot of homework to do.’
‘I’ll keep her at it.’
‘And do invite Jake for a day or two if he’ll come. I gather he is much better now.’
8
Jake had just completed a six-mile run when Marianne’s call came through. He had taken up running after the death of his twin sister, Fran. At first it had simply helped neutralise his anger and pain. Now he had to keep running; it had become a drug – one which came with its own thresholds of pain but without which his moods would swing between a brittle and sometimes alarming temper, and debilitating depression.
He did not have anything planned for the Easter week-end. Most of his friends seemed to be deserting London and his parents were away. Currently without a girlfriend, he had contemplated seeing if any of his old university mates were free to hang out with him. A call from his great-aunt was the last thing he had expected and at first he prevaricated. What the hell was he supposed to do, entertaining that wretched Australian girl? He was inclined to think that Marianne had gone senile and thought he was still a teenager but talking to her, she seemed sane enough; she also told him about some old family diaries which might interest him – as a historian, she said, a reference to his undergraduate degree.
Whilst neither the prospect of looking after his sixteen-year-old cousin, nor studying some ancient diaries, seemed particularly alluring, Jake paused before rejecting the invitation. When Fran had died it was Marianne – Auntie Manne as he had always known her – who had been with him in the house, who had tried to comfort him, sitting up most of the night, telling him about the sadness in her own life which he had barely understood. It was seven years since Fran’s death, and there was something he badly needed to say to Marianne, something he had never quite had the courage to say before. This might be his opportunity; he agreed to go.
The morning Jake was due to arrive, Marianne sat at her desk puzzling over a passage in her mother’s old notebooks while Anna busied herself with tidying the house. She sensed a tension in Anna and she suspected it was to do with her boyfriend.
‘How is Stefans?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘Just OK?’
‘Well, you know, he’s a bit… how you say it – grumpy.’
‘Is it his job?’
‘I don’t know… Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I must get everything ready for your visitors.’
Marianne sipped her tea. ‘Is Stefans talking again about going back to Latvia?’ she asked.
Anna looked uncomfortable. ‘No, no, not at all.’
Marianne raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, you know… I mean he doesn’t enjoy his job and sometimes he say that things are much better now in Latvia, he could start his own restaurant if he goes back to Riga – but of course we are not going to…’
‘Anna, you know, I’ve told you before…’
‘Please, Marianne, don’t say anything. I am not leaving you.’
‘Anna, I want you to stay, of course – but I’m eighty-six now. At my age…’
‘Marianne – don’t think bad things. Now I am going to make beds for Leah and for Mr Jake.’
Jake had been a child when he last visited Marianne at her home near Cambridge and as he parked his car in the driveway he saw an attractive nineteenth-century red-brick house. To the right of the front door the façade projected forward under a steeply pitched roof, suggesting a generous attic space. At the far corner the architect had allowed himself a signature flourish – familiar in that age, although an immense extravagance by the standard of modern buildings – creating a small round tower under a multi-sided roof so steep it was hard to imagine that the slates could stay in place.
Jake walked towards the front door, wondering who owned the rather scruffy-looking hatchback in the driveway. As there was no sign of a doorbell he rapped twice on the lion’s head brass doorknocker. The door was opened by a blonde girl in her late twenties with large grey-blue eyes and a welcoming smile. She put a finger to her lips.
‘You arrive early. Marianne is having a sleep. Come into the kitchen.’
The girl introduced herself as Anna, Marianne’s carer, and chatted to Jake as she busied herself in the kitchen. ‘So good for Marianne to have visitors – especially young one like you. And Leah is coming this evening – you will be collecting her from the station, I think?’
‘Will I?’ said Jake. ‘I mean, I can – of course. What time does she get in?’
‘About six, I think. We check with Marianne when she’s awake.’
Jake had barely had time to greet his Auntie Manne and enjoy an obligatory cup of tea before he was back in his car and heading to the station to pick up his cousin Leah – a girl he had not seen since she was a child of ten. He identified her immediately. She had been pretty when a ten-year-old and the same prettiness was present now as he watched a slim, tanned teenager in tight jeans, with streaked blonde hair and a rucksack on her back, wheeling a suitcase out of the station building.
Jake approached her. ‘Hey! I’m your cousin Jake – remember? Sent to pick you up.’ He kissed her on the cheek and took her case.
‘Sweet – Gran said someone would be here.’
‘Good ski trip?’ Jake enquired as they made their way to his car.
‘Awesome. There were, like, so many lifts – so many different trails – way better than skiing in Oz.’
When Anna had left for the evening, and Leah was upstairs showering, Jake decided that the moment had come to make his confession to Marianne before he lost his nerve.
Sitting down in a chair beside her, he said: ‘Auntie Manne – Marianne…’ Suddenly the familiar diminutive by which she had always been known to him seemed childish and not fitting for what he was about to say. ‘You were not to blame, you know. Not at all.’
Marianne studied his anxious gaze. Those large brown eyes like his mother, and that purposeful chin. A good-looking young man.
‘I mean, about Fran.’
‘Well, I should have been more on my guard. Your sister was always inclined to be reckless.’
‘No. I mean, perhaps she was, but in fact it was my fault.’
‘Nonsense, Jake, you mustn’t feel that. Death always makes the survivors feel guilty.’
‘But I should feel guilty, you see…’
‘Hey, Gran,’ said Leah, coming into the room with hair streaked wet against her face, ‘what’s the Wi-Fi password?’
Jake got up and walked to the other side of the room, trying not to show his irritation.
The next morning Jake sat with Marianne having breakfast. Anna sat at the table with them; as yet there was no sign of Leah. Marianne talked to Jake about the diaries. She explained how her mother’s family had been living near Reims in eastern France and – like millions of other families – had taken to the road to flee when the German army burst through the Ardennes in May 1940.
‘The famous exodus,’ said Jake.
‘Yes – well, the beginning, at least. They go to Paris and when Paris is threatened they take to the road again.’
‘It must be an important historical document,’ he said.
Marianne shrugged. ‘I don’t think there is any shortage of material on the subject.’
They talked about wartime France and Marianne was impressed by his knowledge. After breakfast, they looked at the notebooks together. Jake read a few sentences. His French is very good, she thought. Pity I can’t get him to help me on this.
‘What exactly are you doing with them?’
‘I’m making a typescript in French – doing notes on the acronyms and abbreviations – and at the same time preparing an English translation.’
‘Sounds a massive job.’
‘Yes, there’s a lot to do, and I’m probably too old to be starting a project like this, but…’ She broke off. Then she said, ‘I think you ought to take Leah into Cambridge this morning. I don’t think she has seen the city or the colleges.’
‘Sure. I can do that.’
‘I’ll wake Leah. You’ll need to get going. Easter Saturday, the place will be heaving.’
It was nearly twelve o’clock by the time Marianne had shooed Jake and Leah out of the house. She poured a cup of coffee and took it to her desk in the sitting room. Jake has grown into himself, she thought. For years in thrall to his headstrong twin sister, he seems a confident young man now. His interest in the diaries had given him a definite boost in her estimation.
As for Leah – well, she couldn’t help sounding Australian, although Marianne had observed that her accent was far less noticeable after a term at school in London. Also, unlike her mother, she seemed enthusiastic about all she had seen and done since coming to England. She was either a great actress or she was genuinely excited about visiting Cambridge with Jake.
‘Milton was at Cambridge, wasn’t he?’ she had said. ‘And Newton – which college was he? And Rupert Brooke was at King’s – I remember ’cos we’re studying him. And we have to go on a punt! Can we go on a punt, Jake? I’ve seen so many pictures – under that bridge… Oh my God – this is so cool.’ Yes, the girl had promise.
Easter Sunday tomorrow, she thought. Easter has never been quite the same to me after that escapade to Georgia. Perhaps that’s why I have always felt something ominous about spring. That reckless optimism, that certainty I had everything nicely balanced, a carefully constructed tower of hubris – before it all crashed in flames.
9
Moscow, Spring 1974
Strange, incoherent thoughts. The same scene, the same sensations. Unable to move. Pain. Fear. It’s my punishment, she thought. I will burn to death because I have done wrong. Come on, admit it to yourself, a little voice was saying. You have sinned. And you thought you had got rid of that funny old word. By the time you were fourteen you had disposed of sin; thrown it in the garbage bin of childhood terrors, no more demons, no more devils with pitchforks. So what’s it doing dancing around in my head now? How did it sneak back in?
The light was shining in Marianne’s eyes and now she knew she was awake. A nurse was standing over her, saying something. Her heart seemed to be racing. She tried to concentrate on staying awake. The nurse was gone now but she was still awake – there seemed to be numerous tubes coming from her body. I must clear my mind, she thought. She heard a woman’s voice say, ‘You were on the plane too?’ She turned her head and saw a figure lying on a bed not far away. She answered with a small grunt. ‘Don’t talk if it hurts, dear,’ said the woman. ‘There are a lot of us here – I mean, who were on the plane. Where are you from?’
England, she replied, though no word came out; then she thought, I used to say America, curious that. Then she fell asleep again.
The next time Marianne woke up she was immediately alert to her surroundings. A curtain had been drawn around her bed and there was a man sitting beside her. It was Larry. No, she thought, that’s wrong, wrong man. Where’s Edward? Where’s Izzy? Of course, they are back in England – but I need them here.
Larry was talking to her. He was telling her that she had made it. Thank God, he was saying, thank God you made it. He had telephoned the embassy when he heard the news. At first it had been chaotic but they had found out eventually that she had survived. He had got the next available flight to Moscow. Larry said a lot of good things to her and she listened. He told her he felt guilty – that if he hadn’t persuaded her to go down to Georgia… She asked for a drink and he put the feeding cup to her lips. Then she said, ‘It’s over, Larry.’ He stopped, looking surprised.
‘Don’t think about that now, Marianne. You need to concentrate on getting better. You know you have had major abdominal surgery.’
She didn’t know but she allowed her mind to bypass this information. She said, ‘I mean it, Larry. It’s over for us. I want Edward.’
‘Yes, of course, and he is on his way from London. That’s one of the things I c
ame to tell you. We managed to track him down and tell him that you had been on the plane. He is already on his way here. His flight gets in at six this evening. I’ve arranged for an embassy car to pick him up and bring him here. After all, you’re still a US citizen.’
‘And Izzy?’
‘Ah – I don’t know whether she is with him.’
‘I do hope she is.’
Larry promised to try to get her moved to a more private space. He told her about the crash. One of the wings had touched the ground on landing.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I saw it.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Yes, it was on my side.’
‘Oh, anyway, there seem to have been about a dozen fatalities but most of the passengers survived. The ground crews managed to extinguish the fire. Fortunately, there was no explosion.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, fortunately.’
Larry said his goodbyes, kissed her on the forehead, and left. Soon afterwards she was moved to what she later discovered was the part of the hospital reserved for foreigners. She found herself in a cubicle separated from the corridor by a large glass panel and half walls each side, with glass partitions to adjoining rooms. At the back of the room was a lavatory, bath and basin. Soon after she had been moved from a trolley to the bed a young male doctor appeared together with a nurse. The doctor peered into her eyes and asked her how she felt. He then started to tell her about the surgery. Some of the medical terminology was beyond her knowledge of Russian but she detected an apologetic tone. It seemed that some metal – perhaps some of the fuselage – had sliced across her upper leg and lower abdomen. By a miracle it hadn’t severed her femoral artery. Her pelvis was fractured. There was reference to surgical repair of her bladder and some other tricky procedures. Gradually it dawned on her what he was saying: she would never again give birth to a child.
The nurse squeezed her hand. ‘You have a daughter, I think? Your American friend said so.’