by Dominic Luke
They ate sardines on toast served in the dining room by Stan, who ate with them despite Roderick’s huffing and puffing. Afterwards in the drawing room with the fire bright and the curtains closed, Eliza curled up on the settee feeling sleepy. The room looked different now; it was difficult to believe that Flossie had ever been there.
‘She could be anywhere by now,’ said Dorothea. ‘If only you hadn’t chased her away, Roddy!’
‘I didn’t chase her anywhere. She couldn’t get away quick enough. In any case, you don’t know that it was even the real Flossie. She might have been a play-acting impostor. She might have known the real Flossie once upon a time and learned enough to convince you. Besides, she doesn’t know where your father is and I thought the whole idea of this benighted expedition was to find him.’
‘I’ll never find him now,’ said Dorothea sadly. ‘He’s gone and I’ve nothing left of him: no photographs, no . . . letters.’
‘Father only did what he thought was right, burning those letters.’
‘I know. I can’t criticize him, not really.’
‘My dear Doro, you do astonish me at times. Aren’t you the least bit angry? You were angry enough at Clifton. How can you be so forgiving?’
‘Yes, I was angry. But there’s no point dwelling on it. I leave all that sort of thing to you, Roddy: all the fault-finding and the laying of blame.’
‘Insults, now, is it? Then you really must be feeling more yourself. I suppose you realize that your father could have come back at any time if he’d wanted? Burning the letters didn’t stop him. So you see there’s no need to feel guilty about not looking for him. You were only a child, after all. He was the adult. Perhaps he felt a clean break was best. Father thought so too.’
‘Dear Uncle Albert.’ Dorothea smiled. ‘How I miss him!’ Her smile faded. She sat still and pensive, staring into the fire.
Watching her, Roderick said, ‘You have to stop dwelling on the past, Doro. Think about the future instead. There’s this . . . this Teuton.’
‘Johann,’ said Dorothea. ‘His name is Johann.’
Eliza had all but forgotten the German boy and his proposal. Why was Roderick bringing it up now? ‘Isn’t it,’ she began hesitantly, ‘isn’t it against the law to marry a foreigner?’
‘You and your mad ideas!’ scoffed Roderick. ‘Of course it’s not against the law! But it rather depends on Doro, whether she wants to accept him or not.’
‘I’d made up my mind to,’ said Dorothea. ‘I wrote him a letter saying yes. It’s still on the nursery table, I expect. Oh, but it’s impossible! I can’t marry him, I simply can’t!’
‘Why not?’ demanded Roderick. ‘You can marry him if you want to. You can marry whoever you like. Though how you manage to fall in love in a letter is beyond me.’
‘It wasn’t just the letters. It was Switzerland. That was when it started. But I don’t understand you, Roddy. Why are you so keen all of a sudden that I should marry Johann? You said it would be a mistake.’
‘Since when have you ever taken any notice of what I say or think?’
‘But you’re right, it would be a mistake. Aunt Eloise would never agree to it, for one thing. And how could I ever be good enough for him? I have nothing, not even a papa.’
‘You do talk rot, Doro. Not good enough for him! Why, you’re . . . you’re the very nicest girl I know, an absolute brick. No one could ever be worthy of you, as I told you once before. But if you’ve really set your heart on this fellow—’
‘I do love him, Roddy: I do. But – oh – how could I ever leave Clifton?’
‘We’ll always be there, Doro. We won’t just disappear into the blue like your father. You can come back as often as you like. As for Mother, she’ll come round, you’ll see. Don’t you realize that Mother thinks the world of you? She won’t be able to do enough when it comes to the point. All she needs is to be told a few facts. That’s where I come in.’
‘You’ll help? You’ll really help me?’
‘Good grief, there’s no need to sound so surprised! All I want is . . . is for you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘Oh, Roddy!’
Eliza saw sudden hope light up Dorothea’s face. Roderick was smiling too, his dark eyes shining. Stan was grinning, showing his crooked teeth. There was an air of happiness in the room. But Eliza could not shake a feeling of unease. All too soon it would be time for bed and already in the back of her mind the dark thoughts she’d held at bay were gathering and growing like slow-woven shadows, ready to haunt her dreams.
She dreaded it.
Chapter Five
Daisy came staggering into the day room. ‘The heat, miss! I feel as if I’m melting!’
She did indeed look as if she might be melting, so much sweat was running down her face. Eliza, slouched in her chair, tried to muster some sympathy but it was too much effort. She was too dull and listless. The weather didn’t help. The windows were wide open but there was not a breath of air.
‘I’ll swing for that Susie Hobson, doodling about the place!’ cried Daisy, leaning against the bars at the window and fanning herself with her cap. ‘I swear she hasn’t done a stroke of work all day while the rest of us run ourselves ragged. All she does is gawp at the guests. “Aren’t they handsome!” says she. “Handsome?” says I. “They’re Germans, Susie Hobson, and don’t you forget it!”’ Daisy shuddered, as if Germans were hideous apparitions from the underworld.
‘But Johann is nice, Daisy: don’t you think so?’
‘Miss Dorothea’s young man, do you mean? Well, yes, he’s all right, I suppose. He don’t say much, but when he does speak he’s very civil. But that name of his! I can’t get my tongue round it. And as for that brother of his: huh, what an uppity package!’
‘He only seems uppity because he doesn’t speak much English: that’s what Doro says. And his name is Siegfried.’ Eliza was proud, having the foreign names off pat.
‘Don’t speak English? That’s no excuse! A smile’s the same in any language.’ Daisy sighed, putting her cap back on and stuffing her hair inside. ‘I must go. I only come up for—’ She stopped, clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘What did I come up for? It’s gone right out of my head. Oh lawks, I shall be for it now, with Mrs Bourne steamed up and the place in an uproar. If it weren’t all for Miss Dorothea’s sake, I’d have handed in my notice days ago, I swear I would.’
Daisy went lurching off, still complaining about the heat. The nursery lapsed into a soporific silence. Eliza, who’d been toying with the idea of venturing downstairs, now decided against it. If the place really was in an uproar – if Daisy wasn’t simply exaggerating (it had been known) – then it would be wise to keep out of the way. Mrs Bourne steamed up was always best avoided. Then there was Mama. Eliza was still in Mama’s bad books after running away to London back in April.
Dangling her legs over the arm of her chair, Eliza turned her thoughts to the terrible Germans who weren’t so terrible really (another of Daisy’s exaggerations). Four Germans were in residence at Clifton: Johann; and Johann’s father, brother and cousin. In Switzerland two years ago, there’d been Johann and a different cousin, a man named Heinrich who Eliza had rather liked, who’d taken time to talk to her, who hadn’t been at all arrogant whatever Roderick might say. But Heinrich’s wife was expecting a child and couldn’t travel. Heinrich had not wanted to leave her and had stayed in Hamburg. Heinrich’s younger brother Gerhard had come instead. He was a pale imitation of Heinrich, not worth bothering with.
Johann’s brother Siegfried was not worth much either. Daisy in this instance was right: not being able to speak English was no excuse. Siegfried was full of himself, worse than Roderick in his most bombastic mood. He was quite humourless too. The father, however, was completely different, a jolly man with white whiskers, a doctor. He wore spectacles on the end of his nose when he read the newspaper.
But it was Johann who was of most consequence, the man Dorothea was to marry. He was rather quiet, as Daisy
had said, so it was difficult to make up one’s mind about him. Certainly he had none of Roderick’s swagger, nor was he rough round the edges like Young Stan: Johann’s teeth were perfect, there was no hint of any spots. His eyes were very blue, his nose slightly snub, his blond hair swept back in a side parting. In Switzerland he’d been rather pasty-faced, convalescing, but he had a healthy glow about him now. The housemaid Susie Hobson was never slow to give an opinion. ‘Oh, miss, have you ever seen the like? If he only had wings he’d be an angel out of heaven. Fancy a plain Jane like Miss Dorothea catching a man like that!’
His full name was Johann Kaufmann. The Kaufmanns lived in Hamburg. Eliza, sitting sideways in her chair, closed her eyes and told herself once more the story of the Kaufmanns that she’d learnt from Dorothea. Many years ago in Hamburg there’d been two beautiful sisters: Eliza pictured them as Snow White and Cinderella, illustrations in a book. Dr Kaufmann’s brother had married Snow White. Eventually, after much prevarication which the family later had laughed about, Dr Kaufmann and Cinderella had got married too.
It was a satisfyingly symmetrical story: two brothers marrying two sisters and each couple having two children, all boys. If it had been a fairy tale it would have ended there. They would all have lived happily ever after. But real life was not like that, as Eliza now knew: real life was full of tragedy and despair.
‘Tragedy and despair!’ Roderick had rolled his eyes. ‘You do talk bilge, Eliza. I can’t imagine where you get it from. Why are you interested in these Teutons, in any case?’
She was interested because the story was so sad it was impossible to forget. Dr Kaufmann’s brother had died of a terrible cancer in his throat. The cancer before he died had taken away his voice. This seemed particularly cruel, to be denied a few last words with one’s dying breath. (‘I forgive you, Roddy: I forgive you now that I’m dying. I forgive you even though you have been absolutely beastly to me so many times and have never stopped chaffing me about my overactive imagination.’)
The cancer had not been the end of it. Some years later, cholera had come to Hamburg (cholera?) and both Snow White and Cinderella had died. Dr Kaufmann had been left to bring up on his own not just his two boys, but his two nephews as well.
This was all true. It came from Dorothea. But when Eliza had tried to tell Roderick (she had, admittedly, embellished the tale in places), he had accused her of ‘making up stories which bear no relation to the facts’.
Facts? What did facts matter! They were nothing but an encumbrance!
Footsteps sounded, interrupting Eliza’s reverie. Some-one was coming. The someone turned aside, went into Dorothea’s room. Eliza made the effort to get to her feet. She went to see who it was.
Dorothea’s room was still Dorothea’s room, just about. There were trunks and cases all over the floor, some for the holiday, some for Hamburg, labels affixed to each but most of them open and only half-full. On the bed, on the chairs, on the dressing table were piles of clothes and hats in boxes and pairs of shoes in bags. Dorothea was standing in the midst of it all, looking round with a perplexed expression on her face.
‘I need to finish packing but—’ She spread her arms as if to say Where do I start?
‘I will help,’ said Eliza. But she made no move to begin. It would have seemed somehow like speeding Dorothea on her way, which was the last thing she wanted.
‘Mr Antipov has just arrived,’ said Dorothea at length. ‘Yet another man. The house is full of men.’
‘Mama likes it when there are lots of men,’ said Eliza. ‘She shines brighter for men. They reflect her, like mirrors. What is happening downstairs, Doro?’
‘Everyone is in the drawing room. Dr Kaufmann has made himself popular by admiring the view.’
‘And I suppose Mama told him that the landscaping was never finished, that the money ran out, that the present gardens belonged to the old manor before it was demolished.’
Dorothea smiled. ‘Of course. All the usual things. Dr Kaufmann asked who the Massinghams were. Aunt Eloise told him they were her forebears, the people who built Clifton Park, a somewhat impecunious family. Mr Antipov said that impecunious is an interesting word and that he likes to learn new words. But he then rather blotted his copybook by suggesting that the Royal Family are more German than English.’
‘And Mama said, “That is a despicable thing to say! You are a despicable scoundrel, Mr Antipov!”’
‘Oh, Eliza, of course she didn’t! As if Aunt Eloise would ever say a thing like that!’
‘What, then, did she say?’
‘She asked about the Russian royal family and Mr Antipov told her that they are German too. And Dr Kaufmann said, “Royalty is obviously one of our more successful exports!” Everyone laughed.’
‘Everyone laughed,’ echoed Eliza. She sighed. ‘Oh, Doro! Who will tell me these things when you are gone? Who will tell me anything? Why must you go? Why must you go so soon?’
‘There didn’t seem much point in waiting, once I’d made up my mind. After all, time doesn’t stand still.’
Time, thought Eliza. Time had never seemed to matter much before. It had merely been a convenient way of knowing when to get up, when to have lunch, when to take a walk in the gardens. But time wasn’t just a clock on the mantelpiece. It was like cancer and cholera, it killed, it destroyed, it changed things forever. First Father, now this.
‘Oh, Doro! You’ll get married and go away and I’ll never see you again!’
Dorothea put her arms round Eliza, stroked her hair. ‘I will miss you too: of course I will.’
They stood in the stifling heat, their arms round each other, staring at the trunks and cases; and Eliza wished that time would come to an end right then and there so that she’d never have to find out what life was like in a Clifton Park without Dorothea.
‘Sleep, sleep,’ murmured Eliza. ‘Why can’t I sleep?’
Lying in bed in the dark, Eliza craved sleep but feared it too: feared what it would bring, the nightmares that had stalked her since coming back from London all those months ago. She craved sleep, she invited it, she had even blown out her night light to welcome it. But still she tossed and turned, still she was wide awake.
It was the wedding tomorrow. The wedding would be spoilt for her if she spent all day yawning.
She decided to get up. She might feel more like sleep after a turn around the room. It was rather daring, getting up. Once you’d said your prayers, once you’d been tucked in, you should stay in bed until morning. But tonight was out of the ordinary, tonight was Dorothea’s last night at Clifton: tonight had a special character all of its own.
She slipped from under the bedcovers and made her way to the window. She pulled the curtains a little aside. Her toes curled into the Turkey carpet as she leant out of the open casement. It was a quiet, breathless evening. Cool air washed against her face. Stars in the deep-vaulted darkness glinted like cold, white eyes. The trees of the Pheasantry and the evergreens along the drive were sharp black silhouettes against the paler sky. The spreading bows of the cedar tree in front of the house seemed almost close enough to touch. To the left, the gardens were wreathed in shadow. Beyond, in the distance, the dim mass of Rookery Hill was crowned with a bank of grey-dark cloud. There was a faint sound of voices, of laughter, which must have been spilling out from the French windows and carrying in the stillness right round to this side of the house.
Crunching footsteps made Eliza jump. Her eyes picked out a hunched figure in the gloom below. Billy Turner, was it, walking with his hands in his pockets, heading towards the drive: Billy Turner the stable hand? Going to visit his mother, perhaps, in the village; or more likely sloping off to the Barley Mow. His second home, Daisy called it, disparaging her brother and his taste for a pint of ale.
Turner disappeared into the dark. The sound of his footsteps faded. A man of few words, Young Stan had said of him, but a fine fellow underneath. Yet what did it matter any more what Stan thought? He had taken his leave, he wa
s back in Coventry, his brother Jeff was now the chauffeur, a rather prickly, monosyllabic sort of boy. Shy, Dorothea said: still finding his feet. Dear Dorothea! She always saw the best in everyone. She convinced you of it, too. No one else could do this in quite the same way. And soon, like Stan, she’d be gone.
The thought gave Eliza a pain in the chest as if a shard of the sorcerer’s mirror from The Snow Queen had pierced her heart and turned it to ice. One word, one smile from Dorothea would warm it back to life. Dorothea would be in her room. She had eaten dinner in the nursery this evening one last time. She still had packing to do. There was every chance she’d be awake.
Eliza opened her bedroom door, crossed the big, shadowy day room silent in bare feet. As she reached for the handle of the main door she heard someone in the lobby beyond. There came a soft tap on Dorothea’s door. The door squeaked as it opened. It always squeaked.
‘So you are still up, then,’ said a voice. It was Roderick’s voice. His voice sounded different heard through the panels of the day room door: muffled and mellow and resonant. Eliza pressed her ear against the wood, listening. ‘It was absurd of you, Doro, not to come down to dinner on your last night.’
‘The bride and groom mustn’t meet on the eve of the wedding: it’s tradition.’
‘It’s superstitious rot. If that bevy of Teutons had stayed in a hotel you wouldn’t have had that problem. There are hotels in Lawham.’
‘But Aunt Eloise invited them here. She insisted.’
‘She can’t do enough, as I predicted.’
‘She has been more than kind. I can’t imagine why.’
‘You don’t know why? You are a goose, Doro!’
‘Oh, Roddy! What if I’m making a mistake? Is it too late to change my mind?’
‘That’s just nerves talking, Doro. Nerves are quite usual in this situation, or so I’m given to believe. Your intended is just the same, white as a sheet and quiet as a mouse: quieter even than normal. I told him he should prescribe himself a cure.’
‘He’s not a doctor yet.’
‘Then he’s got a cheek, thinking he could be good enough, a mere medical student.’