In the end, Robert found out what was happening from the parish priest, Father Lacey who found Victor slumped in a confessional. Victor hadn’t eaten or washed for days. A meeting was called. Father Lacey said he knew of a good place, out in the country, but it was expensive. ‘You’ll have to face the grief, Dad,’ Robert implored, and Father Lacey added knowingly, with a stare, ‘along with your past.
All the family helped, once they were allowed to visit. The professionals involved said Victor hadn’t fully cooperated, implying he’d dodged about rather skilfully, but that he’d ‘learned a lot about himself’ and they’d been over various ‘coping strategies’. And so Victor came back to ‘normal life’. For most of the observers it was a matter of a grief under control, a man who’d found a way of living without his wife. Only Victor and his confessor, Father Lacey, knew of the demon legion sleeping out of sight.
Victor often returned to his wife’s letter, hoping the recitation of the lines might yet have some effect, like the workings of a spell that only required a solemn, heartfelt incantation. But he didn’t believe in magic. What about the fragile light of candles? Yes, he believed in those. He lit them every week in the side chapel for Robert. For — a gust of laughter suddenly burst through a door somewhere downstairs — Robert’s wife, Maggie, and the grandchildren, all five of them, two boys and three girls, all ‘grown and flown, to homes of their own’, as Robert liked to say Victor smiled. Two of them were married. Great-grandchildren had followed. The whole clan came to thirteen — a blessing of biblical proportions. Only, it wasn’t that simple, was it? He caught his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Even when he smiled he couldn’t hide that ineffable, intractable sadness. Why was it that, after all these years, whenever he looked in a mirror he thought of Agnes and Jacques, her long thick hair and his dark beseeching eyes? And why oh why did their shades always part, with a moan, leaving him with another remembrance that would not be staunched? How could it be that even now, in his mid-seventies, he could not see himself without seeing Eduard Schwermann? Was it any wonder he could not explain to the children why there were no mirrors in granddad’s house?
Here, in Robert’s home, there were many of them, unforgiving windows into his soul, and that of his accomplice. He said under his breath:
‘Zwei Seelen wohnen, ach! in meiner Brust.’
As they sat round the crowded, laden dining table on the night of his arrival, conversation turned, as Victor had anticipated, to the Schwermann case. In order to protect Stephen, the eldest great-grandchild, key terms had to be spelled out. He’d reached the dreadful age of four where listening and repetition went mercilessly hand in hand.
‘From all accounts he was a complete b-a-s-t-a-r-d,’ said Francis, Robert’s first son.
‘He’ll probably say they’ve got the wrong man,’ someone chipped in. Other voices turned over the material they’d all heard and read:
‘Oh no. Apparently there’s no doubt that he was there.’
‘Then what’s he going to say? He’s got to say something.’
‘Didn’t know what was going on, only obeying orders. It has to be one or the other.’
‘That’s always struck me as odd.’
‘What has?’
‘Well, where I work, even the cleaners get to know all the dirt.’
‘That’s an awful pun. Pass the chicken, please. ‘
‘It’s the same at our place. I don’t know how they find out because no one admits to telling them. At the end of the day, you can’t hide anything.’
‘It’s not chicken, it’s soya.
‘And you’d think “doing as you’re told” and “d-e-a-t-h c-a-m-p-s” don’t really belong in the same sentence. Not unless you’re mad.’
‘And he’s sane.
‘Either way you’re right, Francis; he’s a b-a-s-t-a-r-d.’
‘What’s that, Daddy?’ asked Stephen with a curiosity that, from experience, would not be easily deflected.
‘Nothing, son, nothing.’
‘Daddy, what are you talking about?’
‘A naughty man, that’s all. Now eat up.
The words nearly made Victor sick.
‘But Daddy…’
Victor heard no more. Although he couldn’t be sure, for he kept his eyes on his plate, he felt Robert’s gaze upon him, talkative Robert, who for some reason kept out of the conversation.
That ordeal was last night, his reticence passed off as old age worn out further by the delayed train from London. Now he was alone in the sitting room, waiting. There was no need to make an arrangement. Soon he would come. Repeating snatches from his wife’s letter, Victor walked over to the bay window of Robert’s much-loved home, The Coach House at Cullercoats — a rambling pile of creaking rooms on a low cliff between Tynemouth and Whitley Bay overlooking the old harbour. He could see the jagged black rocks collapsing over each other into the incoming tide, the great rush of metallic water, always cold, always bound to the sky, always seemingly inviting him to cross over, into the thin wisp of evening light where memory was left behind. Great fat gulls swooped under gusts of wind and then surrendered to the drift, floating high out of view.
God, bear me up, help me.
A fire, freshly made, crackled in the grate.
The door opened quietly He heard the soft approach of familiar steps. A hand rested on his shoulder. Now was the time. He would have to speak of things he’d vowed never to say
‘Dad…?’
‘Yes, son?’
‘Tell me what’s troubling you.’ He spoke almost in a whisper. ‘Come on, I’m a grandfather, you know’
Victor breathed deeply; his eyes scanned the silent, tumbling sea, the long threads of foam clinging on to light that vanished on the shore. Robert remained by his side, as if he were a boy again, and together they faced the vast, brightening darkness.
‘Son, I am not who you think I am. I am another man, someone I buried fifty years ago, after the war. Someone who, but for you, would have been better dead.’.
No questions came. And, not seeing Robert or the confusion that must be clouding his eyes, Victor picked his way over all that might be said.
‘My name was Brionne. I was a police officer seconded by chance to the Gestapo:
Victor’s attention shifted to Robert’s hand. It was heavy upon him. I beg you, don’t take it away…
‘To some I was a collaborator… there was nothing I could do to stop…’ Now that simply wasn’t true, and he knew it. His voice trailed off. How much shall I say? If I go too far, I’ll go over the edge. It will all come out. I can’t… I can’t do that.
Victor tried again. ‘I worked as an assistant to a young German officer, Eduard Schwermann. He’s the one who’s claimed sanctuary in a monastery. You’ve read the papers… Francis talked of him last night.’
Victor lived each moment through that hand, his existence depending on the movement of someone else’s fingers.
‘Pascal Fougeres, who found Schwermann, will almost certainly come looking for me…’ Again, his voice faltered on the threshold of complete disclosure. ‘Schwermann will also seek me out… I suspect there will be others… they’ll all want me for the trial.’
Victor felt the grip of panic. He told himself: you’ll be all right, you’ve already planned for this. When he left Les Moineaux he had a new identity; he was Victor Berkeley But that name was known to Schwermann and the monks. So when Victor got to England he changed it again, to Brownlow No one else knew. Again he said to the beating in his chest: you’ll be all right… but don’t wait around…
It was now completely dark outside. Tiny lights from fishing boats twinkled in the distance upon the hidden, brooding presence of the sea. The catch was out there somewhere in the deep, but they’d be found and decked by morning.
‘Robert, I cannot tell you any more. Perhaps one day things might be different. But for now, if you can, trust me. Trust me as you’ve never trusted anyone before. Believe me,’ Victor swallowed hard, reaching
out for words that might slip through the gap between truth and deceit, ‘it has been the curse of my life that I ever knew that man.
Victor waited, his eyes closed, facing an abyss. Robert’s hand lay still upon him.
‘I have to hide,’ he said simply ‘I have to go where no one would think of looking for me, until it’s all over. Then I can bury Victor Brionne for the last time. And after that… I’ll be your father again
… the man you have known.’ Tears filled his eyes, rising from a deep, ancient sorrow
Robert’s hand fell away
After a long moment, Victor heard these words, quietly spoken: ‘I don’t know Brionne. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still dead. He’s not my father and never was. You are. You were and always will be.’
Tramping footsteps and voices mingled on the stairs. It was time for a game of Consequences before the crackling fire.
Chapter Fifteen
1
‘I won’t be going into hospital at all. I want to die here.’
‘But you can’t. ‘
‘I can and I will. This is my home. This is where I’ll die.’
Lucy sank her nails into her thighs, as if they were party of her father’s neck. Susan fiddled with the buttons on her blouse. This was the inevitable confrontation between mother and son. They had all gathered at Chiswick Mall that afternoon, at Freddie’s instigation, to deal with the question ‘my mother won’t face’.
Agnes walked deliberately across the room as if she had a pile of books on her head. She flopped confidently into her usual chair by the bay window
‘Mother, your legs are giving way more often, you- ‘I know’
‘-need a wheelchair-’
‘I know’
‘Getting in and out will not be straightforward.’ ‘No.’
‘You already need help with washing.’
‘Freddie-’
‘Before long, there are going to be problems with feeding, talking, moving-’
‘Freddie,’ said Agnes, her voice rising and the muscles on her face beginning to contort.
‘The house will need cleaning, sheets washed, bedclothes changed-’
‘Freddie- ‘
‘-what about going to the toilet-’
‘Freddieeeeeeeee!’ Agnes’ cry became a strange howl, rising and trailing off. She heaved with a sort of anguished laughter, tears gathering in her eyes, her thin hands shaking uncontrollably
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ snapped Lucy, running towards her. Agnes waved her away, angrily, her mouth locked wide open.
Freddie pulled at his hair, saying sorry over and over again. Agnes was trying to say something by hand gesture, her head thrown back while she moaned.
Lucy could barely contain her anger. ‘Just read this, will you? Go on, read it.’ She reached over to the bureau and handed her father a piece of paper. Agnes had written an explanation:
Sometimes I laugh or cry or wail for no reason. Please ignore me while it lasts. It will stop soon. Thank you.
Lucy took the paper back. Agnes was quiet now No one said anything. Susan made some tea.
Agnes sipped from old china, the tinkling saucer held beneath. The cup was so fragile that sunlight passed through its clay, tracing the outline of frail fingers on the other side.
‘Freddie, don’t worry. It’s difficult for all of us. But I’ve made my mind up,’ said Agnes kindly
Freddie moved to speak. He was resolute, as if he too had made up his mind. He was going to press his point. Lucy felt a flash of anger and confusion. There was such a dreadful mix of motives and concerns. Yes, Agnes was going to deteriorate, and planning was necessary. But there was another powerful drive, and that was Freddie’s reluctance, if not refusal, to become ensnared in day-in day-out nursing care. The illness was creeping up on all of them. Lucy could see her father’s terror. He wasn’t capable of giving Agnes what she needed, he could not carry the strain of intimate dependence on him. And now he was feeling rising desperation, shifting from right to left as if routes of escape were closing down. Lucy saw all this internal squirming, while her father sat stock-still on the settee, his hands on his knees as if for a school photograph. And she loathed it, in him and in herself.
‘I won’t need your help. None of you need worry about that:
Freddie immediately spilled a lie: ‘We’re not worried, we want to help. It’s just that we’ve got to be practical. All of us.’
‘I’ve already planned everything, Freddie.’
No one knew what to say The question they were all asking themselves didn’t need to be asked. Agnes nodded at her tea cup, wanting more. ‘And a chocolate finger, please, Lucy’ Freddie relaxed a little with the promise of relief. And, hating herself for it, so did Lucy
‘I’ve spoken to Social Services. As and when it becomes necessary, carers will come each day to help with washing and dressing. They’ll provide appliances “subject to budget” and I can get all sorts of toys from the hospital or Trusts. There really is nothing to worry about.’
Susan was still fiddling with the buttons on her blouse when she spoke. ‘I don’t want you being cared for by strangers. ‘It’s not right. You need your family I want to help, if you don’t mind, I really do. I’ll do anything you like — I can cook, clean up, I can… do anything… give me the chance, can’t you?’
Agnes was visibly moved. Lucy had always felt Agnes valued Susan’s confused attempts to establish normal relations with her mother-in-law It cost her so much, and always without reward. Susan, like Lucy wanted things to be different, and in her own way had kept on trying.
‘Thank you, Susan, there’s plenty of time, yet, for both of us. Of course you can help.’
Freddie, ashamed, ran for the line: ‘But all this isn’t enough, is it? I mean, it’s not just about bits of help at certain times of the day What about the nights? You’re going to be needing’ — Freddie hesitated, the corner flag was in view — ‘twenty-four-hour-a-day assistance,’ and then he dived, full length, ‘from people who know what they’re doing.’
He was pale. He’d finally said it. He’d said he couldn’t and wouldn’t become a nurse, or move in, or take Agnes to his own home.
‘That’s right, Freddie, and I’ve sorted it all out.’
For the second time, no one knew what to say Lucy, incredulous, guessed immediately The question fell out of Freddie’s mouth: ‘How? In what way?’
Agnes put down her saucer, and then the cup, and then the biscuit, saying, ‘I’ve asked Wilma to move in.
Freddie, rigid again, almost stopped breathing.
2
It seemed it was going to be a day of arguments. After her mother and father had left, Lucy urged Agnes to give a statement to the police.
‘If I get involved, replied Agnes, ‘your father will have to know everything. I don’t want that. His life with me has been hard enough.’ She spoke without a trace of self-pity. ‘It would be too much to ask of him.’
‘What would?’
‘To understand me more than he understands himself.’
‘But if he knew what was done to you, and how you saved him-’
‘Lucy you forget, I also failed him.’ She raised a hand to stop any protestation. ‘That can’t be changed, even by forgiveness. I used to blame myself, but after I met Wilma I realised things couldn’t have been otherwise. But that only makes the remorse all the more insupportable.’ Her features became still and extraordinarily beautiful, like a rapt child at a pantomime, and she said, ‘In a way I lost Freddie as well. I could not bear to lose the little I have left.’
Agnes had a way of saying dreadful things with complete simplicity, as if she were commenting on the wallpaper. Unless one inhabited a similar inner landscape it was quite impossible to reply Even Lucy came up against these awful flashes of tranquillity, where one would expect to find anguish, when she could only look upon her grandmother from a distance with a sort of shocked reverence.
Outside the window rain
began to fall, bouncing off the pavement, gathering the litter, washing stray cuttings from tidy gardens, and Agnes, serene, reached for the newspaper by her side, saying, ‘There’s a documentary tonight on The Round Table.’ She paused. ‘One of the contributors is Pascal Fougeres. I’m worried he might mention me… the family will not have forgotten…’ Her eyes reached out to Lucy. ‘You’ll have to stay ‘
‘All right then, if I must.’
‘You must.’
Lucy regarded her grandmother and became almost cold with apprehension. Impulsively, with sudden terror, she said, ‘Does it make any difference to you?’
Agnes looked up, mildly surprised, and said, ‘Of course it does.’
‘No, Gran,’ Lucy replied, squirming, prickling with intimacy, ‘I mean, does it matter that I’m not your own blood?’ She flushed hot; sweat tingled across her back and neck.
Agnes dropped the paper. With coruscating simplicity she said, ‘It has made you utterly irreplaceable.’
The documentary had been constructed in such a way as to follow the steps of Pascal Fougeres through a tragic moment in history. To her amazement, Lucy found her sensibilities dozing, sluggish, as she watched the footage of German soldiers surveying Paris with the lazy contentment of ownership. She could not rouse the naked fear they must have represented. Anodyne war films and comedies about silly Nazis had tamed them, even in Lucy’s eyes.
The narrator described how Fougeres, a foreign correspondent for Le Monde, had inadvertently come across a cryptic memo recently declassified in the United States. The document briefly reported the capture and release of a young German officer by British Intelligence. The journalist immediately recognised the name for it was Schwermann who had been responsible for the breaking of a Resistance network and the death of its leader — Pascal’s great-uncle, Jacques. The viewer was taken back to the time of Occupation, when Jacques, with other students, formed The Round Table. On the day the Star of David had become compulsory apparel, Jacques had worn his own star, marked ‘Catholique’, outside the Gestapo offices on Avenue Foch. He had been arrested and interned in Drancy for two weeks. But that had not discouraged the young protester.
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